"Right. So you make it look real then, like a photograph," he says, his eyes on mine. I meet his gaze, a gaze he insists on holding for several seconds too long. But I refuse to squirm or look away first. I'm determined to stay in the game for as long as it takes. And even though it may seem totally benign on the surface, something about it feels dark, threatening, like some kind of dare. Or maybe not.
Because right after I think that, he says, "These American schools are amazing! Back home, in soggy old London—" he winks, "it was always theory overpractice." And I'm instantly ashamed for all of my judgmental thoughts. Because apparently, not only is he from London, which means his accent is real, but Damen, whose psychic powers are way more refined than mine, doesn't seem the least bit alarmed. If anything, he seems to like him. Which is even worse for me, because it pretty much proves that Haven is right. I really am jealous. And possessive. And paranoid. And apparently I hale new people too.
I take a deep breath and try again, talking past the lump in my throat and the knot in my stomach, determined to come off as friendly, even if it means I have to fake it at first. "You can paint anything you want," I say, using my upbeat friendly voice, which in my old life, before my whole family died in the accident and Damen saved me by making me immortal, was pretty much the only voice I ever used.
"You just have to make it look real, like a photograph. Actually, we're supposed to use an actual photographto show our inspiration, and, of course, for grading purposes too. You know, so we can prove that we accomplished what we set out to." I glance at Damen, wondering if he's heard any of this and feeling annoyed that he's chosen his painting over communicating with me.
"And what's he painting?" Roman asks, nodding at Damen's canvas, a perfect depiction of the bloomingfields of Summerland. Every blade of grass, every drop of water, every flower petal, so luminous, so textured, so tangible—it's like being there. "Looks like paradise." He nods.
"It is," I whisper, so awed by the painting I answered too quickly, without time to think about what I just said. Summerland is not just a sacred place—it's our secret place. One of the many secrets I've promised to keep.
Roman looks at me, brows raised. "So it's a real place then?"
But before I can answer, Damen shakes his head and says, "She wishes. But I made it up, it only exists in myhead." Then he shoots me a look, tacking on a telepathic message of—careful.
"So how do you ace the assignment, then? If you don't have a photo to prove it exists?" Roman asks, but Damen just shrugs and gets back to painting.
But with Roman still glancing between us, his eyes a
ll squinty and questioning, I know I can't leave it like that. So I look at him and say, "Darnell's not so big on following the rules. He prefers to make his own."
Remembering all the times he convinced me to ditch school, bet at the track, and worse. And when Roman nods and turns toward his canvas, and Damen sends me a telepathic bouquet of red tulips, I know that it worked—our secret is safe and all is okay. So I dip my brush in some paint and get back to work. Eager for the bell to ring so we can head back to my house, and let the real lesson begin. After class, we pack up our stuff and head for the parking lot. And despite my bid to be nice to the new guy, I can't help but smile when I see he's parked clear on the other side.
"See you tomorrow," I call, relieved to put some distance between us, because despite everyone's instant infatuation with him, I'm just not feeling it, no matter how hard I try. I unlock my car and toss my bag on the floor, starting to slide onto my seat as I say to Damen, "Miles has rehearsal and I'm heading straight home. Want to follow?" I turn, surprised to find him standing before me, swaying ever so slightly from side to side with a strained look on his face. "You okay?" I lift my palm to his cheek, feeling for heat or clamminess, some sign of unease, even though I really don't expect to find any.
And when Damen shakes his head and looks at me, for a split second all the color drains right away. But then it's over as soon as I blink. "Sorry, I just—my head feels a bit strange," he says, pinching the bridge of his nose and closing his eyes.
"But I thought you never get sick, that we don't get sick?" I say, unable to hide my alarm as I reach for my backpack. Thinking a sip of immortal juice might make him feel better since he requires so much more than I. And even though we're not exactly sure why, Damen figures that six centuries of chugging it have resulted in some kind of dependency, requiring him to consume more and more with each passing year. Which probably means I'll eventually require more too. And even though it seems like a long way off, I just hope he shows me how to make it by then so I won't have to bug him for refills all the time.
But before I can get to it, he retrieves his own bottle and takes a long hearty swig, pulling me to him and pressing his lips to my cheek when he says, "I'm okay. Really. Race you home?"
Chapter Seven
Damen drives fast. Insanely fast. I mean, just because we both have advanced psychic radar, which comes in handy for zoning in on cops, opposing traffic, pedestrians, stray animals, and anything else that might get in our way, that doesn't mean we should abuse it. But Damen thinks otherwise. Which is why he's already waiting on my front porch before I can even pull in and park.
"I thought you'd never make it." He laughs, following me up to my room, where he plops onto my bed, pulls me down with him, and leans in for a nice lingering kiss—a kiss that, if it were up to me, would never end. I'd happily spend the rest of eternity wrapped in his arms. Just knowing we have an infinite number of days to spend side by side provides more happiness than I can bear. Though I didn't always feel that way. I was pretty upset when I first learned the truth. So upset that I spent some time away from him until I could get it all straight in my head. I mean, it's not everyday you hear someone say: Oh, by the way, I'm an immortal, and I made you one too.
And while I was pretty reluctant to believe him at first, after he walked me through it, reminding me of how I died in the accident, how I looked right into his eyes the moment he returned me to life,and how I recognized those eyes the first time I met him at school—well, there was no denying it was true. Though that doesn't mean I was willing to accept it. It was bad enough dealing with the barrage of psychic abilities brought on by my NDE (near death experience—they insist on calling it near, even though I really did die ), and how I started hearing other people's thoughts, getting their life stories by touch, talking to the dead, and more. Not to mention that being immortal, as cool as it may sound, also means I'll never get to cross the bridge. I'll never make it to the other side to see my family again. And when you think about it, that's a pretty big trade.
I pull away, my lips reluctantly leaving his as I gaze into his eyes—the same eyes I've gazed into for four hundred years. Though no matter how hard I try, I can't summon our past. Only Damen, who's stayed the same for the last six hundred years—neither dying nor reincarnating—holds the key.
"What're you thinking?" he asks, his fingers smoothing the curve of my cheek, leaving a trail of warmth in their path.
I take a deep breath, knowing how committed he is to staying in the present, but determined to know more of my history—our history. "I was thinking about when we first met," I say, watching his brow lift as he shakes his head.
"Were you? And what exactly do you remember from that time?"
"Nothing." I shrug. "Absolutely nothing. Which is why I'm hoping you'll fill me in. You don't have to tell me everything—I mean, I know how you hate looking back. I'm just really curious about how it all started—how we first met."
He pulls away and rolls onto his back, his body still, his lips unmoving, and I fear this is the only response that I'll get.
"Please?" I murmur, inching toward him and curling my body around his. "It's not fair that you get all the details while I'm left out here in the dark. Just give me something to go on. Where did we live? What did I look like? How did we meet? Was it love at first sight?"
He shifts ever so slightly, then rolls onto his side, burying his hand in my hair as he says, "It was France, 1608."
I gulp, taking a quick intake of breath as I wait to hear more.
"Paris, actually."