“Jude, I guess.” I lift my shoulders, inching my fingers under the hem of his shirt, feeling his smooth expanse of skin and wishing I could crawl under there too. “It was weird seeing her alone though. You know, without Stacia or Craig. It’s like she was a totally different person—all shy and awkward, completely transformed.”
“You think she likes Jude?” His fingers trace the line of my collarbone, his touch so warm, so perfect, barely dimmed by the veil.
I shrug, burying my face in the shallow V of his shirt, inhaling his warm musky scent. Determined to ignore the way my stomach just dipped when he spoke. Having no idea what it means or why I should care if Honor likes Jude, but preferring to push it away nonetheless. “Why? Do you think I should warn him? You know, tell him what she’s really like?” My lips pushing into the hollow at the base of his neck, right next to the cord that holds his amulet.
He shifts, rearranging his limbs, pulling away as he says, “If he’s as gifted as you say, then he should be able to read her energy and see for himself.” He gazes at me, voice careful, measured, overly controlled in a way I’m not used to. “Besides, do we even know what she’s really like? From what you’ve described, we only know her under the influence of Stacia. She may be quite nice on her own.”
I squint, trying to imagine a nicer version of Honor, but unable to get there. “But still,” I say. “Jude has a habit of falling for all the wrong girls and—” I stop, meeting his gaze and sensing that things have taken a definite turn for the worse, though I’ve no idea why. “You know what? Never mind all that. It’s boring and stupid and not worth our time. Let’s talk about something else, okay?” I lean toward him, aiming my lips toward the edge of his jaw, anticipating the prickle and scratch of the stubble that grows there. “Let’s talk about something that has nothing to do with my job, or the twins, or your ugly new car—” Hoping he was more amused than off ended by that. “Something that doesn’t make me feel quite so—old and boring.”
“Are you saying you’re bored?” He looks at me, eyes wide, aghast.
I lift my shoulders and scrunch my face, wishing I could pretend otherwise, but also not wanting to lie. “A little.” I nod. “I mean, I’m sorry to say it, but this whole cuddling on the couch while the kids sleep upstairs—” I shake my head. “It’s one thing when you’re babysitting, but it’s a little creepy when the kids are essentially yours. I mean, I know we’re still adjusting and all—but—well—I guess what I’m trying to say is, it’s starting to feel like a rut.” I peer at him, lips pressed tightly together, unsure how he’ll take that.
“You know how to get out of a rut, don’t you?” He jumps to his feet so swiftly he’s a shiny, dark blur.
I shake my head, recognizing that look in his eye from when we first met. Back when things were fun, exciting, unpredictable in every way.
“The only escape is to break free.” He laughs, grasping my hand and leading me away.
CHAPTER 23
I follow him through the kitchen and out to the garage, wondering where he could possibly be taking me since a nice trip to Summerland can be had from the couch.
“What about the twins?” I whisper. “What if they wake and find we’re not here?”
Damen shrugs, leading me to his car and glancing over his shoulder as he says, “No worries, they’re sleeping soundly. Besides, I have a feeling they’ll stay that way for a while.”
“And did you have anything to do with that?” I ask, remembering the time he put the entire student body to sleep—including the administrators and teachers—and I’m still not sure how he did it.
He laughs and opens my door, motioning for me to get in. But I shake my head and stand my ground. No way am I riding in the mom mobile—the very embodiment of the rut that we’re in.
He looks at me for a moment, then shakes his head and closes his eyes, brows merging together as he manifests a shiny red Lamborghini instead. Just like the one I drove the other day.
But I shake my head again, having no need for a new brand of fun when the old one will do. So I close my eyes and wish it away, replacing it with an exact replica of the shiny black BMW he used to drive.
“Point taken.” He nods, waving me in with a mischievous grin.
And the next thing I know we’re racing down the drive and onto the street, slowing just enough for the gate to open, before taking Coast Highway in a blur of speed.
I gaze at him, trying to peer into his mind and see just where we’re going, but he just laughs, purposely erecting his psychic shield, determined to surprise me.
He hops on the freeway and cranks up the stereo, laughing in surprise when the Beatles come on. “The White Album?” He glances at me as he navigates the road at near-record speeds.
“Whatever it takes to get you back in this car.” I smile, having listened to the story (many times) of his time spent in India learning transcendental meditation right alongside them, back when John and Paul wrote most of these songs. “In fact, if I’ve manifested it correctly, then that stereo will play nothing but the Beatles from now on.”
“How am I ever going to adapt to the twenty-first century if you’re determined to keep me rooted in the past?” He laughs.
“I was kind of hoping you wouldn’t adapt,” I mumble, gazing out the window at a blur of darkness and light. “Change is overrated—or at least your more recent changes are. So what do you say? Is she a keeper? Can we banish the big ugly mommy mobile?”
I turn toward him, watching as he exits the freeway and makes a series of sharp turns before climbing a very steep hill and stopping before a sculpture in front of a huge limestone building.
“What’s this?” I squint, knowing we’re somewhere in L.A. from the look and feel of the town, but not exactly sure where.
“The Getty.” He smiles, setting the brake and jumping out to open my door. “Have you been?”
I shake my head and avoid his gaze. An art museum is about the last place I expected—or even wanted—to go.
“But—isn’t it closed?” I glance around, sensing we’re the only ones here, other than the armed guards who are probably stationed inside.
“Closed?” He looks at me and shakes his head. “You think I’m going to let something as mundane as that stop us?” He slips his arm around me and leads me up the stone steps, lips at my ear when he adds, “I know a museum’s not your first choice, but trust me, I’m about to prove a very good point. One that, from what you just said, clearly needs illustrating.”
“What? That you know more about art than I do?”
He stops, his face serious when he says, “I’m going to prove that the world really is our oyster. Our playground. Whatever we want it to be. There’s no need to ever feel bored or to get into a rut once you understand that the normal rules no longer apply—at least not for us. We can do anything we want, Ever, anything at all. Open, closed, locked, unlocked, welcome, unwelcome—none of it matters, we do what we want—when we want. There’s nothing or no one who can stop us.”
Not entirely true, I think, ruminating on the very thing we’ve never been able to do in the past four hundred years, which, of course, is the one thing I really want us to do.
But he just smiles, kissing me on the forehead before grasping my hand, leading me to the door as he says, “Besides, there’s an exhibit I’m dying to see, and since there’s no crowd it shouldn’t take long. And I promise, after, we can go wherever you want.”
I stare at the imposing locked doors rigged with the most high-tech alarms that are probably rigged to other high-tech alarms, that are surely rigged to machine gun–wielding guards with their fingers just itching to press the trigger. Heck, there’s probably a hidden camera trained on us now, and a not amused guard tucked somewhere inside ready to push the panic button under his desk.
“Are you seriously going to try and break in?” I gulp, palms damp, heart clattering against my chest, hoping he’s joking even though he clearly is not.
“No,” he whispers, closing his eyes and urging me to close mine. “I’m not going to try, I’m going to succeed. And if you don’t mind, you could really help this along by closing your eyes and following my lead.” Leaning even closer, lips at my ear when he adds, “And I promise, no one gets caught, hurt, or jailed. Really. Cross my heart.”
I peer at him, assuring myself that someone who’s lived for six hundred years has survived his share of scrapes. Then I take a deep breath and plunge in. Copying the series of steps he envisions until the doors spring open, the sensors turn off, and the guards all fall into a long deep sleep. Or at least I hope it’s long and deep. Long and deep would be good.
“Ready?” He looks at me, lips curving into a grin.
I hesitate, hands shaking, eyes darting, thinking that rut we were in is starting to look pretty good. Then I swallow hard and step in, cringing when my rubber sole meets the polished stone floor, resulting in the most high-pitched, screechy, cringe-worthy sound.
“What do you think?” he says, face eager, excited, hoping I’m enjoying myself as much as he. “I considered taking you to Summerland, but then I figured that’s exactly what you’d expect. So I decided to show you the magick of staying right here on the earth plane instead.”
I nod, still about as far from excited as it gets but trying to hide it. Scoping out the ginormous room with its tall ceilings, glass windows, and plethora of corridors and halls that probably make it incredibly bright and welcoming in the daytime, but kind of creepy at night. “This place is huge. Have you been here before?”
He nods, heading for the round info desk in the center. “Once. Right before it officially opened. And though I know there’s lots of important works to see, there’s one exhibit in particular I’m extremely interested in.”
He swipes a guest guide off the stand, pressing his palm to the front until the desired location appears in his head. Then dropping it back in its slot, he leads me down a series of halls and up a few stairs, our path lit only by a series of security lights and the glint of the moon shining in through the windows.
“Is this it?” I ask, watching as he stands before a luminous painting titled Madonna Enthroned with St. Matthew, body still with awe, expression transformed to one of pure bliss.
He nods, unable to speak as he takes it all in, struggling to compose himself before turning to me. “I’ve traveled a lot. Lived in so many places. But when I finally left Italy just over four centuries ago, I swore I’d never return. The Renaissance was over, and my life—well—I was more than ready to move on. But then I heard about this new school of painters, the Carracci family in Bologna, who’d learned their craft from the masters, including my dear friend Raphael. They started a new way of painting, influencing the next generation of artists.” He motions to the painting before us, face filled with wonder as he softly shakes his head. “Just look at the softness—the textures! The intensity of color and light! It’s just—” He shakes his head. “It’s just brilliant!” he says, voice tinged with reverence.
I glance between the painting and him, wishing I could see it in the same way as he. Not as some old, priceless, highly regarded picture hanging before me, but as a true thing of beauty, an object of glory, a miracle of sorts.
He leads me to the next one, our hands grasped together as we marvel at a painting of Saint Sebastian, his poor, pale body pierced with arrows—all of it appearing so real I actually flinch.