“Okay, so anyway, I stopped by that place Roman was going on and on about, in fact, I just left a few minutes ago—and, well, I gotta tell you, Ever, there’s some really freaky stuff in there. And I mean really freaky. Like, someone’s got lots of explaining to do when I return.”
“Freaky—how?” I ask, feeling Damen’s presence hovering right behind me now, his energy shifting from relaxed to full-scale alert.
“Just—freaky. That’s all I’m gonna say about it, but—crap—can you hear me? I’m losing you again. Listen, just—ugh—anyway, I sent some photos via e-mail, so whatever you do, do not delete it without seeing them first. Okay? Ever? Ever! Stupid—damn—phon—”
I swallow hard and press end, feeling Damen’s hand on my arm when he says, “What did he want?”
“He sent me some photos,” I say, voice low, eyes never once leaving his. “Something he really wants us to see.”
Damen nods, arranging his features into an expression of determined acceptance, as though the moment he’s been waiting for has arrived, and now he’s just anticipating the fallout, to see how I react, to see how much damage has been done.
I click to the home page, then over to mail, watching as the little connecting swirl goes around and around until Miles’s e-mail is displayed. And then, the second it pops up, I just hold my breath and tap it—my knees going all wobbly the very moment I see it.
The picture.
Or rather, the picture of the painting. Photography wasn’t yet invented back then, wouldn’t be invented for several hundred more years. But still, there it is, flaunted before me, and there’s no mistaking it’s him. Them. Posing together.
“How bad is it?” he asks, body perfectly still as his eyes graze over me. “As bad as I expected?”
I glance at him, but only for a second before I’m focusing back on the screen, unwilling to tear my eyes away. “Depends on what you were expecting,” I mumble, remembering how I felt that day in Summerland when I spied on his past. How sick, how completely green with envy I was, when it got to the part where he hooked up with Drina. But this—this isn’t anything like that. In fact, not even close. Oh sure, Drina is stunning—Drina was always stunning, even at her ugliest and most vicious she was breathtaking, or at least on the outside anyway. And I’m sure no matter what decade she was in, be it the era of bustles or poodle skirts, I’m sure she was stunning then too. But the fact is, Drina’s gone, so gone that the thought of her, the sight of her, doesn’t really bother me anymore. In fact, it doesn’t bother me at all.
What bothers me is Damen. The way he stands, the way he gazes at the artist, and how—how arrogant and vain and, well, full of himself he is. And even though he carries a trace of that outlaw edge that I like, this isn’t quite so playful as what I’m used to. It’s a lot less let’s-ditch-school-and-bet-at-the-track and a lot more this-is-my-world-and-you’re-just-lucky-I-let-you-live-in-it.
And the more I gaze at the two of them, Drina sitting demurely in a straight-backed chair, hands folded neatly in her lap, dress and hair adorned with so many jewels and ribbons and shiny things, it’d look ridiculous on anyone else—while Damen stands behind her, one hand resting on her chair, the other hanging by his side, his chin tilted, brow arced in that cool, haughty way—well, there’s just something about him—something about that look in his gaze that’s—well—almost cruel, ruthless even. Like he’d be willing to do whatever it takes, whatever the cost, to get what he wants.
And even though he’s made plenty of mention of his “before picture” of his former, narcissistic, power-hungry self—it’s one thing to hear about it, it’s quite another to see it so clearly displayed.
But even though there are three more portraits attached, I only give them the most cursory glance. Miles is only interested in the fact that Damen and Drina were captured on canvas hundreds of years ago, and that in each passing portrait, some of them painted centuries apart according to their plaques, they somehow manage to remain young, beautiful, and eerily unchanged. He could care less about Damen’s demeanor, the way he carried himself, the look in his eyes—no, that was my surprise.
I hand the phone to Damen, seeing the way his fingers tremble ever so slightly when he takes it from me, glancing quickly through the pictures before handing it right back. His voice low and steady as he says, “I’ve already lived it once, I really don’t need to see it again.”
I nod, dropping the phone back in my bag, taking too long to place it, obviously avoiding his gaze.
“So, now you’ve seen him. The monster I used to be,” he says, his words going straight to the heart of me.
I swallow hard, dropping my bag onto the thickly woven rug, a priceless antique that should be in a museum somewhere, not used for this sort of daily wear. His strange choice of words reminding me of my conversation with Ava—everyone has a monster, a dark side, no exceptions whatsoever. And even though most people spend their whole lives determined to bury it, force it down deep, I guess if you’ve lived as long as Damen, you’re bound to confront it from time to time.
“I’m sorry,” I say, suddenly realizing I am. It hardly matters where we’ve been. It’s where we are now that counts. “I—I guess I wasn’t expecting it and I was a little taken aback. I’ve never really seen you like that.”
“Not even in Summerland?” He looks at me. “Not even in the Great Halls of Learning?”
I shake my head. “No, I mostly fast-forwarded through all of those parts. I couldn’t bear to watch you with Drina.”
“And now?”
“And now—” I sigh. “I’m no longer bothered by Drina—just you.” I try to laugh, try to lighten my mood, but it doesn’t quite work.
“Well, if I’m not mistaken, I think that’s what you’d call progress.” He smiles, pulling me into his arms and holding me tightly to his chest.
“And Miles?” My eyes graze over his face, the slant of his brow, the square of his jaw, my fingers scratching at the swath of stubble that grows there. “What are we going to tell him? How do we ever explain this?” My hesitation, my fleeting rejection of the old him, now vanished for good. Our past may shape us, but it doesn’t define who we become.
“We’re going to tell him the truth.” He nods, voice firm, as though he really does mean it. “When the time comes, we’ll tell him the truth. And with the way things are going, it won’t be much longer now.”
thirty
“Okay, so now, what I want you to do is to focus on feeding your energy. Cleansing it, lifting it, accelerating it to greater and greater speeds. Think you can do that?”
I squinch my eyes shut and concentrate. The accelerating part’s always been the hardest for me. Remembering when Jude tried to coach me to do the same thing so I could see Riley again. But no matter how hard I tried, my energy remained just stagnant enough, just bogged down enough, just muddled enough, to pick up on the thoughts and images of a smattering of earthbound entities, and not the ones who’ve crossed over, the ones I wanted to see.