Shadowland (The Immortals #3)(65)

I lean forward, squinting at a girl with abundant titian hair—a luxurious blend of reds, golds, and browns contrasting so beautifully with her expanse of pale skin. Painted in a way so tangible, so smooth, so inviting—it’s as though one could step in.

My gaze roams the length of her, seeing she’s nude though strategically covered. The ends of her hair damp and conforming, tumbling over her shoulders and hanging well past her waist, while her hands are folded, resting atop a pink flushed thigh turned slightly in. Though it’s the eyes that grab me, made of the deepest green and holding a gaze so direct, so open, as though staring at a lover, not the least bit ashamed at having been caught in this state.

My stomach twitches, while my heart begins to flutter, and even though I’m aware of Damen standing right there beside me, I can’t look at him. Can’t include him in this. Something is creeping upon me, the birth of an idea tugging, nudging, demanding to be known. And before I’ve even blinked, I see it. As sure as I see the gilt frame surrounding the canvas, I know that the woman is me!

The prior me.

The Dutch me.

The artist’s muse me who fell for Damen the night we met in this gallery.

But the thing that disturbs me, the thing that keeps me quiet and still, is the sudden realization that the unseen lover she gazes upon isn’t Damen.

It’s somebody else.

Someone unseen.

“So you recognize her.” Damen’s voice smooth, matter-of-fact, not the least bit surprised that I do. “It’s the eyes, right?” He peers at me, face very close when he adds, “The color may change, but their essence stays the same.”

I glance at him, taking in the lush fringe of lashes that nearly obscure the wistfulness of his gaze—prompting me to quickly turn away.

How old was I? Not trusting my voice with the words. The face appearing unlined and youthful, though the confidence is that of a woman, not a girl.

“Eighteen.” He nods, continuing to study me. Gaze pushing, probing, wanting me to be the first one to say it, pleading for me to just speak up—to spare him this task. Following my gaze to the painting as he adds, “You were beautiful. Truly. Just like this. He captured you so—perfectly.”

He.

So there it is.

The edge in his voice speaking volumes—revealing everything his words only hint at. He knows the identity of the artist. Knows it wasn’t him I unclothed myself for.

I swallow hard, eyes narrowing as I try to make sense of the black, angular scrawl at the bottom right corner. Deciphering a series of consonants and vowels, a combination of letters that mean nothing to me.

“Bastiaan de Kool,” Damen says, gazing at me.

I turn, my eyes meeting his, unable to speak.

“Bastiaan de Kool is the artist who painted this. Painted you.” He turns toward the portrait, eyes roaming over it again, before returning to me.

I shake my head, feeling light, woozy—everything I once thought I knew—about me—about us—the entire foundation of our lives suddenly gone tenuous and weak.

Damen nods, there’s no need to press it. Both of us recognizing the truth displayed right before us.

“In case you’re wondering, it was over before the paint even dried. Or at least that’s what I convinced myself of—” He shakes his head. “But now—well, I’m no longer sure.”

I gape, eyes wide, uncomprehending. What could this painting—this century-old version of me—have anything to do with us—the way we are now?

“Would you like to meet him?” he asks, gaze shadowed, distant, difficult to read.

“Bastiaan?” The name oddly comfortable on my lips.

Damen nods, willing to manifest him if I’ll only agree. But just as I’m about to refuse, he places his hand on my arm and says, “I think you should. It only seems fair.”

I take a deep breath, focusing on the warmth of his hand as he closes his eyes in deep concentration, summoning a tall, rangy, slightly disheveled guy from what was once empty space. Letting go of my arm as he moves away, allowing me plenty of room in which to study, observe, before we run out of time and he fades.

I move toward him, walking slow, wide circles around this blank, hollow stranger—this bright, empty, creation—soulless, unreal.

Noting his traits in an offhand way—the height making him appear even slighter, the hint of lean, sinewy muscle lightly padding his bones—the clothes that are clean and of decent quality and cut, hanging slightly off kilter, the skin so pale and flawless it nearly matches my own, while his hair is dark, wavy, brushed to the side, a good chunk of bang falling heavily into a startling pair of eyes.

I gasp, forcing the air into my lungs as he soon fades away, hearing Damen say, “Would you like me to refresh him again?” Obviously hating to do so, but willing to oblige if I ask.

But I just continue to stand there, staring into a swirl of vibrating pixels that soon vanish completely. Knowing I don’t need him revived to know who he is.

Jude.

The guy who was standing before me, the Dutch artist who went by the name of Bastiaan de Kool in the nineteenth century—has now reincarnated into this century as Jude.

I reach for something to steady me, feeling shaky, empty, off balance. Realizing too late that there’s nothing to catch me, until Damen quickly moves to my side.