Night Star

twelve

I reach over the counter quickly. So quickly Miles has no way to stop me. No idea what’s about to happen until it’s too late. Slamming his wrist hard onto the glass, harder than I intended, I secure my hand over his in a way that presses his palm flat against it, rendering him completely helpless. Vaguely aware of his struggle, the way he squirms and wriggles and tries to break free.

But it’s no use.

His fight barely registers. It’s less than a blip on my screen.

When it comes to brute strength, there’s no matching me.

And when he finally realizes that, he heaves a deep sigh and settles in, opening his mind, and surrendering to what he knows I’m about to do.

I slip inside his head, fluidly, easily, taking a moment to get my bearings and have a brief look around, before I discard all extraneous thoughts and swoop in on the exact scene I came here to see.

Seeing Miles climb into Damen’s car, at first relaxed and happy, anticipating a nice off-campus lunch, only to grab hold of his seat in a death grip—his eyes wide, face a mask of fright, as Damen speeds out of the school parking lot and onto the street.

And to be honest, I’m not sure what surprises me more—the fact of what Damen’s about to do—or that he’s still keeping his promise of going to school and attending all of his classes even though I’ve clearly reneged on mine.

“No worries,” Damen says, glancing at Miles, his face creasing into a smile. “You’re perfectly safe. I can almost guarantee that.”

“Almost?” Miles flinches, shoulders scrunching, eyes squinching, as Damen maneuvers in and out of a long string of cars traveling well below his unnaturally high speed. Cautiously venturing a quick glimpse at him as he says, “Well, at least I know where you get it—you drive as crazy as everyone else in Italy!” He shakes his head and winces again.

Causing Damen to laugh even harder.

The mere sound of it causing my heart to swell in a way I can barely contain.

I miss him.

There’s just no denying it.

Seeing him like this—with the sun bouncing off his dark glossy hair, as his strong, capable hands grip the wheel—well, it just makes it clear how empty my life feels without him.

But then, just as quickly, I stop—reminding myself of all the reasons why I did what I did. There’s still so much left to uncover about our former lives together, stuff I need to know before we can go any further.

I blink it away, determined to move past all that as I continue to watch.

Seeing Damen brake at the Shake Shack, where he buys Miles a coffee shake with crushed Oreo cookies inside, before leading him toward one of those blue painted benches, the exact same one where he and I once sat. Taking a moment to gaze down at a beautiful beach filled with colorful umbrellas that look like giant polka dots pinned into the sand, at a lineup of surfers waiting for the next big wave, to a flock of seagulls circling overhead, before turning his attention to Miles, who slurps his shake quietly and waits for Damen to begin.

“I’m an immortal,” he says, looking right at him.

Just throws the first pitch without a warm-up, without a batter in place. Just tosses the ball right out there, face patient, still, allowing plenty of time for Miles to step up and take a swing.

Miles sputters, spitting the straw from his mouth and brushing his sleeve across his lips as he gapes at Damen and says, “Scusa?”

Damen laughs, and I’m not sure if it’s the result of Miles’s attempt to speak Italian or Miles’s dramatic attempt to draw it all out and pretend as though he didn’t actually hear what he so clearly did. Still, Damen continues to hold his gaze as he says, “Your ears did not deceive you. It’s exactly as I said. I’m an immortal. I’ve roamed this earth for just over six hundred years, and up until recently, Drina and Roman did too.”

Miles gapes, his coffee shake all but forgotten as his gaze moves over Damen, attempting to make sense of it, attempting to take it all in.

“Forgive me for being so blunt—and trust me when I say that I didn’t put it out there like that to enjoy a little shock value at your expense. It’s just that, if nothing else, I’ve come to learn that news like this—news of the unexpected kind—is best told quickly and bluntly. I’ve definitely paid the price of holding back.” He pauses, his gaze suddenly saddened, faraway.

And I know he’s referring to me—the time he waited so long to tell me the truth behind my own existence—and how he’s made the same mistake once again, by not coming clean about our shared history.

“And I’ll admit, part of me just assumed you’d already figured it out. What with Roman making sure you’d find the portraits and all. You must’ve drawn some sort of conclusion about them.”

Miles shakes his head, blinks his eyes a bunch of times, and abandons his shake to the table. Looking at Damen with an expression that’s one hundred and eighty degrees past confused when he says, “But—” his voice so hoarse, he clears his throat and starts again. “I mean, I guess—well, I guess I don’t get it.” He squints, slowly taking him in. “For starters, you’re not all pasty white and weird looking. In fact, you’re pretty much the opposite, and ever since I’ve known you, you’ve been rockin’ a tan. Not to mention, in case you haven’t noticed, it’s daylight. Like, ninety-five degrees’ worth of daylight. So, excuse me for saying so, but in light of all that, what you just said really doesn’t make any sense.”

Damen tilts his head, wearing an expression that’s far more confused than Miles’s. Taking a moment to add it all up, before he throws his head back, allowing great peals of laughter to spill forth, until he finally slows down enough to shake his head and say, “I’m not a mythical immortal, Miles, I’m a real immortal. The kind without the burden of fangs, sun-avoiding, or that gawd-awful blood-sucking.” He shakes his head again, musing under his breath at the idea of it, remembering how I once assumed the same thing. “Basically, it’s just me and my trusty bottle of elixir here—” He holds up his drink, swinging it back and forth as Miles watches, transfixed by the sight of it. The way that much sought-after substance, the one mankind has searched for forever, the one Damen’s parents were murdered for, glows and glints in the bright afternoon sun. “Believe me, this is really all it takes to keep me going for, well, for eternity.”

They sit in silence. Miles scrutinizing Damen, looking for giveaways, nervoustics, self-aggrandizement, gaping holes in the story, or any other telltale sign of a person who’s lying, while Damen just waits. Allowing Miles all the time he needs to get accustomed to the idea, to settle in with it, to warm up to a new possibility he never really considered before.

And when Miles’s mouth begins to open, about to ask how, Damen just nods, answering the unspoken question when he says, “My father was an alchemist back in a time when it was not so uncommon to experiment with such things.”

“And what time was that, exactly?” Miles asks, having found his voice again, obviously not believing it really could’ve been as long as Damen claims.

“Six hundred and some odd years ago—give or take.” Damen shrugs, casting it off as though the beginnings hold very little meaning to him.

But I know differently.

I know just how much he prizes that time with his family, the memories they shared before they were so cruelly stolen.

I also know just how painful it is for him to admit it. How he prefers to shrug it off, to pretend he can barely remember it.

“It was during the Italian Renaissance,” he adds, not missing a beat.

Their gaze continues to hold, and even though he doesn’t show it, bears absolutely no visible signs of it whatsoever—I know it kills Damen to have to admit it.

His most well guarded secret, the one he’d managed to hold on to for six solid centuries, now spilling out like water from a busted pipe.

Miles nods, nods without flinching. Forfeiting his milkshake to a curious seagull, pushing it away as he says, “I’m not even sure what to say at this point, except maybe—thank you.”

Their gaze meets.

“Thank you for not lying. For not trying to cover it up and pretend that those portraits were some kind of distant relative or weird kind of coincidence. Thank you for telling the truth. As unbelievable and strange as it may be…”

“You knew?”

I let go of his hand, moving so quickly it takes a moment for him to realize he’s no longer held hostage by me.

He flinches and pulls away, flexing his fingers as he twists his wrist back and forth, doing whatever it takes to get the blood flow back to normal again.

“Jeez, Ever, intrude much?” He shakes his head and paces the store. Angrily slaloming through the bookshelves, the angel displays, the CD racks, before starting the course all over again. Needing a moment to forgive me, to blow off a good bit of steam, before he’s ready to even look at me again. Tapping his thumb over the spines of a long row of books as he finally sighs and says, “I mean, it’s one thing to know you’re capable of reading minds, it’s quite another to have you actually get in there and probe around without my consent.” The words followed by a string of others he mumbles under his breath.

“I’m sorry,” I say, knowing I owe him much more than that, but still, it’s a start. “Really. I…I took a vow to never do that. And for the most part, I’ve kept it. But sometimes…well, sometimes the situation’s so urgent it can’t be ignored.”

“So you’ve done it before? Is that what you’re saying?” He turns, his eyes narrowed, mouth grim, fingers fidgeting at his side. Assuming the worst, that I’ve made myself at home in his brain on more occasions than I can count. And even though it’s nothing quite as bad as all that, and even though I’d really prefer not to have to cop to any of it, I also know that if I have any hope of regaining his trust, I have to start here.

I take a deep breath, keeping my gaze level on his. “Yes. A few times in the past, I have dropped in completely unannounced and without your consent, and I’m really and truly sorry about that. I know what an invasion that must feel like to you.”

He rolls his eyes and shows me his back. Mumbling in a way intended to make me cringe—and it does.

Though it’s not like I blame him. Not in the least. I’ve invaded his privacy, there’s no doubt about that. I just hope he can learn to forgive me.

“So basically, what you’re telling me is, I have no secrets.” He faces me again, gaze pouring over me. “No private thoughts, nothing that you haven’t had a super-exclusive sneak peek at.” He glares. “And just how long has this been going on, Ever? Since the day we first met, I assume?”

I shake my head, determined for him to believe me. “No. Really, none of that’s true. I mean, yes, I’ve read your mind before, I’ve already admitted to that, but I’ve only done it a few times, and even then it was only when I thought you might know something that would—” I take a deep breath, seeing his narrowed gaze, his clenched jaw, a sure sign that this is not going over as well as I’d hoped. Still, he deserves an explanation, no matter how mad it makes him, so I clear my throat and forge ahead when I add, “Seriously, the only times I’ve ever looked inside your head was to see if you were on to the truth about Damen and me—that’s it. I swear. I haven’t bothered with anything else. I’m not nearly as unethical as you think. Besides, just so you know, I used to hear everyone’s thoughts—hundreds—sometimes thousands of thoughts jumping out all around me. It was deafening, and disheartening, and I hated every single second of it. That’s why I wore the hoodies and the iPod all the time. It wasn’t just tragic fashion sense, you know.” I pause and look at him, seeing the way his back and shoulders stiffen. “It was the only way I could think of to block it all out. I mean, it may have looked ridiculous to you, but it served its purpose. It wasn’t until Ava taught me how to shield myself and tune it all out that I was able to move on. So yeah, in a way, you’re right. From the day I first met you I could hear everything that coursed through your brain—just like I heard everything that coursed through everyone’s brain. But it wasn’t because I wanted to hear it, but because I had no choice but to hear it. But as for the rest, your business is your business, Miles. Seriously, I’ve completely avoided eavesdropping on your secrets. You have to believe me on that.”

My gaze follows him, watching as he continues to roam the store, back turned, face hidden in a way I can’t read. Though his aura is brightening, lightening, a sure sign he’s coming around.

“I’m sorry,” he says, finally turning to me.

I squint, wondering what on earth he has to be sorry for in light of all this.

But he just shakes his head and says, “The things I used to think about you—well, not really you, it was mostly about your choice of clothes—but still.” He cringes. “I can’t believe you were privy to that.”

I shrug. More than willing to let it go. It’s ancient history as far as I’m concerned.

“I mean, after all that, you were still willing to hang around me, still willing to drive me to school every day, still willing to be my friend—” He lifts his shoulders and sighs.

“Never mind that.” I smile hopefully. “All I want to know is: Are you still willing to be mine?”

He nods. Nods and moves toward me, hands splayed out on the counter when he says, “In case you’re wondering, it was actually Haven who first told me.”

I sigh, having figured as much.

“Well, no, backtrack, because she only kind of told me.” He stops, points at a ring just under the glass that I promptly hand to him to try on. “Basically, she called me over to her house—” He pauses, brows merged as he lifts his hand to admire the ring before slipping it off and pointing to another. “You know she moved out, right?”

I shake my head. I didn’t actually know that, but again, I guess I should’ve assumed.

“She’s living at Roman’s now. Not sure how long that’ll last, but she’s talking about getting herself legally emancipated so I guess she’s pretty serious about it. Anyway, long story short, she basically invited me over, poured me a big goblet full of elixir, and tried to make me take a swig without telling me what it was.”

I shake my head. I can’t believe how irresponsible that is. Well, coming from Haven I can believe it, but still, that is not good.

“And when I waved it away, she got all dramatic and looked at me and said—” He clears his throat, preparing for just the right raspy-voiced Haven inflection, and completely nailing it when he says, “‘Miles, if someone were to offer you eternal beauty, eternal strength, amazing physical and mental powers…would you accept?’” He rolls his eyes. “And then she looked at me, that blue sapphire she’s somehow embedded into her forehead practically blinding me, and totally gaping in outrage when I said, ‘Uh, no thanks.’”

I smile, trying to imagine the scene for myself.

“So then, of course, she assumed I didn’t quite understand just what she was getting at, and she tried to explain it again, with more detail this time. But I still said no. So then she started to get really upset and told me pretty much everything that Damen did—about the elixir, about how he turned you, about how you turned her. And then she threw in some stuff that Damen didn’t tell me, about how you ended up killing both Drina and Roman—”

“I didn’t kill—” Roman. I start to say that I didn’t kill Roman. That Jude is responsible for that. But just as quickly I wave it away. Miles already knows more than he should. It’s not my place to add any more.

“Anyway”—he shrugs as though he’s speaking about purely normal and rational things—“then, when she tried to get me to drink again, I again said no. And then when she started to get mad, and I mean really worked up, like a two-year-old having a meltdown kind of mad, I said: ‘Uh, hel-lo, here’s the thing: If this stuff really worked, then Drina and Roman would still be here, right? And since they’re not, well, I guess that means they weren’t really all that immortal after all, were they?’” He stops and looks at me, his gaze boring into mine. “So then she said that as soon as she’s done away with you, that little issue will be fixed for good. That I just need to trust her, that her elixir is way better than yours and all I needed to do was take a couple sips and eternal health, eternal well-being, eternal beauty, and eternal life would be mine, for, well, eternity.”

I swallow hard, my gaze fixed on his aura, now beaming a bright shade of yellow. The only assurance I have that he didn’t take the bait—or at least not yet anyway.

“And, I gotta tell ya, she was so convincing in her sales pitch, I told her I’d have to think it over.” He shrugs. “Told her I’d do a little research of my own and get back to her in a week or so.”

I balk, so many words rushing forth at once I have no idea where to start.

But he just bursts into a deep, belly-clutching laugh, shaking his head as he looks at me. “Relax. I’m totally joking. I mean, jeez, what do you take me for—some kind of vain, superficial idiot?” He rolls his eyes, then catches himself when he adds, “Sorry, I meant no offense. But the point is, I told her no. A flat-out, unequivocal no. And she told me that the offer still stands, that if I change my mind at any time, the fountain of youth will be mine.”

I gaze at him, seeing him in a whole new light. Amazed that he would actually turn down an offer like that. I mean, Jude always claims he wouldn’t choose immortality, but then he’s never actually been offered a drink, so who’s to say what he’d choose if it really came down to it? And Ava, well, Ava came really, really close to making the leap, but in the end, she dumped it out. But still, I can’t think of many other people besides Miles and Ava who would turn down an offer like that.

He looks at me, brow raised in mock offense when he says, “What? Why are you so surprised? Is it because you figured someone like me—someone who’s both gay and an actor would surely just jump at the chance?” He narrows his gaze and shakes his head. “That’s stereotyping, Ever. You should be ashamed of yourself for even thinking it.” He shoots me a look of absolute scorn that leaves me feeling so bad I rush to defend myself. But before I can start, he’s waved it away. Smiling triumphantly when he says, “Ha! And that is what you call acting!” He laughs, his whole face lighting up, eyes shining with glee. “Or at least that very last part was acting—the part about the stereotyping. Everything else was totally true. See how much my craft is improving?”

He rakes his fingers through his hair, secures his elbows on the counter, and leans toward me. “Here’s the thing—the only thing I want in the world, the only dream that I have, is to be an actor.” His gaze bores into mine. “A real, dedicated-to-the-craft thespian. That’s my only goal. My soul’s ambition. I have no interest in being some big, phony, glossed-up movie star. A walking People magazine cover. I’m not in it for the parties, or scandals, or multiple rehab stints—I’m in it for the art. I want to bring stories to life, to fully embody a variety of characters. I can’t tell you what it feels like to lose myself in a role, it’s…it’s amazing. And it’s something I want to experience again and again. But I want to play all kinds of roles—not just the young and beautiful ones. And in order to learn and grow and better myself, I need to experience life. I need to experience it fully, in all its stages—youth, middle age, old age—I want it all. You can’t possibly act life if you don’t allow yourself to experience it.” He pauses for a moment, allowing his eyes to search my face. “That fear of death you’ve managed to do away with? I want it. Heck, I need it. It’s one of the most basic, primal, driving forces we have—so why would I even consider ridding myself of that? The experiences I allow myself to have will only feed my craft in the end—but only if I remain mortal. Not if I purposely turn myself into some frozen-in-time, ultra-glamorous himbo who never ever changes, no matter how many centuries pass.”

My gaze meets his and I don’t know whether to be relieved or offended, but in the big scheme of things, I settle on relieved.

“Sorry.” He shrugs. “Seriously, no offense. I’m just trying to explain my side of things. Not to mention the fact that I happen to like eating. In fact, I like it so much that I can’t even imagine going on a permanent liquid diet. Also, I like seeing the changes each passing year makes, the impressions they leave behind. And, believe it or not, I don’t want my scars to disappear either. I like them. They’re part of me—part of my history. And someday, if I’m lucky enough to live to be an old man—one who’ll probably be impotent, senile, fat, and bald, while you all stay exactly the same—well, then I’ll be content with my memories. I mean, providing they’re not all lost due to Alzheimer’s or something. But seriously, before you go defending yourself—” He lifts his hand from the counter and flashes his palm, sensing I’m about to butt in. “Before you go telling me how Damen’s racked up enough memories for us all and how he’s perfectly well-rounded and happy, here’s the real point I’m trying to make: What I want, more than anything, is to reach the end of my life with a solid before-and-after picture to reflect back on. To show I did the absolute best that I could with what I was given and that my life was well-lived.”

I stare at him, trying to find my voice, mumble some kind of reply, but I can’t. My throat’s gone hot and tight, closed up completely. And before I can stop it, before I can switch my gaze to something other than him—the tears begin.

Falling freely down my face and gaining in intensity to the point where I can no longer stop it, can no longer curb the sobbing, the shoulder shaking, and the deep pit of despair that makes my gut curl.

Aware of Miles hurrying around the counter and gathering me into his arms, smoothing my hair and doing his best to calm me, as he whispers sweet things into my ear.

But I know better.

I know the sentiments aren’t at all true.

It really won’t be okay.

At least not in the way that he claims.

I may have eternal youth and beauty—I may have the gift of living forever—but I’ll never again have the kind of wonderful, lovely normalness that Miles just described.