Daire Meets Ever (The Immortals) by Alyson Noël Read Free Book Online Page B

loud squeal of protest, he ushers me through and steps in behind me.
    The moment I’m past the threshold, I freeze. My feet planted on the stone and gravel pathway that leads to the door, unwilling to go any farther—unwilling to be the first to approach it.
    I have no idea what Paloma looks like—what she’ll be like.
    I have no idea what to expect.
    I should’ve asked more questions.
    I should’ve used the last ten hours to grill Chay until he broke—until he confided every dark and dirty secret Paloma is hiding.
    Instead I chose to eat. And read. And dream about some phantom boy with smooth brown skin, icy-blue eyes, and long glossy black hair—a boy I’ve never even met in real life.
    Lot of good it did me.
    Before I can ask Chay to return to the truck and haul me right back to Phoenix so I can steal a second shot at doing it right—the front door swings open, revealing a small, dark figure surrounded by a halo of light.
    “ Nieta! ” she coos, her voice surprisingly throaty and deep. But as hard as I stare, I can’t make out anything more than a black silhouette—the light shining behind her in a way that causes a yellowy glow to shimmer around her.
    She steps onto the stoop, stands directly underneath the porch lamp, which allows for a much cleaner look. Lifting a delicate hand to her chest where it flutters briefly over her heart before reaching for me. Her eyes brimming, cheeks pink with happiness, she repeats, “ Nieta —my granddaughter. You are here!”
    I squirm. Feeling oversized and awkward beside her diminutive form—aware of her hand moving toward me, but unsure what to do. It seems oddly formal to shake it, and yet, I’m not quite ready to go the hugging route either.
    Genetically speaking she may be my grandmother, but at this moment, she’s no more than a small, attractive stranger with flashing dark eyes, a generous smile, a nose that reminds me of mine, and long, lustrous black hair with occasional streaks of silver that shine like Christmas tree tinsel.
    I mumble a greeting, chasing the words with a quick wave of my hand before I bury it in my jacket pocket again. Feeling bad about such a cold gesture, but under the circumstances, it’s the best I can offer.
    Though if Paloma’s off ended, she manages to hide it. Smiling warmly, she ushers me inside as she says, “Come now, child. Come inside. Come out of the cold. It is late. You’ve had a long journey. I will show you to your room, get you settled in for the night, and tomorrow we will get to know each other better. But for now, it is rest you need most.”
    I step inside, aware of Chay slipping around me and disappearing down the hall with my bag, as I pause on a colorful woven rug just shy of the entry and try to take it all in. The thick soft-edged walls, the heavy exposed door frames, the sturdy wooden beams that dissect the ceiling, the corner fireplace formed in the shape of a beehive, stuffed with vertically stacked logs that fill the space with the warm scent of mesquite.
    “Your mother was right,” Paloma says, moving into the kitchen. Her light cotton dress swishing behind her, her bare feet skimming the floor in a way that prompts me to blink, stare, then blink again—making sure that she’s not really floating, despite how it looks. “Other than the eyes, you look just like your father, my Django.” Her own eyes moisten, as I fidget before her. The only picture I’ve ever seen of my father comes from one of those black-and-white strips you get from a photo booth.
    There were three pictures in total: one of Django alone (smiling), one of Jennika alone (eyes crossed/tongue sticking out), and another of them crammed in together with a teenaged Jennika desperately trying to channel Courtney Love’s mid 90’s look with her bleached-blond hair, dark red lipstick, and extremely short baby-doll dress—her body draped across Django’s lap while he made a big show of kissing her neck as she threw her head back and