Dark Flame (The Immortals #4)(42)

Except he was.

His energy lingers. I can still feel him on my skin.

And one glance at Jude is all it takes to confirm it. Seeing the way his eyes go wide, the way his lips part—the way he reaches toward me, wanting to comfort, but I pull away quickly. Sickened by what Damen must think—how we must’ve appeared to his eyes.

“You should go,” I say, my back turned toward him, my voice crisp and tight. “Just close your eyes, make the portal, and go. Please.”

“Ever—” he says, reaching for me again, but I’m already gone, moving on to some other place.





eighteen


I walk. Walk until I’ve no idea how far I’ve gone. Walk until I’m sure Damen can no longer see me. Determined to outwalk my problems but not getting very far, finally understanding that old adage on the coffee mug my eighth-grade English teacher used to have: wherever you go—there you are.

You can’t outwalk your problems. Can never run fast enough to evade them completely. This is my journey, and there’s just no escaping it.

And even though Summerland provides such sweet, glorious release—its effect is only temporary at best. No matter how long I manage to stay here, I’m pretty sure things will do a one-eighty the second I return to the earth plane.

I wander farther, trying to decide between stopping by the theater to catch an old movie, or maybe even heading over to Paris to take a nice relaxing stroll along the River Seine, or even a quick hike through the ruins of Machu Picchu, or a run through the Roman Coliseum, when I come across a smattering of cottages that brings me to a halt.

The outside is plain, modest, consisting of wood shingles, small windows, and pointy, triangular roofs—but even though there’s seemingly nothing special about any of them, there’s one in particular that beckons to me, glowing in a way that lures me down the narrow dirt path until I’m standing just outside the door. Having no idea why I’m here but still debating whether or not I should try to go in.

“Ain’t seen ’em round these parts fer weeks.”

I turn to find an old man poised at the edge of the path, dressed conservatively in white shirt, black sweater, and black pants, a few wispy gray hairs brushed sideways over his shiny bald scalp, leaning on an elaborately carved cane that seems to testify more to his love of its craftsmanship than any real physical need.

I squint, unsure what to say. I don’t even know why I’m here, much less whom he’s referring to.

“Them two girls—the dark-haired ones. Twins they were. Could barely tell ’em apart meself—though the missus had ’em down. The nice one—she liked chocolate, and lots of it.” He chuckles, smiling at the memory. “And the other one—the quiet, stubborn one—she preferred popcorn, couldn’t get enough of it. But only the stove-popped kind, none of that instant manifested stuff.” He nods, looking at me, really taking me in, not the least bit shocked by my modern dress in these parts. “The missus she indulged ’em, she did. Felt sorry for ’em, worried about ’em a good bit too, I’d say. Then, after all that, after all these years, they just up and leave with nary a word.” He shakes his head again, but this time he doesn’t laugh or smile, just gives me a bewildered look, as though hoping I can help him make sense of it.

I swallow hard, my gaze darting between the front door and him, pulse quickening, heart racing, knowing without asking, knowing deep down inside that this is where they stayed—this is where Romy and Rayne lived for the last three hundred and some-odd years.

But still needing a verbal confirmation, just to make sure, I say, “Did—did you say the twins?” My mind reeling, as I take in the plain familiar cottage, an exact replica of the one I saw in the vision the day I first found them squatting at Ava’s when I grabbed Romy’s arm and watched their entire life story unfold—all of it racing toward me in a jumble of pictures—this house—their aunt—the Salem Witch Trials she was determined to shield them from—and it all led to this.

“Romy and Rayne.” He nods, looking me over with cheeks so red, a nose so bulbous, and eyes so kind he seems almost manifested, fake, a lifelike replica of the quintessential jolly old Englishman on his way home from the pub. But since he doesn’t waver or fade in and out, since he remains right there before me with that same friendly grin on his face, I know he’s for real. Maybe living, maybe dead—can’t be too sure about that, but definitely, positively, the real deal. “Them’s the ones you’s looking for, yes?”

I nod, even though I’m not sure. Was I looking for them? Is that why I’m here? I glance at him, wincing when he gives me a look so odd I can’t help but let out a nervous giggle. Clearing my throat and attempting to pull it together when I add, “I’m just sorry to hear they’re not around, I was hoping I could catch them.”

He nods, nods as though he completely understands and sympathizes with my predicament. Leaning with both hands on his cane as he says, “The missus and me grew quite fond of ’em, seeing as we all arrived around the same time. What we can’t decide is if they finally decided to cross the bridge and be done with it, or if they’s made the trip back. What do you think?”

I press my lips together and shrug, not wanting to let on that I already know the answer to that one, and relieved when he doesn’t press further, just nods and shrugs too.