Dark Flame (The Immortals #4)(51)

I smile, my hand clasped in his as he whisks me across the field and inside that gorgeous pavilion, a building so beautiful, so exquisitely wrought, I can’t help but gasp yet again.

“What is this place?” I ask, taking in the polished white marble floors, the domed ceilings covered in the most jaw-dropping frescoes featuring luminous, pink-cheeked cherubs frolicking among other celestial beings.

He smiles, motioning me onto a creamy white couch so plush, so soft and cushy, it’s like a giant marshmallow cloud. “It’s your birthday present. And, as oddly coincidental as it may be, it’s your anniversary present as well.”

I squint, my mind running backward, pilfering through a long list of memories, and coming up empty. It’s not yet been a year since we first got together—or at least this time around anyway, so I really have no clue as to just what “anniversary” he’s referring to.

“August eighth.” He nods, seeing the confused look on my face. “August eighth, sixteen oh eight, to be exact, was the day we first met.”

“Seriously?” I gasp, it’s all I can manage, I’m so shocked by the news.

“Seriously.” He smiles, leaning back against the cloud of cushions and pulling me close. “But you don’t have to take my word for it, you know. Here, see for yourself.” He picks up a remote from the large table before us and points it toward the large circular screen that surrounds the entire far wall of the room. “In fact, you’re not limited to just seeing it, you can even experience it if you wish, it’s really up to you.”

I squint, having no idea what he’s getting at, no idea what’s happening here.

“I’ve been working on this forever and I think it’s finally ready. Think of my little invention as a sort of interactive theater. One where you can either sit back and enjoy the show or jump right in and participate—it’s your choice. But first there are a few things you must know. One, you can’t change the outcome, the script is predetermined, and two”—he leans toward me, his finger trailing over my cheek—“here in Summerland all endings are happy. Anything even the slightest bit tragic or disturbing has been carefully omitted, so no worries. You may even enjoy a surprise or two. I know I did.”

“Are they real surprises or ones manufactured by you?” I snuggle against him.

But he’s quick to shake his head. “Real. Totally and completely real. My memories, as you know, go way back, so far back that sometimes, well, they get a bit fuzzy. So I decided to do a bit of research over in the Great Halls of Learning, a sort of refresher course if you will, and as it just so happens, I was reminded of a few things I’d forgotten.”

“Such as . . . ?” I glance at him briefly, before pressing my lips to that wonderful spot where his shoulder meets his neck, instantly soothed by the almost feel of his skin and his warm musky scent.

“Such as this,” he whispers, shifting me so I’m facing the screen and not him. The two of us snuggling into each other as he squeezes a button on the remote and we watch as the screen comes to life, filling with images so large, so multidimensional, it’s as though we’re right in it.

And the moment I see that busy city square with its cobblestone streets and crowds of people all hurrying around each other much as they do today, as though they all have somewhere important to be, I know just where we are. There may be horses and carriages instead of cars, there may be overly formal attire compared to our modern, casual wear, but with the abundance of vendors loudly hawking their wares, the similarities are astonishing—I’m looking at a seventeenth-century mini-mall.

I peer at Damen, the question posed in my eyes, seeing him smile in answer as he helps me to stand. Leading me toward the screen so quickly I can’t help but stop, convinced my nose is going to smack right into it, when he leans toward me and whispers, “Believe.”

So I do.

I take that big leap of faith and keep going, right into the hard crystal screen that instantly softens and yields and welcomes us in. And not just as oddly dressed extras, but in period-appropriate attire, the two of us cast in the leading roles.

I gaze down at my hands, surprised to find them so rough and calloused though immediately recognizing them from my Parisian life, when I was Evaline, a lowly servant facing a life of mind-numbing manual labor until Damen came along.

I run them over the front of my dress, noting the itch of the fabric, the modest, severe cut resulting in a fit that’s not the least bit flattering. But still, it’s clean and well pressed, so I try to take a small bit of pride in that. And even though my blond hair is braided and twisted and scraped off my face, an unruly tendril or two still manage to find their escape.

The vendor snaps at me in French, and even though I’m aware I’m only playing a part, that this isn’t the language I speak, somehow I’m able to not just understand but also to reply. Recognizing me as one of his most discerning customers, he hands me a ripe, red tomato he claims as his best, watching as I turn it over and over in the palm of my hand, inspecting its color, its firmness of touch, nodding my consent and juggling for the change in my pouch when someone bumps against me so abruptly, the fruit slips from my grip and falls to the ground.

I gaze at my feet, heart sinking when I see the clumpy, red, splattered mess. Knowing it’ll come at great cost to me, that the kitchen staff will never agree to cover it, I spin on my heel, a word of reproach pressing forth from my lips, when I see that it’s him.