Night Star (Immortals 5)

I twist the top from my bottle of elixir and glance toward the kitchen table where Sabine sits. Seeing the way her shoulder-length blond hair is tucked snugly behind her ear, the way her perfectly coordinated makeup is flawlessly applied, the way her suit is pressed and clean and immaculately put together without an odd crease or stray wrinkle in sight—and I can’t help but wonder what it’s like to be her. What it’s like to live in a world where everything is so orderly, so obedient, so methodical, so tidily arranged.

Where every problem has a logical solution, every question an academic explanation, and every dilemma can be summed up in a simple verdict of innocent or guilty.

A world where everything is black and white and all shades of gray are promptly whisked away.

It’s been so long since I’ve lived in that world, and now after all that I’ve seen, there’s no way I’ll ever reside there again.

She continues to stare, face stern, mouth grim, about to repeat herself when I say, “Damen’s driving me today. He should be here soon.”

Noting the way her whole body stiffens at the mere mention of his name. She insists on blaming him for my sudden fall from grace even though he was nowhere near the store that day.

She nods, her gaze slowly moving over me. Scrutinizing, carefully taking note of every last detail, starting from my head and working all the way down to my toes, before heading back up and starting again. In search of bad omens, flashing lights, hazard signs, anything warning of trouble ahead. The kind of telltale symptoms her child-rearing books have all warned her about, but getting little more than an image of a lightly tanned, blond haired, blue eyed girl in a white summer dress and no shoes.

“I hope we won’t have any more trouble this year.” She brings her mug to her lips and peers at me from over the top.

“And just what kind of trouble would you be referring to?” I ask, hating the way the sarcasm creeps so easily into my voice, but still more than a little tired of her always putting me on the defensive.

“I think you know.” Her words are clipped, her forehead creased, as I take a deep breath and try not to roll my eyes in a way she can see.

Torn between feeling completely heartbroken that it’s actually come to this—the long list of daily recriminations that can never be erased—and feeling completely infuriated by her refusal to accept me at my word—accept what I say as the truth, that this is who I really, truly am, for better or worse.

But still just shrugging when I say, “Well, then you’ll be happy to know that I don’t drink anymore. I gave all that up not long after the suspension. Mostly because it wasn’t working out for me all that well, and even though you probably don’t want to hear this, probably won’t even believe it, it was dulling my gifts in the very worst way.”

She bristles. Physically bristles at my use of the word gift. Having already pegged me as a sad, pathetic, attention-starved phony, who’s obviously crying out for help—she’s really come to hate my use of the word more than anything. Hates that I refuse to back down, that I refuse to succumb to her side.

“Besides,” I say, tapping my bottle against the counter, my gaze narrowed on hers, “I’ve no doubt you’ve already convinced Munoz to spy on me and submit a full report at the end of each day.” Regretting the words the moment they’re out, because while it may be true of Sabine, it’s really not fair to Munoz. He’s been nothing but nice and supportive toward me, and has never once made me feel bad about being the way I am. If anything, he’s seemed intrigued, fascinated, and surprisingly informed. Too bad he can’t seem to convince his girlfriend of that.

But still, if she’s so unwilling to accept me for me, then why should I be so quick to accept the fact that she’s in love with my old history teacher?

Except that I should.

And not only because two wrongs pretty much never make a right, but because, despite what she may think and despite what I may say, at the end of the day, all I really want is for her to be happy.

Well, that, and for her to move past all of this so that we can get back to how we once lived.

“Listen,” I say, before she has a chance to react, knowing I need to defuse the situation from getting any worse than it already has. Before it has a chance to escalate into one of the many screaming matches we’ve had since she caught me giving her friend a psychic reading under the alias of Avalon. “I didn’t mean that. Really. I’m sorry.” I nod. “So, can we just please call a truce here? One where you accept me, I accept you, and everyone lives happily ever after, in joy and peace and harmony and all that?”

I look at her, my gaze practically begging for her to give in, but she just shakes her head and mumbles under her breath. Something about me needing to come straight home from school from now until she decides otherwise.

But even though I love her—even though I’m grateful for all that she’s done—there will be no restrictions, no groundings, nothing of the sort. Because the fact is, it’s not like I need to live here. It’s not like I need to put up with this stuff. I have options—lots and lots of options. And she has no idea just how far I go to make it seem like I don’t.

Pretending to eat when I no longer need to, pretending to study when it’s no longer necessary, pretending to be just like any other normal seventeen-year-old girl who’s dependent on the adults in her life for food and shelter and money and pretty much her entire well-being—when I’m not even close to being that girl. I’m about as far from that as one could possibly get. And it’s my job to make sure she never discovers any more than she already has.

“How about this,” I say, swishing my elixir around and around, watching as it sparks and glows as it runs up and down the sides. “I’ll make a concerted effort to stay out of trouble and out of your way—if you’ll agree to do the same. Deal?”

She looks at me, brows merged, obviously trying to determine if I’m being sincere or making some kind of threat. Lips pursed for a moment, long enough to gather her words before she says, “Ever—I—I’m just so worried about you.” She shakes her head and runs her finger along the rim of her mug. “Whether you want to admit it or not, you are deeply, deeply troubled, and I’m at my wit’s end on how to handle you, how to reach you, how to help you—”

I slam the lid back on my bottle, my last ounce of goodwill dissolving like that. Gaze narrowed on her when I say, “Yeah, well, maybe this’ll help. One—if you really want to help me as much as you say you do, you could start by not calling me crazy.” I shake my head and slip my sandals onto my feet, sensing Damen pulling into the drive, and not a moment too soon. “And two”—I toss my bag onto my shoulder and meet her glare with one of my own—“you could also stop referring to me as an attention-starved, deeply troubled, needy fraud—or some variation thereof.” I nod. “Those two things alone would be a very good start toward helping me, Sabine.”

Giving her no time to react before I storm out of the kitchen and out of the house, slamming the door much harder than I intended, but still just shrugging it off as I head for Damen’s car.

Sliding onto the soft leather seat and squinting at him when he says, “So, this is what it’s come to.”

I follow the tip of his pointing finger all the way to the window where Sabine stands. Not bothering to peek through the blinds or even the crack where the drapes meet. Not trying to hide the fact that she’s watching me—watching us. She just continues to stand there, mouth set, face stern, one hand on each hip, as she takes us both in.

I sigh, purposely avoiding her gaze in favor of his. “Just be glad I spared you the interrogation you would’ve gotten had you come in.” I shake

my head. “Trust me, there’s a reason I told you to wait out here,” I add, still drinking him in.