Blue Moon (11 page)

The traffic is thick this time of night, but it doesn't slow me. I just focus on all of the surrounding cars,
seeing
what everyone's next move is going to be, then adjusting my journey around it. Moving quickly and smoothly into each open space, until I arrive at the entrance, jump out of the Bug, and sprint for the lobby.

Stopping only when the valet calls out from behind me, “Hey, wait up! What about the key?”

I pause, my breath coming in short shallow gasps, not realizing until I catch him staring at my feet that I'm not only keyless but shoeless as well. Yet knowing I can't afford to waste any more time than I already have, and reluctant to go through the whole manifesting process in front of him, I run through the door, yelling, “Just leave it running, I'll only be a sec!”

I make a beeline for the front desk, bypassing a long line of disgruntled people, all of them weighed down with golf bags and monogrammed luggage, all of them complaining about checking in late due to a four-hour delay. And when I cut in front of the middle-aged couple that was supposed to be next, the griping and grumbling hits the next level.

“Has Damen Auguste checked in?” I ask, ignoring the protests behind me, as my fingers curl around the edge of the counter and I fight to steady my nerves.

“I'm sorry,
who
?” The clerk's gaze darts to the couple behind me, shooting them a look meant to say—
don't worry, I'll be done with this psycho chick soon!

“Damen. Auguste.” I enunciate slowly, succinctly, with far more patience than I have.

She squints at me, her thin lips barely moving as she says, “I'm sorry, that information is confidential.” Flicking her long dark ponytail over her shoulder in a move so final, so dismissive, it's like a period at the end of a sentence.

I narrow my eyes, focusing on her deep orange aura and knowing it means strict organization and self-control are the virtues she prizes the most—something I showed a glaring lack of when I jumped the turnstile a moment ago. And knowing I need to get on her good side if I've any hope of obtaining the info I need, I resist the urge to act all huffy and indignant, and calmly explain how I'm the
other
guest who's sharing the room.

She looks at me, looks at the couple behind me, then says, “I'm sorry, but you'll have to wait your turn. Just. Like. Everyone. Else.”

And I know I have less than ten seconds between now and when she calls for security.

“I
know.
” I lower my voice and lean toward her. “And I really am sorry. It's just that—”

She looks at me, her fingers inching toward the phone as I take in her long straight nose, thin unadorned lips, and the hint of puffiness just under her eyes, and just like
that,
I
see
my way in.

She's been dumped. She's been dumped so recently she still cries herself to sleep every night. Reliving the horrible event every day,
all day
—the scene following her wherever she goes, from her waking state to her dreams.

“It's just that, well—” I pause, trying to make it seem as though it hurts too much to say the actual words, when the truth is I'm not sure which words I'll actually use. Then I shake my head and start
over, knowing it's always better to stick with some semblance of the truth when you need the lie to seem real. “He didn't show up when he was supposed to, and because of that . . . well . . . I'm not sure if he's even still coming.” I swallow hard, cringing when I realize the tears in my eyes are for real.

But when I look at her again, seeing her face soften—the grim judging mouth, the squinty narrowed eyes, the superior tilt of her chin—all of it suddenly transformed by compassion, solidarity, and unity—I know that it worked. We're like sisters now, loyal members of an all-female tribe, recently jilted by men.

I watch as she taps some commands on her keyboard, tuning in to her energy so I can see what she sees—the letters on the screen flashing before me, showing that our room, suite 309, is still empty.

“I'm sure he's just running late,” she says, though she doesn't believe it. In her mind, all men are scum, of this she's convinced. “But if you can show me some ID and prove that you're you, I can—”

But before she can finish, I'm already gone, turning away from the desk and running outside. I don't need a key. I could never check into that sad empty room, waiting for a boyfriend who clearly won't show. I need to keep moving, keep searching. I need to hit the only other two places where he might be. And as I jump in my car and head for the beach—I pray that I'll find him.

 

I park near the Shake Shack
and head toward the ocean, feeling my way down the dark winding path, determined to locate Damen's secret cave even though I've only been there one other time, which happens to be the one
other
time we came really close to doing the deed. And we would have too—if it weren't for me. I guess I have a long history of slamming the brakes at the most crucial moment. Either that, or I end up dying. So obviously, I was hoping tonight would be different.

But the moment my feet hit the sand and I make my way down to his hideout, I'm sorry to see that it's pretty much the same as we left it: blankets and towels folded and stacked in the corner, surfboards lined up against the walls, a wet suit draped over a chair—but no Damen.

And with only one place left on my list, I cross my fingers and run for my car. Amazed by the way my limbs move with such speed and grace, the way my feet merely glance over the sand, covering the distance so quickly, I've barely started and I'm already back in my car pulling out of my space. Wondering just how long I've been able to do this, and what other immortal gifts I might have.

 

 

When I arrive at the gate, Sheila, the gate guard who's used to seeing me by now and knows I'm on Damen's permanent list of welcome guests, just smiles and waves me right in. And as I head up the hill toward his house and pull into his drive, the first thing I notice is that the lights are all off.

And I mean
all
of them. Including the one over the door that he always leaves on.

I sit in the Bug, its engine idling as I gaze up at those cold dark windows. Part of me wanting to break down the door, tear up the stairs, and burst into his “special” room—the one where he stores his most precious mementos—the portraits of himself as painted by Picasso, Van Gogh, and Velázquez, along with the piles of rare, first-editions tomes—the priceless relics of his long and storied past, all hoarded into one overstuffed, gilt-laden room. While the other part prefers to stay put, knowing I don't need to enter to prove he's not there. The cold, foreboding exterior, with its stone-covered walls, tiled roof, and vacant windows, is completely devoid of his warm loving presence.

I close my eyes, struggling to recall the last words he said—something about getting the car so that
we
could make an even quicker getaway. Sure that he really meant
we—
that
we
were supposed to make the quick getaway so that
we
could finally be together—our four-hundred-year quest culminating on this one perfect night.

I mean, he couldn't have been looking for a quicker getaway from
me
—

Could he?

I take a deep breath and climb out of my car, knowing the only way to get answers is to keep moving. The soles of my cold wet feet slipping along the dew-covered walkway as I fumble for the key, remembering too late that I left it at home, never dreaming I'd need it tonight of all nights.

I stand before the front door, memorizing its curving arch, mahogany finish, and bold, detailed carvings, before I close my eyes and picture another just like it.
Seeing
my imaginary door unlock and swing open, never having tried this before, but knowing it's possible after seeing Damen unlock a gate at our school—a gate that'd been decidedly locked just a few moments before.

But when I open my eyes again, all I've managed to manifest is another giant wood door. And having no idea how to dispose of it (since up until now I've only manifested things I wanted to keep), I lean it against the wall and head toward the back.

There's a window in his kitchen, the one just behind the sink that he always leaves cracked. And after sliding my fingers under the rim and pushing the window all the way up, I crawl over a sink overflowing with empty glass bottles before jumping to the ground, my feet landing with a muffled
thud
as I wonder if breaking and entering applies to concerned girlfriends too.

I gaze around the room, taking in the wooden table and chairs, the rack of stainless steel pots, the high-tech coffeemaker, blender, and juicer—all part of the collection of the most modern kitchen gadgets money can buy (or Damen can manifest). Carefully selected to give the appearance of a normal, well-to-do life, like accessories in a beautifully decorated model home, perfectly staged and completely unused.

I peer into his fridge, expecting to see the usual abundant supply of red juice, only to find just a few bottles instead. And when I peek inside his pantry, the place where he allows the newer batches to ferment or marinate or whatever they do in the dark for three days—I'm shocked to find that it's barely stocked too.

I stand there, staring at the handful of bottles, my stomach thrumming, my heart racing, knowing something's terribly wrong with this picture. Damen's always so obsessive about keeping plenty of juice on hand—even more so now that he's responsible
for supplying me—that he would never allow things to get to this point.

But then again, he's also been going through an awful lot of it lately, chugging it to the point where his consumption has nearly doubled. So it's entirely possible he hasn't had time to make a new batch.

Which sounds good in theory, sure, but it's not at all plausible.

I mean, who am I fooling? Damen's extremely organized with these things, even bordering on obsessive. He would never let his brewing duties slide—not for one day.

Not unless something was terribly wrong.

And even though I don't have any proof, I just know in my gut that the way he's been acting so
off
lately—with the sudden blank looks that are impossible to miss no matter how quickly they fade, not to mention the sweating, the headaches, the inability to manifest everyday objects, or access the Summerland portal—well, when I add it all up, it's clear that he's sick.

Only Damen doesn't get sick.

And when he pricked his finger on that thorny rose just a little while ago, I watched as it healed right before me.

But still, maybe I should start calling the hospitals—just to be sure.

Except Damen would
never
go to the hospital. He'd see it as a sign of weakness, defeat. He's far more likely to crawl off like a wounded animal, hiding out somewhere where he could be alone.

Only he doesn't have any wounds because they instantly heal. Besides, he'd never crawl off without telling me first.

Then again, I was also convinced he'd never drive off without me, and look how that turned out.

I riffle through his drawers, searching for the Yellow Pages—yet another accessory in his quest to seem normal. Because while it's true that Damen would never take himself to the hospital, if there
were an accident, or some other event beyond his control, then it's possible that someone else might've taken him without his consent.

And while that completely contradicts Roman's (most likely bogus) story of watching Damen speed away, that doesn't stop me from calling every hospital in Orange County, asking if a Damen Auguste has been admitted, and coming up empty each time.

When the last hospital is called, I consider calling the police but quickly decide against it. I mean, what would I say? That my six-hundred-year-old immortal boyfriend went missing?

I'd have just as much luck cruising Coast Highway, searching for a black BMW with dark tinted windows and a good-looking driver inside—the proverbial needle in the haystack of Laguna Beach.

Or—I can always just settle in here, knowing he's got to turn up eventually.

And as I climb the stairs to his room, I comfort myself with the thought that if I can't be with him, then at least I can be with his things. And as I settle myself upon his velvet settee, I gaze among the things he prizes the most, hoping I'm still one of them too.

 

My neck hurts.
And my back feels weird. And when I open my eyes and glimpse my surroundings—I know why. I spent the night in this room. Right here on this ancient velvet settee, which was originally intended for light banter, coquettish flirting, but definitely not sleeping.

I struggle to stand, my muscles tightening in protest as I stretch toward the sky then down toward my toes. And after bending my torso from side to side and swiveling my neck to and fro, I head over to his thick velvet drapes and yank them aside. Flooding the room with a light so bright my eyes water and sting, barely having enough time to adjust before I've closed them again. Ensuring the edges overlap and no amount of sunlight is allowed to creep in, returning the space to its usual state of permanent midnight, having been warned by Damen that those harsh Southern California rays can wreak havoc on the contents of this room.