Night Star

thirty-eight

She looks at me, clearly unable to believe what she just heard.

So I repeat it, leaving no room for doubt when I say, “Seriously. I’m not choosing. I’m not playing this game. So it looks like you’re gonna have to come up with something else—and hopefully it’ll be something a little more original, a little more unique. Take your time, though.” I lift my shoulders in a way that’s deliberately calm and cool. “I’m in no hurry. Though you might want to lighten up on poor Jude, unless, of course, you’ve decided to kill him after all, in which case, feel free to grip even tighter and finish the job. Either way, I’ll be right here. I’m not going anywhere ’til I get what I came for.”

She looks at me, hands beginning to shake from the effort, rage taking over again. Her scathing, hate-filled gaze moving over me as she says, “So help me, Ever, I will burn this shirt and kill Jude, and there’s nothing you can do to stop it.”

“No you won’t.” My voice remains firm as my gaze holds steady on hers. Noticing how she’s loosened her grasp just the tiniest bit, though doing my best not to let on that I saw, for fear that she’ll only tighten up and cause him great pain yet again. “I know of at least two very good reasons why you won’t even try.”

She looks at me, her entire body growing increasingly shaky as she quickly loses whatever grip she’d managed to hang onto until now.

“One, because it’s been a little too long since your last drink, and you’re already starting to suffer withdrawal.” I shake my head and cluck my tongue against the inside of my cheek, wearing an expression of disapproving pity. “Just look at yourself, Haven, you’re a hollow-eyed, sunken-faced, shivering wreck. It took years—centuries probably—for Roman to build up the kind of tolerance to drink as much as you have in just a few months. You can’t handle it, you’re in way over your head. Just look at yourself, will you?”

“And two?” she says, voice raspy, acid-tinged, broadcasting her extreme displeasure with me.

“And two.” I smile, eyes never once leaving hers. “You’re about to be outnumbered. Damen is here.”

I can feel his presence, feel him pulling into the drive, rushing through the front door, down the maze in the hall. Warning Miles to stay back, to not get involved or venture any further, as he storms into the den and Haven gazes upon them. Seeing Damen, standing right beside me, while Miles peers in through the doorway, having refused to listen to Damen’s warning to stay out of the way.

Narrowing her eyes when she says, “Oh, would you look at that—Damen brought his own backup. That’s so cute!”

I turn, glimpsing Miles, his aura dimming, his shoulders cringing, regretting the moment he decided to enter this room when he takes in the gruesome sight of his former best friend.

Haven glares, her eyes blazing with fury when she says, “You chose the wrong side, Miles.” She narrows her gaze even further, until all I can see are two slits of red. “I can’t believe what a traitor you turned out to be.”

Miles meets her gaze, and if he’s scared, he doesn’t show it. He just straightens his spine, squares his shoulders, and combs his fingers through his hair, his aura beaming, strengthening, when he says, “I haven’t chosen at all. I may not agree with your more recent choices, I may have chosen to distance myself a bit, but as far as I’m concerned we never stopped being friends. I mean, seriously, Haven, so far I’ve made it through your ballerina phase, your preppy phase, your goth phase, your emo phase, and now your super-scary immortal witch phase.” He shrugs casually as he takes a moment to glance around the room. “And the fact is, I’m not going anywhere. For one thing, I haven’t yet given up on you, and for another, well, I’m way too curious to see which role you’ll decide to play next.”

She rolls her eyes, voice raspier than ever when she says, “Well, I hate to break it to ya, but there is no next, Miles. Whether you like it or not, this is it. This is the new and improved, infinite version of me. I’m completely self-actualized. I’m everything I was ever meant to be.”

Miles shakes his head. “I really wish you’d rethink this or look in a mirror at least.”

But if she hears it, she chooses to ignore it and instead turns her attention back to Damen. “So, Damen Auguste Esposito.” She smiles, her face garish, eyes red and flashing, using a name that was thrust on him a very long time ago, back when his parents were murdered and he was turned over to the orphanage where he lived until the black plague ravaged the area and he spared himself by making the elixir. A name he hasn’t used for several centuries at least, and it takes me a moment to recognize it. “I know all about you. I’m not sure if Ever mentioned it or not, but Roman kept very good records, very detailed records. And you, well, let’s just say you’ve been a very, very naughty boy, now haven’t you?”

Damen shrugs, careful to keep his face still, his emotions well hidden. “I brought you more elixir. I left a big box by the door, and believe me, there’s plenty more where that came from. So why don’t you come with me and have a look, okay? You can even have a taste if you’d like.”

“Why don’t you save me the steps and bring it to me instead?” She bats her eyes, attempting to smile in the way that she used to—cute, charming, flirtatious, with a hint of adorable quirkiness. But she’s veered so far from that old version of herself, it just ends up looking creepy instead. “As you can see, I’m a little busy here. Ever and I were just working through the details of a little deal that we made, and if I’m not mistaken, the fact that she summoned you means she no longer trusts me. Which is pretty ironic if you consider that not only did she make me this way, but, from everything I saw in Roman’s journals, well, she really has no good reason to trust you either, now does she?”

“Enough with the journals,” I say, eager to move away from all this. “I know everything, Haven. There’s nothing left for you to lord over us, so why don’t you just—”

“You sure about that?” Her eyes dart between us, as though she knows something I don’t and can’t wait to reveal it. “You know about his past with Drina? How he faked his own death in a fire? About the little slave girl he stole from her family? You know about all of that?” She glances between us, including Jude, but he just meets her gaze and gives nothing away.

“She does.” Damen looks at her. “And, by the way, I didn’t steal the slave girl, I bought her in order to free her. Unfortunately, that’s how it was done back then. It was a very dark time in our history. But I don’t think you’re really all that interested in reliving that. So please, don’t waste any more of our time with this nonsense. Just let go of Jude and hand over the shirt. Now.”

“Now?” She balks, lifting her brow. “Oh no, I don’t think I’ll be doing that now or any other time, for that matter. That’s not the way this game is played. In fact, that pretty much goes against all the rules. And since you’re so late to the party, allow me to explain it to you. Basically, a choice must be made. You can either, A, choose to save Jude, or B, choose to save the shirt. So Damen, what’ll it be—a person’s life or your own self-interest? Kind of like what Roman made Ever do when she made me drink, right here in this room, well, at least according to Ever anyway. I can’t say for sure since I was so out of it. Though I do remember how the whole thing went down right there on that couch.” She jerks her head toward it. “Which, I guess, is probably why she’s refusing to play this time around. Must be a painful reminder since it’s pretty obvious how much she regrets her decision. It’s pretty obvious how she wishes she’d just let me die instead. But just because she won’t play doesn’t mean you can’t. So tell me, Damen, which one will it be? Just tell me and it’s yours and yours to keep!”

Damen looks at her, preparing to charge, to take her down and put an end to all this. I can feel it in the way his energy shifts. I can see the plan forming in his head. But I quickly warn him against it—pleading with him to stay calm and still and to not do a thing. She’s baiting him, expecting no less than an ambush, and there’s far too much at stake to play it that way.

“Haven, no one’s choosing anything,” I say. “Because no one’s playing your stupid little game. So why don’t you just let go of Jude, hand over the shirt, and try to get a grip on yourself—on your life. Believe it or not, I’m still willing to help you. I’m still willing to put all the bad stuff behind us, so you can recover. Seriously. Just—just give me the shirt and let go of Jude and—”

“Choose!” she screams, her whole body shaking so badly my gut jumps into my throat when I see how closely the shirt veers toward the flames. “Fugging choose already, sheesh!”

And even though she means it, even though her eyes blaze with rage, I just look at her and shake my head.

“Fine.” She glares. “If you two won’t choose, then I’ll choose for you. But just remember, you had your chance.”

She turns toward Jude, her lips parting as though she’s about to say something, something that might be good-bye or good luck or good riddance or—or anything of the sort.

But it’s not real.

She’s trying to throw us all off.

Make us think Jude’s not long for this world when she couldn’t care less about him.

It’s me she wants to hurt.

It’s me she wants to destroy.

And she’s determined to take all of my hopes and dreams along with it.

So I lunge.

Just as Damen lunges to save Jude, and Jude lunges to kill Haven.

Coiling his fingers into a fist, aiming right for the very center of her torso—her third chakra—her one major weak spot—just like I taught him.

Only it doesn’t connect.

Damen inadvertently catches him in midflight and knocks him off course at the very last second.

While Miles instinctively, nobly, foolishly, rushes forward to help me, only to get caught in Haven’s snare as she grips the shirt in one hand and her best childhood friend in the other.

Her fingers squeezing tightly around his neck as Miles kicks and gasps and struggles to free himself.

And one look in her eyes is all it takes to see that she means it.

To see just how dark and evil she’s become.

Everything they’ve shared means nothing to her.

She has every intention of killing him if for no other reason than to hurt me.

To force me into choosing, whether I like it or not.

Flashing me one last, horrible grin as she squeezes Miles so hard his eyes are about to burst from his head—simultaneously shrieking with delight as she drops the shirt into the blazing fire where it’s greedily met by the flames.

All of it happening so quickly, in less than a fraction of a second, though it seems to play out in slow motion before me.

Her face looming, hateful and obscene, gleaming with the victory, the absolute thrill—of getting to me.

So while Damen untangles himself from Jude, I draw back my fist, recalling the manifested version of this scene I rehearsed all those months ago, and noting how it’s nothing like the all-too-real version that plays out before me.

Mostly because I have no regrets.

No reason to apologize.

No choice but to kill her before she kills Miles.

I slam my knuckles straight into her chest, feeling it connect smack into the sweet spot.

Seeing the flash of shock in her gaze, as Damen snatches Miles from her grasp, and I leap into the flames.

My flesh scorching, burning, bubbling, peeling—the pain white hot and agonizingly searing.

Though I pay it no notice.

I just keep going, reaching, grasping, seeking.

All of my focus narrowed down to this one single thing—trying to save the shirt—even though it’s clearly too late.

Even though it’s been swallowed whole, consumed by the flames, leaving no trace that it ever existed.

Vaguely aware of the sound of Miles’s and Jude’s frantic cries coming from somewhere behind me.

Vaguely aware of Damen’s arms grasping, holding, soothing, pulling me out of the fire and smothering the raging inferno that’s consuming my clothes, my hair, my flesh.

Pulling me tightly to his chest, whispering into my ear over and over again that it’ll all be okay. That he’ll find a way. That the shirt doesn’t matter. The important thing is that Miles and Jude are safe and we still have each other.

Begging me to close my eyes, to look the other way, to avoid the hideous sight of my staggering, gasping, dying, former best friend.

But I don’t listen.

I allow my eyes to meet hers.

Taking in her snarl of hair, her blazing red gaze, her sunken cheeks, her emaciated body, her crazed expression, and her voice filled with absolute, all-consuming hatred when she screams, “This is your fault, Ever. You’re the one who made me this way! And now you’re gonna pay for this—I swear you’re gonna—”

Unable to stop looking even after she crumbles, and breaks, and swiftly slips away.