Blue Moon (23 page)

And then deteriorate.

And then—ultimately—
die,
like I saw on that screen.

And that's exactly why I need to switch out these drinks. I need to get him back on the good juice so he can start building up his strength and hopefully repair some of the damage that's already been done. While I try to figure out an antidote that'll hopefully save him and return him to the way he once was.

And if his messy house, remodeled room, and well-stocked fridge are any indication, Damen's progressing much more quickly than I assumed.

“I don't even see these bottles you're talking about,” Ava says,
peering over my shoulder and squinting into the refrigerator light. “Are you sure this is where he keeps them?”

“Trust me, they're there.” I rummage through the world's largest condiment collection, before spotting the elixir. Sliding my fingers around the necks of several bottles, which I then hand to Ava. “Just as I thought.” I nod, finally making some headway.

Ava looks at me, her brow raised as she says, “Don't you think it's weird he's still drinking it? Because if it really is poisoned, don't you think the flavor must've changed?”

And just like
that,
I begin to doubt.

I mean, what if I'm wrong?

What if this isn't it at all?

What if Damen just grew tired of me, if
everyone
just grew tired of me, and Roman has nothing to do with it?

I grab a bottle and bring it to my lips, stopping only when Ava cries, “You're not going to drink that, are you?”

But I just shrug and take a sip, figuring there's only one way to know for sure if it's poisoned, and hoping one tiny taste won't do any harm. Knowing the second I taste it why Damen didn't notice a difference—because there isn't one. At least not until the aftertaste makes itself known.

“Water!” I gasp, rushing toward the sink and sticking my head under the faucet, gulping all the tap water I can until that awful taste is diluted.

“That bad?”

I nod, wiping my mouth with my sleeve. “Worse. But if you've ever seen Damen drink it, you'd know why he didn't notice. He gulps that stuff like—” I start to say
like a dying man,
but it hits too close to home. So I swallow hard and say, “Like someone who's very thirsty.”

Then I hand Ava the remaining bottles so she can set them beside the sink, positioning the poisoned ones along the edge, after
pushing all the dirty dishes aside to make room. Both of us working in such smooth seamless tandem I've barely given the last bottle to her, when I'm already bending down to retrieve the “safe” bottles from my bag. Knowing they're safe since Damen last supplied me a few weeks ago, long before Roman appeared. Intending to place them right where the others once were, so Damen will never suspect I was here.

“So what should I do with these old ones?” Ava asks. “Throw them out? Or save them for evidence?”

And just as I look up to answer, Damen walks through the side door and says, “What the hell are you doing in my kitchen?”

 

I freeze.
Two bottles of untainted brew dangling halfway between the fridge and me. Realizing I'd been so preoccupied with thinking
about
Damen that I forgot to tune in and sense if he was anywhere near.

Ava gapes, her face displaying the same wide-eyed, openmouthed mask of sheer panic I'm trying to hide. Then I look at Damen and clear my throat before saying, “It's not what you think!”

Which is pretty much the lamest, most ridiculous thing I could've said since it's
exactly
what he thinks. Ava and I broke into his house so we could tamper with his food supply. Pure and simple.

He drops his bag and moves toward me, his eyes focused on mine. “You have no idea what I'm thinking.”

Oh, but I do.
Wincing at the horrible thoughts scrolling through his head, his mental accusation of:
Stalker! Freak!
And things far worse than that.

“And how the hell did you even get in here?” he asks, glancing between us.

“Um, Sheila let me in,” I say, not quite sure what to do with the bottle I still hold in my hand.

A vein throbs in his temple as he shakes his head and clenches
his fists, and I realize I've never seen him this angry before, didn't even know he was capable of it, and feel pretty cruddy to know I inspired it.

“I'll deal with Sheila,” he says, his temper barely in check. “What I meant was, what are you doing in
here
? In my
house
? Messing around in my fridge—” His eyes narrow. “What the hell do you think you're up to?”

I glance at Ava, embarrassed to have her witness my one true love talking to me in this way.

“And what's up with her?” He points at Ava. “You bring your party psychic along to cast some kind of spell?”

“You remember that?” I lower the bottle to my side. I'd been wondering what he might've retained from our past, and even though it's dumb, the fact that he remembers meeting Ava fills me with hope. “You remember Halloween night?” I whisper, recalling the first time we kissed, out by the pool, both of us dressed in perfectly matching costumes of Marie Antoinette and her lover, Count Fersen, without having planned it.

“Yeah, I remember.” He shakes his head. “And I hate to break it to you, but it was a moment of weakness that'll
never
happen again. One you took far too seriously. And believe me, if I'd known what a freak you'd turn out to be, I wouldn't have bothered. It wasn't worth it.”

I swallow hard and blink back the tears. Feeling empty, hollowed out, my insides excavated and tossed aside, as any chance of reclaiming our love—the only thing that makes this particular life worth living—slips out of reach. And even though I remind myself that those are Roman's words not his—that the real Damen isn't capable of treating
anyone
like this—it doesn't make it hurt any less.

“Damen,
please,
” I finally manage. “I know it looks bad. Really, I do. But I can explain. You see, we're only trying to
help
you.”

He looks at me, his gaze so derisive it fills me with shame. But I force myself to continue, knowing I at least have to try. “
Someone
is trying to poison you.” I swallow, meeting his eyes. “Someone you know.”

He shakes his head, not buying a word of it. Convinced that I'm stark raving mental and should be locked up immediately.

“And this
person
responsible for poisoning me, this
person
I happen to know, would that, by any chance, be
you
?” He takes another step toward me. “Because
you're
the one breaking into my home.
You're
the one getting all up in my fridge and messing with my drinks. I think the evidence speaks for itself.”

I shake my head, talking past the searing heat in my throat when I say, “I know how it looks, but you've
got
to believe me! It's all true, I'm not making it up!”

He takes another step closer, advancing on me in a way so intentional, so slow and deliberate, it's like he's stalking his prey. So I decide to just go for it, to let it all out. I mean, I've got nothing to lose anyway.

“It's Roman, okay?” I suck in my breath, watching his expression change from accusatory to outraged. “Your new friend Roman is—” I glance at Ava, knowing I can't say what Roman
actually
is—an immortal rogue set on killing Damen for some reason I've yet to determine. But it's not like it matters anyway. Damen has no memory of Drina or being immortal, he's so far gone he'd never understand.

“Get out,” he says, the look in his eyes so cold it chills me more than the air flowing from his fridge.

“Get the hell out before I call the police.”

I peer at Ava, seeing her pour the tampered contents down the drain the second he makes the threat. Then I gaze at Damen, grasping his phone, his index finger already pressing the nine, followed by the one, and then—

I have to stop him. There's no way I can allow him to complete
that call. No way I can risk getting the police involved. So I stare into his eyes, even though he refuses to look at me. I just focus all of my energy on him, my thoughts reaching out to him, attempting to meld and influence. Showering him with the most compassionate loving white light along with a bouquet of telepathic red tulips. All the while whispering, “No need for trouble.” I slowly back away. “You don't need to call anyone, we're leaving right now.” Holding my breath as he stares at the phone, not understanding why he can't seem to press the last
one
.

He lifts his gaze, and for the briefest moment, just a flicker really, the old Damen's returned. Looking at me in the way that he used to—sending a delicious warm tingle all over my skin. And even though it's gone just as soon as it appeared—I'll happily settle for whatever I get.

He tosses his phone onto the counter and shakes his head. And knowing we'd better move fast before my influence ends, I grab my bag and head for the door. Turning just as he empties his cupboards and fridge of every last bottle of juice. Removing their caps and pouring their contents right down the drain, convinced they're not safe for consumption, now that I've tampered with them.

 

“What will happen now that he no longer has the drink?
Will he get better or worse?”

That's the question Ava asked as soon as we got in my car. And the truth is, I had no idea how to answer. I still don't. So I didn't say anything. I just shrugged.

“I'm so sorry,” she said, clasping her hands in her lap, looking at me in a way that proved her sincerity. “I feel responsible.”

But I just shook my head. Because even though it
was
kind of her fault for wasting so much time when she insisted on touring his house, I'm the one who came up with the brilliant idea of breaking in. I'm the one who got so caught up in the task at hand I forgot to keep my eye on the door. So if anyone's to blame, I am.

But even worse than getting caught is knowing that in Damen's eyes, I've gone from being some weird freaky stalker chick, to a pathetic, delusional loser. Fully convinced I tried to spike his red brew with some crazy, black magic, voodoo concoction in hopes that he'd like me again.

Because that's exactly what Stacia convinced him of just after he relayed the story.

And that's exactly what he's chosen to believe.

In fact, it's what the whole school believes. Including a few of my teachers.

Which makes going to school an even more miserable experience than it was before. Because now, not only must I suffer through endless taunts of
Spaz! Loo-ser!
and
Witch!
but I've also been asked to stay after class by not one but now two of my teachers.

Though I can't say Mr. Robins's request came as much of a surprise. I mean, since we'd already had a little talk about my supposed inability to move on and build a life for myself post-Damen, I can't say I was all that shocked when he kept me after class in order to discuss the
incident
.

What did surprise me was the way I reacted. How quickly I resorted to doing the one thing I thought I'd never do—I lawyered up.

“Excuse me,” I said, cutting him off before he could finish. Not interested in any well-meaning though ultimately boundary-crossing “relationship advice” my newly divorced, semi-alcoholic English teacher was prepared to dish out. “But the last time I checked this was all just a
rumor.
An
alleged
event with no evidence to support it.” I looked at him, meeting his eyes despite the fact I'd just lied. I mean, while Ava and I were pretty much caught red-handed, it's not like Damen took a picture. It's not like there's yet another video of me making the YouTube circuit. “So unless I'm officially charged and tried—” I paused to clear my throat, partly for dramatic effect and partly because I couldn't believe what I was about to say next. “I shall remain innocent until proven guilty.” He balked, preparing to speak, but I wasn't finished. “So unless you need to discuss my behavior in this class, which you and I both know is exemplary, or my grades, which happen to be more than exemplary, unless you're interested in discussing either one of those things—I'm thinking we're pretty much done here.”

Fortunately, Mr. Munoz is a little easier. Though that's probably because I'm the one who approaches
him
. Thinking my Renaissance-obsessed history teacher is just the man to help me track down the name of a particular herb I need to make the elixir.

Last night, when I tried to research it on Google, I realized I had no idea what to put in the search box. And with Sabine still watching me like a hawk even though I eat and drink and act as normal as I can, slipping off to Summerland, even for a few minutes, was out of the question.

Which makes Mr. Munoz my last hope—or at least my most immediate hope. Because yesterday, when Damen tossed all of those bottles down the drain, there went half of my already meager supply. Which means I need to make more. Lots more. Not only to keep up my strength between now and the time when I leave, but I also need plenty left over for Damen's recovery.

And since he never got around to giving me the recipe, all I have to go on is what I saw on that crystal when I watched his father prepare the brew, naming all of the ingredients out loud, before stopping to whisper the very last one in his son's ear, speaking so softly there was no way I could hear.

But Mr. Munoz turns out to be no help at all. And after futzing around with a bunch of old books and coming up with zilch, he looks at me and says, “Ever, I'm afraid I can't find the answer to this, but since you're already here—”