But first I need a car. You can't get anywhere in Orange County without one. So I close my eyes and picture the first thing that comes to mind a sky blue VW Bugjust like the one Shayla Sparks, the coolest senior to ever walk the halls of Hillcrest High, used to drive. Remembering its cartoonish round shape and the black cloth top that seemed so glamorous and yet took such a beating in the relentless Oregon ram.
Picturing it so clearly it's as though it's right there before me all shiny and curvy and adorably cute.
Feeling my fingers bend around the door handle, and the soft stroke of leather as I slide onto the seat, and when I place a single red tulip in the flower holder before me, I open my eyes and see that my ride is complete.
Only I don't know how to start the engine.
I forgot to manifest a key.
But since that's never stopped Damen, I just close my eyes again and will the engine to life, remembering the exact sound Shayla's car used to make as my ex-best friend Rachel and I stood on the curb after school, watching in envy as her super cool friends piled into the front and back seats.
And the moment the engine turns, I head toward Coast Highway. Figuring I'll start at the Montage, the place we were supposed to end up, and take it from there.
The traffic is thick this time of night, but it doesn't slow me. I just focus on all of the surrounding cars, seeing what everyone's next move is going to be, then adjusting my journey around it. Moving quickly and smoothly into each open space, until I arrive at the entrance, jump out of the Bug, and sprint for the lobby.
Stopping only when the valet calls out from behind me, "Hey, wait up! What about the key?" I pause, my breath coming in short shallow gasps, not realizing until I catch him staring at my feet that I'm not only keyless but shoeless as well. Yet knowing I can't afford to waste any more time than I already have, and reluctant to go through the whole manifesting process in front of him, I run through the door, yelling, "Just leave it running, I'll only be a sec!" I make a beeline for the front desk, bypassing a long line of disgruntled people, all of them weighed down with golf bags and monogrammed luggage, all of them complaining about checking in late due to a four-hour delay. And when I cut in front of the middle-aged couple that was supposed to be next, the griping and grumbling hits the next level.
"Has Damen Auguste checked in?" I ask, ignoring the protests behind me, as my fingers curl around the edge of the counter and I fight to steady my nerves. "I'm sorry, who ?" The clerk's gaze darts to the couple behind me, shooting them a look meant to say don't worry, I'll be done with this psycho chick soon!
"Damen. Auguste." I enunciate slowly, succinctly, with far more patience than I have. She squints at me, her thin lips barely moving as she says, "I'm sorry, that information is confidential." Flicking her long dark pony-tail over her shoulder in a move so final, so dismissive, it's like a period at the end of a sentence.
I narrow my eyes, focusing on her deep orange aura and knowing it means strict organization and self-control are the virtues she prizes the most something I showed a glaring lack of when I jumped the turnstile a moment ago. And knowing I need to get on her good side if I've any hope of obtaining the info I need, I resist the urge to act all huffy and indignant, and calmly explain how I'm the other guest who's sharing the room.
She looks at me, looks at the couple behind me, then says, "I'm sorry, but you'll have to wait your turn. Just.
Like. Everyone. Else."
And I know I have less than ten seconds between now and when she calls for security.
"I know. " I lower my voice and lean toward her.
"And I really am sorry. It's just that "
She looks at me, her fingers inching toward the phone as I take in her long straight nose, thin unadorned lips, and the hint of puffiness just under her eyes, and just like that, I see my way in.
She's been dumped. She's been dumped so recently she still cries herself to sleep every night. Reliving the horrible event every day, all day the scene following her wherever she goes, from her waking state to her dreams.
"It's just that, well " I pause, trying to make it seem as though it hurts too much to say the actual words, when the truth is I'm not sure which words I'll actually use. Then I shake my head and start over, knowing it's always better to stick with some semblance of the truth when you need the lie to seem real. "He didn't show up when he was supposed to, and because of that... well... I'm not sure if he's even still coming." I swallow hard, cringing when I realize the tears in my eyes are for real.
But when I look at her again, seeing her face soften the grim judging mouth, the squinty narrowed eyes, the superior tilt of her chinall of it suddenly transformed by compassion, solidarity, and unityI know that it worked. We're like sisters now, loyal members of an all-female tribe, recently jilted by men. I watch as she taps some commands on her keyboard, tuning in to her energy so I can see what she seesthe letters on the screen flashing before me, showing that our room, suite 309, is still empty. "I'm sure he's just running late," she says, though she doesn't believe it. In her mind, all men are scum, of this she's convinced. "But if you can show me some ID and prove that you're you, I can" But before she can finish, I'm already gone, turning away from the desk and running outside. I don't need a key. I could never check into that sad empty room, waiting for a boyfriend who clearly won't show. I need to keep moving, keep searching. I need to hit the only other two places where he might be. And as I jump in my car and head for the beach I pray that I'll find him.
CHAPTER 14
I park near the Shake Shack and head toward the ocean, feeling my way down the dark winding path, determined to locate Damen's secret cave even though I've only been there one other time, which happens to be the one other time we came really close to doing the deed. And we would have too if it weren't for me. I guess I have a long history of slamming the brakes at the most crucial moment. Either that, or I end up dying. So obviously, I was hoping tonight would be different. But the moment my feet hit the sand and I make my way down to his hideout, I'm sorry to see that it's pretty much the same as we left it: blankets and towels folded and stacked in the corner, surfboards lined up against the walls, a wet suit draped over a chairbut no Damen.
And with only one place left on my list, I cross my fingers and run for my car. Amazed by the way my limbs move with such speed and grace, the way my feet merely glance over the sand, covering the distance so quickly, I've barely started and I'm already back in my car pulling out of my space. Wondering just how long I've been able to do this, and what other immortal gifts I might have.
* * *
When I arrive at the gate, Sheila, the gate guard who's used to seeing me by now and knows I'm on Damen's permanent list of welcome guests, just smiles and waves me right in. And as I head up the hill toward his house and pull into his drive, the first thing I notice is that the lights are all off.
And I mean all of them. Including the one over the door that he always leaves on.
I sit in the Bug, its engine idling as I gaze up at those cold dark windows. Part of me wanting to break down the door, tear up the stairs, and burst into his "special" room the one where he stores his most precious mementosthe portraits of himself as painted by Picasso, Van Gogh, and Velazquez, along with the piles of rare, first-editions tomes the priceless relics of his long and storied past, all hoarded into one overstuffed, gilt-laden room. While the other part prefers to stay put, knowing I don't need to enter to prove he's not there. The cold, foreboding exterior, with its stone-covered walls, tiled roof, and vacant windows, is completely devoid of his warm loving presence.
I close my eyes, struggling to recall the last words he said something about getting the car so that we could make an even quicker getaway. Sure that he really meant wethat we were supposed to make the quick getaway so that we could finally be togetherour four-hundred-year quest culminating on this one perfect night.
I mean, he couldn't have been looking for a quicker get away from me Could he?
I take a deep breath and climb out of my car, knowing the only way to get answers is to keep moving. The soles of my cold wet feet slipping along the dew-covered walkway as I fumble for the key, remembering too late that I left it at home, never dreaming I'd need it tonight of all nights. I stand before the front door, memorizing its curving arch, mahogany finish, and bold, detailed carvings, before I close my eyes and picture another just like it. Seeing my imaginary door unlock and swing open, never having tried this before, but knowing it's possible after seeing Damen unlock a gate at our school a gate that'd been decidedly locked just a few moments before.
But when I open my eyes again, all I've managed to manifest is another giant wood door. And having no idea how to dispose of it (since up until now I've only manifested things I wanted to keep), I lean it against the wall and head toward the back. There's a window in his kitchen, the one just behind the sink that he always leaves cracked. And after sliding my fingers under the rim and pushing the window all the way up, I crawl over a sink overflowing with empty glass bottles before jumping to the ground, my feet landing with a muffled thud as I wonder if breaking and entering applies to concerned girlfriends too.
I gaze around the room, taking in the wooden table and chairs, the rack of stainless steel pots, the high-tech coffeemaker, blender, and juicer all part of the collection of the most modern kitchen gadgets money can buy (or Damen can manifest). Carefully selected to give the appearance of a normal, well-to-do life, like accessories in a beautifully decorated model home, perfectly staged and completely unused. I peer into his fridge, expecting to see the usual abundant supply of red juice, only to find just a few bottles instead. And when I peek inside his pantry, the place where he allows the newer batches to ferment or marinate or whatever they do in the dark for three daysI'm shocked to find that it's barely stocked too. I stand there, staring at the handful of bottles, my stomach thrumming, my heart racing, knowing something's terribly wrong with this picture. Damen's always so obsessive about keeping plenty of juice on handeven more so now that he's responsible for supplying methat he would never allow things to get to this point.
But then again, he's also been going through an awful lot of it lately, chugging it to the point where his consumption has nearly doubled. So it's entirely possible he hasn't had time to make a new batch.
Which sounds good in theory, sure, but it's not at all plausible.
I mean, who am I fooling? Damen's extremely organized with these things, even bordering on obsessive. He would never let his brewing duties slide not for one day.
Not unless something was terribly wrong.
And even though I don't have any proof, I just know in my gut that the way he's been acting so off lately with the sudden blank looks that are impossible to miss no matter how quickly they fade, not to mention the sweating, the headaches, the inability to manifest everyday objects, or access the Summerland portal well, when I add it all up, it's clear that he's sick.
Only Damen doesn't get sick.
And when he pricked his finger on that thorny rose just a little while ago, I watched as it healed right before me.
But still, maybe I should start calling the hospitals just to be sure.
Except Damen would never go to the hospital. He'd see it as a sign of weakness, defeat. He's far more likely to crawl off like a wounded animal, hiding out somewhere where he could be alone.
Only he doesn't have any wounds because they instantly heal. Besides, he'd never crawl off without telling me first.
Then again, I was also convinced he'd never drive off without me, and look how that turned out.
I riffle through his drawers, searching for the Yellow Pages yet another accessory in his quest to seem normal. Because while it's true that Damen would never take himself to the hospital, if there were an accident, or some other event beyond his control, then it's possible that someone else might've taken him without his consent.
And while that completely contradicts Roman's (most likely bogus) story of watching Damen speed away, that doesn't stop me from calling every hospital in Orange County, asking if a Damen Auguste has been admitted, and coming up empty each time.
When the last hospital is called, I consider calling the police but quickly decide against it. I mean, what would I say? That my six-hundred-year-old immortal boyfriend went missing?
Td have just as much luck cruising Coast Highway, searching for a black BMW with dark tinted windows and a good-looking driver inside the proverbial needle in the haystack of Laguna Beach.
Or I can always just settle in here, knowing he's got to turn up eventually.
And as I climb the stairs to his room, I comfort myself with the thought that if I can't be with him, then at least I can be with his things. And as I settle myself upon his velvet settee, I gaze among the things he prizes the most, hoping I'm still one of them too.
CHAPTER 15
My neck hurts. And my back feels weird. And when I open my eyes and glimpse my surroundings I know why. I spent, the night in this room. Right here on this ancient velvet settee, which was originally intended for light banter, coquettish flirting, but definitely not sleeping.
I struggle to stand, my muscles tightening in protest as I stretch toward the sky then down toward my toes. And after bending my torso from side to side and swiveling my neck to and fro, I head over to his thick velvet drapes and yank them aside. Flooding the room with a light so bright my eyes water and sting, barely having enough time to adjust before I've closed them again. Ensuring the edges overlap and no amount of sunlight is allowed to creep in, returning the space to its usual state of permanent midnight, having been warned by Damen that those harsh Southern California rays can wreak havoc on the contents of this room. Damen.
Just thinking about him makes my heart swell with such longing, such all-consuming ache my head grows dizzy and my whole body sways. And as I grab hold of an elaborate wood cabinet, grasping its fine detailed edge, my eyes search the room, reminding me that I'm not nearly as alone as I think. Everywhere I look his image surrounds me. His likeness perfectly captured by the world's greatest masters, matted in museum-quality frames, and mounted on these walls. The Picasso in the dark somber suit, the Velazquez on the rearing white stallioneach of them depicting the face I thought I knew so wellonly now the eyes seem distant and mocking, the chin raised and defiant, and those lips, those warm wonderful lips that I crave so bad I can taste them, appear so remote, so aloof, so maddeningly distant, as though warning me not to come near.
I close my eyes, determined to block it all out, sure that my panicked state of mind is influencing me for the worst. Forcing myself to take several deep breaths, before trying his cell phone again. His voice mail prompting yet another round of: Call me . . . where are you . . . what happened. . . are you okay . . . call me messages I've left countless times already. I slip my phone back into my bag and gaze around the room one last time, my eyes carefully avoiding his portraits while assuring myself there's nothing I missed. No blatant clue to his disappearance that I might've overlooked, no small, seemingly insignificant hint that might make the how and why a little easier to grasp.
And when I'm satisfied I've done all I can, I grab my purse and head to the kitchen, stopping just long enough to leave a short note, repeating all the same words I said on the phone. Knowing the moment I walk out the door my connection to Damen will feel even more tenuous than it already does. I take a deep breath and close my eyes, picturing the future that just yesterday seemed so sure the one of Damen and me, both of us happy, together, complete. Wishing it was possible to manifest such a thing, yet knowing deep down it's no use.
You can't manifest, another person. Or at least not for very long.
So I shift my attention to something I can create.
Picturing the most perfect red tulip its soft waxy petals and long fluid stem the ideal symbol for our undying love. And when I feel it take shape in my hand, I head back to the kitchen, tear up the note, and leave the tulip on the counter instead.
CHAPTER 16
I miss Riley.
I miss her so much It's like a physical ache. Because the second I realized I had no choice but to inform Sabine that Damen wouldn't be making it to dinner (which I waited to do until ten minutes past eight when it was clear he wouldn't show), the questions began. And they pretty much kept coming for the remainder of the weekend, with her asking stuff like: What's wrong? I know something's wrong. I wish you would talk to me. Why won't you tell me? Is it something with Damen? Are you two in a fight? And even though I did talk to her (over dinner when I somehow managed to eat enough to convince her that I really and truly do not have an eating disorder), trying to assure her that everything was A-OK, that Damen was just busy, and that I was overtired after spending such a long, fun-filled night at Haven's it was clear she didn't believe me. Or at least not the part about me being fine. She totally believed the part about me staying at Haven's.
Instead, she kept insisting that there had to be a better explanation for my constant sighing and mood swings, the way I went from morose to manic to mopey and back again. But even though I felt bad for lying to her I stuck with my story. I guess it seemed easier since lying to Sabine made it easier to lie to myself. Fearing that retelling the story, explaining how even though my heart refuses to believe it, my head can't help but wonder if he might've purposely ditched memight somehow make it come true. If Riley were here, things would be different. I could talk to her. I could tell her the whole sordid tale from beginning to end. Knowing she'd not only understand, but that she'd get answers too.
Her being dead is like an all-access pass. Allowing her to go anywhere she wants merely by thinking about it. Making no place off limits the entire planet is fair game. And I've no doubt she'd be far more effective than all of my frantic phone calls and drive-bys combined.
Because in the end, all my disjointed, clumsy, ineffective investigating really amounts to is: (nothing).
Leaving me just as clueless this Monday morning as I was on Friday night when it occurred. And no matter how many times I call Miles or Haven, their answer is always the same nothing to report, but we'll call you if anything changes.
But if Riley were here, she'd close this case in no time. Getting quick results and in-depth answers she'd be able to tell me just exactly what I'm dealing with, and how to proceed. But the fact is, Riley's not here. And despite her promising me a sign, seconds before she left, I'm starting to doubt it'll happen. And maybe, just maybe, it's time I stop looking and get on with my life. I slip on some jeans, slide my feet into some flip-flops, pull on a tank top, and chase it with a long-sleeved Tand just as I'm about to walk out the door and head for school, I turn right around and grab my iPod, hoodie, and sunglasses, knowing I'd better prepare for the worst since I've no idea what I'll find.
* * *
"Did you find him?"
I shake my head, watching as Miles climbs into my car, throws his bag on the floor, and shoots me a look filled with pity.
"I tried calling," he says, brushing his hair off his face, his nails still sporting a bright flashy pink, "Even tried to swing by his house but didn't get past the front gate.
And trust me, you do not want to mess with Big Sheila. She takes her job very seriously." He laughs, hoping to lighten the mood.
But I just shrug, wishing I could laugh along with him, but knowing I can't. I've been a wreck since Friday and the only cure is to see Damen again.
"You shouldn't worry so much," Miles says, turning toward me. "I'm sure he's fine. I mean, it's not like it's the first time he's disappeared."
I glance at him, sensing his thoughts before the words leave his lips. Knowing he's referring to the last time Damen disappeared, the time I sent him away. "But that was different," I tell him. "Trust me, that was nothing like this."
"How can you be so sure?" His voice is careful, measured, his eyes still on me.
I take a deep breath and stare at the road, wondering whether or not I should tell him I mean, I haven't really talked to anyone in so long, haven't confided in a friend since well before the accident before everything changed. And sometimes, having to hoard all of these secrets can really feel lonely. I long to get out from under their weight and gossip like a normal girl again.
I look at Miles, sure that I can trust him, but not all that sure if I can trust me. I'm like a soda can that's been dropped and shaken, and now all of my secrets are rushing to the top.
"You okay?" he asks, eyeing me carefully.
I swallow hard. "Friday night? After your play?" I pause, knowing I've got his full attention. "Well . . .we, um... we sort of made plans."
"Plans?" He leans toward me.
"Big plans." I nod, a smile hinting at the corner of my lips, then instantly fading when I remember how it all went so tragically wrong.
"How big?" he asks, eyes on mine.
I shake my head, gazing at the road ahead when I say, "Oh, just your usual Friday night. You know, room at the Montage, new lingerie, chocolate dipped strawberries, and two flutes of champagne ..."
"Omigod, you didn't !" he squeals.
I glance at him, watching as his face falls when he realizes the truth.
"Oh God, I mean, you really didn't. You didn't get a chance to, since he ..." He looks at me. "Oh Ever, I'm so sorry."
I shrug, seeing the devastation I feel so clearly displayed on his face.
"Listen," he says, reaching for my arm as I stop at a light, then pulling away when he remembers how I don't like to be touched by anyone other than Damen, not blowing that it's only because I go out of my way to avoid any and all unsolicited energy exchange.
"Ever, you're gorgeous, seriously. I mean, especially now that you stopped wearing those dumpy hoodies and baggy " He shakes his head. "Anyway, I think it's safe to say that there's no way Damen would have willingly walked out on you. I mean, let's face it, the guy's totally in love, anyone can see it. And believe me, with the way you two are constantly going at it, everyone has seen it. There's just no possible way he could've bailed!"
I glance at him, wanting to remind him of what Roman said about Damen speeding away, and how I have this terrible feeling he's somehow connected, maybe even responsible but just as I'm about to, I realize I can't. I've no evidence to go on, nothing to prove it.
"You call the police?" he asks, his expression suddenly serious.
I press my lips together and squint at the light straight ahead, hating the fact that I did indeed call the cops.
Knowing that if everything turns out to be fine, and Damen shows up unscathed, he's going to be pretty unhappy about my drawing that kind of attention his way.
But what was I supposed to do? I mean, if there was an accident or something, I figured they'd be the first to know. So Sunday morning, I went down to the station and filed a report, answering all of the usual questions like: mule, Caucasian, brown eyes, brown hair . . . Until we got to his age and I nearly choked when I almost said: um . . . he's approximately six hundred and seventeen years old... "Yeah, I filed a report," I finally say, pressing hard on the gas the second the light turns green and watching the speedometer rise. "They took down the info and said they'd look into it."
"That's it? Are you kidding? He's underage, he's not even an adult!"
"Yeah, but he's also emancipated. Which is like a whole other set of circumstances, making him legally responsible for himself, and other things I don't quite understand. Anyway, it's not like I'm privy to their investigation techniques, it's not like they filled me in on the big plan," I say, slowing to a more normal speed, now that we've entered the school zone. "Do you think we should pass out flyers? Or hold a candlelight vigil like you see on the news?"
My stomach curls when he says it, even though I know he's just being his usual overly dramatic, though well-meaning self. But up until now, I hadn't imagined it ever coming to that. I mean, surely Damen will show up soon. He's got to. He's immortal! What could possibly happen to him?
But no sooner do I think it than I pull into the parking lot and see him climbing out of his car. Looking so sleek, so sexy, so gorgeous you'd think everything was perfectly normal. That the last few days had never occurred.
I slam on the brakes, my car lurching forward then back, causing the driver behind me to slam on their brakes too. My heart racing, my hands shaking, as I watch my completely gorgeous, up until now MIA boyfriend, run a hand through his hair so deliberately, so insistently, and with such focused concentration you'd think it was his most pressing concern. This is not what I expected.
"What the hell?" Miles shrieks, gaping at Damen as a whole slew of cars honk behind us. "And what's he doing parked all the way over there ? Why isn't he in the second-best spot, saving the best one for us?" And since I don't know the answers to any of those questions, I pull up beside Damen, thinking he might. I lower my window, feeling inexplicably shy and awkward when he merely glances at me before looking away. "Urn, is everything okay?" I ask, wincing when he just barely nods, which is pretty much the most imperceptible acknowledgment of my presence he could possibly give. He reaches into his car and grabs his bag, taking the opportunity to admire himself in the driver's side window as I swallow hard and say, "Because you sort of took off Friday night. . . and I couldn't find you or reach you all weekend . .. and I got kinda worried . . . I even left you some messages ... did you get them?" I press my lips together and cringe at my pathetic, ineffective, wuss-laden inquiry. You sort of took off? I got Mods worried? When what I really want to scream is: HEY YOU IN THE SUPER-SLICK ALL-BLACK ENSEMBLE WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED?
Watching as he slips his bag onto his shoulder and gazes at me, his quick powerful stride closing the distance between us in a handful of seconds. But only the physical distance, not the emotional one, because when I look into his eyes they seem miles away.
And just when I realize I've been holding my breath, he leans into the window, his face close to mine when he says, "Yeah. I got your messages. All fifty-nine of them."
I can feel his warm breath on my cheek as my mouth drops open and my eyes search his, seeking the heat his gaze always provides, and shivering when I come away cold, dark, and empty. Though it's nothing like the lack of recognition I glimpsed the other day. No, this is far worse.
Because now when I look in his eyes it's clear that he knows me he just wishes he didn't.
"Damen, I " My voice cracks as a car honks behind me and Miles mutters something unintelligible under his breath.
And before I've had a chance to clear my throat and start over, Damen's shaking his head and walking away.
CHAPTER 17
"Are you all right?" Miles asks, his face displaying all of the heartbreak and pain I'm too numb to feel. I shrug, knowing I'm not. I mean, how can I be all right when I'm not even sure what's all wrong ? "Damen's an asshole," he says, a hard edge to his voice.
But I just sigh. Even though I can't explain it, and even though I don't understand it, I just know in my gut that things are far more complicated than they might seem.
"No he's not," I mumble, climbing out of the car and closing the door much harder than necessary. "Ever, please ... I mean, I'm sorry to be the one to point it out, but you did just see what I saw, right?" I head toward Haven who's waiting by the gate. "Trust me, I saw everything, " I say. Replaying the scene in my mind, each time pausing on his distant eyes, his tepid energy, his complete lack of interest in me