“You could what?” He smiles, face looming so close his breath chills my cheek. “Slug me in my sacral center, perhaps?”
I gape, wondering where he could’ve possibly learned that.
But he just laughs, shaking his head as he says, “Don’t forget, luv, Damen was under my spell, which means he told me everything, answered every question I asked—including a good bit about you.”
I stand there, refusing to react, determined to appear composed, unruffled—but it’s too late. He got me. Right where it counts. And don’t think he doesn’t know it.
“No worries, luv. I’ve no plans to go after you. Even though your glaring lack of discernment and tragic misuse of knowledge tells me that a quick jab to the throat chakra is all it would take to destroy you for good—” He smiles, tongue snaking around his lips. “I’m having far too much fun watching you squirm to attempt something like that. Besides, it won’t be long ’til you’re squirming beneath me. Or even on top of me. Either will do.” He laughs, blue eyes on mine, gazing at me in a way so knowing, so intimate, so deep, my stomach can’t help but heave. “I’ll leave the details to you. But no matter how much you may want to, you won’t go after me either. Mostly because I do have what you want. The antidote to the antidote. I assure you of that. You’re just gonna have to find a way to earn it. You’re just gonna have to pay the right price.”
I gape, dry mouthed and slack jawed, remembering last Friday when he claimed the very same thing. So distracted by Damen awakening I forgot all about it ’til now.
I press my lips together as my gaze meets his, my hope rising for the first time in days, knowing it’s just a matter of time until the antidote is mine. I just need to find a way to get it from him.
“Oh, look at that.” He smirks. “Seems you forgot all about our date with destiny.”
He lifts his arm and I start to plow through, then he lowers it just as quickly, laughing as he locks me in place.
“Deep breaths,” he coos, lips grazing the edge of my ear, fingers sliding over my shoulder, leaving an icy cold wake in their path. “No need to panic. No need to get all spazzed out again. I’m sure that between us, we can come to some sort of mutual agreement, find a way to work something out.”
I narrow my gaze, disgusted by the price that he’s set, words slow and deliberate when I say, “Nothing you could ever say or do could convince me to sleep with you!” just as Mr. Munoz opens the door, allowing the entire class to overhear.
“Whoa—” Roman smiles, hands raised in mock surrender as he backs into the room. “Who said anything about bumpin’ uglies, mate?” He throws his head back and laughs, allowing his creepy Ouroboros tattoo to flash in and out of view. “I mean, not to disappoint you, darlin’, but if it’s a good shag I’m after, a virgin’s about the last place I’d look!”
I storm toward my desk, cheeks burning, gaze fixed on the floor, spending the next forty minutes cringing as my classmates burst into hysterics every time Roman directs a disgusting wet smoochy sound my way, despite Munoz’s numerous attempts to quiet them down. And the moment the bell rings, I make a run for the door. Desperate to get to Damen before Roman can, convinced Roman will push him too far and he’ll snap—an act neither of us can afford now that Roman holds the key.
But just as I turn the knob I hear, “Ever? Got a minute?”
I pause, classmates piling up behind me, eager to get to the hall where they can follow Roman’s lead and taunt me some more. His mocking laughter trailing behind as I turn toward Munoz to see what he wants.
“I did it.” He smiles, posture stiff, voice anxious, but still eager for me to know.
I shift uncomfortably, moving my bag from one shoulder to the next, wishing I’d taken the time to learn remote viewing so I could keep an eye on the lunch tables and ensure Damen sticks to the plan.
“I approached her. Just like you told me to.” He nods.
I squint, returning my focus to him, gut churning as I begin to understand.
“The woman from Starbucks? Sabine? I saw her this morning. We even talked for a while, and—” He shrugs, gaze drifting away, obviously still very taken by the event.
I stand before him, breathless, knowing I have to stop it, whatever it takes, before it gets out of hand.
“And you were right. She is really nice. In fact, I probably shouldn’t tell you but we’re having dinner this Friday night.”
I nod, numb, shell-shocked, the words glancing over me as I peer into his energy and watch it unfold in his head:
Sabine standing in line, minding her own business until Munoz approaches—causing her to turn and grant him a smile that’s—that’s—shamefully flirtatious!
Except that there’s no shame at all. At least not on Sabine’s part. Nor Munoz for that matter. No, the shame is all mine. Those two couldn’t be happier.
This cannot happen. For too many reasons to mention this dinner can never take place. One of them being that Sabine is not just my aunt, but my guardian, my caretaker, my only living relative in the whole entire world! And another, possibly even more urgent reason, is the fact that, thanks to my pathetic, maudlin, overly sentimental, ill-advised moment of weakness last Friday, Munoz knows I’m psychic while Sabine does not!
I’ve gone to great lengths to keep my secret from her, and there’s no way I’m going to be outed by my love-struck history teacher.
But just as I’m about to tell him that he absolutely cannot, under any circumstances whatsoever, take my aunt to dinner and/or divulge any information I might’ve accidentally confessed during a weak moment when I was sure I’d never see him again, he clears his throat and says, “Anyway, you should get to lunch before it’s too late. I didn’t mean to keep you this long, I just thought—”
“Oh, no, it’s okay,” I say. “I just—”
But he doesn’t let me finish. Practically pushes me out the door as he waves me away, saying, “Go on now. Go find your friends. I just thought I should thank you, that’s all.”
five
When I get to the lunch table I sit beside Damen, relieved to find everything as normal as any other day. Damen’s gloved hand squeezing my knee as I quickly scan the campus, looking for Roman as he thinks: He’s gone.
Gone? I gape, hoping he means gone as in not around, as opposed to gone as in pile of dust.
But Damen just laughs, the smooth melodic sound reverberating from his head to mine. Not annihilated. I assure you. Just—absent—that’s all. Drove off a few minutes ago with some guy I’ve never seen before.
Did you talk? Did he try to provoke you? Damen shakes his head, his eyes peering into mine as I add: Good. Because we can’t afford to go after him—no matter what! He has the antidote! He admitted it! Which means all we have to do now is find a way to—
Ever. He frowns. You can’t possibly believe him! This is what Roman does. He lies and manipulates everyone around him. You have to stay away from him—he’s using you—he can’t be trusted—
I shake my head. This time is different. I can feel it. And I need for Damen to feel it too. He’s not lying—seriously—he said—
Not even finishing the thought before Haven leans forward, eyes darting between us as she says, “Okay, that’s it. Just what the heck is going on here? Seriously, enough already.”
I turn, noticing how her friendly yellow aura beams in such sudden sharp contrast to the deliberate harshness of her all-black ensemble. Knowing she means no ill will though she’s definitely disturbed by us.
“Seriously. It’s like—it’s like you guys have some kind of creepy way of communicating. Like twin speak or something. Only yours is silent. And more eerie.”
I shrug and open my lunch pack, going through the motions of unwrapping a sandwich I’ve no plans to eat, determined to hide just how alarmed her question has made me. Knocking my knee against Damen’s, telepathically urging him to step in and handle this since I’ve no idea what to say.
“Don’t pretend it’s not happening.” Her
eyes narrow in suspicion. “I’ve been watching you guys for a while now, and it’s really starting to creep me out.”
“What’s creeping you out?” Miles gazes up from his phone, but only for a moment before he’s back to texting again.
“Those two.” She points a short, black painted nail with a chunk of pink frosting stuck to its tip. “I swear, they get stranger every day.”
Miles nods, setting down his phone as he takes a moment to look us over. “Yeah, I’ve been meaning to mention that. You guys are weird.” He laughs. “Oh, and the whole Michael Jackson, one glove thing?” He shakes his head and purses his lips. “So not working for you. That look is so played even you can’t bring it back.”
Haven frowns, annoyed by Miles’s joke when she’s trying to be serious. “Laugh all you want,” she says, gaze steady, unwavering. “But something’s up with those two. I may not know what, but I’ll figure it out. I’ll get to the bottom of it. You’ll see.”
And I’m just about to speak when Damen shakes his head and swirls his red drink, leaning toward Haven as he says, “Don’t waste your time. It’s not as sinister as you think.” He smiles, gaze fixed on hers. “We’re practicing telepathy, that’s all. Attempting to read each other’s minds in place of talking all the time. So we stop getting in trouble in class.” He laughs, causing me to squeeze my sandwich so hard the mayonnaise squirts out the sides. Gaping at my boyfriend who’s just arbitrarily decided to break our number one rule—Don’t tell anyone who we are or what we can do!
Calming only slightly when Haven rolls her eyes and says, “Please. I’m not an idiot.”
“Wasn’t implying you were.” Damen smiles. “It’s quite real, I assure you. Would you like to try?”
I freeze, body solid, unmoving, as though witnessing a disaster on the side of the road—only this particular disaster is me.
“Close your eyes and think of a number between one and ten.” He nods, solemn gaze meeting hers. “Focus on that number with all of your might. See it in your mind as clearly as you can, and silently repeat the sound of it over and over again. Got it?”
She shrugs, brows merging as though in deep concentration. Though all it takes is a quick glance at her aura, morphing into a dark deceitful green, and a brief peek at her thoughts to see she’s only pretending. Choosing to concentrate on the color blue instead of a random number like Damen said.
I glance between them, knowing she’s baiting him, sure that his one in ten chance of hitting the right number works too much in his favor. Holding her ground as he rubs his chin and shakes his head, saying, “I don’t seem to be getting anything. Are you sure you’re thinking of a number between one and ten?”
She nods, deepening her focus on a beautiful shade of pulsating blue.
“Then we must have our wires crossed.” He shrugs. “I’m not getting a number at all.”
“Try me!” Miles abandons his phone and leans toward Damen.
Eyes barely closed, thoughts hardly focused before Damen gasps, “You’re going to Florence?”
Miles shakes his head. “Three. For your information, the number was three.” He rolls his eyes and smirks. “And by the way, everyone knows I’m going to Florence. So—nice try.”
“Everyone but me,” Damen says, jaws clenched, face gone suddenly pale.
“Well, I’m sure Ever told you. You know, telepathically.” He laughs, returning to his phone again.
I peer at Damen, wondering why he’s so upset over Miles’s trip. I mean, yeah, so he used to live there, but that was hundreds of years ago! I squeeze his hand, urging him to look at me, but he just stares at Miles with that same stricken look on his face.
“Nice try with the whole telepathy angle,” Haven says, swiping her finger across the top of her cupcake until it’s coated with strawberry frosting. “But I’m afraid you’re gonna have to try a little harder than that. All you’ve managed to prove is that you guys are even weirder than I thought. But no worries, I’ll get to the bottom of it. I’ll expose your dirty little secret before long.”
I hold back a nervous laugh, hoping she’s just messing around, then peering into her mind only to see that she’s serious.
“When are you leaving?” Damen asks, but only to appear conversational, having already uncovered the answer in Miles’s head.
“Soon, but not soon enough,” Miles says, eyes lighting up. “Let the countdown begin!”
Damen nods, gaze softening as he says, “You’ll love it. Everyone loves it. Firenze is a beautiful, charming place.”
“You’ve been?” Miles and Haven both ask at the same time.
Damen nods, gaze far away. “I lived there once—a long time ago.”
Haven glances between us, eyes narrowed again when she says, “Drina and Roman lived there too.”
Damen shrugs, expression noncommittal, as though the connection means nothing to him.
“Well, don’t you think that’s a little strange? All of you living in Italy, in the same place, then all of you ending up here—within months of each other?” She leans toward him, abandoning her cupcake in search of some answers.
But Damen’s solid, refusing to cave or do anything that might give it away. He just sips his red drink and lifts his shoulders again, as though it’s hardly worth going into.
“Is there anything I should see while I’m there?” Miles asks, more to break the tension than anything else. “Anything that shouldn’t be missed?”
Damen squints, pretending to think, even though the answer comes quickly. “All of Florence is worth seeing. But you should definitely check out the Ponte Vecchio, which is the first bridge to cross the Arno River and the only one left standing after the war. Oh, and you must visit the Galleria dell’Accademia which houses Michelangelo’s David among other important works, and perhaps the—”
“Definitely hitting David,” Miles says. “As well as the bridge, and the famous Il Duomo, and all the other items that make every guidebook top ten list, but I’m more interested in the smaller, off-the-beaten-path kind of places—you know, where all the cool Florentines go. Roman was raving about this one place, I forget the name, but it’s supposed to house some obscure Renaissance artifacts and paintings and stuff few people know about. You got anything like that? Or even clubs, shopping, that kind of thing?”
Damen looks at him, gaze so intense it sends a chill down my spine. “Nothing offhand,” he says, trying to soften the look though his voice betrays a definite edge. “Though any place that claims to house great art but isn’t in the guidebook is probably a fake. The antiquities market is loaded with forgeries. You shouldn’t waste your time on that when there are so many other, far more interesting things to see.”
Miles shrugs, bored by the conversation and already back to texting again. “Whatever,” he mumbles, thumbs tapping quickly. “No worries. Roman said he’d make me a list.”
six
“I’m amazed by the progress you’ve made.” Damen smiles. “You learned all this on your own?”
I nod, gazing around the large, empty room, pleased with myself for the first time in weeks.
The moment Damen mentioned he wanted to rid the place of all the overly slick furniture he’d filled it with during Roman’s reign of terror, I was on it. Jumping at the chance to clear out the row of black leather recliners and flat-screen TVs, the red felt pool table and chrome-covered bar—all of them symbols, physical manifestations, of the bleakest phase in our relationship so far. Taking aim at each piece with such unchecked enthusiasm that—well—I’m not even sure where it went. All I know is it’s no longer here.
“Looks like you’re no longer in need of my lessons.” He shakes his head.
“Don’t be so sure.” I turn, smiling as I push his dark wavy hair off his face with my newly gloved hand, hoping we’ll get that cure from Roman soon, or at least come up with a less hokey alternative. “I have no idea where that stuff even went—not to mention how I can’t possibly fill up this space when I have no c
lue where you stashed all the stuff you used to have.” Reaching for his hand a second too late, and frowning as he walks over to the window.
“The furniture”—he gazes out at his manicured lawn, voice low and deep—“is right back where it started. Returned to its original state of pure vibrating energy with the potential to become anything at all. And as for the rest—” He shrugs, the strong lines of his shoulders rising ever so slightly before settling again. “Well, it hardly matters anymore, does it? I’ve no need of it now.”
I stare at his back, taking in his lean form, his casual stance. Wondering how he could be so uninterested in reclaiming the precious artifacts of his past—the Picasso of him in the severe blue suit, the Velázquez astride a rearing white stallion—not to mention all the other amazing relics dating back centuries.
“But those objects are priceless! You have to get them back. They can never be replaced!”
“Ever, relax. It’s just stuff.” His voice firm, resigned, as he turns toward me again. “None of it has any real meaning. The only thing that means anything is you.”
And even though the sentiment is undeniably sweet and heartfelt, it doesn’t affect me in the way that it should. The only things he seems to care about these days is atoning for his karma and me. And while I’m perfectly fine with those occupying the number one and two spots on his list, the problem is—the rest of the page is blank.
“But that’s where you’re wrong. It’s not just stuff.” I move toward him, voice urging, coaxing, hoping to reach him and make him listen this time. “Signed books by Shakespeare and the Brontë sisters, chandeliers from Marie Antoinette and Louis the Sixteenth—that’s hardly what you’d call stuff. It’s history for God’s sake! You can’t just shrug it off as though it’s nothing more than a box of tired old objects you donate to Goodwill.”