Blue Moon (5 page)

But when I look at Haven, I can't help but wonder if maybe she's right. Maybe I am jealous. Maybe Roman really is just some nice normal guy who moved to a new school and wants to make some new friends—as opposed to the creepy threat I assume him to be. Maybe I really have become so paranoid, jealous, and possessive I automatically assume that just because Damen wasn't as focused on me as he usually is, I'm about to be replaced. And if that's the case, well, it's way too pathetic to admit. So I just shake my head and fake a laugh when I say, “Again, ridiculous. All of this is seriously ridiculous.” Then I try to look as though I really do mean it.

“Yeah? Well, what about Drina, then? How do you explain
that
?” She smirks and says, “You hated her from the moment you saw her, and don't even try to deny it. And then, once you found out she knew Damen, you hated her even more.”

I cringe when she says it. And not only because it's true, but because hearing the name of Damen's ex-wife always makes me cringe. I can't help it, it just does. But I have no idea how to explain it to Haven. All she knows is that Drina pretended to be her friend, ditched her at a party, and then disappeared forever. She has no memory of Drina trying to kill her with the poisonous salve she used for that creepy tattoo she recently had removed from her wrist, no memory of—

Oh my God! The salve! Roman gave Miles a salve for his zit! I
knew
there was something strange about him. I
knew
I wasn't making it up!

“Haven, what class does Miles have now?” I ask, my eyes scanning the campus, unable to find him and in too big of a hurry to use remote sensing, which I still haven't mastered.

“I think English, why?” She gives me a strange look.

“Nothing, I just—I gotta run.”

“Fine. Whatever. But just so you know, I still think you hate new people!” she shouts.

But it lingers behind me. I'm already gone.

I sprint across campus, focusing on Miles's energy and trying to sense which classroom he's in. And as I round a corner and see a door on my right, without even thinking, I burst in.

“Can I help you?” the teacher asks, turning away from the board, holding a broken piece of white chalk in his hand.

I stand before the class, cringing as a few of Stacia's minions mock me as I fight to catch my breath.

“Miles,” I pant, pointing at him. “I need to speak to Miles. It'll only take a sec,” I promise, as his teacher crosses his arms and gives me a dubious look. “It's important,” I add, glancing at Miles who's now closed his eyes and is shaking his head.

“I assume you have a hall pass?” his teacher asks, a stickler for the rules.

And even though I know it might very well alienate him and end up working against me, I don't have time to get bogged down in all this red tape, the high school bureaucracy designed to keep us all safe—but that is actually, at this very moment, keeping me from handling a matter that is clearly life and death!

Or at least it might be.

I'm not sure. Though I'd like a chance to find out.

And I'm so frustrated, I just shake my head and say, “Listen, you and I both know I don't have a hall pass, but if you'll just do me the favor of letting me speak with Miles outside for a sec, I promise to send him right back.”

He looks at me, his mind sifting through all the alternatives, all the different ways this could play out: kicking me out, escorting me to class, escorting me to Principal Buckley's office—before glancing at Miles and sighing when he says, “Fine. Make it quick.”

The second we head into the hall and the door closes behind us, I look at Miles and say, “Give me the salve.”

“What?” He gapes.

“The salve. The one Roman gave you. Give it to me. I need to see it,” I tell him, extending my hand and wiggling my fingers.

“Are you crazy?” he whispers, looking around even though it's just wall-to-wall carpet, taupe colored walls, and us.

“You have no idea how serious this is,” I say, my eyes on his, not wanting to scare him, though I will if I have to. “Now come on, we don't have all day.”

“It's in my backpack.” He shrugs.

“Then go get it.”

“Ever, seriously. What the—?”

I just fold my arms and nod. “Go on. I'll wait.”

Miles shakes his head and disappears inside the room. Emerging a moment later with a sour expression and a small white tube in the palm of his hand. “Here. Happy now?” He tosses it to me.

I take the tube and examine it, twirling it between my thumb and index finger. It's a brand that I recognize, from a store that I frequent. And I don't understand how that could be.

“You know, in case you've forgotten, my play is tomorrow, and I really don't need all of this extra drama and stress right now, so if you don't mind . . .” He extends his hand, waiting for me to return the salve so he can get back to class.

Only I'm not willing to hand it over just yet. I'm looking for some kind of needle hole or puncture mark, something to prove it's been tampered with, that it's not what it seems.

“I mean, today at lunch when I saw how you and Damen toned down the whole smoochy business, I was ready to high-five you, but now it's like you've replaced it with something way worse. I mean, seriously, Ever. Either unscrew the cap and use it, or give it back already.”

But I don't give it back. Instead, I close my fingers around it and try to read its energy. But it's just some stupid zit cream. The kind that actually works.

“Are we done here?” He frowns at me.

I shrug and give the tube back. To say I'm embarrassed would be putting it mildly. But when Miles shoves it into his pocket and heads for the door, I can't help but say, “So you noticed?” The words feel hot and sticky in my throat.

“Noticed what?” He stops, clearly annoyed.

“The, um, the absence of the whole
smoochy business
?”

Miles turns, performing an exaggerated eye roll before leveling his gaze right on mine. “Yeah, I noticed. I figured you guys were just taking my threat seriously.”

I look at him.

“This morning—when I said Haven and I were on strike until you guys stopped with all of your—” He shakes his head. “Whatever. Can I please get to class?”

“Sorry.” I nod. “Sorry about all the—”

But before I can finish, he's already gone, the door closed firmly between us.

 

When I get to sixth period art,
I'm relieved to see Damen's already there. Since Mr. Robins kept us so busy in English and we barely spoke at lunch, I'm looking forward to a little alone time with him. Or at least as alone as you can be in a classroom with thirty other students.

But after slipping on my smock and gathering my supplies from the closet, my heart sinks when I see that, once again, Roman has taken my place.

“Oh, hey, Ever.” He nods, placing his brand-new blank canvas on
my
easel while I stand there, cradling my stuff in my arms and staring at Damen who's so immersed in his painting he's completely oblivious to me.

And I'm just about to tell Roman to scram when I remember Haven's words, how she said I hate new people. And fearing she might be right, I force a smile onto my face and place my canvas on the easel on Damen's other side, promising myself to get here much earlier tomorrow so I can reclaim my space.

“So tell me. Wot are we doin' 'ere, mate?” Roman asks, lodging a paintbrush between his front teeth and glancing between Damen and me.

And that's another thing. Normally, I find British accents really
appealing, but with this guy, it just grates. But that's probably because it's totally bogus. I mean, it's so obvious with the way he only slips it in when he wants to seem cool.

But as soon as I think it, I feel guilty again. Everyone knows that trying too hard to look cool is just another sign of insecurity. And who wouldn't feel a little insecure on their first day at this school?

“We're studying the
isms,
” I say, determined to play nice despite the nagging ping in my gut. “Last month we got to pick our own, but this month, we're all doing photorealism since nobody picked that last time.”

Roman looks at me, starting with my growing-out bangs and working his way all the way down to my gold Haviana flip-flops—a slow leisurely cruise along my body that makes my stomach go all jumpy and twisted—and not in a good way.

“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 over practice.”

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 hate 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 photograph to 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 blooming fields 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 my head.” 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 all squinty and questioning, I know I can't leave it like that. So I look at him and say, “Damen'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?”

 

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.