The Immortals 3 - Shadowland (4 page)

When I get to the lunch table I sit beside Damen, relieved to find everything as normal as any other day. Damen’s gloved hand squeezing my knee as I quickly scan the campus, looking for Roman as he thinks:
He’s gone.

Gone?
I gape, hoping he means
gone
as in
not around
, as opposed to
gone
as in
pile of dust
.

But Damen just laughs, the smooth melodic sound reverberating from his head to mine.
Not annihilated. I assure you. Just—absent—that’s all. Drove off a few minutes ago with some guy I’ve never seen before.

Did you talk? Did he try to provoke you?
Damen shakes his head, his eyes peering into mine as I add:
Good. Because we can’t afford to go after him—no matter what! He has the antidote! He admitted it! Which means all we have to do now is find a way to—

Ever.
He frowns.
You can’t possibly believe him! This is what Roman does. He lies and manipulates everyone around him. You have to stay away from him—he’s using you—he can’t be trusted—

I shake my head. This time is different. I can feel it. And I need for Damen to feel it too.
He’s not lying—seriously—he said—

Not even finishing the thought before Haven leans forward, eyes darting between us as she says, “Okay, that’s it. Just what the heck is going on here? Seriously, enough already.”

I turn, noticing how her friendly yellow aura beams in such sudden sharp contrast to the deliberate harshness of her all-black ensemble. Knowing she means no ill will though she’s definitely disturbed by us.

“Seriously. It’s like—it’s like you guys have some kind of creepy way of communicating. Like twin speak or something. Only yours is silent. And more eerie.”

I shrug and open my lunch pack, going through the motions of unwrapping a sandwich I’ve no plans to eat, determined to hide just how alarmed her question has made me. Knocking my knee against Damen’s, telepathically urging him to step in and handle this since I’ve no idea what to say.

“Don’t pretend it’s not happening.” Her eyes narrow in suspicion. “I’ve been watching you guys for a while now, and it’s really starting to creep me out.”

“What’s creeping you out?” Miles gazes up from his phone, but only for a moment before he’s back to texting again.

“Those two.” She points a short, black painted nail with a chunk of pink frosting stuck to its tip. “I swear, they get stranger every day.”

Miles nods, setting down his phone as he takes a moment to look us over. “Yeah, I’ve been meaning to mention that. You guys are weird.” He laughs. “Oh, and the whole Michael Jackson, one glove thing?” He shakes his head and purses his lips. “
So
not working for you. That look is so played even
you
can’t bring it back.”

Haven frowns, annoyed by Miles’s joke when she’s trying to be serious. “Laugh all you want,” she says, gaze steady, unwavering. “But something’s up with those two. I may not know what, but I’ll figure it out. I’ll get to the bottom of it. You’ll see.”

And I’m just about to speak when Damen shakes his head and swirls his red drink, leaning toward Haven as he says, “Don’t waste your time. It’s not as sinister as you think.” He smiles, gaze fixed on hers. “We’re practicing telepathy, that’s all. Attempting to read each other’s minds in place of talking all the time. So we stop getting in trouble in class.” He laughs, causing me to squeeze my sandwich so hard the mayonnaise squirts out the sides. Gaping at my boyfriend who’s just arbitrarily decided to break our number one rule—
Don’t tell anyone who we are or what we can do!

Calming only slightly when Haven rolls her eyes and says, “Please. I’m not an idiot.”

“Wasn’t implying you were.” Damen smiles. “It’s quite real, I assure you. Would you like to try?”

I freeze, body solid, unmoving, as though witnessing a disaster on the side of the road—only this particular disaster is
me
.

“Close your eyes and think of a number between one and ten.” He nods, solemn gaze meeting hers. “Focus on that number with all of your might.
See
it in your mind as clearly as you can, and silently repeat the sound of it over and over again. Got it?”

She shrugs, brows merging as though in deep concentration. Though all it takes is a quick glance at her aura, morphing into a dark deceitful green, and a brief peek at her thoughts to
see
she’s only pretending. Choosing to concentrate on the color blue instead of a random number like Damen said.

I glance between them, knowing she’s baiting him, sure that his one in ten chance of hitting the right number works too much in his favor. Holding her ground as he rubs his chin and shakes his head, saying, “I don’t seem to be getting anything. Are you
sure
you’re thinking of a number between one and ten?”

She nods, deepening her focus on a beautiful shade of pulsating blue.

“Then we must have our wires crossed.” He shrugs. “I’m not getting a number at all.”

“Try me!” Miles abandons his phone and leans toward Damen.

Eyes barely closed, thoughts hardly focused before Damen gasps, “You’re going to
Florence
?”

Miles shakes his head. “
Three.
For your information, the number was
three
.” He rolls his eyes and smirks. “And by the way,
everyone
knows I’m going to Florence. So—nice try.”

“Everyone but
me
,” Damen says, jaws clenched, face gone suddenly pale.

“Well, I’m sure Ever told you. You know,
telepathically
.” He laughs, returning to his phone again.

I peer at Damen, wondering why he’s so upset over Miles’s trip. I mean, yeah, so he used to live there, but that was hundreds of years ago! I squeeze his hand, urging him to look at me, but he just stares at Miles with that same stricken look on his face.

“Nice try with the whole telepathy angle,” Haven says, swiping her finger across the top of her cupcake until it’s coated with strawberry frosting. “But I’m afraid you’re gonna have to try a little harder than that. All you’ve managed to prove is that you guys are even weirder than I thought. But no worries, I’ll get to the bottom of it. I’ll expose your dirty little secret before long.”

I hold back a nervous laugh, hoping she’s just messing around, then peering into her mind only to
see
that she’s serious.

“When are you leaving?” Damen asks, but only to appear conversational, having already uncovered the answer in Miles’s head.

“Soon, but not soon enough,” Miles says, eyes lighting up. “Let the countdown begin!”

Damen nods, gaze softening as he says, “You’ll love it. Everyone loves it.
Firenze
is a beautiful, charming place.”

“You’ve been?” Miles and Haven both ask at the same time.

Damen nods, gaze far away. “I lived there once—a long time ago.”

Haven glances between us, eyes narrowed again when she says, “Drina and Roman lived there too.”

Damen shrugs, expression noncommittal, as though the connection means nothing to him.

“Well, don’t you think that’s a little strange? All of you living in Italy, in the same
place
, then all of you ending up
here
—within months of each other?” She leans toward him, abandoning her cupcake in search of some answers.

But Damen’s solid, refusing to cave or do anything that might give it away. He just sips his red drink and lifts his shoulders again, as though it’s hardly worth going into.

“Is there anything I should see while I’m there?” Miles asks, more to break the tension than anything else. “Anything that shouldn’t be missed?”

Damen squints, pretending to think, even though the answer comes quickly. “All of Florence is worth seeing. But you should definitely check out the Ponte Vecchio, which is the first bridge to cross the Arno River and the only one left standing after the war. Oh, and you must visit the Galleria dell’Accademia which houses Michelangelo’s
David
among other important works, and perhaps the—”

“Definitely hitting
David
,” Miles says. “As well as the bridge, and the famous Il Duomo, and all the other items that make every guidebook top ten list, but I’m more interested in the smaller, off-the-beaten-path kind of places—you know, where all the cool Florentines go. Roman was raving about this one place, I forget the name, but it’s supposed to house some obscure Renaissance artifacts and paintings and stuff few people know about. You got anything like that? Or even clubs, shopping, that kind of thing?”

Damen looks at him, gaze so intense it sends a chill down my spine. “Nothing offhand,” he says, trying to soften the look though his voice betrays a definite edge. “Though any place that claims to house great art but isn’t in the guidebook is probably a fake. The antiquities market is loaded with forgeries. You shouldn’t waste your time on that when there are so many other, far more interesting things to see.”

Miles shrugs, bored by the conversation and already back to texting again. “Whatever,” he mumbles, thumbs tapping quickly. “No worries. Roman said he’d make me a list.”

“I’m amazed by the progress you’ve made.” Damen smiles. “You learned all this on your own?”

I nod, gazing around the large, empty room, pleased with myself for the first time in weeks.

The moment Damen mentioned he wanted to rid the place of all the overly slick furniture he’d filled it with during Roman’s reign of terror, I was on it. Jumping at the chance to clear out the row of black leather recliners and flat-screen TVs, the red felt pool table and chrome-covered bar—all of them symbols, physical manifestations, of the bleakest phase in our relationship so far. Taking aim at each piece with such unchecked enthusiasm that—well—I’m not even sure where it went. All I know is it’s no longer here.

“Looks like you’re no longer in need of my lessons.” He shakes his head.

“Don’t be so sure.” I turn, smiling as I push his dark wavy hair off his face with my newly gloved hand, hoping we’ll get that cure from Roman soon, or at least come up with a less hokey alternative. “I have no idea where that stuff even went—not to mention how I can’t possibly fill up this space when I have no clue where you stashed all the stuff you used to have.” Reaching for his hand a second too late, and frowning as he walks over to the window.

“The furniture”—he gazes out at his manicured lawn, voice low and deep—“is right back where it started. Returned to its original state of pure vibrating energy with the potential to become anything at all. And as for the rest—” He shrugs, the strong lines of his shoulders rising ever so slightly before settling again. “Well, it hardly matters anymore, does it? I’ve no need of it now.”

I stare at his back, taking in his lean form, his casual stance. Wondering how he could be so uninterested in reclaiming the precious artifacts of his past—the Picasso of him in the severe blue suit, the Velázquez astride a rearing white stallion—not to mention all the other amazing relics dating back centuries.

“But those objects are priceless! You have to get them back. They can never be replaced!”

“Ever, relax. It’s just
stuff
.” His voice firm, resigned, as he turns toward me again. “None of it has any
real
meaning. The only thing that means anything is
you
.”

And even though the sentiment is undeniably sweet and heartfelt, it doesn’t affect me in the way that it should. The only things he seems to care about these days is atoning for his karma and me. And while I’m perfectly fine with those occupying the number one and two spots on his list, the problem is—the rest of the page is blank.

“But that’s where you’re wrong. It’s
not
just stuff.” I move toward him, voice urging, coaxing, hoping to reach him and make him listen this time. “Signed books by Shakespeare and the Brontë sisters, chandeliers from Marie Antoinette and Louis the Sixteenth—that’s hardly what you’d call
stuff.
It’s
history
for God’s sake! You can’t just shrug it off as though it’s nothing more than a box of tired old objects you donate to Goodwill.”

He looks at me, gaze softening as he trails the tip of his gloved finger from my temple to my chin. “I thought you hated my ‘dusty old room’ as you once called it.”

“People change.” I shrug. Wishing, not for the first time, that
he’d
change back to the Damen I knew. “And speaking of change, why are you so freaked by Miles’s trip to Florence?” Noting the way he stiffens at the mere mention of the word. “Is it because of the whole Drina and Roman thing? The connection you don’t want him to know about?”

He looks at me for a moment, lips parting, about to speak, then he turns away and mumbles, “I’m hardly what you’d call
freaked
.”

“You know what? You’re absolutely right. For a normal person, that was hardly what you’d call
freaked.
But for the guy who’s always the coolest, calmest one in the room—all it takes is the slight narrowing of your eyes and the most minute clenching of your jaw to know you’re upset.”

He sighs, eyes searching mine as he moves toward me again. “You saw what happened in Florence.” He squints. “Despite all its virtues, it’s also a place of unbearable memories, ones I’d rather not explore.”

I swallow hard, remembering the images I viewed in Summerland—Damen hiding in a small dark cupboard, watching as his parents were murdered by thugs intent on obtaining the elixir—then later, abused as a ward of the church until the Black Plague swept through Florence and he encouraged Drina and the rest of the orphans to drink the immortal juice, hoping only to heal and having no idea it would grant eternal life—and I can’t help but feel like the world’s worst girlfriend for bringing it up.

“I prefer to focus on the present.” He nods, gesturing around the large empty room. “And right now I really need your help furnishing this space. According to my Realtor, buyers like a nice, clean, contemporary look when shopping for homes. And though I was thinking of leaving it empty, to really emphasize the size of the rooms, I suppose we should try—”

“Your
Realtor
?” I gasp, practically choking on the word as my voice raises several octaves at the end. “What could you possibly need a
Realtor
for?”

“I’m selling the house.” He shrugs. “I thought you understood?”

I gaze around, longing for that ancient velvet settee with the lumpy cushions, knowing it would provide the perfect landing for when my body collapses and my head quietly explodes.

But I just stand there instead, determined to keep it together. Gazing at my ridiculously gorgeous boyfriend of the last four hundred years as though it’s the first time we’ve met.

“Don’t look so upset. Nothing’s changed. It’s just a house. A seriously oversized house. Besides, I’ve never needed all this space anyway. I never even use most of these rooms.”

“And what exactly are you planning to replace it with, then?
A tent?
”

“I just thought I’d downsize, that’s all.” His gaze is pleading, begging me to understand. “Nothing sinister, Ever. Nothing meant to hurt you.”

“And is your Realtor going to help with that too? With the
downsizing
?” Studying him closely, wondering what’s gotten into him, and where this will end. “I mean, Damen, if you’re seriously looking to downsize, why not just manifest something smaller? Why are you choosing this conventional route?”

I flick my gaze over him, moving from his glorious head of longish dark glossy hair to his perfect rubber flip-flop–shod feet, remembering how, not so long ago, I longed to be normal again, just like everyone else. But now that I’m getting used to my powers I don’t see the point.

“What’s this really about?” I squint, feeling more than a little betrayed. “I mean, you’re the one who got me here. You’re the one who
made
me this way. And now that I’m finally adjusted, you decide to jump ship? Seriously. Why are you doing this?”

But instead of answering, he closes his eyes. Projecting an image of the two of us laughing and happy, frolicking on a beautiful, pink-sand beach.

But I just shake my head and cross my arms tighter, refusing to play until my questions are answered.

He sighs and stares out the window, turning toward me when he says, “I’ve already told you, my only recourse, my only way out of this hell of my making, is to atone for my karma. And the only way to do that is to forego the manifesting, the high life, the big spending, and all the other extravagances I’ve indulged myself in for the last six hundred years, so I can live the life of an ordinary citizen. Honest, hard working, and humble, with the same day-to-day struggles as anyone else.”

I stare at him, replaying his words in my head, hardly believing what I just heard. “And how exactly are you planning to do that?” I squint. “Seriously. In your six centuries of living, have you ever even held a real job?”

But even though I’m dead serious and not at all joking, he throws his head back and laughs like I was. Eventually calming down enough to say, “You honestly think no one will hire me?” He shakes his head and laughs even harder. “Ever, please. Don’t you think I’ve been around long enough to have honed a few skills?”

I start to respond, wanting to explain that while it’s truly remarkable to watch him paint a Picasso better than Picasso with one hand while simultaneously outdoing Van Gogh with the other, I really don’t think that’ll help him land that coveted barista position at the Starbucks on the corner.

But before I can say it, he’s standing beside me, moving with such speed and grace all I can manage is, “Well, for someone who’s turned his back on his gifts, you still move awfully fast.” Aware of that warm wonderful tingle swarming my skin as he slips his arms around my waist and pulls me close to his chest, carefully avoiding skin-on-skin contact. “And what about telepathy?” I whisper. “Are you planning to ditch that too?” So overcome by his proximity I can barely eke out the words.

“I’ve no plans to ditch anything that brings me closer to you,” he says, gaze on mine, steady and still. “As for the rest—” He shrugs, glancing around the large empty space before finding me again. “Tell me, what matters more, Ever? The size of my house—or the size of my heart?”

I bite my lip and avert my gaze, the truth of his words leaving me feeling small and ashamed.

“Does it really matter if I choose the bus over a BMW, and generic over Gucci? Because the car, the wardrobe, the zip code—those are just nouns, things that are fun to have around, sure, but in the end, they have nothing to do with the real me. Nothing to do with who I
really
am.”

I swallow hard, focusing on anything but him. It’s not that I care about his BMW or faux French chateaux, I mean, if I want those things I’ll just manifest them myself. But even though they aren’t important, if I’m going to be honest then I have to admit they were part of the initial attraction—adding to his sleek, shiny, mysterious persona that lured me right in.

But when I finally look at him again, standing before me, stripped bare of all the usual dazzle and flash, honed down to the very essence of who he really is, I realize he’s still the same, warm, wonderful guy he’s been all along. Which just proves his point. None of that other stuff matters.

None of it has anything to do with his soul.

I smile, suddenly remembering the one place where we can be together—safe and secure and protected from harm. Reaching for his gloved hand as I grasp it in mine, saying, “Come on, I want to show you something,” and pulling him along.