Night Star

thirty-six

As soon as my foot hits the stoop, I start running. Not wanting to waste the time it’ll take to go into the garage and get my car and start it up and back out of the drive and all the other steps in the whole “normal” routine I work so hard to keep up if for no other reason than to appease Sabine (even though pretty much all of my actions so far have done just about anything but appease her), but also not wanting to manifest anything while she’s still watching from the window. Knowing that’ll only result in a whole new slew of questions—questions I have no intention of answering.

Her gaze follows me. I can feel the weight of it wrapping all around me in a horrible mix of anger, worry, and fear.

Thoughts are things. Made of a very tangible form of energy. And hers are shooting straight to the heart of me.

But despite feeling terrible about everything that just happened, it’s not like I can take the time to stop and worry about it now, there’ll be plenty of time for that later. I’ll no doubt have my work cut out for me trying to find a way to make it up to her, but for now, my only concern is finding Haven.

I turn off my driveway and onto my street, thinking I’m finally home free, only to be confronted with the sight of Munoz slowing his Prius as he heads right toward me.

Great, I mumble, watching as he lowers his window and calls out my name, his face clouded with a look of genuine concern when he asks, “Everything okay?”

I stop, stealing a second to look at him and say, “Actually, no. Pretty much nothing’s okay. In fact, not even close.”

He scrunches his brow and glances between the house and me. “Can I help?”

I shake my head, starting to take off again, but then I think better, so I turn to him and say, “Yeah, please tell Sabine that I’m sorry. That I’m really and truly sorry for everything…for all the trouble I’ve caused, for hurting her in the way that I have. She probably won’t believe it, probably won’t accept it, and I can’t say I blame her, but, well, anyway…” I shrug, feeling more than a little foolish for having shared all of that, but it’s not like that stops me. “Oh, and failing that, you can always greet her with these…” I close my eyes and manifest a large bouquet of bright yellow daffodils, knowing I shouldn’t have done it, knowing it’ll only spawn a whole new slew of questions I have no time to answer, but still thrusting them upon him when I add, “They’re her favorite—just don’t tell her how you got ’em, okay?”

And before he can reply, before I can take in the full impact of the shock on his face, I’m off.

Having wasted more time than I can afford, I take one more second to manifest a black BMW for myself, just like the one Damen drives. Aware of Munoz’s bewilderment, his outright astonishment, as he continues to watch me from his rearview mirror. Seeing his jaw dropped down to his knees in a bug-eyed, did I really just see what I think I did kind of stare when I speed out of sight.

Making my way toward Coast Highway, figuring I’ll find a way to deal with him later, as I accelerate along the series of curves and try to determine where Haven might’ve gone.

My gut sinking the second the answer appears in my mind.

The shirt.

Now that she got what she wanted—thanks to Sabine’s interfering—she has no plans to make good on her end of the deal. She hates me so much, she’d much rather destroy the one thing I want, the one thing I didn’t just ask for but insisted upon in return for the juice, even though it clearly holds great sentimental value for her.

Even though I’m pretty dang sure she has no idea of the promise it holds for me.

But that’s hardly the point. As far as Haven’s concerned, the fact that I want it, the fact that I was willing to bargain for it, is reason enough to destroy it.

I could tell by the way she looked at me. She may have been shaky, more than a little unsteady, but she’d had just enough elixir to allow her to think and act somewhat logically.

So when I offered to provide her with a nice supply of juice if she gave me something in return, she just shrugged and said, “Fine. Whatever. Just go ahead and spill it already. What’s this big thing you so desperately need?”

“I want the shirt,” I’d said, moving until I was standing right before her, seeing her squint in reply as I added, “the one Roman wore on his very last night. The one you snatched right out of my hand before you threatened me and told me to leave.”

Her gaze narrowed, and the way she looked at me, well, it was clear she still had it. But it was also clear she had no idea why I’d want it, what the significance could possibly be. And I can only hope it stays that way, at least until I can get the shirt safely within my possession.

“You mean, the shirt he was wearing on the night when you killed him?” she’d said, brow quirking crazily.

“No.” I shook my head, keeping my voice steady and sure, my gaze focused on hers. “I mean the shirt he wore on the night he so tragically died an accidental death at Jude’s hands.” My gaze holding, making sure I had her full attention, when I added, “You hand over that white linen shirt he was wearing, and I mean that very same one, because trust me, Haven, I will know if you try to swap it for a fake, but anyway, you give me that and in exchange I’ll give you all the elixir you need.”

She glanced between the box of elixir I’d just filled—the box I referred to as a good-faith down payment, since it was all that I had on hand—and me. Wanting so badly to deny me, but so completely overcome by her own de pen den cy, her own raging need, in the end, she was unable to do anything but reluctantly agree.

Finally nodding her consent when she said, “Fine. Deal. Whatever. Let’s just get this over with, okay?”

And that’s when we headed downstairs. Haven carrying a fresh new bottle she was well on her way to draining, and me lugging the box for safekeeping, determined to keep it from her until the exchange was complete.

But then Sabine came home and wrecked everything.

I sigh, switching my focus back to the present, just about to stop by her old house, the one where her parents and little brother still live, wondering if she might’ve stashed it there for some reason, primarily because it seems like the last place anyone would look, when I have this overwhelming urge to head somewhere else instead.

Not knowing if it’s a message of some sort, a sign of some kind, or maybe even just some crazy powerful intuition, I follow it anyway. Every time I ignore one of my stronger instincts I live to regret it, so this time I pull a quick U-turn and follow its lead.

Disappointed when I find myself at a place I’ve already checked. That Miles and I already checked, but still going ahead with it anyway. I approach the door, thinking how even though she claims it’s hers, having lived here for months now, I can’t help but think of it as Roman’s, as a flood of memories come rushing back.

Remembering all the times I came here before—the times I knocked down the door, the times I fought with him, nearly succumbed to him, the time I watched Jude kill him—then pushing the thoughts aside as I make my way around a confusing maze of furniture. Stuff that up until recently lived in the store, and now that it’s been moved here, allows for only the slimmest path down the hall and into a den that’s also so jam-packed it requires a moment to take it all in.

My gaze roaming among the antique armoires, the silk and velvet settees, the shiny Lucite coffee table that looks like a reject from the eighties, and over to the huge stack of oil paintings in ornate gold frames, all piled up against each other, leaning against the far wall, while various items of clothing, from all different time periods stretching back hundreds of years, are strewn over practically every available surface, including the bar where Roman kept the crystal goblets he filled with elixir, as well as the couch where I, ruled by the dark flame within me, tried to shamelessly seduce him while wearing a façade that made me appear to be Drina. The same couch where everything changed the night I made Haven drink Roman’s special brew.

My gaze traveling past all of that and all the way over to the blazing, stone hearth, where Jude cowers. Looking scared, shocked, defeated, and confused, while Haven stands before him, clutching the stained white linen shirt in one hand and Jude’s arm in the other. Having made the transformation back to a slightly healed version of herself, or at least where her teeth are concerned, though she’s still a long way from the old Haven, still completely ruled by her own overwhelming addictions and anger.

“Well, well,” she says, turning to me, her eyes red and squinty. “Did you actually think you could trick me?”

I shake my head. I’m as confused as she is as to what’s really going on here.

My gaze darting between them, seeing the way Jude cowers, caught in her grip, clearly horrified at having been caught doing—well, doing what I’m not sure. I can’t quite make sense of what I’m looking at or what his goal could’ve possibly been.

Has he figured out the truth behind the shirt—the promise it holds—and he’s trying to obtain it as a sort of peace offering for Damen and me?

Or, even worse, and far more likely, is he here to steal it, destroy it, having only pretended to be friendly with Damen, to forgive him for the past, when really he’s been planning for this moment all along, refusing to give up on his final revenge?

And before I can do anything to stop it, she’s on him. Fueled by the juice that rages within her, the juice that I gave her, she lets go of his arm only to catch him by the throat. Lifting him high into the air as his feet kick and dangle beneath him, shaking the shirt before her, shaking it at me when she says, “What the fug is going on here?”

“I don’t know,” I say, careful to keep my voice low, steady, slowly approaching her with my hands held where she can see them. “Really. I have no idea what he’s doing. Perhaps you should ask him?”

She glances at Jude, sees the way his eyes bulge, the way his face grows swollen and red, and she drops him just as quickly, her grip switching to his arm to keep him from bolting, as he sputters and coughs and fights to catch his breath.

“You two plan this?” She glares at me.

“No.” I glance between her and Jude, wondering why he always has to show up at all the wrong times.

Why he always wrecks everything.

Knowing one thing for sure—it’s not a coincidence. There’s no such thing. The universe is far too harmonious for such randomness as that.

So what then? Why is it that every time I’m so close to getting exactly what I want, Jude shows up at just the right moment to thwart all my plans?

There’s got to be something more to it—some sort of reason or meaningful explanation behind it—but what that reason or explanation could be, is completely beyond me.

Haven holds up the shirt, scrutinizing it, inspecting it, trying to determine why I’d want it, why Jude would risk so much to get it, what possible significance it might hold for anyone other than her.

Then she switches her gaze between us, noting how he gazes at the stain, noting how I watch him gazing at the stain—and that’s when she knows.

That’s when the lightbulb goes on and it all comes together.

That’s when she loses herself in peals of shoulder-shaking laughter.

Laughing so hard she can barely contain herself. Bending forward, one hand on her knee, she heaves and coughs in a series of thigh-slapping spasms, until she finally gets hold of herself, rights herself, and says, “I totally get it now.” She dangles the shirt from the tips of her fingers as a hideous grin spreads across her cheeks. “I do, I do indeed. But, unfortunately for you”—she points at me—“or, maybe, even possibly you—” She jerks her head toward Jude. “It seems like Ever here has a very big decision to make.”