Shadowland (The Immortals #3)
Shadowland: Chapter 34

“Hey, it’s Sunday we don’t even open ’til eleven.” Jude props his surfboard against the wall and squints.

I nod, barely glancing away from the book, determined for it to make sense.

“Need help?” He tosses his towel on a chair and moves around the desk until he’s standing behind me.

“If it involves more of this handy dandy code translator you made,” I tap the sheet of paper beside me, “or anything even resembling your long list of meditations, then no thanks, I’ve had all I can take. But if you’re finally going to tell me how to read this thing, without assuming the lotus position, picturing beams of white light, and/or making me imagine long, spindly roots growing from the soles of my feet and extending deep into the earth, then yes, by all means, go ahead and try.” I slide the book toward him, careful to touch only its edge, catching a quick glimpse of his amused face, that tropical gaze, the spliced brow, before looking away.

He places his hand on the desk and leans toward the book, fingers splayed against the old, pockmarked wood, body so close I can feel the push of his energy merge into my space. “There’s another way that might work. Well, for someone with your gifts anyway. But the way you handle that thing, only touching the edges, keeping your distance, it’s pretty clear you’re afraid.”

His voice drifts over me, soothing and calm. Prompting me to close my eyes for a moment and allow myself to feel it, really feel it, without trying to stop it or push it away. Eager to prove Damen wrong, report back that I gave it a fair shot and there’s not a single trace of tingle or heat to be found. Even though Jude likes me—likes me in the same way I like Damen and Damen likes me—even though I saw it in the vision he unwittingly showed me that day—it’s one-sided. All about him, not the slightest bit reciprocated by me. The only thing I’m getting is a decrease in stress and anxiety, a serenity so languid, so relaxed, it soothes my jangled nerves, and—

He taps me on the shoulder, yanking me out of my reverie and motioning for me to join him on the small couch in the corner where he balances the book on his knees. Urging me to place my hand on the page, shut my eyes, clear my head, and intuit the message inside.

At first nothing happens, but that’s because I’m filled with resistance. Still smarting from the last energy slam that practically fried my insides and left me tired and fragmented for the rest of the evening. But the second I decide to let go and give in, to just trust in the process and allow the buzz to flow through me, I’m overcome with a barrage of energy that’s surprisingly, almost embarrassingly personal.

“Getting anything?” he asks, voice low, gaze fixed on me.

I shrug, turning to him when I say, “It’s like—it’s like reading someone’s diary. Or at least that’s what I’m getting—you?”

He nods. “Same.”

“But I thought it would be more like—I don’t know, like a book of spells. You know, a different one on each page.”

“You mean a grimoire.” He smiles, displaying two amazing dimples and charmingly crooked front teeth.

I frown, unfamiliar with the word.

“It’s like a recipe book for spells, containing very specific data—dates, times, ritual performed, results of the ritual, that sort of thing. Strictly business, nothing but the facts.”

“And this?” I tap my nail against the page.

“More like a journal, as you said. A highly personal account of a witch’s progress—what she did, why she did it, how she felt, the results, et cetera. Which is why they’re often written in code, or Theban like this.”

My shoulders droop as I screw my lips to the side, wondering why every bit of progress I’m about to make actually results in two giant steps back.

“You were looking for something more specific? A love spell perhaps?”

I peer at him, eyes narrowed, wondering why he just said that.

“Sorry.” He shrugs, eyes grazing my face, lingering on my lips for a few seconds too long. “Seems like trouble in paradise with the way you and Damen are avoiding each other these days.”

I close my eyes for a moment, forcing the sting to retreat. It’s been one week. One week without Damen—his sweet telepathic messages—his warm and loving embrace. The only hint that he even exists is the fresh supply of elixir I found in my fridge. An elixir he must’ve slipped in while I slept, taking every precaution to get the job done before I could wake. Each passing hour so painful, so agonizing, so lonely—I’ve no idea how I’ll get through the summer without him.

Jude’s energy shifts, his aura pulling back just as a sensitive shade of blue flickers at the edges. “Well, whatever you seek,” he says, back to business again. “You’ll replace it in here.” He thumps the page with his thumb. “You just have to give it some time to take it all in. It’s a very detailed account, and the content goes pretty deep.”

“Where’d you replace it?” I take in the spray of dreadlocks hitting just shy of his lips. “And how long have you had it?” I add, suddenly needing to know.

He shrugs, averting his gaze. “Picked it up somewhere—some guy I once knew.” He shakes his head. “It was a long time ago.”

“Vague much?” I smile, giving a sort of half laugh he fails to return. “Seriously. You’re only nineteen—how long ago could it have been?” I study him closely, remembering the time I asked the same question of Damen—well before I knew what he was. A sudden chill pricking my skin as I take him in, the crooked teeth, the scar marking his brow, the tangle of dread-locks falling into those familiar green eyes—assuring myself he’s merely someone I knew from my past, that he’s nothing like me.

“Guess I’m not so big on tracking time,” he says, the laugh that follows uncommitted, forced. “I try to live in the moment—the now. Still, must’ve been four—maybe five years ago—when I first started getting into this stuff.”

“And did Lina replace it? Is that why you hide it?”

He shakes his head, face flushing when he says, “As embarrassing as it is to admit, she came across a poppet I’d made and completely freaked out. Thought it was a voodoo doll. Misread the whole thing.”

“Poppet?” My gaze fixed on his, having no idea what that is.

“A sort of magical doll.” He shrugs, embarrassed gaze meeting mine. “I was a kid, what can I say? I was misguided enough to think it would convince a certain girl to like me.”

“And did it?” I hold my breath, studying him carefully, wondering why those simple words cause a ping in my gut.

“Lina destroyed it before it could work. Just as well.” He shrugs. “Turns out she was trouble.”

“Your usual type.” The words rushing forward before I can stop them.

He looks at me, eyes glinting. “Old habits die hard.”

We sit like that, eyes locked, breath halted, the moment growing, stretching, until I finally break away and return to the book.

“I’d love to help you,” he says, voice low and deep. “But I get the feeling your journey’s too private for me.”

I turn, about to speak, when he adds, “No worries. I get it. But if it’s spell casting you’re after, there are a few things you should know.” His gaze meets mine, making sure he has my full attention before he goes on. “One, it’s a last resort—only to be used when all other avenues are exhausted. And two, spells are really just recipes for change, to get what you want, or alter a certain situation that needs—altering. But in order for it to work, your goals have to be clear—you need to visualize the outcome you want and direct all of your energy toward it.”

“Like manifesting,” I say, wishing I hadn’t when I see his gaze change.

“Manifesting takes too long—magick’s more immediate—or at least it can be.”

I press my lips together, knowing better than to explain how manifesting can also be instantaneous once you understand how the universe works. But then again, you can’t manifest what you don’t know, making the antidote, among other things, strictly off limits.

“Think of this like a giant cookbook.” He taps the page with his nail. “One with liner notes.” He smiles. “But nothing in here is fixed, you can alter the recipes to suit your own needs, and choose your own set of tools accordingly—”

“Tools?” I look at him.

“Crystals, herbs, elements, candles, phases of the moon—that kind of thing.”

I think back on the elixirs I made, just before I went back in time, having thought of it more in terms of alchemy than magick, though I guess in some ways, it’s pretty much the same thing.

“It also helps if you cast your spell in verse.”

“Like a poem?” I look at him, startled. Maybe this isn’t going to work after all. I pretty much suck at that kind of thing.

“Doesn’t have to be Keats, just something that rhymes and has some sort of meaning for what you want it to do.”

I frown, feeling disheartened before I even begin.

“And, Ever—”

I look at him.

“If you’re wanting to cast a spell on a person, you might want to rethink it. Lina was right. If you can’t convince someone to see things your way, or cooperate with you, by using more mundane means, there’s a pretty good chance it’s not meant to be.”

I nod and look away, knowing that may be true for some situations, but not mine.

Mine is different.