“Ever?” He stands before us, Hefty bag dangling by his side, squinting as though he stopped trusting his eyes the moment they landed on me.

I flash my palm, my gaze pleading with his to keep quiet, keep the news to himself, keep on heading for the trash as though he didn’t see us stooped beneath the windowsill.

But it’s a lot to ask of someone who’s been searching for you. And while he makes for the trash can and drops the bag in, he’s quick to circle right back to where Damen and I stand.

“Where the hell have you been?” His words take me by surprise, mostly because they didn’t come out nearly as angry as they could have. They sounded more like a huge sigh of relief.

“I’m staying at Damen’s,” I say, as though that somehow covers the full extent of my absence. “And Sabine’s fully aware of that since Damen called to tell her as much.” I glance at Damen, glimpsing the wave of shock that plays over his face. He didn’t realize I knew that.

“Sabine’s been worried sick. You’ve got to go in there—you’ve got to let her know you’re okay.” He glances between us, his brain still trying to catch up with what he sees before him.

“You know I can’t do that.” My voice is flat, matter of fact. “And you know why. In fact, you know way more than you should—way more than I ever intended.” I sigh and shake my head, remembering the day, just a few weeks before, when, in a frantic rush toward a disaster I didn’t foresee, I manifested a bouquet of daffodils and a black BMW right before his eyes. Basically showing him right then and there that the full extent of my weirdness—my powers—go far deeper than the psychic telepath he knew me to be. He saw me run like the wind, make things appear where there was once only air—and I’m pretty sure that after getting over the shock of that, he probably started wondering just what else I might be capable of. Or at least that’s what I would’ve done if our positions were switched.

“Are you part of this too?” Munoz asks, shifting his focus to Damen as though looking for a nice convenient place to dump all the blame.

“I am the reason, yes,” Damen says, without hesitation, no pause of any kind.

And I can’t help but gape, so startled by the words, the way they echoed what Lotus said earlier. Wondering if that’s what he meant, or if it’s just a coincidence that his words mirrored hers.

Munoz ponders, tries to make sense of it. He was headed in one direction when Damen went in another, and now he’s forced to catch up, or at least meet somewhere in the middle.

“I always thought there was something very strange about you,” Munoz finally says, his voice low, almost dreamy.

Damen nods, and I’ve no idea how he took that, his voice, like his face, gives nothing away.

“It’s almost as though you’re not from this time,” Munoz adds, as though musing to himself.

“I am not from this time.” Damen looks right at him, the reply so simple, so direct, so unexpected, it takes my breath away.

Munoz nods, taking the answer in stride, acting as though he just might believe him when he says, “And so, which time are you from, then?”

“One of your favorites.” Damen’s lip curls, allowing for a ghost of a smile. “The Italian Renaissance.”

Munoz gulps, nods, and glances all around as though he expects to find further explanation planted in the garden, floating in the pool, or maybe even taped to the lid of the barbeque. Processing the statement with more calm than I ever would’ve expected, acting as though he’s not at all surprised to find himself having such a serious conversation about such a peculiar subject.

“So, alchemy is real then?” he ventures, hitting the bull’s-eye in a way most people fail to.

I mean, when it was me trying to pin down Damen’s strangeness, I went straight for vampire. Miles did too. But apparently Munoz is not nearly as influenced by the current pop culture phenomenon, and so he shot straight for the truth.

“Alchemy has always been real,” Damen admits, his face controlled, voice steady, giving absolutely no hint as to how much this is costing him—though I have a pretty good idea.

For six centuries he’s fought to keep the truth of his existence a secret, only to meet up with me in this lifetime and watch the whole thing unravel like a moth-eaten sweater. “Real, yes—but not always successful.” Munoz’s eyes light on Damen, considering him in a whole new way, as Damen nods in agreement. “And you, Ever?” Munoz looks at me, trying to see me in a whole new way too. But despite all of my unmitigated weirdness, I’m clearly a product of the modern world, there’s no getting around it.

I shake my head, lift my shoulders, and leave it at that.

“Wow. There’s just so much to talk about—so much I want to ask you—”

I peer anxiously at Damen, hoping Munoz won’t launch into a whole string of inquiries that Damen, for whatever reason, will feel compelled to answer.

But, as luck would have it (something I haven’t had much of lately, but I’ll happily take in any form that it comes) Sabine saves me by calling, “Paul? Everything okay out there?”

He sucks in his breath and glances back and forth between us. And since I can’t risk speaking, can’t risk having her hear my voice coming from just outside her window, I settle for shaking my head, and shooting him a deep, pleading, meaningful look.

Overcome with relief when he says, “Yeah, I’m… fine. Just enjoying the night, doing a little stargazing, searching for Cassiopeia, you know how I like to do that. I’ll be inside in a second.”