Blue Moon (9 page)

Honor starts to fidget, standing beside her and whining, “Come on, Stacia. Let's go. This is
bor
-ing.”

But Stacia ignores her and grips my arm harder, her nails pressing into my flesh as she whispers, “Go on, tell her. Tell her what you see!”

I close my eyes, my stomach swirling as my head fills with images similar to the ones I saw before: Stacia scratching and clawing her way to the top of the popularity pyramid, stomping much harder than necessary on all those beneath her. Including Honor,
especially
Honor, who's so afraid of being unpopular she does nothing to stop it . . .

I could tell her what a horrible friend Stacia really is, expose her for the awful person I know her to be. . . . I could pry Stacia's hand from my arm and fling her across the room so hard she'd fly straight through the plate glass window before crashing into the mall directory. . . .

Only I can't. The last time I let loose at school, when I told Stacia all the awful things I know about her, it was a colossal mistake—one I don't have the luxury of making again. There's so much more to hide now, much bigger secrets at stake—secrets that belong not only to me but to Damen as well.

Stacia laughs as I fight to stay calm and not overreact. Reminding myself that while appearing weak is okay, giving in to weakness is definitely
not.
It's absolutely imperative to appear normal, clueless, and allow her the illusion that she's so much stronger than me.

Honor checks her watch, rolling her eyes, wanting to leave. And just as I'm about to pull away, and maybe even
accidentally
backhand Stacia while I'm at it, I
see
something so awful, so repulsive, I knock an entire rack of lingerie to the floor in an attempt to break free.

Bras, thongs, hangers, and fixtures—all of it crashing to the ground in one big heap.

With me as the cherry on top.

“O. Migawd!” Stacia shrieks, grabbing hold of Honor as they fall all over themselves laughing at me. “You are such a freakin'
spaz
!” she says, going straight for her cell so she can capture it all on video. Zooming in to get close-up footage of me attempting to break free of a red lace garter belt that's wrapped around my neck. “Better get crackin' and get this cleaned up!” She squints, adjusting her angle as I struggle to stand. “You know what they say, you break it, you buy it!”

I get to my feet, watching as Stacia and Honor bolt for the door the moment a salesperson arrives. Stacia pausing long enough to glance over her shoulder and say, “I'm watching you, Ever. Believe me, I'm not through with you yet.” Before running away.

 

The moment I sense Damen turning onto my street,
I run to the mirror (again) and fidget with my clothes, making sure everything is right where it should be—the dress, the bra, the new lingerie—and hoping it all stays in place (well, at least until it's time to come off).

After the Victoria's Secret salesgirl and I cleaned up the mess, she helped me choose this really pretty matching bra and panty set that isn't made of cotton, isn't embarrassingly sexy, and doesn't actually support or cover much of anything, but then I guess that's the point. Then I moved on to Nordstrom where I bought this pretty green dress and some cute strappy wedges to go with it. And on the way home I stopped for a quick manicure/pedicure, which is something I haven't done since, well, since before the accident that robbed me of my old life forever—when I used to be popular and girly like Stacia.

Only I was never
really
like Stacia.

I mean, I may have been popular and a cheerleader, but I was never a bitch.

“What are you thinking?” Damen asks, having let himself in and coming straight up to my room since Sabine's not at home.

I gaze at him, watching as he leans against the doorjamb and smiles. Taking in his dark jeans, dark shirt, dark jacket, and the black motorcycle boots he always wears and feeling my heart skip two beats.

“I was thinking about the last four hundred years,” I say, cringing when his eyes grow dark and worried. “But not in the way that you think,” I add, eager to assure him I wasn't obsessing over his past yet again. “I was thinking about all of our lifetimes together, and how we never . . . um . . .”

He lifts his brow as a smile plays at his lips.

“I guess I'm just glad those four hundred years are over,” I mumble, watching as he moves toward me, slips his arms around my waist, and pulls me tight to his chest. My eyes grazing over the planes of his face, his dark eyes, smooth skin, his irresistible lips, drinking all of him in.

“I'm glad too,” he says, his eyes teasing mine. “Nope, on second thought, scratch that, because the truth is, I'm more than glad. In fact—I'm ecstatic.” He smiles, but a moment later he's merging his brows, saying, “No, that still doesn't explain it. I think we need a new word.” He laughs, lowering his mouth to my ear as he whispers, “You are more beautiful tonight than you've
ever
been. And I want everything to be perfect. I want it to be everything you dreamed it would be. I just hope I don't disappoint you.”

I balk, pulling away to gaze at his face, wondering how he could even think such a thing, when all of this time it's been
me
who's been worried about disappointing
him
.

He places his finger under my chin, lifting my face until my lips meet his. And I kiss him back with such fervor, he pulls away and says, “Maybe we should head straight for the Montage instead?”

“Okay,” I murmur, my lips seeking his. Regretting the joke when he pulls away and I see how hopeful he is. “Except that we can't. Miles will
kill
me if I miss his debut.” I smile, waiting for him to smile too.

Only he doesn't. And when he looks at me with his face so drawn and serious, I know I strayed too close to the truth. All of my lives have always ended on this night—the night we'd planned to be
together. And even though I don't remember the details, he clearly does.

But then just as quickly his color's returned and he takes my hand when he says, “Well, lucky for us you're quite
unkillable
now, so there's nothing that can keep us apart.”

 

The first thing I notice as we head for our seats is that Haven's sitting beside Roman. Taking full advantage of Josh's absence by pressing her shoulder against his and cocking her head in a way that allows her to gaze up at him adoringly and smile at everything he says. The second thing I notice is that my seat is also beside Roman's. Only unlike Haven, I'm not at all thrilled. But since Damen's already claimed the outside seat, and I don't want to make a big show of moving, I reluctantly sink down onto mine. Feeling the invasive push of Roman's energy as his eyes peer into mine—his attention so focused on me, I can't help but squirm.

I gaze around the mostly full theater, trying to get my mind off of Roman and am relieved when I see Josh heading down the aisle, clad in his usual tight black jeans, studded belt, crisp white shirt, and skinny checkered tie, his arms loaded down with candy and bottles of water as his black swoop of hair flops into his eyes. And I can't help but breathe a sigh of relief, seeing how perfect he and Haven are for each other, and I'm thrilled that he's not been replaced.

“Water?” he asks, plopping onto the seat on Haven's other side and passing two bottles my way.

I take one for myself and try to pass the other to Damen, but he just shakes his head and sips his red drink.

“
Wot
is that?” Roman asks, leaning across me and motioning toward the bottle, his unwelcome touch sending a chill through my skin. “You suck that stuff down like it's spiked. In which case, share the wealth, mate. Don't leave us out here in the cold.” He laughs,
extending his hand and wiggling his fingers, glancing between us with a dare in his eye.

And just as I'm about to butt in, fearing that Damen's so nice he might agree to give Roman a taste, the curtain unfolds and the music begins. And even though Roman gives up and leans back in his seat, his gaze never once wavers from me.

 

Miles was amazing. So amazing that every now and then I find myself actually focusing on the lines that he speaks and the lyrics he sings, while the rest of the time my mind is preoccupied with the fact that I'm about to lose my virginity—for the very first time—in four hundred years.

I mean, it's so amazing to think that out of all of those incarnations, out of all the times we met and fell in love, we never once managed to seal the deal.

But tonight, all of that changes.

Everything
changes.

Tonight we bury the past and move toward the future of our eternal love.

When the curtain finally closes, we all get up and head for backstage. But just as we reach the back door, I turn to Damen and say, “Damn! We forgot to stop by the store and pick up some flowers for Miles.”

But Damen just smiles. Shaking his head as he says, “What're you talking about? We've got all the flowers we need right here.”

I squint, wondering what he's up to, because according to my eyes, he's as empty-handed as I. “What're
you
taking about?” I whisper, feeling that warm wonderful charge course through me as he places his hand on my arm.

“Ever,” he says, an amused look on his face. “Those flowers already exist on the quantum level. If you want to access them on a
physical level, all you have to do is manifest them like I taught you to do.”

I glance all around, making sure no one's eavesdropping on our strange conversation and feeling embarrassed when I admit that I can't. “I don't know how,” I say, wishing he'd just make the flowers and get it over with already. This is really no time for a lesson.

But Damen's not buying it. “Of course you can. Have I taught you nothing?”

I press my lips together and stare at the floor, because the truth is, he's tried to teach me plenty. But I'm a horrible student and I've slacked off so much it'll be better for both of us if I leave the manifesting of flowers to him.

“You do it,” I say, wincing at the disappointment that transforms his face. “You're so much quicker than I am. If I try to do it, it'll turn into a big scene, people will notice, and then we'll be forced to explain. . . .”

He shakes his head, refusing to be swayed by my words. “How will you ever learn if you always rely on me?”

I sigh, knowing he's right but still not wanting to waste precious time trying to manifest a bouquet of roses that may or may not ever appear. All I want is to get the flowers in hand, tell Miles
Bravo,
and move on to the Montage and the rest of our plans. And a moment ago it seemed like he only wanted that too. But now he's gone all serious and professorlike on me, and to be honest, it's kind of wrecking the mood.

I take a deep breath and smile sweetly, my fingers crawling along the edge of his lapel when I say, “You're absolutely right. And I will get better, I promise. But I was thinking that maybe just this once, you could do it since you're so much quicker than I am—” I stroke the spot just under his ear, knowing he's
this
close to caving. “I mean, the sooner we get the bouquet, the sooner we can leave, and then . . .”

And I'm not even finished before he's closing his eyes, his hand held before him as though gripping a spray of spring blooms, as I glance all around, making sure no one is watching, hoping to get this over with soon.

But when I look at Damen again, I start to panic. Because not only is his hand still empty, but a trail of sweat is coursing its way down his cheek for the second time in two days.

Which wouldn't seem all that strange except for the fact that Damen doesn't sweat.

Just like he never gets sick and never has
off
days, he also never sweats. No matter what the temperature outside, no matter what the task at hand, he always remains cool, calm, and perfectly able to handle whatever's before him.

Until yesterday, when he failed to access the portal.

And now, as he fails to manifest a simple bouquet for Miles.

And when I touch his arm and ask if he's okay, I get only the slightest trickle of the usual tingle and heat.

“Of course I'm okay.” He squints, raising his lids just enough to peer at me, before closing them tightly again. And even though our gaze was brief, what I glimpsed in his eyes made me grow cold and weak.

Those were not the warm loving eyes I've grown used to. Those eyes were cold, distant, remote—just like I glimpsed earlier this week. And I watch as he focuses, his brow furrowed, his upper lip beaded with sweat, determined to get this over and done with so we can both move on to our perfect night. And not wanting this to drag on any further or repeat the other day when he failed to make the portal appear, I stand right beside him and close my eyes too.
Seeing
a beautiful bouquet of two dozen red roses clutched in his hand,
inhaling
their heady sweet scent while
feeling
the soft plush of petals that just happen to be mounted above long thorny stems—

“Ouch!” Damen shakes his head and brings his finger to his
mouth, even though the wound is already healed long before it can get there. “I forgot to make a vase,” he says, clearly convinced he made the flowers himself, and I have every intention of keeping it that way.

“Let me do it,” I say, in an effort to please him. “You're absolutely right, I need the practice,” I add, closing my eyes and envisioning the one in the dining room at home, the one with the complicated pattern of swirls and etches and luminous facets.

“Waterford crystal?” He laughs. “How much do you want him to think we spent on this thing?”

I laugh too, relieved that all the weirdness is over and he's back to joking again. Taking the vase he thrusts into my hands as he says, “Here. You give these to Miles while I get the car and pull it around.”