Blue Moon (18 page)

I pause, wondering if it would be rude to interrupt and ask if they can point me in the direction of the akashic records. But the room is so quiet and they're all so engrossed, I'm reluctant to disturb them, so I keep going instead. Passing a series of magnificent statues carved from the purest white marble, until entering a large ornate room that reminds me of the great cathedrals of Italy (or at least the pictures I've seen). Bearing the same sort of domed ceilings,
stained-glass windows, and elaborate frescoes containing the kind of glorious images that would make Michelangelo weep.

I stand in the center, my head thrown back in awe as I struggle to take it all in. Twirling around and around until I grow tired and dizzy, realizing it's impossible to glimpse it all in one sitting. And knowing I've wasted enough time already, I shut my eyes tightly and follow Romy's advice—that I must first
desire
something in order for it to be. And just after asking to be led to the answers I seek, I open my eyes and a long hallway appears.

Its light is dimmer than what I've grown used to seeing—it's sort of glowy, incandescent. And even though I've no idea where it leads, I start walking. Following the beautiful Persian runner that seems to go on forever, running my hands along a wall covered in hieroglyphs, my fingertips grazing the images as their likeness appears in my head—the entire story unfolding merely by touch, like some sort of telepathic Braille.

Then suddenly, with no sign or warning, I'm standing at the entrance to yet another elaborate room. Only this one is elaborate in a different way—not by carvings or murals—but by its pure unadulterated simplicity.

Its circular walls are shiny and slick, and even though they first appear to be merely white, on closer inspection I realize there's nothing
mere
about it. It's a
true
white, a white in the purest sense. One that can only result from the blending of
all
colors—an entire spectrum of pigments all merging together to create the ultimate color of light—just like I learned in art class. And other than the massive cluster of prisms hanging from the ceiling, containing what must amount to thousands of fine-cut crystals, all of them shimmering and reflecting and resulting in a kaleidoscope of color that now swirls around the room, the only other object in this space is a lone marble bench that's strangely warm and comfortable, especially for a substance known to be anything but.

And after taking a seat and folding my hands in my lap, I watch as the walls seamlessly seal up behind me as though the hallway that led me here never existed.

But I'm not afraid. Even though there's no visible exit and it appears that I'm trapped in this strange circular room, I feel safe, peaceful, cared for. As though the room is cocooning me, comforting me, its round walls like big strong arms in a welcoming hug.

I take a deep breath, wishing for answers to all of my questions, and watching as a large crystal sheet appears right before me, hovering in what was once empty space, waiting for me to make the next move.

But now that I'm so close to the answer, my question has suddenly changed.

So instead of concentrating on:
What's happened to Damen and how do I fix it?
I think:
Show me everything I need to know about Damen
.

Thinking this may be my only chance to learn everything I can about the elusive past he refuses to discuss. Convincing myself that I'm not at all prying, that I'm looking for solutions and that any information I can get will only help my cause. Besides, if I'm truly not worthy of knowing, then nothing will be revealed. So what harm is there in asking? And no sooner is the thought complete, than the crystal starts buzzing. Vibrating with energy as a flood of images fills up its face, the picture so clear it's like HDTV.

There's a small cluttered workshop, its windows covered by a swath of heavy dark cotton, its walls lit up by a profusion of candles. And Damen is there, no older than three, wearing a plain brown tunic that hangs well past his knees, and sitting at a table littered with small bubbling flasks, a pile of rocks, tins filled with colorful powders, mortars and pestles, mounds of herbs, and vials of dye. Watching as his father dips his quill into a small pot of ink and records the day's work in a series of complicated symbols, pausing every so often
to read from a book titled:
Ficino's Corpus Hermeticism,
as Damen copies him, scribbling onto his own scrap of paper.

And he looks so adorable, so round-cheeked and cherubic, with the way his brown hair flops over those unmistakable dark eyes and curls down the nape of his soft baby neck, I can't help but reach toward him. It all looks so real, so accessible, and so
close,
I'm fully convinced that if I can only make contact, I can experience his world right beside him.

But just as my finger draws near, the crystal heats up to an unbearable degree and I yank my hand back, watching my skin briefly bubble and burn before healing again. Knowing the boundaries are now set, that I'm allowed to observe but not interfere.

The image fast-forwards to Damen's tenth birthday, a day deemed so special it's marked by treats and sweets and a late-afternoon visit to his father's workshop. The two of them sharing more than wavy dark hair, smooth olive skin, and a nicely squared jaw, but also a passion for perfecting the alchemical brew that promises not only to turn lead into gold but also to prolong life for an indefinite time—the perfect philosopher's stone.

They settle into their work, their established routine, with Damen grinding individual herbs with the mortar and pestle, before carefully measuring the salts, oils, colored liquids, and ores, which his father then adds to the bubbling flasks. Pausing before each step to announce what he's doing, and lecturing his son on their task:

“Transmutation is what we are after. Changing from sickness to health, from old age to youth, from lead to gold, and quite possibly, immortality too. Everything is born of one fundamental element, and if we can reduce it to its core, then we can create anything from there!”

Damen listens, rapt, hanging on to his father's every word even though he's heard the exact same speech many times before. And though they speak in Italian, a language I've never studied, somehow I understand every word.

He names each ingredient before adding it in, then deciding, just for today, to withhold the last one. Convinced that this final component, this odd-looking herb, will create even more magic if added to an elixir that's sat for three days.

After pouring the opalescent red brew into a smaller glass flask, Damen covers it carefully, then places it into a well-hidden cupboard. And they've just finished cleaning the last of their mess, when his mother—a creamy-skinned beauty in a plain watered-silk dress, her golden hair crimped at the sides and confined by a small cap at the back—stops by to call them to lunch. And her love is so apparent, so tremendously clear, illustrated in the smile she reserves for her husband, and the look she gives Damen, their dark soulful eyes a perfect mirror of each other.

And just as they're preparing to head home for lunch, three swarthy men storm through the door. Overpowering Damen's father and demanding the elixir, as his mother thrusts her son into the cupboard where it's stored—warning him to stay put, to not make a sound, until it's safe to come out.

He cowers in that dark, dank space, peering through a small knot in the wood. Watching as his father's workshop—his life's work—is destroyed by the men in their search. But even though his father turns over his notes, it's not enough to save them. And Damen trembles, watching helplessly, as both of his parents are murdered.

I sit on the white marble bench, my mind reeling, my stomach churning, feeling everything Damen feels, his swirling emotions, his deepest despair—my vision blurred by his tears, my breath hot, jagged, indistinguishable from his. We are one now. The two of us joined in unimaginable grief.

Both of us knowing the same kind of loss.

Both of us believing we were somehow at fault.

He washes their wounds and cares for their bodies, convinced that when three days have passed, he can add the final ingredient,
that odd-looking herb, and bring them both back. Only to be awakened on that third and final day by a group of neighbors alerted by the smell, finding him curled up beside the bodies, the bottle of elixir clutched in his hand.

He struggles against them, retrieving the herb and desperately shoving it in. Determined to get it to his parents, to make them both drink, but overpowered by his neighbors long before he can.

Because they're convinced that he's practicing some sort of sorcery, he's declared a ward of the church, where devastated by loss and pulled from everything he knows and loves, he's abused by priests determined to rid him of the devil inside.

He suffers in silence, suffers for years—until Drina arrives. And Damen, now a strong and handsome man of fourteen, is transfixed by the sight of her flaming red hair, her emerald green eyes, her alabaster skin—her beauty so startling it's hard not to stare.

I watch them together, barely able to breathe as they form a bond so caring, so protective, I regret ever asking to see this. I was brash, impulsive, and reckless—I didn't take the time to think it all through. Because even though she's now dead and is no threat to me, watching him fall under her spell is more than I can bear.

He tends to the wounds she suffered at the hands of the priests, handling her with great reverence and care, denying his undeniable attraction, determined only to protect her, save her, to aid her escape—the day arriving much sooner than expected when the plague sweeps through Florence—the dreaded Black Death that killed millions of people, rendering them all into a bloated, pus-ridden, suffering mess.

He watches helplessly as many of his fellow orphans grow ill and die, but it's not until Drina is stricken that he returns to his father's life's work. Re-creating the elixir he'd sworn off all these years—associating it with the loss of everything he held dear. But now, left with no other choice, and unwilling to lose her, he makes Drina
drink. Sparing enough for himself and the remaining orphans, hoping only to shield them from disease, having no idea it would grant immortality too.

Infused with a power they can't understand and immune to the agonized cries of the sick and dying priests, the orphans disband. Heading back to the streets of Florence where they loot from the dead, while Damen, with Drina by his side, is intent on only one thing: seeking revenge on the trio of men who murdered his parents, ultimately tracking them down only to find that without the aid of the final ingredient, they've succumbed to the plague.

He waits for their death, taunting them with the promise of a cure he never intends to fulfill. Surprised by the hollowness of the victory when their bodies finally do yield, he turns to Drina, looking for comfort in her loving embrace…

I shut my eyes, determined to block it all out but knowing it's burned there forever, no matter how hard I try. Because while knowing they were lovers off and on for nearly six hundred years is one thing.

Having to watch it unfold—is another.

And even though I hate to admit it, I can't help but notice how the old Damen with his cruelty, greed, and abundance of vanity—has an awful lot in common with the new Damen—the one who ditched me for Stacia.

And after watching over a century of the two of them bonded by a never-ending supply of lust and greed, I'm no longer interested in getting to the part where we meet. No longer interested in seeing the previous versions of me. If it means having to view another hundred years of this, then it just isn't worth it.

And just as I close my eyes and plead—
Just get me to the end! Please! I can't stand to see another moment of this!
—the crystal flickers and flares as a blur of images race past, fast-forwarding with such speed and intensity I can barely distinguish one image from the
next. Getting only the briefest flash of Damen, Drina, and me in my many incarnations—a brunette, a redhead, a blonde—all of it whirling right past me—the face and body unrecognizable, though the eyes are always familiar.

Even when I change my mind and ask for it to slow down, the images continue to whir. Culminating in a picture of Roman—his lips curled back, his eyes filled with glee—as he gazes upon a very
aged
, very
dead
Damen.

And then—

And then—nothing.

The crystal goes blank.

“No!”
I shout, my voice bouncing off the walls of the tall empty room and echoing right back at me.
“Please!”
I beg. “Come back! I'll do better. Really! I promise not to get jealous or upset. I'll watch
the whole entire thing
if you'll only just rewind!”

But no matter how much I beg, no matter how much I plead to view it again, the crystal is gone, vanished from sight.

I gaze all around, searching for someone to help, some sort of akashic record reference librarian, even though I'm the only one here. Dropping my head in my hands, wondering how I could've been so stupid as to allow my petty jealousies and insecurities to take over again.

I mean, it's not like I didn't know about Drina and Damen. It's not like I didn't know what I was going to see. And now, since I was too big of a wuss to just suck it up and deal with the info before me, I've no idea how to save him. No idea of how we possibly could've gone from such a wonderful A to such a horrible Z.

All I know is that Roman's responsible. A pathetic confirmation of what I already guessed. Somehow he's weakening Damen, reversing his immortality. And if I've any hope of saving him, I need to learn
how
if not
why
.

Because one thing I know for sure is that Damen does
not
age. He's been around for over six hundred years and still looks like a teen.