He looks at me, swipes a hand through his hair, pushing it away from his forehead when he says, “Honestly, Ever? The only reason I’m here is because I’ve sworn my eternal allegiance to you. You know that part about ‘for better or worse’? I figure this must be the worse part, which means it can only get better from here.”

I glance at him, tempted to make some crack about us not being married, but decide it’s better not to push my luck, so I let it drop.

“So what are you going to do? If she comes, I mean?” Damen leans back and gazes up at the tarp hanging over us, no magick, no manifesting, nothing better to do.

“I’m going to confront her head-on. I’m going to ask her to stop speaking in riddles and get to the point. I’m going to—”

He looks at me, waiting to hear more. But there is no more. That’s as far as I’ve gotten with the plan. So I fold my hands in my lap and end it with that.

“Okay, and between now and then?” He lifts his brow.

I look at him, my face a blank until I remember the duffle bag I’d manifested earlier. I run off to retrieve it, dropping it before him and watching as he sits up, perks up, and peers inside. Riffling through a supply of magazines, a couple of paperbacks, a deck of playing cards, some board games, and several chilled bottles of elixir.

“I don’t get it,” he says, seeming a little confused by the stash. “What’s all this?”

“It’s a little something I like to call, ‘making the best of a not so great situation.’” I nod, holding my breath when he hesitates, stills, then decides to go with it. Lifting the top off a board game and going about the motions of setting it up, I settle in beside him.

Stretching my legs out before me until they’re nearly even with his, glancing all around, on the lookout for her, but seeing only the usual landscape of gray skies, drenched earth, and a rain that refuses to stop or slow down, I plead a silent wish for her to show, sooner rather than later, then return my focus to Damen, motioning for him to take the first roll.

Chapter eight

Three games, one nap (Damen, not me), and two and a half bottles of elixir later, she appears.

And I mean, she just—appears. Like, one minute it’s just us, no sign of anyone else, and the next she’s standing before us, those ancient eyes focused on me as though they’d never left.

“ Damen!” I spare a moment to glance at him, seeing the way he stirs in his sleep and starts to roll over. I grab hold of his leg, giving it one, two good shakes as I repeat, “Damen—wake up! She’s here!”

Saying it as though the mere sight of her holds the promise of something great—like I’d just spotted Santa with a sleigh full of presents and a fleet of flying reindeer.

Damen bolts upright, allowing his hand a quick swipe of his eyes, clearing the sleep before reaching for me. A delay that causes him to miss contact, the chance to pull me back to him, as I haul myself to my feet and make my way toward her. Having no idea what I’ll say, but I’ve waited too long in the rain to miss the opportunity.

“You…” she begins, her arm slowly lifting, though I’m quick to stop her right there. No need to go into full-on chant mode, not when we’ve all heard it before and really don’t need to hear it again.

“About that…” I stand before her, careful to keep a cushion of a few feet between us, even though at her advanced age I’m pretty sure she’s ill equipped to harm me in any real way. “I’ve heard the song, memorized the lyrics, and trust me, I mean no disrespect, but do you think we could just communicate in English? Or, at least the kind of English I’m used to, the kind that actually makes sense?”

My eyes travel over her, taking in the silver wisps of hair, the startling eyes, the skin that appears so fragile and thin it looks as though it might snag. Searching for a reaction, some sign that she took offense at my words, but unable to find any response other than a rheumy old gaze that switches to Damen as he claims the space by my side. His shoulders squared, legs steady, feet placed just so, readying himself to spring into action, do whatever it takes to defend me from this strange centenarian should it come to that.

A thought that seems so silly on the surface, I could easily burst into yet another fit of laughter if this wasn’t so serious.

I rise up on my toes, well, as much as one can when knee-deep in muck, remembering how one of the last times I saw her, Misa and Marco surprised me by stepping out from behind her, but from what I can see, today they’re not here.

So far it’s just Damen, the crazy old lady, and me. And, from what I can tell, she doesn’t seem the slightest bit surprised to find us both waiting.

I’m about to speak again, determined to move this thing forward and get what I came for—determined to clear my conscience of the overwhelmingly nagging doubt that Damen might be right after all—that this is all some sort of cruel cosmic joke—that I’m being played in the very worst way—that there’s no way either of us lived before—when she looks at me and says, “Adelina.”

That’s it. She just says, “Adelina.” Then lowers her lids and bows ever so slightly, her palms held fast to the center of her chest, the movement directed at me as though she is the worshipper and I’m some kind of hallowed deity.

“Um, see, the thing is,” I start, unsure how to respond to such an awkward gesture and eager to move past it, pretend it didn’t happen.