Shadowland: The Immortals

by Alyson Noel

  “I can’t leave them here on their own. Not until they get settled in.” He shrugs, hooking his thumb over his shoulder and pointing upstairs where the twins are finally, mercifully, asleep in their beds.

  I nod, knowing he’s right, and vowing to get them back to Summerland soon, before they get too comfortable here.

  “I’m not sure that’s the solution,” he says, sensing my thoughts.

  I squint, unsure where he’s going, but getting an uncomfortable ping in my gut nonetheless.

  “I’ve been thinking—” He cocks his head to the side, thumb tracing his stubble-lined chin. “They’ve been through a lot—losing their home, their families, everything they’ve ever known and loved—their lives taken so abruptly, they hadn’t had a chance to even live them—” He shakes his head. “They deserve a real childhood, you know? A fresh start in the world—”

  I gape, wanting to respond but the words just won’t come. Because while I also want them to be happy and safe and all of those things, as far as the rest goes, we’re no longer on the same page. I was planning for a short little visit, a couple of days, or at the very worst—weeks. Never once did I entertain the idea of becoming surrogate parents, especially to twins who’re just a few years younger than me.

  “It was just a thought.” He shrugs. “Ultimately, the decision is theirs. It’s their life.”

  I swallow hard and avert my gaze, telling myself this is nothing that has to be settled just yet, heading toward my manifested car when Damen says, “Ever. Seriously? A Lamborghini?”

  I cringe, flushing under his gaze. “I needed something fast.” I shrug, knowing he’s not buying it the second I see his face. “They were scared of being outside, so I needed to get them here quickly.”

  “And did it need to be shiny and red as well?” He laughs, glancing between the car and me and shaking his head.

  I press my lips together and look away, refusing to say anything more. I mean, it’s not like I was planning to keep it. I’ll get rid of it the second I get home and pull into my drive.

  I open the door and climb in, suddenly remembering the thing I meant to ask him before. Taking in the elegant lines of his face as I say, “Hey Damen—how’d you open the door so quickly? How’d you know we were here?”

  He looks at me, eyes meeting mine as the smile slowly fades from his face.

  “I mean, it was four in the morning. I didn’t even have a chance to knock and you were already there. Weren’t you asleep?”

  And even though a chunk of flashy red metal stands between us, it’s as though he’s right there, gaze sending shivers over my skin when he says, “Ever, I can always sense when you’re near.”

  fourteen

  After a long day at school without Damen, the second the final bell rings, I get in my car and head for his house. But instead of making a left at the light, I pull an illegal U-turn. Telling myself I should allow him some space, give him a chance to bond with the twins—when the truth is, between their hero worship of Damen and Rayne’s glaring animosity toward me—well, I’m just not ready to face them again.

  I head toward downtown Laguna, figuring I’ll stop by Mystics and Moonbeams, the metaphysical bookstore where Ava once worked. Thinking maybe Lina, the store’s owner, can help me find a solution to my more mystical problems without my divulging just what it is that I’m after. Which, considering how suspicious she is, should prove to be quite a feat.

  After manifesting the best parking space I can, which in overcrowded Laguna happens to be two blocks away, I stuff the meter full of quarters and make my way toward the door, only to be met by a big red sign reading: BE BACK IN TEN!

  I stand before it, lips pressed together as I glance all around, making sure no one is watching as I mentally flip the sign over while making the dead bolt retreat. Silencing the bell on the door as I slip inside and head for the bookshelves, relishing the chance to browse on my own, free of Lina’s scrutiny.

  The tips of my fingers graze the long row of spines, waiting for some kind of signal, a sudden warming, an itch at the tips, something to alert me to just the right one. But not getting anything, I grab one near the end and close my eyes, pressing my palms to the front and back covers, eager to see what’s inside.

  “How’d you get in here?”

  I jump, bumping into the shelf just behind me, knocking a pile of CDs to the floor.

  Cringing at the mess at my feet, scattered jewel cases everywhere, some of them cracked, as I say, “You scared me—I—”

  I drop to my knees, heart racing, face flushing, wondering not just who he is but how he could’ve possibly managed to sneak up on me when it should be impossible to do so. A mortal’s energy always announces itself long before their actual presence does. So is it possible that he—isn’t mortal?

  I sneak a quick peek as he kneels down beside me, taking in his tanned skin, defined arms, and heavy clump of golden brown dreadlocks spilling over his shoulder and halfway down his back. Watching as he gathers the damaged jewel cases into his hands, searching for some kind of sign that’ll out him as an immortal, maybe even a rogue. A face that’s too perfect—an Ouroboros tattoo—but when he catches me looking, he smiles in a way that not only displays the most disarming set of dimples perfectly punctuating each cheek, but a set of teeth that are just crooked enough to prove he’s nothing like me.

  “You okay?” he asks, gazing at me with eyes so green I can barely remember my name.

  I nod, standing awkwardly and rubbing my palms on my jeans, wondering why I’m so breathless, unnerved, forcing the words from my lips when I say, “Yeah. I’m—fine.” Inadvertently tacking a nervous laugh onto the end that’s so high pitched and foolish I cringe and turn away. “I, um—I was just, browsing the merchandise,” I add, realizing just after I’ve said it that I probably have more right to be here than he does.

  Glancing over my shoulder to find him gazing at me in a way I can’t read, I take a deep breath and pull my shoulders back. “I think the real question is, how’d you get in here?” Taking in his sandy bare feet and wet board shorts hanging dangerously low on his hips, averting my gaze before I can see anything more.

  “I own the place.” He nods, stacking the fallen CDs, the ones that aren’t cracked, back onto the shelf before turning to me.

  “Really?” I turn, eyes narrowed when I add. “Cuz I happen to know the owner, and you don’t look a thing like her.”

  He cocks his head to the side, squinting in faux contemplation and rubbing his chin as he says, “Really? Most people claim to see a resemblance. Though, I have to admit, I’m with you, never seen it myself.”

  “You’re related to Lina?” I gape, hoping my voice didn’t sound as panicked to his ears as it did mine.

  “She’s my grandmother.” He nods. “Name’s Jude, by the way.”

  He offers his hand, long, tanned, fingers extended, waiting for mine. But even though my curiosity’s piqued, I can’t do it. Despite my interest, despite my wondering why he makes me feel so—flustered and off balance—I can’t risk the barrage of knowledge a single touch brings when my psyche’s disturbed.

  I nod, responding with this stupid, embarrassing sort of half wave, as I mumble my name. Trying not to wince when he gives me an odd look and lowers his hand again.

  “So, now that that’s covered—” He slings his damp towel over his shoulder, sending a spray of sand through the room. “I’m back to my original question, what are you doing in here?”

  I turn, feigning sudden interest in a book on dream interpretation when I say, “I’m sticking with my original answer, which was browsing, in case you’ve forgotten. Surely you allow browsers in here?” I turn, meeting his gaze—those amazing sea green eyes reminding me of an ad for a tropical getaway. Something about them so—indefinable—startling—and yet—strangely familiar—though I’m sure I’ve never seen him before.

  He laughs, pushing a tangle of golden dreads off his face and exposing a scar splicing right through his b
row, gaze landing just to my right as he says, “And yet, after all the summers I’ve spent here, watching customers browse the merchandise, I’ve never once seen someone browse quite like you.”

  His lips pull at the sides, as his eyes study mine. Then I turn, cheeks heating, heart racing, taking a moment to compose myself before turning back to say, “You’ve never seen someone browse the back cover? That’s a little odd, don’t you think?”

  “Not with their eyes closed.” He tilts his head to the side and focuses on the space to my right once again.

  I swallow hard, flustered, shaky, knowing I need to change the subject before I sink any deeper. “Maybe you should be more concerned with how I got in here instead of what I’m doing in here,” I say, wishing I could take it back the second it’s out.

  He looks at me, gaze narrowed. “Figured I left the door open again. Are you saying I didn’t?”

  “No!” I shake my head, hoping he doesn’t notice the way my cheeks color and heat. “No, that’s—that’s exactly what I’m saying. You did leave the door open,” I add, trying not to fidget, blink, press my lips together, or otherwise give myself away. “Wide open in fact, which is not only a waste of air-conditioning but totally—” I stop, my stomach going weird when I see the smile at play on his lips.

  “So, a friend of Lina’s, huh?” He moves toward the register, dropping his towel on the counter in a wet, sandy thud. “Never heard her mention you before.”

  “Well, we weren’t exactly friends.” I shrug, hoping it didn’t look as awkward as it felt. “I mean, I met her once and she helped me with—wait, why did you just phrase it like that? You know, all past tense. Is Lina okay?”

  He nods, perching on a stool, grabbing a purple cardboard box from a drawer and flipping through a bunch of receipts. “She’s on one of her annual retreats. Picks a different one each year. This time it’s Mexico. Trying to determine if the Mayans were right and the world will end in 2012. What’s your take?”

  He looks at me, green eyes curious, insistent, boring right into mine. But I just scratch my arm and shrug, never having heard that particular theory before and wondering if it applies to Damen and me. Is that when we’ll head for the Shadowland, or will we be forced to wander a barren Earth—the last two survivors responsible for repopulating the land—only—irony alert—if we touch, Damen dies—

  I shake my head, eager to escape that particular thread before it can really take hold and mess with my head. Besides, I’m here for a reason and I need to stick with the plan.

  “So how do you know her? If you weren’t exactly friends.”

  “I met her through Ava,” I say, hating the feel of her name on my lips.

  He rolls his eyes, mumbling something unintelligible and shaking his head.

  “So you know her?” I look at him, allowing my gaze to travel his face, his neck, his shoulders, his smooth tanned chest, making my way down to his navel, before forcing myself to look away again.

  “Yeah, I know her.” He pushes the box aside, gaze meeting mine. “Just up and disappeared the other day—into thin air from what I can tell—”

  Oh, you don’t know the half of it, I think, carefully watching his face.

  “—called her house, her cell, but nothing. Finally did a drive-by to make sure she was okay and the lights were on so it’s clear she’s been dodging me.” He shakes his head. “Left me with a bunch of angry clients, demanding a reading. Who would’ve thought she’d turn out to be such a flake?”

  Yes, who would’ve thought? Certainly not the person who was foolish enough to place her deepest darkest secrets right into her greedy, outstretched, hands . . .

  “Still haven’t found anyone good enough to replace her though. And let me tell ya, it’s pretty much impossible to give readings and take care of the store. That’s why I stepped out just now.” He shrugs. “Surf was calling and I needed a break. Guess I left the door open again.”

  His eyes meet mine, sparkling and deep. And I can’t tell if he truly believes he left the door open, or if he suspects me. But when I try to peer into his head to see for myself I’m stopped by the wall he’s erected to safeguard his thoughts from people like me. All I have to go by is the brilliant purple aura I failed to see before—its color waving and shimmering, beckoning to me.

  “So far all I got are a stack of applications from amateurs. But I’m so desperate to get my weekends back, I’m ready to toss their names in a bowl and pick one just to get it over with.” He shakes his head and flashes those dimples again.

  And even though part of me can’t believe what I’m about to do, the other part, the more practical part, urges me on, recognizing the perfect opportunity when it’s standing before me.

  “Maybe I can help.” I hold my breath as I wait for his reply. But when my only response is a set of narrowed lids accompanied by the slightest curling of lips, I add, “Seriously. You don’t even have to pay me!”

  He squints even further, those amazing green eyes practically disappearing from sight.

  “What I meant was you don’t have to pay me all that much,” I say, not wanting to come off as some weird desperate freak who gives it away for free. “I’ll work for just over minimum wage—but only because I’m so good I’ll be living off the tips.”

  “You’re psychic?” He folds his arms and tilts his head back, gazing at me with complete disbelief.

  I straighten my posture and try not to fidget. Hoping to appear professional, mature, someone he can trust to help run his store. “Yup.” I nod, unable to keep from wincing, unused to confiding my abilities to anyone, much less a stranger. “I just sort of know things—information just sort of comes to me—it’s hard to explain.”

  He looks at me, wavering, then focusing just to my right as he says, “So what exactly are you then?”

  I shrug, fingers playing with the zipper on my hoodie, drawing it up and down, down and up, having no idea what he means.

  “Are you clairaudient, clairvoyant, clairsentient, clairgustance, clairscent, or clairtangency? Which is it?” He shrugs.

  “All of the above.” I nod, having no idea what half those things mean, but figuring if it’s got anything even remotely to do with psychic abilities, then I can probably do it.

  “But you’re not mediumistic,” he says, as though it’s a fact.

  “I can see spirits.” I shrug. “But only the ones that are still here, not the ones who’ve crossed—” I stop, pretending to clear my throat, knowing it’s better not to mention the bridge, Summerland, or any of that. “—I can’t see the ones who’ve crossed over.” I shrug, hoping he doesn’t try to push it since that’s as far as I’ll go.

  He squints, gaze roaming from the top of my pale blond head and all the way down to my Nike clad feet. A gaze that makes my whole body quiver. Reaching for a long-sleeved tee stashed under the counter and yanking it over his head before he looks at me and says, “Well, Ever, if you wanna work here, you’re gonna have to pass the audition.”

  fifteen

  Jude locks the front door then leads me down a short hall and into a small room on the right. I follow behind, hands flexed by my sides, staring at the peace sign on the back of his tee and reminding myself that if he does anything creepy I can take him down quickly and make him regret the day he ever went after me.

  He motions toward a padded foldable chair facing a small square table covered by shiny blue cloth, taking the seat just opposite me and propping his bare foot on his knee as he says, “So, what’s your specialty?”

  I gaze at him, hands folded, focusing on taking slow deep breaths while trying not to squirm.

  “Tarot cards? Runes? I Ching? Psychometry? Which is it?”

  I glance at the door, knowing I could reach it in a fraction of a second, which might cause a stir, but so what?

  “You are going to give me a reading, right?” His gaze levels on mine. “You do realize that’s what I meant by audition?” He laughs, displaying a matching set of dimples as he swings
his dreads over his shoulder and laughs some more.

  I stare at the tablecloth, tracing the bumpy raw silk with my fingers, heat rising to my cheeks when I remember Damen’s last words, how he can always sense me, and hoping he was just saying that—that he can’t sense me now.

  “I don’t need anything,” I mumble, still unwilling to meet his gaze. “All I need is a quick touch of your hand and I’m good to go.”

  “Palmistry.” He nods. “Not what I would’ve expected, but okay.” He leans toward me, hands open, palms up, ready to go.

  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.