The Immortals 3 - Shadowland (19 page)

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.

The moment I turn the corner, I run. Feet moving so quickly, it’s as though I can outrun Damen, the gallery, everything, all of it. The cobblestone first fading to pavement then grass, running past all of my usual Summerland haunts, determined to manifest one of my own—a place where Damen can’t go.

Making my way to the top of the wooden bleachers at my old school, facing the scoreboard that reads “GO BEARS!” and claiming the seat in the far right corner where I tried my first (and last) cigarette, where I kissed my ex-boyfriend Brandon for the very first time, and where my former friend Rachel and I once reigned supreme, giggling and flirting in our cheerleading outfits, totally unaware of just how complicated life can be.

I place my feet on the bench right before me and bring my head to my knees, choking back great, shoulder-heaving sobs as I try to make sense of what happened. Sniffling into a handful of manifested tissues as I gaze bleary eyed at a football field crowded with faceless, nameless players running through their practice drills as their hair-tossing girlfriends gossip and flirt from the side. Hoping such a familiar, normal scene will somehow provide the comfort I need—then making it fade when I only feel worse.

This is no longer my life. No longer my fate.

Damen’s my future. There’s no doubt in my mind.

Even though I get all jumpy and nervous whenever Jude’s near, even though there’s an undeniable
something
whenever we meet—it doesn’t mean anything. Doesn’t mean he’s The One. It’s merely the effect of our past familiarity, a subconscious recognition, no more.

Just because he played a part in my history doesn’t mean he has a role in my future other than
boss
at a summer job I never would’ve gone looking for if Sabine hadn’t made me. So how can I possibly be at fault? How can this possibly be anything other than just a weird coincidence, a pesky part of my past that, through no fault of mine, refuses to die?

I mean, it’s not like I went looking for this—right?

Right?

But even though my heart knows the truth, I can’t help but wonder just what we once meant to each other.

Did I really emerge from a lake not caring if he saw the nude me? Or was that portrait taken straight from his overactive imagination?

Which only leads me to more questions—ones I’d prefer to ignore, like:

Was I not really a virgin for the last four hundred years like I thought?

Did I actually sleep with Jude and
not
Damen?

And if so, is that why I feel so shy and weird around him now?

I gaze at the empty field before me, turning it into the Roman Coliseum, the Egyptian Pyramids, the Acropolis in Athens, the Grand Bazaar in Istanbul, the Opera House in Sydney, St. Mark’s Square in Venice, the Medina in Marrakech—watching the scenery whirl and change, becoming all the places I hope to visit someday, knowing only one thing for sure:

I’ve got three months.

Three months without Damen.

Three months of knowing he’s out there, somewhere, but unable to touch him, access him, be with him again.

Three months in which to learn enough magick to solve all our problems and get him back for good.

Knowing more than I’ve ever known anything—that he alone is my future, my destiny, no matter what came before.

I focus back on the scenery, the Grand Canyon morphing into Machu Picchu, which becomes the Great Wall of China, knowing there’s plenty of time for this later, but for now, I’ve got to go back.

Back to the earth plane.

Back to the store.

Hoping to catch Jude before he closes up shop, needing him to teach me, once and for all, how to read that book.

All week I avoided Sabine. I didn’t think it was possible, but between school, my new job, and Miles’s final
Hairspray
performance, I was pretty much scot-free until the moment I’m about to toss my breakfast down the sink.

“So.” She smiles, sidling up beside me, dressed in workout clothes and glistening with the glow of good health and sweat. “Don’t we have something to talk about? A conversation you’ve worked hard to delay?”

I reach for my glass and shrug, unsure what to say.

“How’s your new job? Everything okay?”

I nod, easy, noncommittal, as though I’m far too interested in chugging this juice to respond.

“Because I can probably still squeeze you in on that internship if you’d like—”

I shake my head and finish the remains, including the pulp. Rinsing my cup and placing it into the dishwasher as I say, “Not necessary.” Catching the expression on her face and adding, “Really. It’s all good.”

She studies me, gaze intense, really taking me in. “Ever, why didn’t you mention that Paul was your teacher?”

I freeze, but only for a moment before I turn my attention to a bowl of cereal I have no interest in eating. Grabbing a spoon and swirling the contents around and around as I say, “Because
Paul
with the cool shoes and designer jeans
isn’t
my teacher.
Mr. Munoz
with the dork glasses and pressed khakis
is
.” I lift the spoon to my mouth, carefully avoiding her gaze.

“I just can’t believe you didn’t say anything.” She shakes her head and frowns.

I shrug, pretending I don’t want to speak with my mouth full, when the truth is, I don’t want to speak.

“Does it bother you? That I’m dating your teacher?” She squints, sliding the towel off her neck and pressing it to her forehead.

I stir the cereal around and around, knowing there’s no way I can eat any more, not after she’s started all this. “As long as you don’t talk about me.” I study her closely, reading her aura, her body language, noting the way she just shifted uncomfortably, and stopping just short of peering into her head. “I mean, you don’t talk about me,
right
?” I add, gaze fixed on hers.

But she just laughs, averting her eyes as a flush blooms on her cheeks. “Turns out we’ve got much more in common than that.”

“Yeah? Like what?” I mash my spoon against my cereal, displacing my frustration onto my Froot Loops and turning them into a soggy, rainbow-colored mess. Wondering if I should break the news to her now or save it for later. The startling revelation that this love match won’t last—not according to the vision I saw of her paired up with some cute, nameless guy who works in her building—

“Well, for starters we’re both fascinated by the Italian Renaissance—”

I look at her, fighting the urge to roll my eyes. Having never heard her mention that and I’ve lived with her for nearly a year.

“We both love Italian food—”

Oh yeah, definitely soul mates. The only two people who actually like pizza and pasta and stuff drenched with red sauce and cheese
...

“
And
as of Friday, he’ll be spending quite a bit of time in my building!”

I stop. Stop everything. Including breathing and blinking, so I can stand there and gape.

“He’s working as an expert witness on a case that—”

Her lips keep moving, hands gesturing, but I stopped listening a few sentences back. Her words drowned by the sound of my own crashing heart, accompanied by the silent scream that crowds everything out.

No!

It can’t be.

Can’t. Be.

Can it?

Remembering the vision that night in the restaurant—Sabine getting together with a cute guy who works in her building—a guy, who, without the glasses I didn’t even recognize as Munoz! Knowing immediately what this really means—this is it—her destiny—Munoz is The One!

“You okay?” Her hand reaches for mine as concern clouds her face.

But I pull away quickly, avoiding her touch. Swallowing hard as I paste a smile onto my face, knowing she deserves to be happy—heck, even
he
deserves to be happy. But still—why do they have to be happy together? Seriously, out of all the men she could date, why does it have to be my teacher, the one who knows my secret?

I look at her, forcing a nod as I drop my bowl in the sink, fleeing for the door as I say, “Yeah—it’s all good, seriously. I just—I don’t want to be late.”