Shadowland (The Immortals #3)

“Guess what?”

Miles gazes at me as he climbs into my car, big brown eyes wider than usual, cute baby face curving into a grin. “No, you know what? Don’t guess. I’ll just tell you, ’cause you’re never gonna believe it! You’re never gonna guess!”

I smile, hearing his thoughts a few moments before he can speak them, refraining from saying: You’re going to acting camp in Italy! Just moments before he says, “I’m going to acting camp in Italy! No, correction, make that Florence, Italy! Home of Leonardo da Vinci, Michelangelo, Raphael—”

And your good friend Damen Auguste, who actually knew all of those artists!

“I’ve known about the possibility for a few weeks but it just became official last night and I still can’t believe it! Eight weeks in Florence, doing nothing but acting, eating, and stalking smoldering hot Italian men…”

I glance at him as I back out of his drive. “And Holt’s good with all that?”

Miles looks at me. “Hey, you know the drill. What happens in Italy stays in Italy.”

Except when it doesn’t. My thoughts drifting to Drina and Roman, wondering how many more immortal rogues are still out there, just waiting to show up in Laguna Beach and terrorize me.

“Anyway, I’m leaving soon, just after school gets out. And I have so much to prepare between now and then! Oh, and I almost forgot the best part—well—one of the best parts. As it just so happens it all works out perfectly since my Hairspray run ends the week before I leave, so I’ll still get my final bow as Tracy Turnblad—I mean, seriously, how perfect is that?”

“Seriously perfect.” I smile. “Really. Congrats. That’s so cool. And well deserved I might add. I only wish I could go with you.”

And the moment I say it, I realize it’s true. It would be so nice to escape all my problems, board a plane and fly away from all this. Besides, I miss hanging with Miles. The last few weeks when he and Haven (along with the rest of the school) were under Roman’s spell were some of the loneliest days of my life. Not having Damen beside me was more than I could bear, but not having the support of my two best friends nearly sent me over the edge. But Miles and Haven don’t remember any of that, none of them do. Only Damen can access small bits and pieces, and what he recalls leaves him feeling terribly guilty.

“I wish you could come too,” he says, messing with my car stereo, trying to find just the right soundtrack to match his good mood. “Maybe after graduation we can all go to Europe! We can get Eurail passes, stay in youth hostels, backpack around—how cool would that be? Just the six of us, you know, you and Damen, Haven and Josh, and me and whoever…”

“You and whoever?” I glance at him. “What’s that about?”

“I’m a realist.” He shrugs.

“Please.” I roll my eyes. “Since when?”

“Since last night when I found out I’m going to Italy.” He laughs, running a hand through his cropped brown hair. “Listen, Holt’s great and all, don’t get me wrong. But I’m not fooling myself. I’m not pretending it’s anything more than it is. It’s like we’ve got an expiration date, you know? A full three acts with a definite beginning, middle, and end. It’s not like with you and Damen. You guys are different. You’re lifers.”

“Lifers?” I peer at him, shaking my head as I stop at a traffic light. “Sounds more like a prison term than a happily ever after.”

“You know what I mean.” He inspects his manicure, turning his hot-pink Tracy Turnblad nails this way and that. “It’s just that you guys are so in tune with each other, so connected. And I mean that literally by the way since you’re pretty much always going at it.”

Not anymore. I swallow hard, punching the gas the second the light turns green, crossing the intersection with a loud screech of wheels and leaving a thick trail of rubber behind. Refusing to slow until I pull into the parking lot and scan for Damen who always parks in the second best space next to mine.

But even after I set the brake, he’s nowhere to be found. And I’m just about to climb out, wondering where he could be, when he appears right beside me, gloved hand on my door.

“Where’s your car?” Miles asks, glancing at him as he slams his door shut and slings his backpack over his shoulder. “And what’s up with your hand?”

“I got rid of it,” Damen says, gaze fixed on mine. Then glancing at Miles and seeing his expression he adds, “The car, not the hand.”

“Did you trade it in?” I ask, but only because Miles is listening. Damen doesn’t need to buy, trade, or sell, like normal people do. He can just manifest anything at will.

He shakes his head and walks me to the gate, smiling as he says, “No, I just dropped it off on the side of the road, key in the ignition, engine running.”

“Excuse me?” Miles yelps. “You mean to tell me that you left your shiny, black, BMW M6 Coupe—by the side of the road?”

Damen nods.

“But that’s a hundred-thousand-dollar car!” Miles gasps as his face turns bright red.

“A hundred and ten.” Damen laughs. “Don’t forget, it was fully customized and loaded with options.”

Miles stares at him, eyes practically bugging out of his head, unable to comprehend how anyone could do such a thing—why anyone would do such a thing. “Um, okay, so let me get this straight—you just woke up and decided—Hey, what the hell? I think I’ll just dump my ridiculously expensive luxury car by the side of the road—WHERE JUST ANYONE CAN TAKE IT?”

Damen shrugs. “Pretty much.”

“Because in case you haven’t noticed,” Miles says, practically hyperventilating now. “Some of us are a little car deprived. Some of us were born to parents so cruel and unusual they’re forced to rely on the kindness of friends for the rest of their lives!”

“Sorry.” Damen shrugs. “Guess I hadn’t thought about that. Though if it makes you feel any better, it was all for a very good cause.”

And when he looks at me, eyes meeting mine in that way that he has, along with the usual wave of warmth I get this horrible feeling that ditching the car is just the start of his plans.

“How’d you get to school?” I ask, just as we reach the front gate where Haven is waiting.

“He rode the bus.” Haven glances between us, her recently dyed, royal blue bangs falling into her face. “I kid you not. I wouldn’t have believed it either, but I saw it with my own eyes. Watched him climb right off that big yellow bus with all the other freshmen, dorks, retards, and rejects who, unlike Damen, have no other choice but to ride.” She shakes her head. “And I was so shocked by the sight of it, I blinked a bunch of times just to make sure it was really him. And then, when I still wasn’t convinced, I snapped a pic on my cell and sent it to Josh who confirmed it.” She holds it up for us to see.

I glance at Damen, wondering what he could possibly be up to, and that’s when I notice he’s ditched his usual cashmere sweater in place of a plain cotton tee, and how his designer jeans have been replaced with no-name plain pockets. Even the black motorcycle boots he’s practically famous for have been swapped for brown rubber flip-flops. And even though he doesn’t need any of that dash and flash to look as devastatingly handsome as the first day we met—this new low-key look just isn’t him.

Or at least not the him that I’m used to.

I mean, while Damen is undeniably smart, kind, loving, and generous—he’s also more than a tad flamboyant and vain. Always obsessed with his clothes, his car, his image in general. And don’t even try and pin him down on his exact date of birth, because for someone who chose to be immortal he has a definite complex about his age.

But even though I normally couldn’t care less about the clothes he wears or his ride to school, when I look at him again, I get this horrible ping in my gut—an insistent push, demanding my notice. A definite warning that this is merely the beginning. That this sudden transformation goes way deeper than some cost-cutting, altruistic, environmentally conscious agenda. No, this has something to do with last night. Something about being haunted by his karma. Like he’s convinced himself that giving up his most prized possessions will somehow balance it all out.

“Shall we?” He smiles, grasping my hand the second the bell rings, leading me away from Miles and Haven who’ll spend the next three periods texting back and forth, trying to determine what’s up with Damen.

I look at him, his gloved hand in mine as we head down the hall, whispering, “What’s going on? What really happened to your car?”

“I already told you.” He shrugs. “I don’t need it. It’s an unnecessary indulgence I no longer care to—indulge.” He laughs, looking at me. But when I fail to join in he shakes his head and says, “Don’t look so serious. It’s not a big deal. When I realized it’s not something I need, I drove it out to a depressed area and left it by the side of the road where someone can find it.”

I press my lips together and stare straight ahead, wishing I could climb inside his mind and see the thoughts he keeps to himself, get to the bottom of what this is really about. Because despite the way he looks at me, despite the dismissive shrug that he gives, nothing he’s said makes the least bit of sense.

“Well, that’s fine and all, I mean, if that’s what you need to do, then great, have fun.” I shrug, fully convinced that it’s not at all great, though knowing better than to say it out loud. “But just how are you planning to get around now that you’ve ditched your ride? I mean, in case you haven’t noticed, this is California, you can’t get anywhere without a car.”

He looks at me, clearly amused by my outburst, which is not exactly the reaction I’d planned. “What’s wrong with the bus? It’s free.”

I gape, shaking my head, hardly believing my ears. And since when do you worry about cost, Mr. I Make Millions Playing The Ponies And Just Manifest Whatever Else I Might Want? Realizing just after it’s out that I forgot to shield my thoughts.

“Is that how you see me?” He stops just shy of the classroom door, obviously hurt by my careless assessment. “As some shallow, materialistic, narcissistic, consumer-driven slob?”

“No!” I cry, shaking my head and squeezing his hand. Hoping to convince him even though I actually did kind of mean it. Only not in a bad way like he thinks. More in a my boyfriend appreciates the finer things in life kind of way, and less in a my boyfriend’s the male version of Stacia kind of way. “I just—” I squint, wishing I could be even half as eloquent as him, but still forging ahead when I say, “I guess I just don’t get it.” I shrug. “And what’s up with the glove?” I raise his leather-clad hand to where we can see.

“Isn’t it obvious?” He shakes his head and pulls me toward the door.

But I just stay put, refusing to budge. Nothing’s obvious. Nothing makes sense anymore.

He pauses, hand on the knob, more than a little hurt when he says, “I thought it was a good solution for now. But perhaps you’d prefer I not touch you at all?”

No! That’s not what I meant! Switching to telepathy the moment some classmates approach, reminding him how hard it’s been avoiding any and all skin-on-skin contact for the last three days. Pretending I had a cold when we both know we don’t get sick, and other ridiculous avoidance techniques that left me feeling deeply ashamed. It’s been torture, pure and simple. To have a boyfriend so gorgeous, so sexy, so amazingly awesome—and to not be able to touch him—is the worst kind of agony.

“I mean, I know we can’t risk any accidental palm sweat exchange or anything like that, but still, don’t you think it looks kind of—odd?” I whisper, the second we’re alone again.

“I don’t care about that.” His gaze open, sincere, and fixed right on mine. “I don’t care what other people think. I only care about you.”

He squeezes my fingers and opens the door with his mind, leading me right past Stacia Miller as we head for our desks. And even though I haven’t seen her since Friday when she woke from Roman’s spell, I’m sure her hatred for me hasn’t dampened a bit. But while I’m fully braced for her usual ploy of dropping her bag in my path in an attempt to trip me—today she’s too distracted by Damen’s new look to play that tired old game. Her unhurried gaze traveling the length of him, from his head to his toes, before starting all over again.

But just because she ignores me doesn’t mean I can relax or trust that it’s over. Because the truth is, it’s never over with Stacia. She’s made that abundantly clear. If anything she’s probably more charged up and vicious than ever—making this little reprieve nothing more than the calm before the storm.

“Ignore her,” Damen whispers, scooting his desk so close the edges practically overlap.

And even though I nod as though I am, the truth is—I can’t. As much as I’d love to pretend she’s invisible—I can’t do it. She’s in front of me now and I’m completely obsessed. Peering into her thoughts, wanting to see what, if anything, happened between them. Because even though I know Roman’s responsible for all of the flirting, and kissing, and cuddling, I had no choice but to watch. Even though I know for a fact that Damen was completely deprived of free will—that doesn’t change the fact that it happened—that Damen’s lips pressed against hers while his hands roamed her skin. And even though I’m pretty sure it didn’t go any further than that, I’d still feel a heck of a lot better if I could just get some evidence to back up my theory.

And despite how crazy, hurtful, and completely masochistic it is—I won’t stop until her memory gives, and every last horrible, painful, excruciating detail is finally revealed.

I’m just about to delve deeper, travel to the very core of her brain, when Damen squeezes my hand and says, “Ever, please. Stop torturing yourself. I’ve already told you, there’s nothing to see.” I swallow hard, gaze fixed on the back of her head, watching her gossip with Honor and Craig, barely listening as he adds, “It didn’t happen. It’s not what you think.”

“I thought you couldn’t remember?” I turn, overcome with shame the instant I see the pain in his eyes as he looks at me and shakes his head.

“Just trust me.” He sighs. “Or at least try to. Please?”

I inhale deeply, gazing at him, wishing I could, knowing I should.

“Seriously, Ever. First you couldn’t get over the past six hundred years of my dating, and now you’re obsessed with last week?” He knits his brow and leans closer, voice urgent, coaxing, as he adds, “I know that your feelings are unbelievably hurt. Really, I do. But what’s done is done. I can’t go back, I can’t change it. Roman’s done this on purpose—you can’t let him win.”

I swallow hard, knowing he’s right. I’m acting ridiculous, irrational, allowing myself to veer way off track.

Besides, Damen thinks, switching to telepathy now that our teacher, Mr. Robins, has arrived. You know it’s meaningless. The only one I’ve ever loved is you. Isn’t that enough?

He brings his gloved thumb to my temple, gazing into my eyes as he shows me our history, my many incarnations as a young servant girl in France, a Puritan’s daughter in New England, a flirtatious British socialite, an artist’s muse with gorgeous red hair—

I gape, eyes wide, never having seen that particular life before.

But he just smiles, gaze growing warmer as he shows me the highlights of that time, a quick clip of the moment we met—at a gallery opening in Amsterdam—our first kiss just outside of the gallery that very same night. Presenting only the most romantic moments and sparing my death, which always, inevitably, comes before we can progress.

And after watching all of those beautiful moments unfold, his unabashed love for me laid bare to see, I gaze into his eyes, answering his question when I think: Of course it’s enough. You’ve always been enough.

Then closing them in shame when I add: But am I enough for you?

Finally admitting the real truth—my fear that he’ll soon tire of the gloved hand-holding, the telepathic embrace, and seek out the real thing in a normal girl with safe DNA.

He nods, gloved fingers cupping my chin as he gathers me into a mental embrace so warm, so safe, so comforting, all of my fears slip away. Answering the apology in my gaze as he leans forward, lips at my ear as he says, “Good. Now that that’s settled, about Roman…”