Blue Moon (27 page)

I move on to the polished rose quartz, picking them up individually and infusing them with white light, before repeating four separate times, “May you bring unconditional love and infinite peace.” Dropping them each into the red silk bag, watching as they settle around the turquoise before reaching for the staurolite—a beautiful stone believed to be formed from the tears of fairies, and asking it to provide ancient wisdom, good luck, and to help connect to the other dimensions, before moving on to the large chunk of zoisite, and holding it in both of my hands. After cleansing it with white light, I close my eyes and whisper, “May you transmute all negative energies to positive ones, may you aid in connecting to the mystical realms, and may you—”

“Ever? Can I come in?”

I glance at the door, knowing there's just an inch and a half of wood separating me from Sabine. Then I gaze at the pile of herbs, oils, candles, and powders, along with the rock I'm talking to in my hand.

“And please aid in recovery, illness, and whatever else it is that you do!”
I whisper, barely getting the words out before I'm shoving it in the bag.

Only it won't fit.

“Ever?”

I shove it again, trying to jam it in there, but the opening's so small and the stone's so big it's not going to happen without ripping the seams.

Sabine knocks again, three firm raps meant to inform me that she knows I'm in here, knows I'm up to something, and that her patience
is nearing its end. And even though I don't have time to chat, I'm left with no choice but to say, “Um, just a sec!” Forcing the stone inside as I run out to my balcony and drop it on a small table with the best view of the moon, before rushing back in and going into a full-blown meltdown when Sabine knocks again and I take in the state of my room—looking at it as she might see it, and knowing there's no time to change it.

“Ever? Are you okay?” she calls, with equal parts annoyance and concern.

“
Yeah
—I just—” I grab hold of the hem of my T-shirt and yank it over my head, turning my back toward the door as I say, “Um, you can come in now—I'm just—” And the moment she enters, I slide it back on. Faking a sudden bout of modesty, as though I can't bear for her to see me changing when I've never cared much before. “I'm—I was just changing,” I mumble, seeing her brows merge as she looks me over, sniffing the air for the remnants of pot, alcohol, clove cigarettes, or whatever her latest teen-rearing book has warned her against.

“You got something on your—” She motions toward the front of my shirt. “Something—red that—well—that probably won't come out.”

She twists her mouth to the side as I gaze down at the front of my T-shirt, seeing it marked by a big streak of red and immediately recognizing it as the powder I need for the elixir. Knowing its bag must have leaked when I see how it's spilled all over my desk as well as the floor underneath.

Great. Way to appear as though you were just changing into a clean shirt!
I think, mentally rolling my eyes as she approaches my bed, perches herself on the edge and crosses her legs, her cell phone in hand. And all it takes is one look at the hazy reddish gray glow of her aura to know that the concerned look on her face has less to do with my apparent lack of clean clothes and more to do with
me—my strange behavior, my growing secrecy, my food issues—all of which she's convinced lead to something more sinister.

And I'm so focused on how I might go about explaining those things that I fail to see it coming when she says, “Ever, did you ditch school today?”

I freeze, watching as she stares at my desk, taking in the mess of herbs and candles and oils and minerals and all kinds of other weird stuff she's not used to seeing—or at least not all grouped together like that—like they have a purpose—like the arrangement is far less random than it seems.

“Um, yeah. I had a headache. But it's no big deal.” I plop onto my desk chair and swivel back and forth, hoping to distract her from the view.

She glances between the great alchemical experiment and me, and is just about to speak when I say, “Well, I mean, it's no big deal now that it's
gone.
Though believe me, it was at the time. I got one of my migraines. You know how I get those sometimes?”

I feel like the world's worst niece—an ungrateful liar—an insincere babbler of nonsense. She has no idea how lucky she is to be rid of me soon.

“Maybe it's because you're not eating enough.” She sighs, kicking off her shoes and studying me closely as she says, “And yet, in spite of that, you seem to be growing like a weed. You're even taller than you were a few days ago!”

I gaze down at my ankles, shocked to see that my newly manifested jeans have crept up an inch since this morning.

“Why didn't you go to the nurse's office if you weren't feeling well? You know you're not allowed to just run off like that.”

I gaze at her, wishing I could tell her not to sweat it, to not waste another second worrying about it since it'll be over with soon. Because as much as I'm going to miss her, there's no doubt her life will
improve. She deserves better than
this.
Deserves better than
me.
And it's nice to know she'll soon have some peace.

“She's kind of a quack,” I say. “A real aspirin pusher, and you know how that never works for me. I just needed to come home and lie down for a while. It's the only thing that ever works. So, I just—left.”

“And did you?” She leans toward me. “Come home I mean?” And the moment our eyes meet, I know it's a challenge. I know it's a test.

“No.” I sigh, staring down at the carpet as I wave my white flag. “I drove down to the canyon and just—”

She watches me, waiting.

“And I just got lost for a while.” I take a deep breath and swallow hard, knowing that's as close to the truth as I can get.

“Ever, is this about Damen?”

And the moment my eyes meet hers, I can't hold back, I just burst into tears.

“Oh dear,” she murmurs, her arms opening wide as I spring from my chair and tumble right in. Still so unused to my long gangly limbs, I'm clumsy and awkward and nearly knock her to the floor.

“Sorry,” I say. “I—” But I'm unable to finish. A new rush of tears overtakes me, and I'm sobbing again.

She strokes my hair as I continue to cry, murmuring, “I know how much you miss him. I know how hard this must be.”

But the second she says it, I pull away. Feeling guilty for acting as though this is just about Damen when the truth is it's only partly about him. It's also about missing my friends—in Laguna and in Oregon. And about missing my life—the one I've built here and the one I'm about to return to. Because even though it's obvious that they'll be better off without me, and I mean
everyone,
including Damen, that still doesn't make it any easier.

But it has to be done. There's really no choice.

And when I think of it like that, well, it does make it easier. Because the truth is, whatever the reason, I've been given an amazing, once in a lifetime opportunity.

And now it's time to go home.

I just wish I had a little more time for good-byes.

And when the thought of that brings a new rush of tears, Sabine holds me tighter, whispering words of encouragement, as I cling to her, held in the cocoon of her arms where everything feels safe—and warm—and right—and secure.

Like it's all going to work out just fine.

And as I burrow closer, my eyes closed, my face buried in the place where her shoulder meets her neck, my lips move softly, silently, saying good-bye.

 

I wake up early.
I guess since it's the last day of my life, or at least the last day of the life I've built here, I'm eager to make the most of it. And even though I'm sure I'll be greeted with a full-on chorus of the usual
Spaz! Loo-ser!
and the more recent
Witch!
, knowing it's the last time I'll be subjected to that makes all the difference.

At Hillcrest High (the school I'm returning to), I've got tons of friends. Which makes showing up Monday through Friday a lot more appealing, if not fun. And I don't remember ever once being tempted to ditch (like I am pretty much all the time here), and I wasn't depressed about not fitting in.

And to be honest, I think that's why I'm so eager to return. Because other than the obvious thrill of being with my family again, having a good group of friends who both love and accept me, and who I can be myself with—makes the decision that much easier.

A decision I wouldn't even stop to think twice about if it weren't for Damen.

But even though I can't quite wrap my mind around the fact that I'll never see him again—will never know the touch of his skin, the heat of his gaze, or the feel of his lips upon mine—I'm still willing to give it all up.

If it means reclaiming the old me and returning to my family—then there's really no choice.

I mean, Drina killed me so she could have Damen to herself. And Damen brought me back so he could have me to himself. And as much as I love him, as much as my whole heart aches at the thought of never seeing him again, I know now that the moment he returned me to life, he messed with the natural order of things. Turning me into something I was never meant to be.

And now it's my job to put it all back.

I stand before my closet and reach for my newest jeans, a black V-neck sweater, and my newish ballet flats—just like I wore in the vision I saw. Then I run my fingers through my hair, swipe on some lip gloss, insert the tiny diamond stud earrings my parents bought me for my sixteenth birthday (since they'll definitely notice if they're missing), along with the crystal horseshoe bracelet Damen gave me that has no place in the life I'm returning to, but there's no way I'm removing it.

Then I grab my bag, gaze around my ridiculously big room one last time, and head out the door. Eager to get one final peek at a life I didn't always enjoy and most likely won't even remember, but still needing to say some good-byes and set a few things straight before I'm gone for good.

The second I pull into the school parking lot, I start scanning for Damen. Searching for him, his car, anything, any little nugget, whatever I can get. Wanting to see as much of him as I can, while I can. And feeling disappointed when I don't find him.

I park my car and head to class, guarding against freaking out, jumping to conclusions, and overreacting just because he's not here yet. Because even though he's becoming increasingly normal as the poison slowly chips away at the progress of hundreds of years, from the way he looked yesterday—still gorgeous, still sexy, and not at all beginning to age—I'm guessing rock bottom is still days away.

Besides, I know he'll show up eventually. I mean, why wouldn't he? He's the undisputed star of this school. The best looking, the wealthiest, the one who throws the most amazing parties—or at least that's what I hear. He practically gets a standing ovation just for showing up. And tell me, who could resist that?

I move among the students, gazing at all the people I never even spoke to, and who barely spoke to me other than to yell something mean. And while I'm sure they won't miss me, I can't help but wonder if they'll even notice I'm gone. Or, if it'll all turn out like I think—I go back, they go back, and the time I spent here amounts to less than a blip on their screen.

I take a deep breath and head into English, bracing myself to see Damen with Stacia, but finding her sitting alone instead. I mean, she's gossiping with Honor and Craig as usual, but Damen's nowhere in sight. And as I pass her on the way to my seat, ready for just about anything she might toss in my path, I'm met only by silence, a stolid refusal to even acknowledge me, much less try to trip me, which fills me with dread and unease.

And after taking my seat and settling in, I spend the next fifty minutes glancing between the clock and the door, my anxiety growing with each passing moment. Imagining all manner of horrible scenarios until the bell finally rings and I bolt for the hall. And by fourth period when he still hasn't shown, I'm headed for a full-blown panic attack when I walk into history class and find Roman gone too.

“Ever,” Mr. Munoz says, as I stand beside him, gaping at Roman's empty seat as my stomach fills with dread.

“You've got a lot of catching up to do.”

I glance at him, knowing he wants to discuss my attendance, my missed assignments, and other irrelevant topics I don't need to hear. So I run out the door, racing through the quad and right past the lunch tables before I stop on the curb, gasping in relief when I see
him. Or not
him,
but rather his car. The sleek black BMW he used to prize so much, that's now coated in a thick layer of dirt and grime and parked rather awkwardly in the no-parking zone.

Still, despite its filthy state, I gaze at it as though it's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. Knowing that if his car's here, then he's here. And all is okay.

And just as I'm thinking I should try to move it so it doesn't get towed away, a throat clears from behind me and a deep voice says, “Excuse me, but aren't you supposed to be in class?”

I turn, my gaze meeting Principal Buckley's when I say, “Um, yeah, but first I just have to—” I motion toward Damen's poorly parked Beemer as though I'm doing a favor not just for my friend but for the sake of the school as well.

But Buckley's less concerned with parking violations and more concerned with repeat truancy offenders like me. And still smarting from our last unfortunate encounter when Sabine pleaded my case from expelled to suspended, he squints as he looks me over and says, “You've got two choices. I can call your aunt and ask her to leave work so she can come down here,
or
—” He pauses, trying to kill me with suspense even though you don't have to be psychic to know where this is going. “Or I can escort you back to class. Which would you prefer?”