100 Yellow Doors

10:43 p.m.

Julien didn't like to hesitate, but he hesitated. Why did you leave? She asked it as if it were a question only for him, as if she, too, didn't owe him an answer to that one. He cleared his throat, fiddling with his straw. "Boredom," he said. "Besides, some of the older people were starting to realize that I wasn't aging. I had to get out of there before any major discoveries were made."

Iman cocked her head, regarding him for a moment like she didn't precisely believe him. Julien didn't blame her. He wouldn't believe him, either. Nevertheless, Iman just let out a theatrical sigh and said, "Why does it have to be a secret anyway? People raved over the whole Twilight saga. They'd probably love to know vampires were real."

"Same reason your boyfriend doesn't know you're a time traveler, I'd reckon," Julien said without apology, ignoring the choking noise Iman made in response. "It's protection, control. One person knows, everyone knows, the situation gets out of hand. Mass hysteria is a very real thing, Im. I've seen it."

"You think you've seen everything."

"Because I have."

Iman paused a beat, gaze floating down towards the floor again. "I never said Beck didn't know."

"But I know you," Julien replied. He read the conflict as it shone across Iman's face and softened his voice, raking his hair gently out of his face and peering at her. Iman was not the usual definition of a friend: trustworthy, loyal, reliable. She couldn't possibly be when they never knew exactly when they'd meet again, when time was a petulant child and Iman and Julien were its mindless board game pieces. Race car, thought Julien. Damned if I wouldn't be the race car.

And yet Julien knew Iman unlike he knew a fair number of his other friends. Partly because he'd outlived a fair percentage of them, and partly because he had never quite felt so understood as he did in Iman's presence. It was a silent, mutual understanding that had somehow developed through the spontaneous hours she spent in his house, with no premonition or aftermath. One day he had realized it was there, and that was the same day he'd started to miss her.

"I know you," Julien said again. Ice cubes clinked against glass as they shifted within the cup in front of him; he fumbled with the shades hung on the collar of his shirt. "I know you and I know that's not something you take outside of your family unless absolutely necessary. So I guess that's my question, then. When do you decide he's necessary?"

Iman flushed, her skin turning from a gentle brown to a deep russet. Anger lit in her eyes, a slight spark, and was gone again. "I like him. A lot. He's fun to be around. I just don't want to tell him everything if he doesn't turn out to stick around long."

Julien raised his eyebrows.

Iman scoffed, throwing her head back. "No. That would be impatient. Besides, even if I wanted to—it's like I said. It's not that easy."

Julien shoved his drink aside; it skidded across the table and teetered twice at the edge before thankfully sitting down again. Iman frowned at him, judgment in her eyes. "Tell me, then. Tell me how it works."

"I haven't explained it before?"

"I'm sure you have, but I have the most awful memory."

Awful memory was an understatement. What did you call it when everything before your death and undeath was a blur? Surely, Julien thought, there was something there. Surely the film of his life did not begin reeling with his death. Twenty-seven years of his long life, a dark blur. Twenty-seven years of his life he could never seem to get back.

"I see," said Iman. "Well, it's like this. When people aren't well or they're stressed or something like that, they have a habit, yes? Like some people get all lethargic or eat too much, or eat too little—"