I pull away, nodding in place of words, knowing that to say anything more will make me break down completely. Barely managing to squeak out a "Thanks," before I'm already at the door.

"You've nothing to be thanking me for," she says, following behind. "But, Ever, are you sure you don't want to peek in on Damen, just one last time?"

I turn, my hand on the door knob, considering, but only for a moment before I take a deep breath and shake my head. Knowing there's no use in prolonging the inevitable, and far too afraid to risk seeing the accusation on his face.

"We've already said good-bye," I say, stepping onto the porch and moving toward my car. "Besides, I don't have much time. There's still one last stop I need to make."

Chapter Forty-Four

I turn onto Roman's street, park in his drive, rush toward the door, and kick it right down. Watching the wood crack and splinter as it teeters from its hinges and swings open before me, hoping to catch him off guard, so I can punch all of his chakras and be done with him for good. I creep inside, my eyes darting around, taking in walls the color of eggshells, ceramic vases filled with silk flowers, poster-sized prints of all the usual suspectd—Van Gogh's The Starry Night, Gustav Klimt's The Kiss, and an oversized rendition of Botticelli's The Birth of Venus framed in gold and hanging right over the mantel. All of it appearing so surprisingly normal, I can't help but wonder if I've got the wrong house. I expected grit, edge, a post-apocalyptic pad with black leather couches, chrome tables, an abundance of mirrors, and confusing art—something sleeker,hipper, anything but this chintz-ridden fuss palace that's nearly impossible to imagine someone like Roman living in.

I tour the house, checking every room, every closet, even under the bed. But when it's clear he's not home, I head straight for his kitchen, find his supply of immortal juice, and pour it straight down the drain. Knowing it's juvenile, useless, and probably won't make the least bit of difference, since the moment I go back everything will reverse itself again. But even if it adds up to no more than a minor inconvenience, at least he'll know that inconvenience came from me. Then I riffle through his drawers, searching for a piece of scrap paper and a pen, needing to make a list of all the things I can't afford to forget. A simple set of instructions that won't be too confusing for someone who probably won't remember what any of it means, and yet still clear and concise enough to keep me from repeating the same horrible mistakes all over again. Writing:

1. Don't go back for the sweatshirt!

2. Don't trust Drina!

3. Don't go back for the sweatshirt no matter what!

And then, just so I don't completely forget, and hoping it might trigger some sort of memory, I add:

4. Damen

And after checking it over again (and again), making sure it's all there and that nothing's been missed, I fold it into a square, shove it deep in my pocket, and head for the window, gazing at a sky turned a deep sunless blue, with the moon hanging heavy and full just off to the side. Then I take a deep breath and head for the ugly chintz couch, knowing it's time. I close my eyes and reach toward the light, eager to experience that shimmering glory one final time as I land on those soft blades of grass in that vast fragrant field. Aided by their buoyancy and bounce as I run, skip, and twirl through the meadow, performing cartwheels, back handsprings, and somersaults, my fingertips grazing over those glorious flowers with their pulsating petals and delicious sweet scent as I wind my way through those vibrating trees along the colorful stream. Determined to take it all in, to memorize every last detail, wishing there was some way to capture this wonderful feeling and hold it forever.

And then, because I have a few moments to spare, and because I need to see him one last time, need to be with him in the way that we used to, I close my eyes and manifest Damen. Seeing him as he first appeared to me in the parking lot at school. Starting with his shiny dark hair that waves around his cheekbones and hits just shy of his shoulders, those almond-shaped eyes so deep, dark, and even, back then, strangely familiar. And those lips! Those ripe inviting lips with their perfect Cupid's bow, followed by the long, lean, muscular body that holds it all up. My memory so potent, so tangible, every nuance, every pore, is present and accounted for.

And when I open my eyes, he's bowing before me, offering his hand in our very last dance. So I place my hand in his as he tucks his arm around my waist, leading me through that glorious field in a series of wide sweeping arcs, our bodies swaying, our feet floating, twirling to a melody heard only by us. And every time he begins to slip from my grasp, I just close my eyes and make him again, resuming our steps without falter. Like Count Fersen and Marie, Albert and Victoria, Antony and Cleopatra, we are all the world's greatest lovers, we are all the couples we've ever been. And I bury my face in the warm sweet hollow of his neck, reluctant to let our song end. But even though there's no time in Summerland, there is where I'm going. And so I run my fingers along the planes of his face, memorizing the softness of his skin, the curve of his jaw, and the swell of his lips as they press against mine—convincing myself that it's him—really him! Even long after he's faded and gone.

The moment I head out of the field, I find Romy and Rayne waiting right by the edge, and from the looks on their faces I know they've been watching. "You're running out of time," Rayne says, staring at me with those saucer-sized eyes that never fail to set me on edge.