“Everyone but me,” Damen says, jaws clenched, face gone suddenly pale.
“Well, I’m sure Ever told you. You know, telepathically.” He laughs, returning to his phone again.
I peer at Damen, wondering why he’s so upset over Miles’s trip. I mean, yeah, so he used to live there, but that was hundreds of years ago! I squeeze his hand, urging him to look at me, but he just stares at Miles with that same stricken look on his face.
“Nice try with the whole telepathy angle,” Haven says, swiping her finger across the top of her cupcake until it’s coated with strawberry frosting. “But I’m afraid you’re gonna have to try a little harder than that. All you’ve managed to prove is that you guys are even weirder than I thought. But no worries, I’ll get to the bottom of it. I’ll expose your dirty little secret before long.”
I hold back a nervous laugh, hoping she’s just messing around, then peering into her mind only to see that she’s serious.
“When are you leaving?” Damen asks, but only to appear conversational, having already uncovered the answer in Miles’s head.
“Soon, but not soon enough,” Miles says, eyes lighting up. “Let the countdown begin!”
Damen nods, gaze softening as he says, “You’ll love it. Everyone loves it. Firenze is a beautiful, charming place.”
“You’ve been?” Miles and Haven both ask at the same time.
Damen nods, gaze far away. “I lived there once—a long time ago.”
Haven glances between us, eyes narrowed again when she says, “Drina and Roman lived there too.”
Damen shrugs, expression noncommittal, as though the connection means nothing to him.
“Well, don’t you think that’s a little strange? All of you living in Italy, in the same place, then all of you ending up here—within months of each other?” She leans toward him, abandoning her cupcake in search of some answers.
But Damen’s solid, refusing to cave or do anything that might give it away. He just sips his red drink and lifts his shoulders again, as though it’s hardly worth going into.
“Is there anything I should see while I’m there?” Miles asks, more to break the tension than anything else. “Anything that shouldn’t be missed?”
Damen squints, pretending to think, even though the answer comes quickly. “All of Florence is worth seeing. But you should definitely check out the Ponte Vecchio, which is the first bridge to cross the Arno River and the only one left standing after the war. Oh, and you must visit the Galleria dell’Accademia which houses Michelangelo’s David among other important works, and perhaps the—”
“Definitely hitting David,” Miles says. “As well as the bridge, and the famous Il Duomo, and all the other items that make every guidebook top ten list, but I’m more interested in the smaller, off-the-beaten-path kind of places—you know, where all the cool Florentines go. Roman was raving about this one place, I forget the name, but it’s supposed to house some obscure Renaissance artifacts and paintings and stuff few people know about. You got anything like that? Or even clubs, shopping, that kind of thing?”
Damen looks at him, gaze so intense it sends a chill down my spine. “Nothing offhand,” he says, trying to soften the look though his voice betrays a definite edge. “Though any place that claims to house great art but isn’t in the guidebook is probably a fake. The antiquities market is loaded with forgeries. You shouldn’t waste your time on that when there are so many other, far more interesting things to see.”
Miles shrugs, bored by the conversation and already back to texting again. “Whatever,” he mumbles, thumbs tapping quickly. “No worries. Roman said he’d make me a list.”
six
“I’m amazed by the progress you’ve made.” Damen smiles. “You learned all this on your own?”
I nod, gazing around the large, empty room, pleased with myself for the first time in weeks.
The moment Damen mentioned he wanted to rid the place of all the overly slick furniture he’d filled it with during Roman’s reign of terror, I was on it. Jumping at the chance to clear out the row of black leather recliners and flat-screen TVs, the red felt pool table and chrome-covered bar—all of them symbols, physical manifestations, of the bleakest phase in our relationship so far. Taking aim at each piece with such unchecked enthusiasm that—well—I’m not even sure where it went. All I know is it’s no longer here.
“Looks like you’re no longer in need of my lessons.” He shakes his head.
“Don’t be so sure.” I turn, smiling as I push his dark wavy hair off his face with my newly gloved hand, hoping we’ll get that cure from Roman soon, or at least come up with a less hokey alternative. “I have no idea where that stuff even went—not to mention how I can’t possibly fill up this space when I have no c
lue where you stashed all the stuff you used to have.” Reaching for his hand a second too late, and frowning as he walks over to the window.
“The furniture”—he gazes out at his manicured lawn, voice low and deep—“is right back where it started. Returned to its original state of pure vibrating energy with the potential to become anything at all. And as for the rest—” He shrugs, the strong lines of his shoulders rising ever so slightly before settling again. “Well, it hardly matters anymore, does it? I’ve no need of it now.”
I stare at his back, taking in his lean form, his casual stance. Wondering how he could be so uninterested in reclaiming the precious artifacts of his past—the Picasso of him in the severe blue suit, the Velázquez astride a rearing white stallion—not to mention all the other amazing relics dating back centuries.
“But those objects are priceless! You have to get them back. They can never be replaced!”
“Ever, relax. It’s just stuff.” His voice firm, resigned, as he turns toward me again. “None of it has any real meaning. The only thing that means anything is you.”