“Close your eyes and picture it. Can you see it?”
I nod, eyes closed.
“Imagine it right there before you. See its texture, shape, and color—got it?”
I smile, holding the image in my head.
“Good. Now reach out and touch it. Feel its contours with the tips of your fingers, cradle its weight in the palms of your hands, then combine all of your senses—sight, touch, smell, taste—can you taste it?”
I bite my lip and suppress a giggle.
“Perfect. Now combine that with feeling. Believe it exists right before you. Feel it, see it, touch it, taste it, accept it, manifest it!” he says.
So I do. I do all of those things. And when he groans, I open my eyes to see for myself.
“Ever.” He shakes his head. “You were supposed to think of an orange. This isn’t even close.”
“Nope, nothing fruity about him.” I laugh, smiling at each of my Damens—the replica I manifested before me, and the flesh and blood version beside me. Both of them equally tall, dark, and so devastatingly handsome they hardly seem real.
“What am I going to do with you?” the real Damen asks, attempting a disapproving gaze but failing miserably. His eyes always betray him, showing nothing but love.
“Hmmm . . .” I glance between my two boyfriends—one real, one conjured. “I guess you could just go ahead and kiss me. Or, if you’re too busy, I’ll ask him to stand in, I don’t think he’d mind.” I motion toward manifest Damen, laughing when he smiles and winks at me even though his edges are fading and soon he’ll be gone.
But the real Damen doesn’t laugh. He just shakes his head and says, “Ever, please. You need to be serious. There’s so much to teach you.”
“What’s the rush?” I fluff my pillow and pat the space right beside me, hoping he’ll move away from my desk and come join me. “I thought we had nothing but time?” I smile. And when he looks at me, my whole body grows warm and my breath halts in my throat, and I can’t help but wonder if I’ll ever get used to his amazing beauty—his smooth olive skin, brown shiny hair, perfect face, and lean sculpted body—the perfect dark yin to my pale blond yang. “I think you’ll find me a very eager student,” I say, my eyes meeting his—two dark wells of unfathomable depths.
“You’re insatiable,” he whispers, shaking his head and moving beside me, as drawn to me as I am to him.
“Just trying to make up for lost time,” I murmur, always so eager for these moments, the times when it’s just us, and I don’t have to share him with anyone else. Even knowing we have all of eternity laid out before us doesn’t make me any less greedy.
He leans in to kiss me, forgoing our lesson. All thoughts of manifesting, remote viewing, telepathy—all of that psychic business replaced by something far more immediate, as he pushes me back against a pile of pillows and covers my body with his, the two of us merging like crumbled vines seeking the sun.
His fingers snake under my top, sliding along my stomach to the edge of my bra as I close my eyes and whisper, “I love you.” Words I once kept to myself. But after saying it the first time, I’ve barely said anything else.
Hearing his soft muffled groan as he releases the clasp on my bra, so effortlessly, so perfectly, nothing awkward or fumbling about it.
Every move he makes is so graceful, so perfect, so—
Maybe too perfect.
“What’s wrong?” he asks, as I push him away. His breath coming in short shallow gasps as his eyes seek mine, their surrounding skin tense and constricted in the way I’ve grown used to.
“Nothing’s wrong.” I turn my back and adjust my top, glad I completed the lesson on shielding my thoughts since it’s the only thing that allows me to lie.
He sighs and moves away, denying me the tingle of his touch and the heat of his gaze as he paces before me. And when he finally stops and faces me, I press my lips together, knowing what’s next. We’ve been here before.
“Ever, I’m not trying to rush you or anything. Really, I’m not,” he says, his face creased with concern. “But at some point you’re going to have to get over this and accept who I am. I can manifest anything you desire, send telepathic thoughts and images whenever we’re apart, whisk you away to Summerland at a moment’s notice. But the one thing I can’t ever do is change the past. It just is.”
I stare at the floor, feeling small, needy, and completely ashamed. Hating that I’m so incapable of hiding my jealousies and insecurities, hating that they’re so transparent and clearly displayed. Because no matter what sort of psychic shield I create, it’s no use. He’s had six hundred years to study human behavior (to study my behavior), versus my sixteen.
“Just—just give me a little more time to get used to all this,” I say, picking at a frayed seam on my pillowcase. “It’s only been a few weeks.” I shrug, remembering how I killed his ex-wife, told him I loved him, and sealed my immortal fate, less than three weeks ago.
He looks at me, his lips pressed together, his eyes tinged with doubt. And even though we’re merely a few feet apart, the space that divides us is so heavy and fraught—it feels like an ocean.
“I’m referring to this lifetime,” I say, my voice quickening, rising, hoping to fill up the void and lighten the mood. “And since I can’t recall any of the others, it’s all I have. I just need a little more time, okay?” I smile nervously, my lips feeling clumsy and loose as I hold them in place, exhaling in relief when he sits down beside me, lifts his fingers to my forehead, and seeks the space where my scar used to be.
“Well, that’s one thing we’ll never run out of.” He sighs, trailing his fingers along the curve of my jaw as he leans in to kiss me, his lips making a series of stops from my forehead, to my nose, to my mouth.
And just when I think he’s about to kiss me again, he squeezes my hand and moves away. Heading straight for the door and leaving a beautiful red tulip behind in his place.
Excerpted from Blue Moon by Alyson Noël.
Copyright © 2009 by Alyson Noël.
Published in July 2009 by St. Martin's Griffin.
All rights reserved. This work is protected under copyright laws and reproduction is strictly prohibited. Permission to reproduce the material in any manner or medium must be secured from the Publisher.
Alyson Noël is the author of Evermore and seven previous novels for St. Martin’s Press. She lives in Laguna Beach, California, where she is at work on the next book in the Immortals series.