I cock a brow, taking in what little I can see of him, his height, his wavy mane of dark hair, but the rest is all white. But when he doesn’t answer, when he just moves as though he might try to jump me, I reach for my flashlight and shine it right in his face, the beam cutting through the haze and showing me all that I need to see—which isn’t much of anything.

Like all the other rogue immortals I’ve met this past year, Rafe remains remarkably cool under pressure. His face showing no sign that he’s even startled by the sharp beam of light now shining on him. For someone who’s just been caught positioning himself to better attack me, he doesn’t look even the slightest bit guilty. If anything, he just looks determined.

But there is something else.

Something that really stands out though I try not to let on.

He looks older.

Way older.

Last time I saw him he was just another super-hot, perfect specimen of a gorgeous immortal.

But now, while he’s still really good-looking, he’s also showing some definite signs of aging and wear—the years catching up with him in the form of graying hair and the fan of wrinkles surrounding his eyes. Even his teeth seem a little yellow, as opposed to what I’ve come to think of as bright and shiny immortal white.

And suddenly I know exactly why he’s here.

“Let’s cut the crap, shall we?” he says, closing the small gap between us in a handful of seconds. “Neither one of us is on a day hike.

You’re on Lotus’s journey to the Tree of Life. Hoping to get your hands on the one piece of fruit it bears every one thousand years.” He stares at me, his voice a perfect match for the glare in his gaze. “One beautiful, perfect piece of fruit that looks like a cross between a pomegranate and a peach. One amazing piece of produce that offers immortality to whoever is lucky enough to pluck it, seize it, taste it.

And, as it turns out, the millennium is up. It’s time for the harvest. And while I’m sure you consider yourself worthy of a bite, I hate to break it to you, Ever, but this is how it’s gonna go down: You’re gonna lead me to the tree, and I’ll be the one to claim its bounty.”

I continue to study him, my flashlight moving over his face, wondering if I should fill him in on the truth that the fruit isn’t quite what it’s rumored to be. That the story behind its powers was never intended to be taken quite so literally. The tree’s fruit grants wisdom and enlightenment to those who seek it—providing the ultimate truth—the knowledge that they are truly immortal beings. For those who’ve achieved physical immortality, well, it has a reversal effect—returning the body and the soul back to the way it was always intended to be.

Which is not at all the sort of immortality he seeks—though it’s definitely the kind that he needs.

But instead I just say, “And why would I agree to do that?”

“Because now that Roman is gone, thanks to you I might add”—he pauses long enough to let that sink in—“the tree is my only hope left. Haven drank what was left of his supply, and since he assumed he’d live forever, he never bothered to share the recipe. Not to mention how he liked having control over us. Liked it almost as much as the party he threw every century and a half, always on the summer solstice, where he’d gather us together, wherever he was living at the time. We’d swap stories, share some good times, and drink a toast to each other, before we said our good-byes and moved on with our lives. Kind of like a high school reunion, but better, if you can imagine. No second-rate hotel ballroom, no need to impress each other with bad plastic surgery and inflated job titles that don’t actually mean anything…”

I don’t say a word. And I definitely don’t even try to imagine. I just stand there and let him continue.

“Funny thing was, even though your boyfriend Damen never showed—probably because he was never invited—but still, he was always the most popular topic of conversation.” Rafe nods, gaze going inward now, as though he’s watching a scene that plays in his head. “For years he was like a legend to me. You should’ve heard the stories the orphans all told. The first among our kind, the one who turned six then disappeared, never to be seen or heard from again, or at least not intentionally. Do you realize he never even once thought to track them all down and let them drink again? He abandoned them, Ever—did you know that? He left them all to shrivel—to grow old and wither—while he stayed eternally young.” He shakes his head and frowns in a way that encourages a whole new set of lines to race across his forehead. “Sorry, but if it sounds as though I don’t like him, well, that’s because I don’t. Still, that has nothing to do with why I can’t allow you to reach that tree. It’s nothing personal, and I hope you’ll understand when I say that the reason you can’t get your hands on that fruit is because it’s reserved just for me.”

I take a deep breath, dimming my flashlight a bit, realizing it’s better to try to ease his mind and put him off guard, to convince him to lower his defenses, than to put him on the defensive if I’ve any hope of regaining the advantage. Fully aware that all it would take to be rid of him is one good shove that sends him over the edge. And as tempting as that might be, I won’t do it—and I’m pretty sure he won’t do it to me.

He needs me.

Only I can make the journey.

Only I can find the tree.

Which means he needs me to stay healthy, vital, and most importantly, in one piece, if he has any intention of my leading the way.