Blue Moon (22 page)

But when I look at Ava, watching as she lifts her cup to her lips and blows twice before sipping, I remember that I didn't come here to discuss my future. I came to discuss my past. Deciding to bring her into my confidence and share some of my biggest secrets. Convinced not only that I can trust her but that she'll be able to help me as well.

Because the truth is, I need someone I can count on. There's just no way I can go it alone. And it's not about helping me decide whether I should stay or go, because I'm beginning to realize I really don't have much of a choice. I mean, the thought of leaving Damen—the thought of never seeing him again—is almost more painful than I can bear. But when I think about my family, and how they unwittingly sacrificed their lives for me—either because of a stupid blue sweatshirt I insisted my dad return for, which ultimately caused the accident that killed everyone—or because Drina intentionally made the deer run in front of our car so she could be rid of me and have Damen to herself—I feel I have to do something to make it all right.

Because either way you look at it, it leads back to
me
. It's my fault they're no longer living their lives, it's my fault their bright shiny futures were cut so tragically short. If I hadn't gotten in the way, none of this ever would've happened. And even though Riley insisted it all turned out the way it was meant to, the fact that I'm being given the choice just proves that I need to sacrifice my future with Damen so they can have theirs.

It's the right thing to do.

It's the
only
thing to do.

And with the way things are going, with my social exile from school, Ava's pretty much my only friend left. Which means I'll need her to pick up any stray pieces I might leave behind.

I bring my teacup to my lips, then set it back down without drinking. Tracing my fingers around the curve of the handle as I take a deep breath and say, “I think someone's poisoning Damen.” Seeing her eyes bug out as she gapes. “I—I think someone's tampering with his—”
Elixir
“—favorite drink. And it's making him act—”
Mortal
“—normal, but not in a good way.” I press my lips together and rise from my seat, barely giving her a chance to catch her breath when I say, “And since I'm banned from the gate, I'm gonna need you to help me break in.”

 

“Okay, we're here. Just act cool,”
I say, crouching down in the back as Ava approaches the gate. “Just nod and smile and give her the name I told you.”

I pull my legs in, trying to make myself smaller, less obtrusive, a task that would've been a heck of a lot easier just two weeks ago, before I was faced with this ridiculous growth spurt. Crouching down even farther and pulling the blanket tighter around me as Ava lowers her window and smiles at Sheila, giving her the name of Stacia Miller (my replacement on Damen's list of welcomed guests), who I hope hasn't come around quite enough yet for Sheila to recognize her.

And the moment the gate swings open and we're headed for Damen's, I toss the blanket aside and climb onto the seat, seeing Ava gaze around the neighborhood with obvious envy, shaking her head and muttering, “Swanky.”

I shrug and glance around too, never having given it much notice before. Always viewing this place as a blur of phony Tuscan farmhouses and upscale Spanish haciendas with well-landscaped yards and subterranean garages one has to pass in order to reach Damen's faux French chateau.

“I have no idea how he affords it, but it sure is nice,” she says, glancing at me.

“He plays the ponies,” I mumble, concentrating on the garage door as she pulls into his drive, taking note of its most minute details before closing my eyes and
willing
for it to open.

Seeing
it rise and lift in my mind, then opening my eyes just in time to watch it sputter and spurt before dropping back down with a very loud
thud.
An unmistakable sign that I'm still a long way from mastering psychokinesis—or the art of moving anything heavier than a Prada bag.

“Um, I think we should just go around back like I usually do,” I say, feeling embarrassed for failing so miserably.

But Ava won't hear of it, grabbing my bag and heading for the front door. And even when I scramble behind, telling her it's no use, that it's locked and we can't possibly enter that way, she just keeps going, claiming we'll just have to unlock it then.

“It's not as easy as you think,” I tell her. “Believe me, I've tried it before and it didn't work.” Glancing at the extra door I accidentally manifested the last time I was here—the one that's still leaning against the far wall, which is exactly where I left it since apparently Damen's too busy acting cool and chasing Stacia to take the time to get rid of it.

But the moment I think that, I wish I could erase it. The thought leaves me sad, empty, and feeling far more desperate than I care to admit.

“Well, this time you have
me
to help.” She smiles. “And I think we've already proved just how well we work together.”

And the way she looks at me, with such anticipation, such optimism, I can't see the point in refusing to try. So I close my eyes as we both join hands, envisioning the door springing open before us. And just seconds after hearing the dead bolt slide back, the door opens wide, allowing us in.

“After you.” Ava nods, glancing at her watch and scrunching her brow as she says, “Tell me again, exactly how much time do we have here?”

I gaze at my wrist, seeing the crystal horseshoe bracelet Damen gave me that day at the track, the one that makes my heart swell with longing every time I see it. Yet I refuse to remove it. I mean, I just can't. It's my only physical reminder of what we once had.

“Hey? You okay?” she asks, her face creased with concern.

I swallow hard and nod. “We should be okay on time. Though I should warn you, Damen has a bad habit of cutting class and coming home early.”

“Then we best get started.” Ava smiles, slipping into the foyer and looking all around, her eyes moving from the huge chandelier in the entry to the elaborate wrought-iron banister that leads up the stairs. Turning to me with a gleam in her eye when she says, “This guy is seventeen?”

I move toward the kitchen, not bothering to answer since she already knows that he is. Besides, I've got much bigger things at stake than square footage and the seeming implausibility of a seventeen-year-old who's neither a pop star nor a member of a hit TV show owning such a place.

“Hey—hold up,” she says, reaching for my arm and stopping me in my tracks. “What's upstairs?”

“Nothing.” And the second it's out I know I totally blew it, answering far too quickly to ever be believed. Still, the last thing I need is for Ava to go snooping around and barging into his “special” room.

“Come on,” she says, smiling like a rebellious teen whose parents are gone for the weekend. “School gets out at what? Two fifty?”

I nod, just barely, but it's still enough to encourage her.

“And then it takes, what? Ten minutes to drive home from there?”

“More like two.” I shake my head. “No, scratch that. More like thirty seconds. You have no idea how fast Damen drives.”

She checks her watch again, then looks at me. A smile playing at the corner of her lips when she says, “Well, that still leaves us plenty of time to take a quick look around, switch out the drinks, and be on our way.”

And when I look at her, all I can hear is the voice in my head shouting:
Say no! Say no! Just. Say. No!
A voice I should heed.

A voice that's immediately canceled by hers when she says, “Come on, Ever. It's not every day I get to tour a house like this. Besides, we might find something useful, did you ever consider that?”

I press my lips together and nod like it pains me. Reluctantly following behind as she races ahead like an excited schoolgirl about to see her crush's cool room, when the fact is she's got over a decade on me. Heading straight for the first open door she sees, which just happens to be his bedroom. And as I follow her inside I'm not sure if I'm more surprised or relieved to find it just like I left it.

Only messier.

Way
messier.

And I refuse to even think about how
that
might've happened. Still, the sheets, the furniture, even the paint on the walls—none of it—I'm happy to report—have been changed. It's all the same stuff I helped him pick out a few weeks ago when I refused to spend another minute hanging out in that creepy mausoleum of his, where, believe it or not, he used to sleep. I mean, making out among all those dusty old memories really started to skeeve me out.

Never mind the fact that, technically speaking, I'm one of those dusty old memories too.

But even after all the new furniture was put into place, I still preferred to hang out at my house. I guess it just felt—I don't know—
safer
? Like the threat of Sabine coming home any minute would keep me from doing something I wasn't sure I was ready to do. Which now, after all that's happened, seems more than a little ridiculous.

“Wow, check out this master bath,” Ava says, eyeing the Roman shower with the mosaic design and enough showerheads to bathe twenty. “I could get used to living like this!” She perches on the edge of the Jacuzzi tub and plays with the taps. “I've always wanted one of these! Have you used this?”

I look away, but not before she catches a glimpse of the color that flushes my cheeks. I mean, just because I spilled a few secrets and allowed her to come up here doesn't mean she gets an all-access pass to my private life too.

“I have one at home,” I finally say, hoping that'll suffice so we can end this tour and be on our way. I need to get back downstairs so I can switch Damen's elixir with mine. And if she stays up here alone, I'm afraid she'll never leave.

I tap my watch, reminding her of just who's in charge around here.

“All right,” she says, practically dragging her feet as I lead her out of the bedroom and into the hall. Only to stop just a few doors down and say, “But real quick, what's in here?”

And before I can stop her, she's entered
the room
—Damen's sacred space. His private sanctuary. His creepy mausoleum.

Only it's changed.

And I mean, drastically and dramatically changed.

Every last trace of Damen's personal time warp completely vanished—with not a Picasso, Van Gogh, or velvet settee in sight.

All of it replaced by a red felt pool table, a well-stocked black marble bar with shiny chrome stools, and a long row of recliners facing a wall covered with a ginormous flat screen TV. And I can't help but wonder what became of his old stuff—those priceless artifacts that used to get on my nerves, but now that they've been replaced with such slick modern designs, seem like lost symbols of much better times.

I miss the old Damen. I miss my bright, handsome, chivalrous boyfriend who clung so tightly to his Renaissance past.

This sleek, new-millennium Damen is a stranger to me. And as I look around this room once more, I wonder if it's too late to save him.

“What's wrong?” Ava squints. “Your face has gone white.”

I grab hold of her arm and pull her down the stairs. “We need to hurry,” I tell her. “Before it's too late!”

 

I flee down the stairs and into the kitchen,
yelling, “Grab the bag by the door and bring it to me!”

I race for the fridge, eager to empty its contents and exchange them with mine, needing to wrap it all up before Damen can come home and catch us.

But when I open his oversized Sub-Zero fridge, just like the room upstairs, it's not at all what I expected. For one thing, it's filled with food.

And I mean lots and lots of food—like he's planning a really huge party—one that will last for three days.

I'm talking sides of beef, slabs of steak, huge wedges of cheese, half a chicken, two large pizzas, ketchup, mayonnaise, assorted takeout containers—the works! Not to mention several six packs of beer all lined up along the bottom shelf.

And even though it appears to be totally normal, here's the thing:

Damen's
not
normal. He hasn't really eaten in six hundred
years
.

He also doesn't drink
beer
.

Immortal juice, water, the occasional glass of champagne—yes.

Heineken and Corona—not so much.

“What is it?” Ava asks, dropping the bag on the floor and peering over my shoulder, trying to figure out what I'm so worked up about,
and opening the freezer only to find it fully stocked with vodka, frozen pizzas, and several tubs of Ben & Jerry's. “Okay . . . so he's been to the supermarket recently . . . is there some cause for alarm I don't get? Do you two normally just manifest all of your food whenever you're hungry?”

I shake my head, knowing I can't tell her that Damen and I never
get
hungry. Just because she knows we're psychic with the ability to manifest stuff both here and in Summerland, doesn't mean she needs to know the other part of the story, the—
Oh, yeah, did I mention we're both immortal
—part too.

All she knows is what I told her—that I've a very strong suspicion that Damen is being poisoned. What I didn't tell her is that he's being poisoned in a way that's breaking down all of his psychic abilities, his enhanced physical strength, his vast intelligence, his carefully honed talents and skills, even his long-term memories of what went before—all of it's being slowly erased, as he returns to mortal form.

But while he may appear to be just your average high school junior—well, one with screamin' good looks, fistfuls of money, and his own parent-free, multimillion-dollar pad—it's just a matter of time before he begins to age.