Turning his head in a way that displays the mark on his neck, the finely detailed Ouroboros tattoo now flashing in and out of view. "I've already gotten away with it, Ever." He smiles. "I've already won."
Chapter Twenty-Eight
I didn't go to art. I left right after lunch. No, scratch that. Because the truth is I left in the middle of lunch. Seconds after my horrible encounter with Roman, I sprinted for the parking lot (chased by a neverending chorus of Spaz!), where I jumped in my car and sped away long before the bell was scheduled to ring. I needed to get away from Roman. To put some distance between me and his creepy tattoo—the intricate Ouroboros design that hashed in and out of view just like the one on Drina's wrist used to do. The undeniable symbol marking Roman as a rogue immortal—just as I'd thought all along. And even though Damen failed to warn me of them, didn't even know they existed until Drina went bad, I still can't believe it took me so long to get it. I mean, even though he eats and drinks, even though his aura is visible and his thoughts are available to read (well,for me anyway), I realize now it was all a facade. Like those buildings on Hollywood back lots that are carefully crafted to look like something they're not. And that's what Roman did—he purposely projected this happy-go-lucky, jolly young lad from England veneer, with his bright shiny aura, and happy, horny thoughts, when all the while, deep down inside, he's anything but.
The real Roman is dark. And sinister. And evil. And everything else that adds up to bad. But even worse is the fact that he's out to kill my boyfriend, and I still don't know why. Because motive was the one thing in my brief but disturbing visit to the inner recesses of his mind that I failed to see. And motive will prove very important if I'm ever forced to kill him, since it's imperative to hit just the right chakra to be rid of him for good. And not knowing the motive means I could fail. I mean, would I go for the first chakra—or root chakra, as it's sometimes called—the center for anger, violence, and greed? Or maybe the navel chakra, or sacral center, which is where envy and jealousy live. But with no idea of what's driving him, it'd be far too easy to hit the wrong one. Which would not only serve in not killing him but would probably make him incredibly angry as well. Leaving me with six more chakras to choose from, and at that point, I'm afraid he'd catch on.
Besides, killing Roman too soon will only hurt me—ensuring he takes his secret of whatever he's done to Damen and the rest of the school along with him. And that's one risk I just can't afford. Not to mention that I'm really not all that big on killing people anyway. The only tunes I've ever gotten physical in the past are when I was left with no choice but to fight or die. And as soon as I realized what I'd done to Drina, I hoped I'd never have to do it again. Because even though she killed me many times before, even though she admitted to killing my entire family—including my dog—that doesn't do much to alleviate the guilt. I mean, knowing I'm solely responsible for her ultimate exit make
s me feel awful. And since I'm pretty much right back where I started, I decide to head back to the beginning. Turning right on Coast Highway and heading for Damen's, figuring I'll use the next couple hours while they're all still at school to break into his house and take a good look around.
I pull up to the guard post, wave at Sheila, and continue toward the gate. Naturally assuming it would open before me, and having to slam on my brakes to avoid major front-end damage when it stays put.
"Excuse me. Excuse, me!" Sheila shouts, storming toward my car as though I'm some kind of intruder, as though she's never seen me before. When the truth is, up until last week, I was pretty much here every day.
"Hey, Sheila." I smile in a nice, friendly, nonthreatening way. "I'm just heading up to Damen's, so if you could just open the gate, I'll be on my way and—"
She looks at me, her eyes narrowed, her lips pressed together in a thin grim line. "I'm going to have to ask you to leave."
"What? But why?"
"You're off the list," she says, hands planted firmly on hips, her face betraying not even the slightest trace of remorse after all those months of smiling and waving. I sit there, lips pressed together, allowing the words to sink in.
I'm off the list I'm off the permanent list. Blackballed or blacklisted or whatever it's called when you're denied access to a glorious gated community for an indefinite time. Which would be bad enough on its own, but having to hear the official breakup message delivered by Big Sheila instead of my boyfriend—makes it even worse. I gaze down at my lap, gripping the gearshift so hard it threatens to pop off in my hand. Then I swallow hard and look at her when I say, "Well, as you've obviously been made aware, Damen and I broke up. But I was just hoping to drop in real quick and retrieve a few of my things, because as you can see—" I unzip my bag and quickly shove my hand inside. "I still have the key." I raise it up high, watching as the noon day sun catches and reflects the gold shiny metal, too caught up in my own mortification to foresee that she'd reach out and snatch it.
"Now, I'm asking you nicely to vacate the premises," she says, shoving the key deep into her pocket, its shape visible as the fabric strains over her mammoth-sized breasts. Barely giving me enough time to switch my foot from the brake to the gas before adding, "Go on now. Back up. Don't you make me ask twice."
Chapter Twenty-Nine
This time when I arrive in Summerland, I skip the usual landing in that vast fragrant field, choosing instead to touch down smack in the middle of what I now like to think of as the main drag. Then I pick myself up and brush myself off, amazed to see everyone around me just carrying on with their normal business, as though seeing someone drop right out of the sky and onto the street is a normal, every day occurrence. Though I guess in these parts it is.
I make my way past karaoke bars and hair salons, retracing the steps Romy and Rayne showed me, knowing I can probably just desire to be there instead, but still anxious to learn my own way around. And after a quick pass through the alley and a sudden turn onto the boulevard, I run up those steep marble steps and stand before those massive front doors, watching as they swing open for me. I step into the great marble hall, noticing how it's much more crowded than the last time I was here. Reviewing the questions in my head, unsure if I need the akashic records or if I can just get my answers right here. Wondering if questions like Exactly who is Roman and what has he done to Damen? and: How can I stop him and spare Damen's life? require that kind of secured access. But then, feeling like I need to simplify and sum it all up in one tidy sentence, I close my eyes and think: Basically, what I want to know is: How can I return everything back to the way it was before? And as soon as the thought is complete, a doorway opens before me, its warm inviting light beckoning me in as I enter a solid white room, that same sort of rainbow white as before, only this time, rather than a white marble bench, there's a worn leather recliner instead.
I move toward it, plopping onto the seat, extending the leg rest, and settling in. Unaware that I'm lounging on an exact replica of my dad's favorite chair until I see the initials R.B. and KB. scratched ontoits arm. Gasping when I recognize it as the exact same markings I convinced Riley to make with her Girl Scout camping knife. The exact same markings that not only proved we were the culprits but also earned us a week's worth of restriction. Or at least until mine got extended to ten days when my parents realized I'd coached her into doing it—a fact that, in their eyes, made me the pre-calculating perpetrator who clearly deserved extra time. I run my fingers over the gouged leather, my nails digging into the stuffing where the curve of her R went too deep. Choking back a sob as I remember that day. All of those days. Every single one of those deliciously wonderful days that I once took for granted but now find myself missing so much I can barely stand it. I'd do anything to go back. Anything if it meant I could return and put it all back to the way it once was—
And no sooner is the thought complete, when the formerly empty space begins to transform. Rearranging itself from a nearly empty room with alone recliner to an exact replica of our old den in Oregon. The air infused with the scent of my mom's famous brownies, as the walls morph from pearlescent white to the soft beige-like hue she referred to as driftwood pearl. And when the three-colors-of-blue afghan my grandma knit suddenly covers my knees, I gaze toward the door, seeing Buttercup's leash hanging on the knob, and Riley's old sneakers lying next to my dad's. Watching as all the pieces fill in, until every photo, book, and knickknack are present and accounted for. And I can't help but wonder if this is because of my question, because I asked for everything to return to the way it was before. Because the truth is, I was actually referring to Damen and me. Wasn't I?
I mean, is it really possible to go back in time ? Or is this life-like replica, this Bloom family diorama, the closest I'll ever get? But just as I'm questioning my surroundings and the true meaning of what I actually meant, the TV turns on, and a flash of colors race across the screen—a screen made of crystal, just like the crystal I viewed the other day. I pull the afghan tighter around me, tucking it snugly under my knees, as the words l'heure bleue fill up the screen. And just as I'm wondering what it could possibly mean, a definition scripted in the mostbeautiful calligraphy appears, stating:
A French expression, l'heure bleue, or "blue hour" refers to the hour experienced between daylight and darkness. A time revered for its quality of light, and also when the scent of flowers is at its strongest.
I squint at the screen, watching as the words fade and a picture of the moon takes its place—a full and glorious moon—shimmering the most beautiful shade of blue—a hue that nearly matches the sky...
And then—and then I see me—up on that very same screen. Dressed in jeans and a black sweater, my hair hanging loose, gazing out a window at that same blue moon—glancing at my watch as though I'm waiting for something—something that's soon to arrive. And despite the fuzzy, dreamlike state of watching a me that's not really me, I can still feel what she's feeling, hear what she's thinking, She's going somewhere, somewhere she once thought was off limits. Anxiously waiting for the moment when the sky turns the same shade as the moon, a wonderful deep dark blue with no trace of the sun—knowing it heralds her only chance to find her way back to this room and return to a place she once thought was lost. I watch, my gaze glued to the screen, gasping as she raises her hand, presses her finger to the crystal, and is pulled back in time.
Chapter Thirty
I tear out of the hall and sprint down the steps. My vision so blurred, my heart pounding so fast, I'm completely unaware of Romy and Rayne until it's too late, and Rayne is crumpled beneath me.
"Omigod, I'm so sorry, I—" I bend down, my hand outstretched, waiting for her to grab hold of it so I can help her to her feet, asking repeatedly if she's all right, and wincing with embarrassment when she ignores my gesture and struggles to stand. Straightening her skirt and pulling up her kneesocks as I watch in amazement as her skinned knees instantly heal—never having considered the possibil
ity that they might be like me. "Are—are you—"
But before I can even get to the word, Rayne shakes her head and says, "We are most certainly not " Making sure her knee socks are of exact equal height. "We are nothing like you," she mumbles, straightening her blue blazer and plaid skirt, then glancing at her much nicer sister who's shaking her head.
"Rayne, please. Remember your manners." Romy frowns.
But even though Rayne continues to glare, her voice loses some of its steam when she says, "Well, we're not."