Shadowland (Immortals 3)

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.

thirty-two

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?