Shadowstorm (The Shadow World Book 6) Read Online Free PDF Page B

wake up sober and scream his life out.
    But Jonathan was leading him somewhere, he realized, deeper into what turned out to be Muir Woods. There was a particular part of the forest path that wound through the Cathedral Grove, a stand of trees that stretched so high their tops were barely visible, especially at night. Inside the Cathedral even the human tourists fell silent; there was something there, even if they had no idea what to call it. He had known what it was…but he had lacked the language to name it. He had the words now but would not speak them aloud.
    He followed Jonathan because he didn’t know what else to do. There was no place to go, no drug that would end this…he understood that more and more with each step. To return to the Haven in this state was unthinkable.
    The paths through Muir were man-made and smooth, as were the bridges that crossed back and forth over the stream that had been burbling its same song for at least a hundred years. He had seen that stream grow and shrink, overflow its banks and dry down to a near-trickle, but it, like the trees above, was always there.
    They walked without speaking for a while until the path rounded a bend and he suddenly realized there was someone else there—a dark figure on the next bridge, leaning on the rail.
    He started to ask Jonathan what was going on, but looked around to find the Consort was gone.
    Gone again. Gone.
    Wake up. Wake up now. Don’t think about it…
    “How old would you say this tree is?”
    Deven frowned. It was a woman’s voice, smooth and oddly familiar, and he moved a little closer, not sure what to make of the situation but sure he didn’t like it.
    Out of habit he reached down, but there was no hilt at his belt. He hadn’t picked up a weapon in months. Still, edged metal and wood weren’t the only deadly implements he had.
    She looked over at him and smiled, and again he felt something familiar about her; the way she stood, perhaps, or the glint in her black eyes. She was wearing a long cloak of some sort that hid her clothing, but had a long tumble of hair the color of old wine. The ends of it faded into the darkness, as did her cloak.
    Another spirit, then. Someone dead. That wasn’t helpful; he had lived seven centuries. Nearly everyone he’d ever known was dead.
    When he didn’t answer, she said, “Eleven hundred fifty-three years old. It sprouted the year Paris was burnt by the Vikings. Imagine that.”
    Wary, he joined her at the rail, keeping several feet between them. “Who are you, and what are you doing in my mind?”
    “It’s a lot like you,” she went on, ignoring the question. “Well, much older, but still—you were born in the year 1248—right around the moment the Aztec empire was established. You’ve outlived entire civilizations. That’s amazing, when you think about it.”
    “I try not to,” Deven said coldly. “Where did you get that year, anyway? Not even I know what year I was born.”
    “Or the exact date, I know. It must be infuriating trying to throw you a birthday party.”
    He just stared at her.
    Again, a smile. “May 10,” she said. “So you are, in fact, 766 years old—and a Taurus, which would not surprise anyone who knows you. If you don’t mind my asking…how did you do it?”
    “What? How did I live this long?”
    “Yes.”
    He put both hands on the rail—they were paler than they should be, almost translucent, and shaky. He started to say something sarcastic, but the sight of his hands made him pause, and in total honesty, he said quietly, “I don’t know.”
    There was something in her expression that made him feel afraid—small, ashamed. But it wasn’t an accusation, or disgust, or anything like that. It seemed more of a mix of sadness, affection, and humor, covering an endless reservoir of what could only be love. He shrank away from affection…from any feeling that might make him feel warm again. “I can only imagine how painful it must have been,” she