She shakes her head and grips the table, the small elaborate tattoo on her wrist now finished, but still red and inflamed.
"What do you call that?" I ask, gazing at the ink rendering of the snake eating its own tail, knowing there's a name for it, that it's some sort of mythical creature, but forgetting which one.
"Ouroboros." And when she rubs it with her finger I swear I saw its tongue flicker and move.
"What does it mean?"
"It's an ancient alchemy symbol for eternal life, creation out of destruction, life out of death, immortality, something like that," Miles says.
Haven and I gaze at him, but he just shrugs. "What? So I'm well read."
Then I look at her and say, "It looks infected. Maybe you should have it looked at."
But as soon as it's out I know it was the wrong thing to say, and I watch as she yanks down her sleeve, as her aura sparks and flames. "My tattoo is fine. I'm fine. And excuse me for saying so, but I can't help but notice how neither one of you is freaking out over Damen, who, by the way, never comes to school anymore. I mean, what's up with that?"
Miles gazes down at his Sidekick, and I just shrug. It's not like she doesn't have a point. And we watch as she shakes her head, snatches her cupcake box, and storms away.
"Can you tell me what just happened?" Miles says, watching her slalom through the maze of lunch tables, in a big hurry to nowhere.
But I just shrug, unable to shake the image of the snake on her wrist, how it turned its head, focused its beady eyes, and looked right at me.
The moment I pull into my drive, I see Damen, leaning against his car, smiling.
"How was school?" he asks, coming around to open my door. I shrug and reach for my books.
"Ah, so you're still angry," he says, following me to the front door. And even though he's not touching me, I can feel his emanating heat.
"I'm not angry," I mutter, opening the door and tossing my backpack onto the floor.
"Well that's a relief. Because I've made reservations for two, and if you're not angry, then I assume you'll be joining me."
I look at him, my eyes grazing over his darkjeans, boots, and soft black sweater that can only be cashmere, wondering what he could possibly be up to now:
He removes my sunglasses and earbuds and sets them on the entryway table. "Trust me, you really don't need all those deftnses," he says, lowering my hood, tucking his arm through mine, and leading me out the front door and over to his car.
"Where are we going?" I ask, settling onto the passenger seat, complacent, spineless, always so eager to go along with whatever he says. "I mean, what about my homework? I have a ton of catching up to do."
But he just shakes his head and climbs in beside me. "Relax, you can do it later, I promise."
"How much later?" I peer at him, wondering if I'll ever get used to his amazing dark beauty, the warmth of his gaze, and his ability to talk me into just about anything.
He smiles, starting the car without even turning the key.
"Before the stroke of midnight, I promise. Now buckle in, we're going for a ride."
Damen drives fast. Really fast. So when he pulls into the parking lot and leaves his car with the valet, it seems as though only a few minutes have passed.
"Where are we?" I ask, gazing at the green buildings and the I sign marked EAST ENTRANCE. "East entrance to what?"
"Well, this should explain it." He laughs, pulling me toward him as four shiny sweaty Thoroughbreds trot by with their grooms, followed by a jockey in a pink-and-green jacket, thin white pants, and muddy black boots.
"The racetrack?" I gape. Like Disneyland, it's pretty much the last place I expected.
"Not just any racetrack, it's Santa Anita," he nods. "One of the nicer ones. Now come on, we've got a three-fifteen reservation at the Front Runner."
"The what?" I ask, standing my ground.
"Relax, it's just a restaurant." He laughs. "Now; come on, I don't want to miss post."
"Uhm, isn't this illegal?" I say; knowing I sound like the worst kind of goody-good, but still, he's just so-lawless and reckless and-random.
"Eating is illegal?" He smiles, but I can tell his patience is running thin.
I shake my head. "Betting, gambling, whatever, you know." But he just laughs and shakes his head. "It's horse racing, Ever, not cockfighting. Now come on." He squeezes my hand and leads me to the elevator bank.
"But don't you have to be twenty-one?"
"Eighteen," he mumbles, going inside and pressing five. "Exactly. I'm sixteen and a half."
He shakes his head and leans in to kiss me. "Rules should always be bent, if not broken. It's the only way to have any fun. Now come," he says, leading me down a hall and into a large room decorated in varying shades of green, stopping before the front podium and greeting the maitre d' like a long lost friend.