Blue Moon (29 page)

At first he fights it, thrashing his head from side to side and keeping his mouth firmly closed. But when it's clear that I'm not about to give up, he gives in. Allowing the liquid to flow down his throat as his skin warms and his color returns. Emptying the bottle and gazing at me with such love and reverence, I'm overcome with joy just to know that he's back.

“I missed you,” I murmur, nodding and blinking and swallowing hard, my heart bursting with yearning as I press my lips to his cheek. All the pent-up emotions I've fought so hard to keep in check all this time, now rushing to the surface, bubbling over, as I kiss him again and again. “You're going to be okay,” I tell him. “You're going to be back to your old self very soon.”

My sudden burst of happiness withering like a popped balloon as his gaze turns dark and sweeps over my face.

“You left me,” he whispers.

I shake my head, wanting him to know it's not true. I never left
him—he left me—but it wasn't his fault and I forgive him. I forgive him for everything he's ever done—or said—even though it's already too late—even though it doesn't really matter anymore—

But instead I just say, “No. I haven't. You've been ill.
Very
ill. But it's over with now and soon you'll be better. You just have to promise to drink the antidote when—”
When Ava gives it to you
—the words I can't bear to say,
won't
say, not wanting him to know that this is our last moment together—our final good-bye.

“All you need to know is that you're going to be fine. But you need to watch out for Roman. He's not your friend. He's evil. He's trying to kill you. So you must regain your strength so you can take him down.”

I press my mouth to his forehead, his cheek, unable to stop until I've covered his entire face with my kiss. Tasting my own salty tears on the curve of his lips, as I breathe him in, hoping to imprint his scent, his taste, the feel of his skin, wanting to carry the memory of him wherever I go.

But even after I tell him I love him—even after I lie down beside him, pull him into my arms, and press his body to mine—even after I remain there for hours, lying right alongside him as he sleeps—even after I close my eyes and concentrate on melding my energy with his, hoping to heal him with my love, my essence, my very being, trying to impress some small part of myself onto him—even after all of that—the moment I move away, he says it again.

An accusation from his dream state, intended only for me.

“You left me.”

Not realizing until I've said my final good-bye and closed the door behind me, that he's not referring to the past.

He's prophesying our future.

 

I head down the hall and into the kitchen,
my heart heavy, my legs wooden, and every step away from Damen just makes it worse.

“You okay?” Ava asks, standing at the stove, brewing some tea. As though all of those hours didn't just pass.

I shake my head and lean against the wall, unsure how to answer, unable to speak. Because the truth is,
okay
is pretty much the last thing I feel. Empty, hollow, bereft, awful, depressed—yes. But
okay
? Not so much.

But that's because I'm a criminal. A traitor. I'm the worst kind of person you could ever hope to meet. All of the times I tried to imagine that scene, tried to imagine how my last moment with Damen would be, I never once thought it would end like that.

I never once thought I'd stand accused. Even though I clearly deserve to be.

“You don't have much time.” She gazes at the clock on her wall, then at me. “Would you like some tea before you leave?”

I shake my head, knowing I've a few things still to tell her, and a few more stops to make before I go for good.

“So you know what to do?” I ask, seeing her nod as she brings her cup to her lips. “Because I'm trusting you, Ava. If this doesn't
work out in the way that I think, if the only thing that goes back is me, then you're my only hope.” My gaze locks on hers, needing her to understand just exactly how serious this all is. “You've
got
to take care of Damen, he's—he doesn't deserve any of this, and—” My voice cracks as I press my lips together and avert my gaze. Knowing I've got to go on, that there's still more to say, but needing a moment before I can. “And watch out for Roman. He's good-looking and charming, but it's all a façade. Inside, he's evil, he tried to kill Damen, he's responsible for what he's become.”

“Don't worry.” She moves toward me. “Don't worry about a thing. I got the stuff out of your trunk, the antidote is in the cupboard, the juice is—fermenting, and I'll add the herb on the third day like you said. Not that we'll even need it, since I'm sure everything will go exactly as planned.”

I look at her, seeing the sincerity in her eyes, relieved that at least I'm able to leave things in her capable hands.

“So you just get yourself over to Summerland, and I'll take care of the rest,” she says, pulling me into her arms and hugging me tightly to her chest. “And who knows? Maybe someday you'll find yourself in Laguna Beach and we'll meet all over again?”

She laughs when she says it and I wish I could laugh along with her, but I can't. The weird thing about saying good-bye is that it never gets any easier.

I pull away, nodding in place of words, knowing that to say anything more will make me break down completely. Barely managing to eek out a “Thanks,” before I'm already at the door.

“You've nothing to be thanking me for,” she says, following behind. “But, Ever, are you sure you don't want to peek in on Damen, just one last time?”

I turn, my hand on the doorknob, considering, but only for a moment before I take a deep breath and shake my head. Knowing
there's no use in prolonging the inevitable, and far too afraid to risk seeing the accusation on his face.

“We've already said good-bye,” I say, stepping onto the porch and moving toward my car. “Besides, I don't have much time. There's still one last stop I need to make.”

 

I turn onto Roman's street, park in his drive,
rush toward the door, and kick it right down. Watching the wood crack and splinter as it teeters from its hinges and swings open before me, hoping to catch him off guard, so I can punch all of his chakras and be done with him for good.

I creep inside, my eyes darting around, taking in walls the color of eggshells, ceramic vases filled with silk flowers, poster-sized prints of all the usual suspects—Van Gogh's
The Starry Night,
Gustav Klimt's
The Kiss,
and an oversized rendition of Botticelli's
The Birth of Venus
framed in gold and hanging right over the mantel. All of it appearing so surprisingly normal, I can't help but wonder if I've got the wrong house.

I expected grit, edge, a post-apocalyptic pad with black leather couches, chrome tables, an abundance of mirrors, and confusing art—something sleeker, hipper, anything but this chintz-ridden fuss palace that's nearly impossible to imagine someone like Roman living in.

I tour the house, checking every room, every closet, even under the bed. But when it's clear he's not home, I head straight for his kitchen, find his supply of immortal juice, and pour it straight down the drain. Knowing it's juvenile, useless, and probably won't make
the least bit of difference, since the moment I go back everything will reverse itself again. But even if it adds up to no more than a minor inconvenience, at least he'll know that inconvenience came from me.

Then I riffle through his drawers, searching for a piece of scrap paper and a pen, needing to make a list of all the things I can't afford to forget. A simple set of instructions that won't be too confusing for someone who probably won't remember what any of it means, and yet still clear and concise enough to keep me from repeating the same horrible mistakes all over again.

Writing:

 

1. Don't go back for the sweatshirt!

2. Don't trust Drina!

3. Don't go back for the sweatshirt
no matter what!

 

And then, just so I don't completely forget, and hoping it might trigger some sort of memory, I add:

 

4. Damen

 

And after checking it over again (and again), making sure it's all there and that nothing's been missed, I fold it into a square, shove it deep in my pocket, and head for the window, gazing at a sky turned a deep sunless blue, with the moon hanging heavy and full just off to the side. Then I take a deep breath and head for the ugly chintz couch, knowing it's time.

I close my eyes and reach toward the light, eager to experience that shimmering glory one final time as I land on those soft blades of grass in that vast fragrant field. Aided by their buoyancy and bounce as I run, skip, and twirl through the meadow, performing cartwheels, back handsprings, and somersaults, my fingertips grazing
over those glorious flowers with their pulsating petals and delicious sweet scent as I wind my way through those vibrating trees along the colorful stream. Determined to take it all in, to memorize every last detail, wishing there was some way to capture this wonderful feeling and hold it forever.

And then, because I have a few moments to spare, and because I need to see him one last time, need to be with him in the way that we used to, I close my eyes and manifest Damen.

Seeing
him as he first appeared to me in the parking lot at school. Starting with his shiny dark hair that waves around his cheekbones and hits just shy of his shoulders, those almond-shaped eyes so deep, dark, and even, back then, strangely familiar. And those lips! Those ripe inviting lips with their perfect Cupid's bow, followed by the long, lean, muscular body that holds it all up. My memory so potent, so tangible, every nuance, every pore, is present and accounted for.

And when I open my eyes, he's bowing before me, offering his hand in our very last dance. So I place my hand in his as he tucks his arm around my waist, leading me through that glorious field in a series of wide sweeping arcs, our bodies swaying, our feet floating, twirling to a melody heard only by us. And every time he begins to slip from my grasp, I just close my eyes and make him again, resuming our steps without falter. Like Count Fersen and Marie, Albert and Victoria, Antony and Cleopatra, we are all the world's greatest lovers, we are all the couples we've ever been. And I bury my face in the warm sweet hollow of his neck, reluctant to let our song end.

But even though there's no time in Summerland, there is where I'm going. And so I run my fingers along the planes of his face, memorizing the softness of his skin, the curve of his jaw, and the swell of his lips as they press against mine—convincing myself that it's him—
really him!

Even long after he's faded and gone.

 

 

The moment I head out of the field, I find Romy and Rayne waiting right by the edge, and from the looks on their faces I know they've been watching.

“You're running out of time,” Rayne says, staring at me with those saucer-sized eyes that never fail to set me on edge.

But I just shake my head and pick up the pace, annoyed to know they've been spying, and tired of the way they keep butting in.

“I've got it all covered,” I say, glancing over my shoulder. “So feel free to—” I pause, having no idea what they do when they're not bothering me. So I lift my shoulders and leave it at that, knowing whatever they're up to, it no longer concerns me.

They run alongside me, peering at each other, communicating in their private twin speak before saying, “Something's not right.” They stare at me, urging me to listen. “Something feels terribly wrong.” Their voices blending together in perfect harmony.

But I just shrug, not the least bit interested in cracking their code, and when I see those marble steps before me, I storm straight ahead, glimpsing the world's most beautiful structures, before rushing right in. The twins' voices silenced by the doors closing behind me as I stand in the grand marble entry, eyes closed tight, hoping I won't be shut out like the last time, hoping I can go back in time. Thinking: