Night Star

thirty-nine

“You had to do it.” Damen looks at me, mouth grim, brow creased with concern. “You did the right thing, you had no choice.”

“Oh, there’s always a choice.” I sigh, meeting his gaze. “But the only thing I feel badly about is who she became, the way she chose to handle her power, her immortality. I don’t feel badly about the choice that I made. I know I did the right thing.”

I drop my head on Damen’s shoulder and allow his arm to slip around me. Thinking how even though I know I made the only real choice that I could under the circumstances, that doesn’t make it any easier. Though I choose not to voice that, not wanting to worry Damen any further.

“You know, one of my acting coaches used to say that you can tell a lot about a person from how they handle times of great stress.” Miles glances between us, his neck still roughed up and red, his voice hoarse and scratchy, but thankfully, he’s well on the mend. “He said true character is revealed by the way people react to the bigger challenges in life. And while I definitely agree with that, I also think the same can be said of how people handle power. I mean, I hate to say it, but I’m really not all that surprised by the way Haven reacted. I think we all know she had it in her. We went all the way back to elementary school, and as far as I can remember, she always had this really dark side. She was always driven by her jealousies and insecurities, and, I guess what I’m trying to say is, you didn’t make her that way, Ever.” He looks at me, his bloodshot eyes and pale face bearing his distress at losing his friend—at almost being killed by his friend—but still desperate for me to believe it. “She just was who she was. And once she realized her power, once she started thinking she was invincible, well, she just became even more of who she was.”

I look at Miles, silently nodding my thanks.

Then I sneak a quick peek at Jude, who’s off in the corner searching through the large stack of oil paintings propped up against the wall, determined to keep quiet, keep to himself, feeling responsible for everything that just happened, and mentally kicking himself for yet again messing with my plans in a pretty big way.

And yet, even though I wish he hadn’t done what he did, even though it definitely resulted in disaster on a colossal scale, I also know he didn’t do it on purpose. Despite his tendency to interfere in my life, always managing to come between me and the one thing I want most in this world, it’s not like he’s trying to get in the way. It’s not like it’s the least bit intentional. In fact, it almost seems as though he’s driven to do it.

As though he’s being guided by some higher force—even though I’m not even sure what that means.

“So, anyway, what should we do with all of the rest of it?” Miles asks, having already helped Damen and me collect Roman’s journals, or at least all the ones we could find.

The last thing we need is for someone else to stumble upon them, and read the firsthand account of one very flamboyant person’s very flamboyant (and flamboyantly long!) flamboyant life—even if they probably would just assume it was a work of over-the-top fiction.

“We box it up and give it to charity, I guess,” Damen says, smoothing his hand over my back as he gazes around a house that’s completely jammed with all manner of antiques from all different periods. Basically everything that was once kept in storage or at the store has been moved here. Though it’s anyone’s guess what Haven planned to do with it. “Or we have an estate sale and donate the money to charity.” He shrugs, seeming a little overwhelmed by the task.

Unlike Roman, Damen was never a hoarder. He managed to exist for centuries with only the items he needed at the time, while saving only those that truly meant something to him. But then, Damen knows how to manifest. He knows just how plentiful the universe really is. While Roman never mastered that gift, probably didn’t even know it was possible, and instead became greedy, believing there was never enough, and that if he didn’t snatch something up, then someone else would, so he’d better get to it first. And the only time he was ever willing to release or let go of anything was when it resulted in great profit for him.

“Then again, if you see anything you really want, feel free to take it,” he adds. “Otherwise, I see no reason to keep it, I have no interest in any of it.”

“You sure about that?” Jude asks, speaking up for the first time since it all happened. Since I killed my former best friend and sent her straight to the Shadowland. “No interest in anything? Not even this?”

I turn, we all turn, only to find Jude standing before us, spliced brow raised, dimples on full display, as he holds up a canvas revealing a glorious, vibrant oil painting of a beautiful titian-haired girl twirling in a never-ending field of red tulips.

I gasp. Swallowing a huge mouthful of air, instantly recognizing the girl as me—the me of my Amsterdam life—but unsure who the artist could be.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Jude gazes between us, though his eyes land on me. “In case you’re wondering, it’s signed by Damen.” He motions toward the hand-scrawled scribble in the lower right corner. Shaking his head as he adds, “I was good in my former life, no doubt about that. From what I’ve seen in Summerland, Bastiaan de Kool certainly had his share of talent—he lived a pretty good life too.” He smiles. “But still, as hard as I tried, I could never quite capture you in the way Damen did.” He shrugs. “I just couldn’t seem to master that—technique.”

He hands me the painting as my eyes continue to graze over it. Seeing how it’s all there—me, the tulips, and even though Damen’s not pictured, I can still feel his presence.

Can see the love he held for me in every last brushstroke.

“I wouldn’t be so quick to just box it all up without taking a really good look at least,” Jude says. “Who knows what other treasures can be found here?”

“You mean, like this?” Miles slips into the black silk smoking jacket Roman wore on the night of my seventeenth birthday—the night that came so close to going so tragically wrong—until I finally found the courage, the strength in my heart, to push him right off me. “Should I keep it?” he asks, tying the sash tightly around his waist and striking a series of fashion-model–type poses. “I mean, if I’m ever asked to audition for a role as Hugh Hefner, I’ll have the perfect thing to wear!”

And I start to say no.

Start to ask him to please just take it off and put it away.

Start to explain how it holds far too many bad memories for me.

But then I remember what Damen once said about memories—that they’re haunting things.

And because I refuse to be haunted by mine—I just take a deep breath and smile when I say, “You know, I think it looks really good on you. You should definitely keep it.”