Shadowland (The Immortals #3)

We tumble forward, hands clasped together as we land with a thud. Taking a moment to look around when I say, “Omigod—this is—”

“Amsterdam.” He nods, eyes narrowing as he adjusts to the mist. “Only not the real Amsterdam, the Summerland version. I would’ve taken you to the real one, but I figured this trip was shorter.”

I gaze all around, taking in the canals, the bridges, the windmills, the fields of red tulips—wondering if he created that last part for me, then remembering how Holland is famous for its flowers—especially its tulips.

“You don’t recognize it, do you?” he asks, studying me carefully as I shake my head. “Give it some time, you will. I’ve recreated it from memory, how I remember it back in the nineteenth century when you and I were last there. It’s a pretty good copy if I say so myself.”

He leads me across the street, pausing long enough to allow an empty carriage to pass, before continuing to a small storefront, its door wide open, as a lively crowd of faceless people gather inside. Watching me carefully, eager to see if a memory’s sparked, but I move away, wanting to get a feel on my own, trying to picture the former me in this place—the red-haired, green-eyed me—walking among these white walls, wood floors at my feet, gazing at the line of paintings dotting the perimeter as I weave through the patrons who begin to fade at the edges before strengthening again. Knowing that Damen’s responsible for keeping them here, having manifested their very existence.

I move along the walls, assuming this is a re-creation of the gallery where we first met, though disappointed to find it not the least bit familiar. Noting how all the paintings blur and fade until they’re completely imperceptible, except for the one just before me, the only one that’s intact.

I lean forward, squinting at a girl with abundant titian hair—a luxurious blend of reds, golds, and browns contrasting so beautifully with her expanse of pale skin. Painted in a way so tangible, so smooth, so inviting—it’s as though one could step in.

My gaze roams the length of her, seeing she’s nude though strategically covered. The ends of her hair damp and conforming, tumbling over her shoulders and hanging well past her waist, while her hands are folded, resting atop a pink flushed thigh turned slightly in. Though it’s the eyes that grab me, made of the deepest green and holding a gaze so direct, so open, as though staring at a lover, not the least bit ashamed at having been caught in this state.

My stomach twitches, while my heart begins to flutter, and even though I’m aware of Damen standing right there beside me, I can’t look at him. Can’t include him in this. Something is creeping upon me, the birth of an idea tugging, nudging, demanding to be known. And before I’ve even blinked, I see it. As sure as I see the gilt frame surrounding the canvas, I know that the woman is me!

The prior me.

The Dutch me.

The artist’s muse me who fell for Damen the night we met in this gallery.

But the thing that disturbs me, the thing that keeps me quiet and still, is the sudden realization that the unseen lover she gazes upon isn’t Damen.

It’s somebody else.

Someone unseen.

“So you recognize her.” Damen’s voice smooth, matter-of-fact, not the least bit surprised that I do. “It’s the eyes, right?” He peers at me, face very close when he adds, “The color may change, but their essence stays the same.”

I glance at him, taking in the lush fringe of lashes that nearly obscure the wistfulness of his gaze—prompting me to quickly turn away.

How old was I? Not trusting my voice with the words. The face appearing unlined and youthful, though the confidence is that of a woman, not a girl.

“Eighteen.” He nods, continuing to study me. Gaze pushing, probing, wanting me to be the first one to say it, pleading for me to just speak up—to spare him this task. Following my gaze to the painting as he adds, “You were beautiful. Truly. Just like this. He captured you so—perfectly.”

He.

So there it is.

The edge in his voice speaking volumes—revealing everything his words only hint at. He knows the identity of the artist. Knows it wasn’t him I unclothed myself for.

I swallow hard, eyes narrowing as I try to make sense of the black, angular scrawl at the bottom right corner. Deciphering a series of consonants and vowels, a combination of letters that mean nothing to me.

“Bastiaan de Kool,” Damen says, gazing at me.

I turn, my eyes meeting his, unable to speak.

“Bastiaan de Kool is the artist who painted this. Painted you.” He turns toward the portrait, eyes roaming over it again, before returning to me.

I shake my head, feeling light, woozy—everything I once thought I knew—about me—about us—the entire foundation of our lives suddenly gone tenuous and weak.

Damen nods, there’s no need to press it. Both of us recognizing the truth displayed right before us.

“In case you’re wondering, it was over before the paint even dried. Or at least that’s what I convinced myself of—” He shakes his head. “But now—well, I’m no longer sure.”

I gape, eyes wide, uncomprehending. What could this painting—this century-old version of me—have anything to do with us—the way we are now?

“Would you like to meet him?” he asks, gaze shadowed, distant, difficult to read.

“Bastiaan?” The name oddly comfortable on my lips.

Damen nods, willing to manifest him if I’ll only agree. But just as I’m about to refuse, he places his hand on my arm and says, “I think you should. It only seems fair.”

I take a deep breath, focusing on the warmth of his hand as he closes his eyes in deep concentration, summoning a tall, rangy, slightly disheveled guy from what was once empty space. Letting go of my arm as he moves away, allowing me plenty of room in which to study, observe, before we run out of time and he fades.

I move toward him, walking slow, wide circles around this blank, hollow stranger—this bright, empty, creation—soulless, unreal.

Noting his traits in an offhand way—the height making him appear even slighter, the hint of lean, sinewy muscle lightly padding his bones—the clothes that are clean and of decent quality and cut, hanging slightly off kilter, the skin so pale and flawless it nearly matches my own, while his hair is dark, wavy, brushed to the side, a good chunk of bang falling heavily into a startling pair of eyes.

I gasp, forcing the air into my lungs as he soon fades away, hearing Damen say, “Would you like me to refresh him again?” Obviously hating to do so, but willing to oblige if I ask.

But I just continue to stand there, staring into a swirl of vibrating pixels that soon vanish completely. Knowing I don’t need him revived to know who he is.

Jude.

The guy who was standing before me, the Dutch artist who went by the name of Bastiaan de Kool in the nineteenth century—has now reincarnated into this century as Jude.

I reach for something to steady me, feeling shaky, empty, off balance. Realizing too late that there’s nothing to catch me, until Damen quickly moves to my side.

“Ever!” he cries, voice so urgent it resonates to my core, his arms tightening around me, shielding me in a way that feels just like home. Manifesting a soft, plushy couch where he guides me to sit, his gaze hovering over me, anxious, unnerved, having no intention of upsetting me like this.

I turn, holding my breath as my eyes meet his, afraid of finding something different, something changed, now that it’s all laid out in the open. Now that we both know it wasn’t always just him.

That there was once someone else.

And I know him today.

“I don’t—” I shake my head, feeling embarrassed, guilty, as though I’ve somehow betrayed him by unknowingly seeking him out. “I’m not sure what to say—I—”

Damen shakes his head, his hand at my cheek, drawing me near. “Don’t think that,” he says. “None of this is your fault. You hear me? None of it. It’s just karma.” He pauses, gaze holding mine. “It’s just unfinished business—so to speak.”

“But what could be unfinished?” I ask, having an inkling of an idea of where this is going and refusing to take part in that journey. “That was over a hundred years ago! And like you said, it was over before the paint even—”

But before I can get there, he’s shaking his head, hand on my cheek, my shoulder, my knee, as he says, “I’m no longer so sure about that.”

I look at him, fighting the urge to pull away. Wishing he’d stop. Wanting to leave. No longer liking it here.

“It seems I’ve interfered,” he says, face hard, judgmental, though it’s a judgment reserved only for him. “It seems I have a habit of intruding on your life, meddling in decisions that should’ve been yours. Pushing a fate that”—he pauses, jaw clenched, gaze steady, though his lip quivers in a way that reveals the price of all this—“that was never meant to be yours—”

“What are you talking about?” I cry, voice high, urgent, sensing the energy surrounding his words, and knowing it’s about to get worse.

“Isn’t it obvious?” He looks at me, the light in his eyes fractured into millions of bits—a kaleidoscope of darkness that may never be fixed.

He rises from the couch in one quick, sinuous move until he’s filling the space just before me. But before he can speak, before he can make things even worse, I rush ahead when I say, “This is ridiculous! All of it! Everything! It’s destiny that’s brought us together again and again. We’re soul mates! You said it yourself! And from what I’ve learned, that’s exactly how it works—soul mates find each other, time and again, against all odds, no matter what!” I reach for his hand but he’s slipped just out of reach, pacing before me, avoiding my touch.

“Destiny?” He shakes his head, voice harsh, gaze cruel, but all of it directed inwardly. “Was it destiny when I purposely roamed the earth in search of you—over and over again—unable to rest until I’d found you?” He stops, eyes meeting mine. “Tell me Ever, does that sound like destiny to you? Or something that was forced?”

I start to speak, lips parting wide though no words will come, watching as he turns toward the wall and stares at the girl. That proud and beautiful girl whose gaze moves right past him—toward somebody else.

“Somehow I was able to ignore all of this, push it aside for the last four hundred years, convincing myself it was our fate, that you and I were meant to be. But the other day, when you dropped by after work, I sensed something different—a shift in your energy. And then last night, at the store—I knew.

I stare at his back, the solid square of his shoulders—his lean, muscled form. Remembering how he acted so strangely, so formal, and thinking how it all makes perfect sense.

“The moment I saw his eyes, I knew.” He turns, his gaze meeting mine. “So tell me, Ever, tell me the truth, was it not the same way with you?”

I swallow hard, wanting to look away, but knowing I can’t. He’ll misread it, assume I’m holding back. Remembering the moment Jude caught me alone in his store, the way my heart raced, my cheeks flushed, along with the odd, nervous dance in my gut. One moment I was fine and the next—a mess. And all because Jude’s deep sea green eyes met mine…

It couldn’t mean—

Couldn’t possibly—

Could it?

I rise from the couch, moving toward him ’til our bodies are mere inches apart. Wanting to assure him, assure me. Find a way to prove that none of it meant anything.

But this is Summerland. And thoughts are energy. And I’m afraid he just witnessed mine.

“It’s not your fault,” he says, voice hoarse, rough. “Please don’t feel bad.”

I shove my hands in my pockets, pushing as deep as they’ll go, determined to steady myself in a world that’s no longer stable.

“I want you to know how sorry I am. And yet—” He shakes his head. “Sorry just doesn’t cut it. It’s woefully inadequate, and you deserve better than that. I’m afraid the only thing I can do now—the only thing that’ll make things right, is to—”

His voice breaks, prompting me to lift my face until it’s even with his. The two of us standing so close the slightest move forward could easily bridge the gap.

But just as I’m about to make the leap, he backs away, gaze steady, features drawn tight, determined to be heard when he says, “I’m stepping aside. It’s the only thing I can do at this point. From this moment on, I will no longer interfere with your fate. From this point on, every move toward your destiny is yours and yours alone to make.”

My vision goes blurry, throat hot and tight. Surely he can’t mean what I think?

Can he?

Gazing upon him as he stands before me, my perfect soul mate, the love of my lives, the one person I was sure was my shelter now leaving my side.

“I’ve no right to barge into your life in the way that I have. Never giving you the chance to choose for yourself. And you know what the worst part is?” He looks at me, eyes filled with such self-loathing I’m pressed to look away. “I wasn’t even noble enough, wasn’t even man enough, to play fair.” He shakes his head. “I used every trick in the book, all the powers at my disposal to annihilate the competition. And while I’ve no way to change the past four hundred years—nor the immortality I’ve forced upon you—I’m hoping that now—by stepping aside—I’ll allow you some smidgen of freedom in allowing you to choose.”

“Between you and Jude?” I gape, voice rising to the point of hysteria, wanting him to say it. Just say it. Quit dancing around it and get to the point.

But he just continues to stand there, world-weary gaze focused on mine.

“Well, there is no choice! No choice at all! Jude is my boss—he’s not the least bit interested in me—or I in him!”

“Then you fail to see what I see,” Damen says, as though it’s a fact—some large, solid object parked right before me.

“That’s because there’s nothing to see. Don’t you get it? All I see is you!” I gaze at him, vision blurry, hands shaky, feeling so awful and empty as though each breath just might be my last.

But as soon as I’ve said it, Damen highlights the painting again. Causing it to glow in a way that can’t be ignored. But even though he thinks it’s significant, that girl is a stranger to me. My soul may have once occupied her body, but it’s no longer home.

I start to speak, wanting to explain that, but no words will come. Only a long piercing wail that courses from my mind to his. A sound that means please and don’t—a sound without end.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he says, immune to my plea. “I’ll always be close, somewhere nearby. Able to sense you, keeping you safe. But as for the rest—” He shakes his head, voice defeated, sad, but determined to be heard. “I’m afraid I can no longer—I’m afraid I’ll have to—”

But I won’t let him finish, can’t let him finish, cutting right in when I cry, “I’ve already tried a life without you, when I went back in time, and guess what? Fate sent me right back!” Gaze blurred by tears, but I don’t turn away. I want him to see it. Want him to know exactly what his misguided altruism is costing me.

“But, Ever, that doesn’t mean you were meant to be with me, maybe you were sent back to find Jude, and now that you have—”

“Fine,” I say, refusing to let him finish, not when I have plenty more evidence proving my case. “Then what about the time you held your hand close, making me focus on our tingle and heat, claiming that’s exactly how it feels between soul mates? What about that? Did you not mean it? Are you taking it back?”

“Ever—” He shakes his head and rubs his eyes. “Ever, I—”

“Don’t you get it?” I shake my head, sensing his energy, knowing it won’t make the least bit of difference but continuing anyway. “Don’t you see that I only want you?”

He brings his hand to my cheek, fingers so soft and loving—a cruel reminder of what I’ll no longer have—his thoughts traveling the distance from his head to mine, pleading with me to understand, to give it some time.

Please don’t think this is easy for me. I had no idea how painful it is to act without the slightest hint of self-interest—maybe that’s why I never tried before? He smiles, attempting a bit of levity that I refuse to accept. Wanting him to feel as awful and empty as me. I robbed you of ever seeing your family again—put your very soul at risk—his gaze narrows on mine—But, Ever, you’ve got to listen, you must understand, it’s time for you to choose the one thing you still can—without interference from me!

“I’ve already chosen,” I say, voice wooden, weary, too tired to fight. “I chose you and you can’t take it back.” I look at him, knowing my words are useless, he’s fixed on his plan. “Damen, seriously, so I knew him hundreds of years ago in a country I haven’t visited since. Big deal! One life—out of how many?”

He looks at me for a moment, then closes his eyes, voice barely a whisper as he says, “It wasn’t just one life, Ever.” Fading the gallery though keeping the windmills and tulips as he manifests a whole world before me—several worlds in fact—Paris—London—New England—all lined up in a row, placed right in the middle of Amsterdam where we both stand. Worlds that stay true to their time—the architecture, the clothing—all indicative of their period—yet devoid of their citizens—populated only by three.

Me in all of my guises—a lowly Parisian servant—spoiled London society girl—daughter of a Puritan—with Jude always beside me—a French stable boy—a British Earl—a fellow parishioner—each of us different, changing, though the eyes are the same.

And I watch, focusing on one vignette at a time, the scene playing before me like a well-staged play. My interest in Jude always waning the moment Damen comes on the scene—just as magical and mesmerizing as he is today, using all of his tricks to steal me away.

I stand there, breathless, no idea what to say. All I know is that I want it to fade.

I face him, understanding why he feels like he does, but knowing it doesn’t make the least bit of difference. Not to me. Not where my heart is concerned.

“So you’ve made up your mind. Fine. I don’t like it, but fine. But what I really need to know is just how long are we talking here? Couple days? A week?” I shake my head. “Just how long will it take for you to accept the fact that no matter what happens, no matter what you may think or say, no matter how unfair the fight may have seemed, I choose you. I’ve always chosen you. For me there’s only you.”

“This isn’t something you can attach a date to—you’ve got to give yourself time, time to release your attachment to me—time to move on—”

“Just because you’re determined to do this, just because you want to make things right despite what I say, just because you invented the game doesn’t mean you make all the rules. Because if you’re truly intent on letting me choose, then I choose until the end of today.”

He shakes his head, eyes appearing the slightest bit lighter, and if I’m not mistaken, tinged with a hint of relief.

And in that moment, I know—a glimmer of hope that makes my heart soar. He hates this just as much as I do. I’m not the only one around here in need of an end date.

“The end of the year,” he says, jaw clenched in a way that tells me he’s trying to be noble, gallant, ridiculously so. “That should allow plenty of time.”

I shake my head, barely allowing him the chance to finish when I say, “By the end of tomorrow. I’m sure I’ll have my decision by then.”

But he’s not having it, refusing to even negotiate, saying, “Ever, please, we’ve our whole lives ahead of us if that’s what you choose. Trust me, there’s really no hurry.”

“The end of next week.” I nod, voice tightening, wondering how I’ll possibly make it ’til then.

“The end of the summer,” he says, the words final as his gaze meets mine.

I stand before him, unable to speak. Thinking how the summer I’ve been anticipating since we first got together—imagining three months of frolic and fun in the Laguna Beach sun—has quickly deteriorated into the loneliest season.

Knowing there’s no more to say, I move away. Ignoring his hand reaching for mine, wanting to make the return trip together.

If he’s so determined for me to choose my own path, then I choose to start now. By leaving the gallery and heading onto the street, making my way through Amsterdam, Paris, London, and New England, without once looking back.