“I’m sorry, Ever. I real y, truly am. Everything I’ve tried so far has failed. I can’t seem to determine Roman’s antidote no matter how hard I try.” He gazes at me with a face ful of defeat. “And until I can come up with some other option, something I haven’t yet tried, wel , I’m afraid this is as good as it gets for us. But if it’s becoming a source of frustration, then maybe we should stop coming here—or at least for a while anyway?”
“No!” I look at him, shaking my head, that’s not at al what I meant, not in the least. “No, no, that’s…” I’m quick to wave it away. “It’s not like I wasn’t caught up in the moment too, because I was. I was enjoying her flirtatious game just as much as you were. And, trust me, I’m as surprised as you that this happened. I mean, while I’ve definitely had the occasional thought that seemed out of character, this is the first time one of those thoughts has knocked me right out of character. I didn’t even know this was possible— did you? ”
He looks at me and shrugs, always too caught up in the moment to have even bothered with thinking about it.
“But stil , now that we’re here…” I pause, wondering if I should real y go through with this, then deciding I have nothing to lose. “Wel , there is a point I wanted to make, something that recently came to me.”
He waits, waits for me to stop with the prefacing and get to it already.
I press my lips together and gaze al around, trying to organize my thoughts, gather just the right words. I hadn’t actual y planned on broaching it, had no intention of going there, and yet, that’s not enough to stop me from turning to him, the words rushing forth when I say, “I’ve been thinking—okay, I’m not sure how to say this, but, you know how every time we come here we choose between my lives?”
Damen nods patiently, though his gaze betrays just the opposite.
“Wel , there’s a part of me that can’t help thinking: Why do we always choose between my lives? What if being Damen Augustus Notte Esposito wasn’t your first life?”
He doesn’t gape, doesn’t gawk, doesn’t flinch, shuffle, fumble, or mumble or any of the nervous little time-stal ing maneuvers I would’ve gladly bet my money on.
Nope, he just continues to stand there, his face a complete blank, devoid of expression, as though he has no thoughts on the idea I just raised. Looking as though I’d just spoken in one of the few languages he’s not quite proficient in.
“Right before you got here, I used the remote to punch in the numbers—you know, eight, eight, thirteen, oh, eight? I though it might be an important date or something—a time when we both lived before. And even though nothing happened, stil , I can’t help thinking it’s a very real possibility. I mean, we both know I lived as a Parisian servant named Evaline, right? And a Puritan’s daughter named Abigail; a spoiled London socialite, Chloe; the artist’s muse,” I point directly at her, “Fleur; and the young slave girl, Emala—but what if you weren’t always Damen? What if you were once, a long time ago, a very long time ago, someone else entirely?”
What if you reincarnated too?
Leaving that last bit unspoken but knowing he heard it just the same. The words swirling al around us in a way that can’t be ignored, even though it becomes immediately clear that Damen has every intention of doing just that.
His stiff shoulders and shadowed gaze are pretty much polar opposites of my glowing face and thrumming body. And try as I might to temper it, it’s no use. I’m so overcome with the excitement of this new idea—this perhaps undiscovered possibility—that I can practical y feel the energy shimmering around me. And if I had an aura, no immortals do, but if I did have one, I’m pretty sure it would be shining the most beautiful, bril iant purple flecked with lots and lots of sparkly gold bits, because that’s exactly how I feel.
It’s how I know that I’m right.
But, apparently I’m the only one feeling it. Which means I watch in jaw-dropping dismay as Damen turns and leaves me in a field of blazing red tulips without a single parting word.
I pop out of Summerland and appear back at the house, finding Damen looking visibly deflated as he slumps on the couch.
I glance down at myself, noticing how the flimsy slip of silk is instantly replaced with the jeans and blue sweater from before, just as Damen’s flowy white shirt and black pants are traded for the clothes he chose this morning.
But even though his clothes are transformed, his mood, unfortunately, is not. And as I survey his face, searching for a hint of kindness, an opening of some kind, I get nothing more than a stony gaze in return. So I head for a nearby wal and park myself there, vowing to lean against it for however long it takes for him to make the next move. Unsure what angers him more—my breaking free of the scene, or the idea that he might’ve lived before. But whichever it is, it’s obviously unleashed some kind of inner demon of his.
“I thought we’d moved past this,” he final y says, his gaze landing on mine but only briefly before he’s pacing again. “I thought you were ready to move on and have a little fun. I thought you realized you weren’t getting anywhere, that you were wrong about Summerland, the dark dreary part of it, the old lady— all of it. I thought you just wanted to make a stop in the pavilion so we could have a little past-life fun before we headed off on vacation. Then the minute we final y start to have a good time, you change your mind. What can I say? I’m a little disappointed, Ever. Truly.”
I wrap my arms around myself, as though they’l ward off his words. It’s not like I was trying to disappoint him; that wasn’t at al what I intended. Stil , I just can’t shake the idea that unraveling the old woman’s riddle wil lead to a happier, brighter future for us. Which is al I real y want, and I know that’s al he real y wants too—despite the downer
mood that he’s in.
But I don’t say any of that. Mostly because Damen—my soul mate—the love of my lives—is always the one I can count on to diffuse my emotional land mines wel before they have a chance to explode in our faces. So the least I can do is return the favor.
He looks at me, stil clearly unhappy. So I keep my voice purposely soft and mel ow, relaxing my body and holding my hands out before me, fingers splayed, palms open in a gesture of peace when I say, “Are you upset because I stopped the scene and popped out of character? Or are you upset because I insinuated you might’ve lived before, as somebody else? Or—or both? And if it’s both, which is upsetting you more?”
I wait for him to respond. Braced for the worst, braced to hear just about anything at this point, and yet stil taken by surprise when he says, “This whole thing is ridiculous. I mean, a previous life? Ever, please. I’ve been around for over six hundred years already, doesn’t that seem long enough to you?”
“O— kay…” I drag out the word, intent on making my point, but knowing I need to tread careful y, this whole subject has clearly hit a nerve. “And I’ve popped in and out of existence for four hundred years … that we know of.” I nod, knowing it’s sure to upset him but it has to be said.
“That you know of?” He looks at me, choosing to take that personal y. “You think there’s more that I’m hiding from you? Another slave life perhaps?”
“No.” I shake my head, quick to refute it, wanting desperately to diffuse it. “No, not at al . I was actual y thinking more along the lines of there being other lives that—that we’re not aware of. I mean, Damen, seriously, you’ve got to at least admit the possibility. I mean, what? You think the world just sprang up al around you the day you came into the world as Damen Augustus Notte? You think you were some newly hatched soul with no past? No karma to pay off?”
His brows draw together as his eyes grow dark, but his voice remains calm, even, when he says, “I’m sorry, Ever. Sorry to trump your idea with the truth. But the fact is, a soul has to start somewhere, to be ‘newly hatched’ as you cal it. So why not then and there?
Besides, if there’d been another life, an earlier life, I would’ve known about it by now. I would’ve seen it in the Shadowland.”