“Lifers?” I peer at him, shaking my head as I stop at a traffic light. “Sounds more like a prison term than a happily ever after.”

“You know what I mean.” He inspects his manicure, turning his hot-pink Tracy Turnblad nails this way and that. “It’s just that you guys are so in tune with each other, so connected. And I mean that literally by the way since you’re pretty much always going at it.”

Not anymore. I swallow hard, punching the gas the second the light turns green, crossing the intersection with a loud screech of wheels and leaving a thick trail of rubber behind. Refusing to slow until I pull into the parking lot and scan for Damen who always parks in the second best space next to mine.

But even after I set the brake, he’s nowhere to be found. And I’m just about to climb out, wondering where he could be, when he appears right beside me, gloved hand on my door.

“Where’s your car?” Miles asks, glancing at him as he slams his door shut and slings his backpack over his shoulder. “And what’s up with your hand?”

“I got rid of it,” Damen says, gaze fixed on mine. Then glancing at Miles and seeing his expression he adds, “The car, not the hand.”

“Did you trade it in?” I ask, but only because Miles is listening. Damen doesn’t need to buy, trade, or sell, like normal people do. He can just manifest anything at will.

He shakes his head and walks me to the gate, smiling as he says, “No, I just dropped it off on the side of the road, key in the ignition, engine running.”

“Excuse me?” Miles yelps. “You mean to tell me that you left your shiny, black, BMW M6 Coupe—by the side of the road?”

Damen nods.

“But that’s a hundred-thousand-dollar car!” Miles gasps as his face turns bright red.

“A hundred and ten.” Damen laughs. “Don’t forget, it was fully customized and loaded with options.”

Miles stares at him, eyes practically bugging out of his head, unable to comprehend how anyone could do such a thing—why anyone would do such a thing. “Um, okay, so let me get this straight—you just woke up and decided—Hey, what the hell? I think I’ll just dump my ridiculously expensive luxury car by the side of the road—WHERE JUST ANYONE CAN TAKE IT?”

Damen shrugs. “Pretty much.”

“Because in case you haven’t noticed,” Miles says, practically hyperventilating now. “Some of us are a little car deprived. Some of us were born to parents so cruel and unusual they’re forced to rely on the kindness of friends for the rest of their lives!”

“Sorry.” Damen shrugs. “Guess I hadn’t thought about that. Though if it makes you feel any better, it was all for a very good cause.”

And when he looks at me, eyes meeting mine in that way that he has, along with the usual wave of warmth I get this horrible feeling that ditching the car is just the start of his plans.

“How’d you get to school?” I ask, just as we reach the front gate where Haven is waiting.

“He rode the bus.” Haven glances between us, her recently dyed, royal blue bangs falling into her face. “I kid you not. I wouldn’t have believed it either, but I saw it with my own eyes. Watched him climb right off that big yellow bus with all the other freshmen, dorks, retards, and rejects who, unlike Damen, have no other choice but to ride.” She shakes her head. “And I was so shocked by the sight of it, I blinked a bunch of times just to make sure it was really him. And then, when I still wasn’t convinced, I snapped a pic on my cell and sent it to Josh who confirmed it.” She holds it up for us to see.

I glance at Damen, wondering what he could possibly be up to, and that’s when I notice he’s ditched his usual cashmere sweater in place of a plain cotton tee, and how his designer jeans have been replaced with no-name plain pockets. Even the black motorcycle boots he’s practically famous for have been swapped for brown rubber flip-flops. And even though he doesn’t need any of that dash and flash to look as devastatingly handsome as the first day we met—this new low-key look just isn’t him.

Or at least not the him that I’m used to.

I mean, while Damen is undeniably smart, kind, loving, and generous—he’s also more than a tad flamboyant and vain. Always obsessed with his clothes, his car, his image in general. And don’t even try and pin him down on his exact date of birth, because for someone who chose to be immortal he has a definite complex about his age.

But even though I normally couldn’t care less about the clothes he wears or his ride to school, when I look at him again, I get this horrible ping in my gut—an insistent push, demanding my notice. A definite warning that this is merely the beginning. That this sudden transformation goes way deeper than some cost-cutting, altruistic, environmentally conscious agenda. No, this has something to do with last night. Something about being haunted by his karma. Like he’s convinced himself that giving up his most prized possessions will somehow balance it all out.

“Shall we?” He smiles, grasping my hand the second the bell rings, leading me away from Miles and Haven who’ll spend the next three periods texting back and forth, trying to determine what’s up with Damen.

I look at him, his gloved hand in mine as we head down the hall, whispering, “What’s going on? What really happened to your car?”

“I already told you.” He shrugs. “I don’t need it. It’s an unnecessary indulgence I no longer care to—indulge.” He laughs, looking at me. But when I fail to join in he shakes his head and says, “Don’t look so serious. It’s not a big deal. When I realized it’s not something I need, I drove it out to a depressed area and left it by the side of the road where someone can find it.”