Shadowland (Immortals 3)

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.