Shadowland (Immortals 3)

I take a deep breath and nod, remembering when I first met him and how he said something about being bad at good-byes. But he just smiles, responding to my thoughts when he says, “I know. You’d think it’d get easier, right? But it never really does. I usually find it easier to just disappear and avoid them altogether.”

“Easier for you maybe, though I’m not so sure about those you’ve left behind.”

He nods, rising from the bench and pulling me up alongside him. “I’m a vain and selfish man, what can I say?”

“That’s not what I meant—” I shake my head. “I just—”

“Please.” He looks at me. “There’s no need to defend me. I know what I am—or at least what I used to be.”

He gets up, leading me away from the paintings he came here to see. Only I’m not ready to go. Not yet. Anyone who’s forfeited their greatest passion, just simply walked away like he has, deserves a second chance.

I let go of his hand and shut my eyes tightly, manifesting a large canvas, a wide selection of brushes, a comprehensive palette of paints, and whatever else he might need, before he can stop me.

“What’s this?” He gazes between the easel and me.

“Wow, it really has been a long time if you can’t even recognize the tools of the trade.” I smile.

He peers at me, gaze intense, unwavering, but I meet it with equal strength.

“I thought it might be nice for you to paint alongside your friends.” I shrug, watching as he grabs a brush from the table, turning it over in the palm of his hand. “You said we could do anything we want, right? That the normal rules no longer apply? Wasn’t that the point of this trip?”

He looks at me, expression wary but yielding.

“And if that’s the case, then I think you should paint something here. Create something beautiful, grand, everlasting, whatever you want. And as soon as you’re finished, we’ll mount it alongside your friends. Leaving it unsigned, of course.”

“I’m far past the point of needing my work to be recognized,” he says, looking at me, eyes filled with light.

“Good.” I nod, motioning toward the blank canvas. “Then I expect to see a work of pure inspired genius with no ego involved.” Hand on his shoulder, giving him a nudge when I add, “You should probably get started though. Unlike us, this night is finite.”

twenty-four

I glance between the painting and Damen, palm pressed to my chest, at a complete loss for words. Knowing whatever I say could never describe what’s before me. Absolutely no words will do.

“It’s so—” I pause, feeling small, undeserving, definitely not worthy of an image so grand. “It’s so beautiful—and transcendent—and”—I shake my head—“and no way is that me!”

He laughs, eyes meeting mine when he says, “Oh it’s you all right.” Smiling as he takes it all in. “In fact, it’s the embodiment of all your incarnations. A sort of compilation of the you of the last four hundred years. Your fiery hair and creamy skin hailing straight from your life in Amsterdam, your confidence and conviction from your Puritan days, your humility and inner strength taken from your difficult Parisian life, your elaborate dress and flirtatious gaze lifted straight from your London society days, while the eyes themselves—” He shrugs, turning toward me. “They remain the same. Unchanging, eternal, no matter what guise you wear.”

“And now?” I whisper, gaze focused on the canvas, taking in the most radiant, luminous, glorious, winged creature—a true goddess descending from the heavens above, eager to bestow the Earth with her gifts. Knowing it’s quite possibly the most beautiful image I’ve ever seen, but still not getting how it could really be me. “What part of me is taken from now? Other than the eyes, I mean.”

He smiles. “Why your gossamer wings, of course.”

I turn, assuming he’s joking until I see the serious expression marking his face.

“You’re quite unaware of them, I know.” He nods. “But trust me, they’re there. Having you in my life is like a gift from above, a gift I surely don’t deserve, but one I give thanks for every day.”

“Please. I’m hardly that good—or kind—or glorious—or even remotely angelic like you seem to think.” I shake my head. “Especially not lately, and you know it,” I add, wishing I could hang it in my room where I could see it every day, but knowing it’s far more important to leave it right here.

“You sure about this?” He glances between his beautiful unsigned painting and those of his friends.

“Absolutely.” I nod. “Imagine all the chaos that’ll ensue when they find it professionally framed and mounted on this wall. And I mean the good kind of chaos, by the way. Besides, just think of all the people who’ll be called upon to study it, trying to determine just where it came from, how it got here, and who could’ve possibly created it.”

He nods, glancing at it one last time before turning away. But I grab his hand and pull him back to me, saying, “Hey, not so fast. Don’t you think we should name it? You know, add a little bronze plaque like the other ones have?”

He glances at his watch, more than a little distracted now. “I’ve never been much good at titling my work, always just went with the obvious. You know: Bowl of Fruit, or Red Tulips in a Blue Vase.”

“Well, it’s probably better not to name it Ever with Wings, Angelic Ever, or anything remotely like that. You know, just in case someone does recognize me. But how about something a little more—I don’t know—story like? Less literal, more figurative.” I tilt my head and gaze at him, determined to make this work.

“Any suggestions?” He looks at me briefly, before his gaze begins to wander.