Daire Meets Ever (The Immortals)

a future of sterile-faced, white-coated men with their long, sharp needles and fast-draw prescription pads. So far, she’s the only one who hasn’t accused me of going stark-raving mad.
    “Wake me when we get there,” I mumble, settling in as though I might sleep, when really, I’m just doing what I can to shut out the glowing ones, who are already popping up along the side of the road. Their piercing eyes following—watching—wanting me to know that, like it or not, they’re not going away until I do what they ask.
     
     
    ***

 
    We meet in the clearing.
    It always begins in the clearing.
    And though I’ve no idea how I get there, there’s no other place I’d rather be.
    I lift my face toward the trees, watching the leaves glimmer and dance in the wake of a soft trailing breeze, as a large, purple-eyed raven stares down from above—our gaze meeting, holding, until the boy appears just behind me.
    His mere presence causing my breath to catch, my cheeks to heat—and when I turn and gaze upon the dark and startling beauty of him, that’s all it takes for my heart to skip several beats, for my knees to fold and grow weak.
    “Daire,” he says.
    Or does he merely think it? I didn’t see his lips move so there’s no way to be sure. All I know is that the sound of his voice causes the smile that widens my cheeks as my eyes graze the length of him. Pausing on icy-blue irises banded by a nimbus of gold, reflecting my image thousands of times—the stream of glossy black hair that flows down his back—the silky smooth skin—the long and lean limbs—the hands that hang open and loose by his sides, giving no indication of the pleasure I know them to give.
    Those same hands curling around mine as he leads me out of the clearing, and down toward the bubbling hot spring where he gestures for me to wade in. My dress growing damp, transparent, clinging like skin—I head for the far side and eagerly await him.
    Anticipating the feel of his lips upon mine, the burn of his fingers traveling over my flesh. His teeth nip at my neck, my collarbone, and then lower still, as he unbuttons my dress, slides it down past my shoulders, and gazes upon me in wonder…
     
    “Hey.” Jennika’s blue glitter-painted nails scratch at my shoulder, refusing to stop until she’s sure I’m awake. “Daire, wake up, we’re almost there.”
    I unfurl my legs and straighten my spine, using the back of my seat as a guide to haul myself up. Taking a moment to get my bearings, blink the fog from my eyes, and reestablish my place—making the transition from the dream state to the waking state, despite the way the images cling.
    It’s a dream I’ve had before—one that I actually look forward to—and I’m relieved to know the meds haven’t banished it for good. I stretch my arms overhead, lay my palms flush against the roof of the car—holding fast to the image of the boy’s smooth brown skin, glossy black hair, and the lure of those icy-blue eyes.
    I have no idea what his name is, despite the fact that he knows mine. Still, I like to think of him as my dream boyfriend. He’s been visiting me for the last six months, give or take, which pretty much makes him my most enduring relationship to date.
    Jennika parks outside the restaurant, glances between her watch and me, and says, “This is the place. Looks like we’re early.”
    I shake my head, causing my dream boy’s image to disintegrate, much like the pictures on the portable Etch A Sketch I lugged around as a kid. Trying my best to appear stoic, brave, despite the way my stomach dips, my heart skips, and my hands go all hot and clammy and shaky.
    “But it looks like he’s earlier.” She nods toward some tall, dark, solidly built stranger climbing out of an old pickup truck, its faded blue paint glinting dully in the afternoon sun.
    “How do you know it’s him?” I squint, straining to get a better look as he crosses the parking lot and pushes through the smudgy glass door. Trying to glean a little something about his character—his measure of trustworthiness—whether or not he really is some creepy, serial killer, pervert like I fear—from a glimpse of his dark Wrangler jeans, black cowboy boots, starched white cotton shirt, and the shiny black ponytail that falls just shy of his shoulders.
    “He fits the description,” Jennika says, and when I look at her and see the way she’s looking at him, I know she’s as nervous as I am. “So, what do you say,