Dark Flame ti-4 Read online

  But Ava just looks at me, her voice lowered when she says, "But that's where you're wrong. Hecate's not in charge, you are. You've been in charge all along. And though I hate to say it, because I know how uncomfortable it always makes people to hear it, the monster isn't some foreign being that's found its way in you, it isn't a demonic possession or anything like that-it's you. The monster is the dark side of you."

  I tilt back in my seat and shake my head. "Great, that's just great. So you're saying my attraction to Roman is for real?

  Nice, Ava, thanks for that." I sigh, loudly, audibly, and grant her a nice, dramatic eye roll to go with it.

  "Told you it never goes over so well." She shrugs, proving she's pretty much immune to my insolent reactions by this point. "But you must admit that, superficially speaking anyway, he is stunning, quite gorgeous really-" She smiles, practically begging me to agree. But when it goes unmet, she just shrugs again and says, "But that's not what I meant. You know about the yin yang symbol, right?"

  I nod. "The outer circle represents everything, while the black and white parts represent the two energies that cause everything to happen." I shrug. "Oh, and they each contain a small seed of each other. ." I squirm in my seat, suddenly sensing where this is headed and not sure if I'm ready to tag along.

  "Exactly." She nods. "And believe me, people are no different. For example, let's say you have a girl, she's made a few mistakes"-her eyes meet mine-"and she's so down on herself, feeling so undeserving of all the love and support that's being offered, so sure she has to go it alone, make amends on her terms, her way, and ultimately becoming so obsessed with her tormentor, she ends up cutting off all those around her, so she has more time to concentrate on the one person she despises the most, channeling all of her attention on him, until, well, obviously I'm referring to you and you know how it ends. . my point is, each of us has a shadow of darkness, every single one of us, no exceptions. But when you focus so heavily on the dark side, well, we're back to the Law of Attraction again-like attracts like-hence your monstrous attraction to Roman."

  "A shadow of darkness? " I look at her, having heard something similar, just a few hours before. "You mean like-a shadow self?"

  "So now you're quoting Jung?" She laughs.

  I squint, having no idea who that is.

  "Dr. Carl Jung." She laughs. "He wrote all about the shadow self, basically saying it's the part of us that is unconscious and repressed, the parts we work hard to deny. Where'd you hear it?"

  "Roman." I close my eyes and shake my head. "He's always ten steps ahead of me, and he basically said the same thing you did, that the monster was me. It was pretty much his final taunt before I fled the scene."

  She nods, holding up her finger and closing her eyes. "Let me see if I can-" And the next thing I know she's balancing an old leather book in her hands.

  "How'd you. .?" I look at her, eyes wide, jaw dropped.

  But she just smiles. "Everything you can do in Summerland you can do here too, you know? Aren't you the one who told me that? But it wasn't instant manifestation like you think, it was merely telekinesis-I summoned it from my bookshelf in the other room."

  "Yeah, but still. ." I gape at the book, amazed by how quickly she was able to retrieve it. Amazed by how she's mastered so many things, and yet she still chooses to live like this-nice, comfortable, but still pretty simple by the usual, opulent, coastal Orange County standards. Narrowing my gaze as I look her over again, seeing how she's stuck with the chunk of raw citrine on the simple silver chain over the elaborate gold and jewels she always wore in Summerland, despite the fact that she can now have whatever she wants.

  And I can't help but wonder if she really has changed. If maybe she's not that same old Ava I once knew.

  She shifts in her seat, setting the book down before her and skipping to just the right page, her finger tracing the line as she reads, "Everyone carries a shadow, and the less it is embodied in the individual's conscious life, the blacker and denser it is. . The psychological rule says that when an inner situation is not made conscious, it happens outside as fate.

  forms an unconscious snag, thwarting our most well-meant intentions. . and so on." She snaps it shut and looks at me when she adds, "Or so says Dr. Carl G. Jung, and who are we to refute him?" She smiles. "Ever, whether or not we reach our full potential and fulfill our true destinies is up to us. It's completely of our own making. Remember what I said earlier-as within, so without? What we think about, what we concentrate on, will always, always, be reflected on the outside. So I ask you, what do you want to concentrate on?

  Who do you want to become from this point forward? How do you want your destiny to unfold? You've got a path, a purpose, and though I've no idea what that is, I've got this uncanny feeling it's something powerful and big. And though you've wandered a bit off course, if you'll let me, I can lead you back to the trail, all you have to do is say the word."

  I gaze down at my teacup, the broken pieces of cookie, knowing that everything I've done so far, every ingloriously illadvised move, has led me back here. Back to Ava's kitchen.

  The last place I ever thought I'd return to.

  Tracing my finger around and around the rim of the saucer, weighing my choices, which are admittedly few, and lifting my gaze to meet hers as I smile and say, "Word."

  twenty-nine

  Before I can knock, Damen is there. But then, he's always been there. And I mean that both literally and figuratively. He's been there the last four hundred years just as he's there now, feet bare, robe hanging open, hair tousled in an insanely appealing way, peering at me from a heavily lidded, sleepy gaze.

  "Hey," he says, his voice thick, rough, new to the day.

  "Hey yourself." I smile, moving right past him and starting for his stairs, grasping his hand in mine as I pull him along. "You really weren't kidding about always being able to sense me when I'm near, were you?"

  He tightens his fingers around mine, using the ones on his free hand to push through his glossy tangle of hair, trying to tame it, make sense of it, but I just smile and urge him to keep it that way. It's so rare I see him like that, drowsy, scruffy, a little disheveled, and I have to say, I kind of like it.

  "So what gives?" He follows me into his special room, scratching his chin as he watches me fawn over his collection of very old things.

  "Well, for starters, I'm better." I turn my back on the very serious Picasso version of him in favor of the much cuter, way sexier, real version of him. My gaze meeting his when I add, "I mean, I may not be totally and completely there yet, but I'm definitely headed in the right direction. If I stick with the program, it shouldn't take long."

  "Program?" He leans against the old velvet settee as his gaze sails over me, studying me so closely, I can't help but run my hands over my dress, quickly, self-consciously, thinking I should've at least taken the time to manifest something less rumpled, something new and cute, before rushing over like I did.

  But I was so pumped from my talk with Ava, and the series of healing and cleansing meditations she put me through, well, I couldn't wait. Couldn't wait to tell him-to be with him again.

  "Ava's got me on a sort of-cleansing fast." I laugh. "Only it's the mental kind, not the green tea and twigs kind. She says it'll make me-well-" I shrug. "Better, whole again, new and improved."

  "But-I thought you were better yesterday? Or at least that's what you told me in Summerland." He cocks his head.

  I nod, determined to focus on my earlier trip with him, and not the one that followed that horrible scene with Roman when I ran into Jude. "Yeah, but-now I feel even better-stronger-just like my old self." I look at him, knowing I have to admit this next part, it's part of the cleansing ritual-coming clean, making amends, not so different from your typical twelve-step program, but then, I wasn't so different from any other addict struggling with a horrible addiction.

  "Ava says I was addicted to negativity." I swallow hard and look at him, forcing myself to keep his gaze. "It
wasn't just the magick or Roman. According to her, I was addicted to thinking about my fears, about all the bad things in my life, like-you know, like my bad decisions, and our inability to really be together, and, well, stuff like that. And that by doing that, by focusing on all that, I actually ended up attracting-um, all kinds of darkness and sadness and-well-Roman, which resulted in me cutting off the people I love most. Like you, for instance."

  I swallow hard and move toward him, part of my brain shouting: Tell him! Tell him what really led you to this conclusion. What happened with Roman-just how dark and twisted you got!

  While the other part, the part I choose to listen to, says: You've said plenty enough already-time to move on! The last thing he wants are the disgusting details.

  He moves toward me, reaches for my hands and pulls me close to him, answering the question in my gaze when he says, "I forgive you, Ever. I'll always forgive you. I know your admitting to all this wasn't easy, but I really do appreciate it."

  I swallow hard, knowing that now is my chance, my very last chance, that it's far better he hear it from me than from Roman. But just as I'm about to, he runs his hand down my back and the thought melts away, until all I can focus on is the feel of him, the warmth of his breath on my cheek, the soft almost feel of his lips at my ear, the amazing sensation of tingle and heat that courses all the way from my head to my toes. His lips finding mine, pushing, pressing, as that everpresent shield hovers between us. But I'm done with resenting it, done with paying it any notice at all. I'm determined to celebrate things just as they are.

  "Wanna go make out in Summerland?" he whispers, only half joking. "You can be the muse and I can be the artist, and-" "And you can kiss me so much you never actually finish that painting?" I pull away and laugh, but he just pulls me back to him.

  "But-I've already painted you." He smiles. "The only painting of mine that truly matters." Then seeing my quizzical look, he adds, "You know, the one that's somewhere in the Getty as we speak?"

  "Ah yes." I laugh, remembering that magical night, when he painted a version of me so beautiful, so angelic, I was sure I didn't deserve it. But I'm done thinking like that. If what Ava says is right, if like attracts like and water really does seek its own level and all that, then I'd much rather reach for Damen's level than Roman's, and here's where I start. "It's probably in some underground lab, in some high-security, windowless basement, where hundreds of art historians are gathered for the sole purpose of studying it, trying to determine who painted it, and where it could've possibly come from."

  "You think?" He gazes into the distance, obviously enjoying the idea.

  "So," I murmur, pressing my lips to his jaw, as my fingers play at the silky collar of his robe. "When do we get to celebrate your birthday? And how will I ever possibly top the present you gave me?"

  He turns his head and sighs, the kind of sigh that comes from somewhere down deep, and I don't mean physically, but emotionally. It's a sigh filled with sadness and regret. It's the sound of melancholy.

  "Ever, you don't need to concern yourself with my birthday. I haven't celebrated a birthday of mine since-" Since his tenth. Of course! That horrible day that started off so good and ended with him being forced to watch his parents get murdered. How could I forget?

  "Damen, I'm-" I start to apologize, but he waves it away, turning his back and heading for the Velazquez painting of him astride the rearing, white stallion with the thick, curly mane. Fiddling with the corner of the oversized, ornate, gilt frame as though it desperately needs adjusting even though it's clear that it doesn't.

  "No need to apologize," he says, still unwilling to look at me.

  "Really. I guess marking the years doesn't feel quite so important after you've lived through so many of them."

  "Will it be that way for me?" I ask, having a hard time not caring about a birthday, or even worse, forgetting which day it falls on.

  "I won't let it be that way for you." He turns, face lighting up as he takes me in. "Every day will be a celebration-from here on out. I promise you that."

  But even though he's sincere, even though he means just exactly that, I still look at him and shake my head. Because the truth is, as committed as I am to clearing my energy and only focusing on the good, positive things that I want, life is still life.

  It's still tough, complicated, and more than a little messy, with lessons to be learned, mistakes to be made, triumphs and disappointments to be had, and not every day is meant to be a party. And I think I finally realize, finally accept that that's perfectly okay. I mean, from what I saw, even Summerland has its dark side, its own version of a shadow self, a small dark corner in the midst of all that light-or at least that's how it appeared to me.

  I look at him, knowing I need to tell him, wondering why I haven't mentioned it yet, when my phone rings, and we look at each other and shout, "Guess!" A game we sometimes play to see whose psychic powers are stronger, faster, and we're only allowed one second to answer.

  "Sabine!" I nod, logically assuming she woke up, found my bed empty, and is now calmly going about discovering whether I've been abducted or left of my own free will.

  But less than a fraction of a second later Damen says, "Miles." But his voice isn't at all playful, and his gaze goes dark and worried.

  I pull my phone from my bag, and sure enough, there's that photo I took of Miles in full-on Tracy Turnblad drag, striking a pose and beaming at me.

  "Hey, Miles," I say, met by an earful of buzz, hum, and static, the usual transatlantic phone call soundtrack.

  "Did I wake you?" he asks, his voice sounding small, distant. "Cuz if I did, well, be glad you're not me. My body clock's been screwed up for days. I sleep when I should be eating, and eat when I should be-Well, strike that, since it's Italy and the food is amazing, I pretty much eat all of the time.

  Seriously. I don't know how these people do it and continue to look so smokin'. It's not fair. A couple days of the old dolce vita and I'm a pudgy, bloated mess-and yet, I'm lovin' it. I'm so serious. It's amazing here! So, anyway, what time is it there?"

  I glance around the room, but not finding a clock I just shrug and say, "Um, early. You?"

  "I have no idea, but probably afternoon. I went to this amazing club last night-did you know you don't even have to be twenty-one to go to a club or drink here? I'm telling you, Ever, this is the life. These Italians really know how to live!

  Anyway, well, I'll save all that for later-for when I get back-I'll even reenact it for you and everything, I promise. But for now, the cost of this call is already giving my dad a coronary, I'm sure, so I'll just get to it and say that you need to tell Damen that I stopped by that place Roman told me about and-hello?

  Can you hear me-are you there?"

  "Um, yeah, I'm still here. You're breaking up a little, but, okay, you're good." I turn my back to Damen and move several steps away, mostly because I don't want him to witness the horrible mask of dread that's displayed on my face.

  "Okay, so anyway, I stopped by that place Roman was going on and on about, in fact, I just left a few minutes ago-and, well, I gotta tell you, Ever, there's some really freaky stuff in there. And I mean really freaky. Like, someone's got lots of explaining to do when I return."

  "Freaky-how?" I ask, feeling Damen's presence hovering right behind me now, his energy shifting from relaxed to fullscale alert.

  "Just-freaky. That's all I'm gonna say about it, but-crap-can you hear me? I'm losing you again. Listen, just-ugh-anyway, I sent some photos via e-mail, so whatever you do, do not delete it without seeing them first. Okay? Ever? Ever!

  Stupid-damn-phon-" I swallow hard and press end, feeling Damen's hand on my arm when he says, "What did he want?"

  "He sent me some photos," I say, voice low, eyes never once leaving his. "Something he really wants us to see."

  Damen nods, arranging his features into an expression of determined acceptance, as though the moment he's been waiting for has arrived, and now he's just anticipating t
he fallout, to see how I react, to see how much damage has been done.

  I click to the home page, then over to mail, watching as the little connecting swirl goes around and around until Miles's email is displayed. And then, the second it pops up, I just hold my breath and tap it-my knees going all wobbly the very moment I see it.

  The picture.

  Or rather, the picture of the painting. Photography wasn't yet invented back then, wouldn't be invented for several hundred more years. But still, there it is, flaunted before me, and there's no mistaking it's him. Them. Posing together.

  "How bad is it?" he asks, body perfectly still as his eyes graze over me. "As bad as I expected?"

  I glance at him, but only for a second before I'm focusing back on the screen, unwilling to tear my eyes away. "Depends on what you were expecting," I mumble, remembering how I felt that day in Summerland when I spied on his past. How sick, how completely green with envy I was, when it got to the part where he hooked up with Drina. But this-this isn't anything like that. In fact, not even close. Oh sure, Drina is stunning-Drina was always stunning, even at her ugliest and most vicious she was breathtaking, or at least on the outside anyway. And I'm sure no matter what decade she was in, be it the era of bustles or poodle skirts, I'm sure she was stunning then too. But the fact is, Drina's gone, so gone that the thought of her, the sight of her, doesn't really bother me anymore. In fact, it doesn't bother me at all.

  What bothers me is Damen. The way he stands, the way he gazes at the artist, and how-how arrogant and vain and, well, full of himself he is. And even though he carries a trace of that outlaw edge that I like, this isn't quite so playful as what I'm used to. It's a lot less let's-ditch-school-and-bet-at-the-track and a lot more this-is-my-world-and-you're-just-lucky-I-letyou-live-in-it.

  And the more I gaze at the two of them, Drina sitting demurely in a straight-backed chair, hands folded neatly in her lap, dress and hair adorned with so many jewels and ribbons and shiny things, it'd look ridiculous on anyone else-while Damen stands behind her, one hand resting on her chair, the other hanging by his side, his chin tilted, brow arced in that cool, haughty way-well, there's just something about him-something about that look in his gaze that's-well-almost cruel, ruthless even. Like he'd be willing to do whatever it takes, whatever the cost, to get what he wants.