“I am not from this time.” Damen looks right at him, the reply so simple, so direct, so unexpected, it takes my breath away.
Munoz nods, taking the answer in stride, acting as though he just might believe him when he says, “And so, which time are you from, then?”
“One of your favorites.” Damen’s lip curls, al owing for a ghost of a smile. “The Italian Renaissance.”
Munoz gulps, nods, and glances al around as though he expects to find further explanation planted in th
e garden, floating in the pool, or maybe even taped to the lid of the barbeque. Processing the statement with more calm than I ever would’ve expected, acting as though he’s not at al surprised to find himself having such a serious conversation about such a peculiar subject.
“So, alchemy is real then?” he ventures, hitting the bul ’s-eye in a way most people fail to.
I mean, when it was me trying to pin down Damen’s strangeness, I went straight for vampire. Miles did too. But apparently Munoz is not nearly as influenced by the current pop culture phenomenon, and so he shot straight for the truth.
“Alchemy has always been real,” Damen admits, his face control ed, voice steady, giving absolutely no hint as to how much this is costing him—though I have a pretty good idea.
For six centuries he’s fought to keep the truth of his existence a secret, only to meet up with me in this lifetime and watch the whole thing unravel like a moth-eaten sweater. “Real, yes—but not always successful.” Munoz’s eyes light on Damen, considering him in a whole new way, as Damen nods in agreement. “And you, Ever?” Munoz looks at me, trying to see me in a whole new way too. But despite al of my unmitigated weirdness, I’m clearly a product of the modern world, there’s no getting around it.
I shake my head, lift my shoulders, and leave it at that.
“Wow. There’s just so much to talk about—so much I want to ask you—”
I peer anxiously at Damen, hoping Munoz won’t launch into a whole string of inquiries that Damen, for whatever reason, wil feel compel ed to answer.
But, as luck would have it (something I haven’t had much of lately, but I’l happily take in any form that it comes) Sabine saves me by cal ing, “Paul? Everything okay out there?”
He sucks in his breath and glances back and forth between us. And since I can’t risk speaking, can’t risk having her hear my voice coming from just outside her window, I settle for shaking my head, and shooting him a deep, pleading, meaningful look.
Overcome with relief when he says, “Yeah, I’m … fine. Just enjoying the night, doing a little stargazing, searching for Cassiopeia, you know how I like to do that. I’l be inside in a second.”
“Should I join you?” she asks, her voice lowered, seductive, leading straight into something I so don’t want to witness.
“Nah, it’s pretty cold out here. Hold the thought and I’l meet you inside,” he answers, much to my relief.
He gives us a thorough once-over. His lips parting as if to say something more, but I just shake my head, close my eyes, and quickly manifest a bouquet of daffodils I urge him to give her.
“What am I supposed to tel her? What should I say?” he whispers, casting a cautious glance toward the window.
“I’d prefer you not say anything, not mention it at al ,” I tel him. “But, if you feel you have to, then just tel her I love her. Tel her I’m sorry for al the trouble I’ve caused, and to not spend another moment feeling guilty about anything she might’ve said out of frustration and anger. I know it sounds cold, and probably pretty awful from your point of view, but please just try to trust me when I say that it’s better this way. We can’t see each other again. It’s impossible, she won’t accept it, and there’s just no way to explain.”
Then before Munoz can react, before he can take a stance, make a promise one way or another, Damen squeezes my hand, pul s me along the stone path, and out the side gate.
The two of us fading into the night until Munoz can no longer see us.
The two of us refusing to look back, knowing it’s better to look forward, toward the future, than to long for a past that’s gone forever.
eleven
Since it’s our last night together—or at least our last night for an indeterminate amount of time anyway—I’m hoping to do something special.
Something memorable.
Something that Damen can look back on with a smile.
And yet, it probably shouldn’t be too memorable since I can’t afford for him to catch onto the fact that I’m withholding something I’m not quite wil ing to mention just yet.
While I made up my mind to set off on Lotus’s journey not long after having left Summerland, Damen’s not exactly clued in to that fact.
And since getting him clued in wil no doubt lead to an argument of mammoth proportions, I’m hoping to keep the news to myself until I have no choice but to share it with him.