Shadowland (Immortals 3)

I swallow hard, seeing the deeply etched lines, but that’s not where the story lives—at least not for me. “I don’t actually read ’em,” I say, voice betraying my nervousness, as I work up the courage to touch him. “It’s more the—the energy—I just—tune into it. That’s where all the info is.”

He pulls back, studying me so closely I can’t meet his eyes. Knowing I need to just touch him, get it over with. And I need to do it now.

“Is it just the hand, or—?” He flexes his fingers, the calluses lining his palms rising and falling again.

I clear my throat, wondering why I’m so nervous, why I feel like I’m betraying Damen, when all I’m trying to do is land a job that’ll make my aunt happy. “No, it can be anywhere. Your ear, your nose, even your big toe—doesn’t matter, it all reads the same. The hand’s just more accessible, you know?”

“More accessible than the big toe?” He smiles, those sea green eyes seeking mine.

I take a deep breath, thinking how coarse and rough his hands appear, especially compared to Damen’s whose are almost softer than mine. And somehow, even just the thought of that makes this whole moment feel off. Now that our touch is forbidden, just being alone with another guy feels sordid, illicit, wrong.

I reach toward him, eyes shut tight, reminding myself it’s just a job interview—that there’s really no reason I can’t land this thing quickly and painlessly. Pressing my finger to the center of his palm and feeling the soft, gentle give of his flesh. Allowing his stream of energy to flow through me—so peaceful, serene, it’s like wading into the calmest of seas. So different from the rush of tingle and heat I’ve grown used to with Damen—at least until the shock of Jude’s life story unfolds.

I yank my hand back as though I’ve been stung, fumbling for the amulet just under my top, noting the alarm on his face as I rush to explain. “I’m sorry.” I shake my head, angry with myself for overreacting. “Normally I wouldn’t do that. Normally I’m way more discreet. I was just a little—surprised—that’s all. I didn’t expect to see anything quite so—” I stop, knowing my inane babbling is only making it worse. “Normally, when I give readings, I hide my reactions much better than that.” I nod, forcing my gaze to meet his, knowing whatever I say won’t hide the fact that I choked like the worst kind of amateur. “Seriously.” I smile, lips stretching in a way that can’t be convincing. “I’m like the ultimate poker face.” Peering at him again and seeing this isn’t quite working. “A poker face that is also full of empathy and compassion,” I stammer, unable to stop this runaway train. “I mean, really—I’m just—full of it—” I cringe, shaking my head as I gather my things so I can call it a day. There’s no way he’ll hire me now.

He slides to the edge of his seat, leaning so close I struggle to breathe. “So tell me,” he says, gaze like a hand on my wrist, holding me in place. “What exactly did you see?”

I swallow hard, closing my eyes for a moment and replaying the movie I just saw in my head. The images so clear, dancing before me, as I say, “You’re different.” I peer at him, his body unmoving, gaze steady, allowing no clues as to whether or not I’m on track.

“But then, you’ve always been different. Ever since you were little you’ve seen them.” I swallow hard and avert my gaze, the image of him in his crib, smiling and waving at the grandmother who passed years before his birth now etched on my brain. “And when—” I pause, not wanting to say it, but knowing that if I want the job, then I’d better get to it. “But when your father—shot himself—back when you were ten—you thought you were to blame. Convinced your insistence on seeing your mother, who, by the way passed just one year before, somehow sent him over the edge. It was years before you accepted the truth, that your father was just lonely, depressed, and anxious to be with your mother again. Even so, sometimes you still doubt it.”

I gaze at him, noting how he hasn’t so much as flinched, though something in those deep green eyes hints at the truth.

“He tried to visit a few times. Wanting to apologize for what he did, but even though you sensed him, you blocked it. Sick of being teased by your classmates and scolded by the nuns—not to mention your foster dad who—” I shake my head, not wanting to continue, but knowing I must. “You just wanted to be normal.” I shrug. “Treated like everyone else.” I trace my fingers over the tablecloth, throat beginning to tighten, knowing exactly how it feels to long to fit in, all the while knowing you never truly can. “But after you ran away and met Lina, who, by the way, is not your real grandmother—your real grandparents are dead.” I look at him again, wondering if he’s surprised that I knew that but he gives nothing away. “Anyway, she took you in, fed you, clothed you, she—”

“She saved my life.” He sighs, leaning back in his seat, long tanned fingers rubbing at his eyes. “In more ways than one. I was so lost and she—”

“Accepted you for who you really are.” I nod, seeing the whole story before me, as though I’m right there.

“And who’s that?” he asks, hands splayed on his knees, gazing at me. “Who am I really?”

I look at him, not even pausing when I say, “A guy so smart you finished high school in tenth grade. A guy with such amazing mediumistic abilities you’ve helped hundreds of people and asked very little in exchange. And yet, despite all of that, you’re also a guy who’s so—” I look at him, lips lifting at the corners. “Well I was going to say lazy—but since I really do want this job I’ll say laid-back instead.” I laugh, relieved when he laughs along with me. “And given the choice you’d never work another day. You’d spend the rest of eternity just searching for that one perfect wave.”

“Is that a metaphor?” he asks, a crooked smile on his face.

“Not in your case.” I shrug. “In your case, it’s a fact.”

He nods, leaning back in his chair, gazing at me in a way that makes my stomach dance. Dropping forward again, feet flat on the floor when he says, “Guilty.” Eyes wistful, searching mine. “And now, since there are no secrets left, since you’ve peered right into the core of my soul—I have to ask, any insights into my future—a certain blonde perhaps?”

I shift in my seat, preparing to speak when he cuts me right off.

“And I’m talking the immediate future, as in this Friday night. Will Stacia ever agree to go out with me?”

“Stacia?” My voice cracks as my eyes practically pop out of my head. So much for the poker face I was bragging about.

Watching as he closes his eyes and shakes his head, those long, golden dreadlocks contrasting so nicely with his gorgeous dark skin. “Anastasia Pappas, aka Stacia,” he says, unaware of my sigh of relief, thrilled to know it’s some other horrible Stacia and not the one I know.

Tuning in to the energy surrounding her name and knowing right away that it’s never gonna happen—at least not in the way that he thinks. “You really want to know?” I ask, knowing I could save him a lot of wasted effort by telling him now, but doubting he really wants to hear the truth as much as he claims. “I mean, wouldn’t you rather just wait and see how it plays?” I look at him, hoping he’ll agree.

“Is that what you’re going to say to your clients?” he asks, back to business again.

I shake my head, looking right at him. “Hey, if they’re fool enough to ask, then I’m fool enough to tell.” I smile. “So I guess the question is, how big of a fool are you?”

He pauses, hesitates for so long that I worry that I took it too far. But then he smiles, right hand extended as he rises from his seat. “Fool enough to hire you. Now I know why you wouldn’t shake hands the first time around.” He nods, squeezing my hand for a few seconds too long. “That’s one of the most amazing readings I’ve ever had.”

“One of?” I lift my brow in mock offense as I reach for my bag and walk alongside him.

He laughs, heading for the door and glancing at me when he says, “Why don’t you stop by tomorrow morning, say around ten?”