Элисон Ноэль - Dark Flame

"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 the 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.