Dark Flame (Immortals 4)

Damen looks at me, brows raised, but I just shrug. Haven’s gifts are only just starting to surface. Mind reading is just the beginning.

“Wow, I can’t believe you live like this!” She twirls around and around as she takes it all in—the elaborate chandelier hanging from the tall, domed ceiling, the plush Persian rug at her feet—two priceless antiques dating back several centuries that were almost lost for good when Damen went through what I now refer to as his “monk phase”—back when he was sure his extravagant, vain, narcissistic past was directly to blame for all the troubles we face. Determined to rid himself of all worldly goods, until the twins came to stay and the for SALE sign came down, wanting to provide them with all the extra comforts and space that he could. “You could throw the most awesome parties just right here in the entry!” She laughs. “Is this part of being immortal? Living in fancy digs like this? Because if so, sign me up!”

“Damen’s been at it awhile—” I say, unsure how to explain his multimillion-dollar manse, since I’ve yet to get to the part about the ancient art of instant manifestation, along with picking all the right ponies at the track—and not sure that I will.

“Well, how long has Roman been at it, cuz his place is nice and all, but it’s nothing like this.”

Damen and I look at each other, unable to communicate with our usual telepathy now that we know she can hear, but still mutually deciding to ignore the question. Determined to keep the details as vague as we can, for as long as we can. Delaying the inevitable day when she discovers the real truth behind all of this, not to mention what really happened to her good friend Drina.

We follow her through the kitchen and into the den, only to find the twins plopped on either end of the couch. Each of them reading their very own copy of the same book, with Rayne munching on a bar of chocolate, while Romy dips into a big, buttery bowl of popcorn.

“So, are you guys immortal too?” she asks, causing Romy and Rayne to look up, Rayne with her usual scowl, while Romy just shakes her head and returns to where she left off.

“No, they’re—um—” I glance at Damen, eyes pleading for help. Having no idea how to explain the fact that while they’re not technically immortal, they have been hanging out in an alternate dimension for the last three hundred years, and now, thanks to me, can’t seem to return.

“They’re family.” Damen nods, shooting me a look that tells me to just play along and follow his lead.

Haven stands in the middle of the room, brow raised, face squinched, obviously not buying a word of it. “So, you’re trying to tell me you’ve kept in touch with your family for—” She narrows her gaze, looking him over, trying to determine just how old he is, then shrugging in defeat when she says, “Anyway, that must make for some very interesting reunions, to say the least.”

I glance at Damen, seeing he’s fully prepared to let that one go, but still hoping to save it, I jump in and say, “What he means is, they’re like family. They’re—”

“Oh, please!” Rayne tosses her book onto the table and glares, at me, at Haven, but not Damen, of course. “We’re not family, and we’re not immortal, okay? We’re witches. Refugees from the Salem Witch Trials. And don’t ask any more questions because we won’t answer them. That’s more than you need to know anyway.”

Haven looks at us, eyes wider than I ever would’ve thought possible, gawping at all four of us freaks as she says, “Jeez. I mean, can this get any weirder?”

I shrug, exchanging a look with Rayne, making it clear she should’ve kept that one under wraps, and watching as Haven settles onto an overstuffed chair, eagerly glancing between us as though anticipating some kind of confidential password reveal, a grand indoctrination, a secret initiation of some sort, and not even trying to hide her disappointment when Damen heads into the kitchen, only to emerge a moment later with a small box full of elixir he promptly hands to her.

She peers into the box, tapping the lid of each bottle with the tip of her black-painted nail, gazing at us in confusion when she says, “That’s it? Seven? Only a one-week supply? I mean, you’re not serious, are you? How am I supposed to survive on just this? You trying to kill me before I even have a chance to get started?”

“Duh, you’re immortal—they can’t kill you.” Rayne shakes her head and rolls her eyes.

“Duh, yes they can. That’s why Ever makes me wear this.” Haven snakes her amulet out from under her black lace top and waves it in front of Rayne’s face.

But Rayne just groans, crossing her skinny, pale arms across her sunken chest when she says, “Please, I know all about that. Take it off, get a punch to the wrong chakra and you’re toast. Leave it on and you live happily ever after and after and after. It’s not rocket science, you know.”

“Jeez, is she always this grouchy?” Haven asks, laughing and shaking her head.

And just as I start to say yes, glad to have an ally for a change if nothing else, I watch as she gets up from her chair and plops down beside Rayne, mussing her hair and tickling her feet in a way that makes them instant best friends. And just like that, I’m back to being the outcast again.

“You don’t need to drink it every day,” Damen says, determined to get this back on track. “In fact, you could last the next hundred and fifty years without so much as a single sip, perhaps even longer, who knows?”

“Well, if that’s the case, then why do you sip it like your life depends on it?” Haven asks, removing Rayne’s feet from her lap as she takes us both in.

Damen shrugs. “I guess because it kind of does at this point. I’ve been around awhile, you know. A long while.”

“How long?” Haven leans forward, pushing her platinum-streaked bangs off her face and gazing at him with two heavily made-up eyes.

“Long. Anyway—the point is—”

“Wait—you’re joking, right? I mean, you’re seriously not gonna tell me your real age? What are you—like one of those thirty-somethings who pile up the twenty-ninth birthdays well into their eighties? I mean, sorry, Damen, but how vain are you?” She laughs and shakes her head. “Trust me, when I’m old, I plan to shout it from the rooftops. I can’t wait ’til I’m a porcelain-skinned one hundred and eighty-two.”

“It’s not vanity, it’s—practicality,” Damen snaps, and when I look at him, I realize he’s flustered, but probably only because it is a little bit vanity, he just doesn’t want to admit it. As much as he’s tried to rid himself of all the fancy clothes, hair-grooming products, and handmade Italian leather boots, a hint of vanity remains. “Besides, you can’t flaunt it, you can’t tell anyone. I thought you and Ever talked about that?”

“We did,” Haven and I both say, our voices blending as one.

“So, there should be no question. You just stick to your normal cupcake-eating routine, keeping your behavior as normal as possible, careful not to draw any—”

“Unnecessary attention to myself.” Haven sha