Shadowland (The Immortals #3)(22)

I’ve never been much of a runner. Far more used to dragging my feet through every forced lap in P.E. than striving for any sort of personal best. But that was before I became immortal. Before I was gifted with incredible speed. A speed I haven’t even begun to test the limits of, since the last time I ran was the first time I realized I even had the potential. But now that I’m faced with the perfect opportunity to see just how far and fast I can go before stopping, dropping, or crumbling to the ground with a debilitating case of side cramps, I can’t wait to try it out.

I slip out the side door and head for the street. At first thinking I should warm up, start off in a nice slow jog before hitting the asphalt at full throttle. But no sooner have I started than a major surge of adrenaline kicks in, coursing through my body like the highest-grade rocket fuel. And the next thing I know, it’s full speed ahead. Running so fast my neighbor’s houses are reduced to a visual blur of stucco and stone. Jumping fallen trash cans and dodging poorly parked cars, as I race from street to street with the grace and agility of a jungle cat. Having virtually no awareness of my legs or my feet, just trusting they won’t fail me. That they’ll get me to my destination in miraculous time.

And no more than a few seconds have passed when I’m standing before it, the one place I swore I’d never return to, prepared to do the one thing I promised Damen I wouldn’t—approaching Roman’s door, hoping to broker some kind of deal.

But before I can even raise my hand to knock, Roman is there. Clad in a deep purple robe over blue silk pajamas, his matching velvet slippers with embroidered golden foxes peeking out from the hem. His gaze sleek, narrowed, looking me over without a trace of surprise.

“Ever.” He cocks his head to the side, allowing for an unobstructed view of his flashing Ouroboros tattoo. “What brings you to the neighborhood?”

My fingers play at the amulet just under my shirt, heart racing beneath it, hoping Damen’s right, that it’ll provide the necessary protection—should it come to that.

“We need to talk,” I say, trying not to cringe as his eyes sail over me, enjoying a nice, long, leisurely cruise.

He squints into the night, then back at me. “Do we?” He lifts his brow. “And here I had no idea.”

I start to roll my eyes, but remembering my purpose for coming here, I settle for pressing my lips together instead.

“Recognize the door?” He raps his knuckles hard against the wood, eliciting a nice solid thump, as I wonder what he could possibly be up to. “Of course you don’t,” he says, lips quirking at the sides. “That’s because it’s new. I was forced to replace the old one after your last visit. You remember? When you busted your way in so you could toss my supply of elixir down the drain?” He laughs and shakes his head. “Very naughty of you, Ever. And quite a mess I must say. I hope you’ll manage to behave better today.” He leans against the door frame and waves me in, gazing at me in a way so deep, so intimate, it’s all I can do not to squirm.

I head down the hall and into the den, noticing how the door isn’t the only thing that’s changed since I was last here. Gone are the framed Botticelli prints and abundance of chintz, all of it replaced by marble and stone, dark heavy fabrics, rough plastered walls, and black iron things shaped into scrolls.

“Tuscan?” I turn, startled to find him standing so near I can see the individual dark purple flecks in his eyes.

He shrugs, refusing to back up and give me some space. “Sometimes I get a little hankering for the old country.” He smiles, a slow widening of his cheeks, displaying shiny white teeth. “As you well know, Ever, there’s no place like home.”

I swallow hard and turn away, trying to determine my quickest escape since I can’t afford to make even the slightest mistake.

“So tell me, to what do I owe this magnificent honor?” He glances over his shoulder as he heads for the bar. Removing a bottle of elixir from the wine refrigerator and pouring it into a cut crystal glass, before offering it to me. But I just shake my head and wave it away, watching as he carries it over to the couch where he plops himself down, spreads his legs wide, and rests the glass on his knee. “I’m assuming you didn’t drop by in the dead of night to admire my latest decorating scheme. So tell me, what’s the purpose of this?”

I clear my throat, forcing myself to look him square in the eye without flinching, wavering, fidgeting, or exhibiting any other sign of weakness. Aware of how this whole situation can change in an instant—how easily I can turn from mild curiosity to irresistible prey.

“I’m here to call a truce,” I say, alert for some kind of reaction but getting only his penetrating gaze. “You know, a cease-fire, a proclamation of peace, a—”

“Please.” He waves his hand. “Spare me the definition, luv. I can say it in twenty languages and forty dialects. You?”

I shrug, knowing I’m lucky to have said it in the one. Watching as he swirls his drink, the iridescent red liquid flashing and sparking as it runs up the sides and splashes back down.

“And just what sort of truce are you after? You of all people should know how it works. I’ve no intention of giving you anything, unless you’re willing to give up something of your own.” He pats the narrow space just beside him, smiling as though I’d actually consider joining him there.