Blue Moon (24 page)

I raise my hand, blocking his words from going any further than they already have. And even though I'm not proud of the way I handled Mr. Robins, if Munoz doesn't back off, he'll get the same speech as well.

“Trust me, I know where you're going.” I nod, my eyes right on his. “But you've got it all wrong. It's not what you think—” I stop, realizing that as far as denials go, this one is turning out to be incredibly lame. I mean, I just alluded to the fact that while it
might've
occurred—it didn't occur in the
way
that he thinks. Which basically amounts to me pleading guilty—but with extenuating circumstances.

I shake my head, inwardly rolling my eyes at myself, thinking:
Good one, Ever. Keep it up and you will need Sabine to represent you.

And then he looks at me, and I look at him, and we both shake our heads, mutually agreeing to leave it at that.

But just as I grab my bag and start to leave, he reaches toward me, his hand touching my sleeve, when he says, “Hang in there. It'll all be okay.”

And that's all it takes. That simple gesture is all I need to
see
that Sabine has been frequenting Starbucks, just about every single day. The two of them enjoying a tentative flirtation that, while it (thankfully) hasn't moved past a smile, Munoz is definitely anticipating the day when it will. And even though I know I have to do whatever I can to stop them from, God forbid,
dating,
at the moment, I don't have time to deal with it.

I shake off his energy and head out the door, barely making it into the hall before Roman approaches, adjusting his stride so it's timed right to mine. Leering at me when he says, “Was Munoz any help?”

I keep going, wincing when his cool breath hits my cheek.

“You're running out of time,” he says, his voice as soft and soothing as a lover's embrace.“It's all moving rather quickly now, wouldn't you agree? And before you know it, it'll all be over. And then—well—then there's just you and me.”

I shrug, knowing that's not exactly true. I viewed the past. I saw what happened in that Florentine church. And if I'm not mistaken, there are six immortal orphans quite possibly still roaming the earth. Six little urchins who could be just about anywhere by now—providing they made it. But if Roman's unaware of that fact, well, it's hardly my place to inform him.

So I gaze into his eyes, resisting the lure of those deep navy blues, when I say, “How lucky for me.”

“And
me.
” He smiles. “You're going to need someone to help mend your broken heart. Someone who understands you. Someone who knows just
what
you really are.” He trails his finger down the length of my arm, his touch so shockingly cold, even through the cotton of my sleeve, I quickly pull away.

“You know
nothing
about me,” I say, my eyes raking his face. “You've underestimated me. If I were you, I'd be a little more cautious about celebrating so soon. You're a long way from winning this one.”

And even though I meant it as a threat, my voice is far too shaky to be taken seriously. So I pick up the pace, leaving his mocking laughter behind as I head for my lunch table where Miles and Haven are waiting.

I slide onto the bench, smiling as I glance between them. It feels like so long since we last hung out, the sight of them sitting here now makes me ridiculously happy.

“Hey you guys,” I say, unable to keep the grin off my face, watching as they glance first at me, then at each other, nodding their heads in perfect unison as though this moment was rehearsed.

Miles sips his soda, a drink he never would've gone near before. His bright pink nails tapping the sides of the can as my stomach fills with dread. Debating whether or not to tune in to their thoughts, knowing it'll prepare me for whatever reason they're here, but deciding against it since I'd rather not hear it twice.

“We need to talk,” Miles says. “It's about Damen.”

“No,” Haven cuts in, shooting Miles a look before retrieving her bag of carrot sticks from her purse, the zero-calorie signature lunch of the girls of the A-list. “It's about Damen and
you.
”

“What's there to talk about? I mean, he's with Stacia, and I'm—dealing.”

They glance at each other, exchanging a look that's loaded but brief. “But
are
you dealing?” Miles asks. “Because seriously, Ever, breaking into his house and messing with his food supply is pretty twisted. Not exactly the actions of someone who's moving on with their life—”

“So, what? You guys just believe every rumor you hear? All those months of friendship, all those times you hung at my house, and you think I'm capable of that—” I roll my eyes and shake my head, refusing to go any further. I mean, if all I managed to get out of Damen was the most fleeting moment of recognition before it was replaced with disdain, when we have a bond that dates back centuries—what can I hope to accomplish with Miles and Haven whom I've known for less than a year?

“Well, I really don't see why Damen would make all that up,” Haven says, her eyes on mine, her gaze so harsh and judgmental I realize she didn't actually come here to help. Because while she may act as though she's got only my best interests at heart, the truth is, she's enjoying my fall. After losing Damen to me, after seeing how Roman continues to chase me even after she's made her interest clear, she's happy to see me knocked down. And the only reason she's deigning to sit by me now is so she can look me in the eye while she gloats.

I gaze down at the table, surprised by how much it hurts. But I try not to judge or hold it against her. I know all too well what it's like to feel jealous, and there's nothing rational about it.

“You need to let it go,” Miles says, sipping his drink, though his eyes never leave mine. “You need to let go and move on.”

“
Everyone
knows you're stalking him,” Haven says, covering her mouth with nails painted the color of ballet slippers as opposed to her usual black. “
Everyone
knows you broke into his house—
twice
—that we know of. Seriously, you're out of control, you're acting insane.”

I gaze down at the table, wondering how much longer the assault will continue.

“Anyway, as your friends, we just want to convince you that you need to let go. You need to back off and move on. Because the truth is, your behavior is creepy, not to mention . . .”

Haven drones on, hitting all the bullet points I'm sure they agreed upon before they approached me. But I stopped listening after she said
as your friends.
Wanting to hang on to that and reject all the rest, even though it's no longer true.

I shake my head and look up, seeing Roman sitting at the lunch table with his gaze fixed on mine. Tapping his watch, then pointing at Damen in a way so ominous, so threatening, I spring from my seat. Leaving Haven's voice fading behind me like a distant hum as I race for my car, chastising myself for wasting my time with this stuff when there are far more important things to be done.

 

I'm through with school. Done with subjecting myself
to that unbearable gauntlet of torture each day. I mean, what's the point of going when I'm getting nowhere with Damen, taunted by Roman, and lectured by teachers and pseudo well-meaning ex-friends? Besides, if things work out in the way that I hope, then I'll soon be back at my old school in Oregon, living my life as though this never existed. So there's really no point in putting myself through that again.

I head down Broadway, weaving my way through pedestrian traffic before moving on to the canyon, hoping to go someplace quiet where I can make the portal appear without scaring any unsuspecting shoppers. Not remembering until I've already parked that this is the same place where my first showdown with Drina occurred—a showdown that resulted in my first visit to Summerland when Damen provided the way.

I hunker down in my seat, imagining that golden veil of light hovering before me and landing right in front of the Great Hall of Learning. Barely taking the time to notice its magnificent ever-changing façade before rushing into the grand marble hall with my thoughts focused on two things:

Is there an antidote to save Damen?

And how do I locate the secret herb, the final ingredient needed to prepare the elixir?

Repeating the questions again and again as I wait for the doorway to the akashic records to appear—

But getting nothing.

No globes. No crystal sheets. No white circular rooms or hybrid TVs.

Nothing
.
Nada
.
Nien.

Just a soft voice behind me saying, “It's too late.”

I turn, expecting to see Romy but finding Rayne there instead. Following behind as I roll my eyes and make for the door, eager to put some distance between us as she echoes those same words again.

I don't have time for this. I don't have time to decipher a bunch of cryptic nonsense from the world's creepiest twin. Because even though there's no concept of time in Summerland where everything happens in a constant state of
now,
I know for a fact that the time I spend here will be duly noted back home. Which means I need to keep going, keep moving forward, heading down the street as fast as I can until her voice turns to a whisper. Knowing I need to save Damen before I turn back time and go home. And if the answers aren't here—then I'll look somewhere else.

I start running. Turning into the alleyway just as I'm overcome by such sudden excruciating pain, I crumple to the ground. My fingers clamped to my temples, my head aching as though it's being stabbed from all sides, as a swirl of images unfold in my mind. A series of sketches, one turning into the next like pages in a book, followed by a detailed description of what it includes. And I've just made it to the third page when I realize these are instructions for making the antidote to save Damen, including herbs planted during the new moon, rare crystals and minerals I've never heard of, silk pouches embroidered by Tibetan monks—all of it needing to be
carefully assembled in a series of very precise steps before soaking up the energy of the next full moon.

And just after I'm shown the exact herb needed to complete the immortal elixir, my head clears as though it never happened. So I reach for my bag, fumbling for a scrap of paper and a pen, jotting down the final step when Ava appears.

“I made the portal!” she says, her face lighting up as her eyes meet mine. “I didn't think I could do it, but this morning when I sat down for my usual meditation, I thought: What could it hurt to give it a try? And the next thing I knew—”

“You've been here since
morning
?” I say, taking in her beautiful dress, designer shoes, heavy gold bracelets, and jewel-adorned fingers.

“There's no time in Summerland,” she scolds.

“Maybe so, but back home it's past noon,” I tell her, watching as she shakes her head and frowns, refusing to get bogged down in the tedious rules of the earth plane.

“Who cares? What could I possibly be missing? A long line of clients wanting me to tell them they're about to become extremely rich and famous despite all evidence to the contrary?” She closes her eyes and sighs. “I'm tired of it, Ever. Tired of the grind. But here, everything's so wonderful, I think I might stay!”

“You can't,” I say, quickly, automatically, though I'm not sure it's true.

“Why not?” She shrugs, lifting her arms to the sky and twirling around and around. “Why can't I stay here? Give me one good reason.”

“Because—” I start, wishing I could just leave it at that, but since she's not a child I'm forced to come up with something better. “Because it's not right,” I finish, hoping she'll hear me. “You have work to do. We all have work to do. And hiding out here is like—
cheating
.”

“Says who?” She squints. “You telling me
all
of these people are dead?”

I gaze around, taking in the crowded sidewalks, the long line for the movie theaters and karaoke bars, realizing I have no idea how to answer. I mean, just how many of them are like Ava—tired, fed-up, disillusioned souls who've found their way here and decided to drop out from the earth plane and never return? And how many of them have died and refused to cross over like Riley once did?

I look at Ava again, knowing I've no right to tell her what to do with her life, especially when I remember what I've chosen to do with mine.

Then I reach for her hand and smile when I say, “Well, at the moment,
I
need you. Tell me everything you know about astrology.”

 

“So?” I lean toward Ava,
elbows pressed against the tabletop, trying to keep her focused on me as opposed to the sights and sounds of Saint-Germain.

“I know that I'm an Aries.” She shrugs, her eyes preferring the River Seine, the Pont Neuf, the Eiffel Tower, the Arc de Triomphe, and the Notre Dame cathedral (which, in this version of Paris, are all lined up in a row), to me.

“Is that it?” I stir my cappuccino, wondering why I even bothered to order it from the cartoonlike
garçon
with the curlicue mustache, white shirt, and black vest, since it's not like I have any intention of drinking it.

She sighs, turning to look at me when she says, “Ever, can't you just relax and enjoy the view? When was the last time you were in Paris anyway?”

“Never,” I say, rolling my eyes in a way she can't miss. “I've never been to Paris. And I hate to break it to you, Ava, but
this
—” I take a moment to gesture around, pointing at the Louvre, which is placed right next to Printemps department store, which is next to the Musée d'Orsay, “—is
not
Paris.
This
is like some cranked up Disney version of Paris. Like, you've taken a pile of travel brochures and French postcards, and scenes from that adorable cartoon movie
Ratatouille,
mixed them all together and
voilà
, created
this
. I mean, did you
see
the waiter? Did you notice how his tray kept tipping and twirling but never once fell? I doubt the
real
Paris has waiters like that.”