Shoalman Immortal: The Shoalman Chronicles, #2

By Kira Decker and Toni Decker

Falling in love was never supposed to be part of the picture.
 

Kyrissa Spears was born with a powerful, and deadly, gift. When she paints, she captures emotions so strong they can kill. Desperate to find a teacher capable of helping her unlock and controlher abilities, Kyrissa's search leads her to an reclusive artist. And he's the one person she can't accidentally kill.

After five centuries of pain and loneliness, Robert Shoalman craves release from his immortality. He's all but given up hope until he meets the beautiful and intriguing Kyrissa. She can paint his death and break the curse, but at the cost of destroying her gift and being lost to him forever—none of which will matter if the demon hunting him finds them first.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Toni Decker Books
• Release date: Jan 16, 2015
• ISBN: 9781505527018

Kira Decker

Who is Kira Decker? Alter Ego: Toni Decker - The Shoalman Chronicles Series Author of Paranormal Romance/Urban Fantasy with a Supernatural Twist Telling one Paranormal story after another about Young Adults/New Adults getting along in their own crazy, fantastical worlds. One-half of the brain is an avid reader of all things Paranormal, while the other half devours Fantasy for midnight snacks. Together, Kira’s stories are one part Paranormal, one part Fantasy, and two parts Supernatural. After taking over the writing of the Shoalman Chronicles (Published as Toni Decker), Kira enjoyed exploring the world she helped to create and bringing even more characters and their supernatural adventures to life in Book 3: Dark Ink Embrace and soon Book 4: White Ink Surrender.  In Elsabeth's Dance, Kira delves into one of Rockshoalman (otherwise known as Robert Shoalman from Book 2: Shoalman Immortal) past lives and connects it to his present and future. Who knows what's in store for him next. (SPOILER: Kira has plans!) As a kid, Kira loved reading books about the strange and unusual found in everyday life. The experiences you couldn't quite explain unless you got creative. One day she decided to give voice to all those characters in her head relating their supernatural adventures, all while laughing, crying, and cheering for a happy ending at the end of the journey. *I adore the ride my characters take me on and I hope you enjoy my stories as much as I love writing them.* You can follow my journey on: Twitter: @KiraDecker Instagram: KiraDecker FaceBook: Kira Decker, KiraDeckerBooks Goodreads: KiraDecker Always love to hear from readers! Email: AuthorKiraDecker (at) gmail (dot) com

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

DEATH LINGERED PATIENTLY in the far corner of the bar, waiting for her to come and greet it.

Kyrissa Spears swirled a tiny straw in her pink drink, waiting for the moment she could make an escape to the other side of the room. She didn't care to drink the liquid in front of her. She wasn't here to listen to the music. And she feigned only half interest in whatever her best friend said beside her. Kyrissa was here for one thing.

She was here to feel death.

Kyrissa spent her fair share of hours in crowded bars, breathing in stale air while drowning out music from mediocre bands with cheap beer. She counted the minutes before she could go home and paint away her frustrations. Her loneliness. Or anger. Or whatever other feeling she could conjure up and force onto the tip of her paintbrush. At least she used to. Now she was lucky to summon enough emotion to fuel a crayon drawing. Her paintings over the last four years not only lacked feeling, they barely contained skill.

Kyrissa sighed. She sat patiently, waiting for a band to start that she had no interest in hearing. She bided her time until she could make her way to the back of the restored pub with dark wood panel walls, exposed brick, and century-old oak floors. The bar itself even looked hand-carved from a single ancient mahogany tree, worn in some places, chipped and repaired in others; it might as well be original to the building.

Yet Gallery, the hottest local music venue, was also an art gallery that usually highlighted local talent. Somehow, the venue had managed to attract a sampling of death to hang on its walls through the art of The Shoalman Collection. It was the largest collection of paintings that appreciated death as an artistic subject the way Kyrissa thought it deserved to be appreciated, or in her case, worshipped. It was also owned by Robert Shoalman himself, a formidable expert on the subject matter and a master painter in his own right. And she wouldn't miss seeing this collection in person, not even for her own death.

If only his most prized masterpiece was here. But no one had laid eyes on the Isle of the Dead since it first debuted onto the art scene four years ago. Or in the case of the Isle, grabbed the art scene around the neck and tightened its grip until breathing faltered.

From her barstool, Kyrissa admired the works lining the perimeter of the room, protected by a glass hallway that allowed access to no one. The barrier between her and death taunted her the way a cocktail mocked an alcoholic. She tried to ignore the vibrations that made every hair on the back of her neck stand up. And she pretended the chill in the air tonight that she'd never witnessed at Gallery before was merely her imagination.

Do you care if I go check out the art before the band starts? Kyrissa asked.

As if I didn't know you were here for the art. Mandy grinned in her direction. "But don't miss Eternity. They should be on stage in just a few minutes."

Convinced this band was about to be picked up and fast-tracked onto the larger music field, Mandy wanted the audience to support them the way she did. That's why she’d given the local band her personal endorsement, offered an exclusive glimpse into the new lead singer and wrote a glowing article that was likely to make the biggest critic stand up and notice. The band had apparently also given Mandy the heart of their lead singer, even if she hadn't yet admitted that she wanted it. Mandy even tried to convince Kyrissa the relationship already fizzled out. But Kyrissa saw through her best friend's denials.

I'll be right over there. Kyrissa pointed to the glass wall that separated the art from the music. The partition framed the perimeter of the room, enclosing pieces of art both local and recognized worldwide. Just wave me down when they come on.

Mandy didn't respond, craning her neck over the crowd, no doubt searching for Lucien amongst a room full of music lovers. Kyrissa shook her head, laughing as she ventured away from her lovesick best friend.

At the end of the aged oak bar stood a gentleman whose hand tailored, three-piece suit stuck out in the sea of T-shirt garbed college students filling the restored pub. Mr. Hayworth, Mandy's father. He and Mandy had a strained relationship at best, but still linked by more than just blood. They were both Guardians and Kyrissa would rest better knowing the two were on the path to reconciliation.

Kyrissa, Mr. Hayworth said, kissing her cheek. He’d always been more father figure than just her best friend’s father. If it weren’t for him, and Mandy, Kyrissa wasn’t certain she would have survived her mother’s death.

It’s good to see you, Mr. Hayworth. Mandy will be surprised. Surprised was an understatement. Just two nights ago, Mandy was certain her father didn’t approve of her career choice, much less her entanglement with a possible rock star.

Let’s hope it is a pleasant surprise. He smiled. Behind him, the art hummed louder, as if it were calling for only her. Maybe no one else was listening.

I’m going to check out the artwork to give you two some privacy, Kyrissa said.

Be careful, he warned as if he felt the energy in the room too and just hadn’t attributed it to the art.

Always, she laughed. Careful wasn’t actually a word that described her well.

Mr. Hayworth stepped around her and made his way towards his daughter, opening a direct path to the artwork Kyrissa so desperately coveted. Three feet separated her from her fixation. Three feet and a pane of glass she hadn’t noticed earlier.

Pressing her nose to the glass, Kyrissa admired the brush strokes in a field of poppies and she could almost count the layers of paint evident on the canvas. Kyrissa respected the carnage of one painting so realistically portrayed that she could taste the coppery tang of the blood. But too much distance still existed between her and the art, as if she was standing on the wrong side of the glass. Because she absolutely was.

A narrow hallway protected the paintings, with just enough space between the brick wall and the glass to allow someone to pass within the space. Kyrissa was naturally petite, just small enough that she could easily navigate the hall. Running her hand along the last pane, she gave a gentle nudge. It sprung open, revealing a hidden glass door. Kyrissa squeezed into the space.

The air changed the moment Kyrissa stepped inside the gallery, the way a storm brings on whirling winds and takes every drop of ocean water out to sea. Every breath she took spanned two. Every heartbeat lasted the length of three. And every moment that she stood amongst this art, she wondered how she could possibly ever capture a tenth of the emotion contained in these masterpieces.

The thrill of getting caught was part of it; knowing how elusive these paintings were, it was a wonder there weren't armed guards at every entrance. But Kyrissa could separate the danger from the pulse of energy emanating from the paintings. Her own blood seemed to slow to match the beats of the energy until they formed a rhythmic coupling she'd never experienced before.

Within the paint, grief emanated from the surface, resentment swirled in the air, and the absolute nothingness culminated in the heart of every image. Every painting in the collection captured the emotions so often forgotten about during the process of dying, or from those left behind. The Isle of the Dead, the crown jewel of the collection, embodied the pinnacle of every one of those emotions. If only it was here too.

It wasn't that these paintings were painted with any more skill than she possessed. She had plenty. And it wasn't that she used any less passion in her own art that these artists used; she had passion enough to go around. It was just that every painting evoked a visceral reaction, in its purest form. Whoever caught a glimpse of them felt whatever emotion the depiction contained—courage, longing, even serenity.

Kyrissa was a painter who worshipped the collection like a religion because she was a practicing member. Emotion once flowed from her paintbrush. But the last time she lost control of her gift, she painted death.

And somebody actually died.

CHAPTER TWO

IF SHE TOUCHED ONE of his paintings, his curse could kill her.

Or worse... claim her for itself. Robert Shoalman wouldn't wish this life on anyone.

You should not be in here, he demanded. As soon as the words left his mouth, the sensation of his error struck him.

The woman spun to face him. Blond hair like multi-faceted streaks of sunlight swayed around her nearly bare shoulders. Wide eyes stared into his and Robert found himself contemplating which pigments he could use from his collection to capture their color in paint. French pale green on the edges, with a wisp of gold surrounding the iron oxide black center.

Whoever this woman was, she fit within his artwork as though he painted her there himself.

I'm sorry. She pointed to the glass door now standing open behind him. The door was unlocked. She gestured to the artwork. Robert tensed, but her hand never came close to any of the frames. As if she knew better than to touch them. "I've never seen so many of The Shoalman Collection in one place before and never up close like this." She closed her eyes and Robert missed their intensity immediately.

They are behind a glass barrier for a reason.

But it blocks the emotions, the blond stated. Each layer of paint conveys a different feeling. Serenity, peace, but also pain and grief. This one in particular. She motioned to the image of a grave nestled deep in the woods. A lone figure knelt by the mound of rocks, head bowed, a single hand laid flat against the headstone. The longing emanating from it... She hugged herself, rubbing up and down her arms. It gives me chills. I can feel the desire that existed between these two. The regret from the one left behind. I want to comfort him. Tell him life will get better. Her fingers reached towards the paint, hovering just shy of the canvas.

Robert stared. Anyone viewing his works sensed their impact, could discern that there was something different about the paintings. But they couldn't explain the sensations; much less pick up on the individual emotions.

No one has ever described my collection in such a way.

Your collection? The woman gasped. Her hands flew to her mouth, eyes wide she stared at him. Oh my God. You're Robert Shoalman.

I am, Robert smirked. And you are?

Kyrissa Spears. Colonial burnt sienna tinted her cheeks mixed with a hint of rose wood in the apples. It was as if Robert had already painted her and only now recalled the exact pigments he used.

She dropped her gaze and started picking at the flecks of color on her nails.

Paint. Robert recognized the speckles and now that he looked, on her boots as well. Whatever else Kyrissa Spears was, one thing was certain. She was a painter. He stepped closer to her. Her ability to see the full emotional impact of his paintings intrigued him. She looked up, meeting his gaze.

Robert's body stirred. He might be over five hundred years old, but his body remained that of a twenty-two year old male. Responses he long thought dead unburied themselves from under centuries of denial. Every curved line, from her neck, past her breasts, to her full hips, made his hands ache to touch her. She was beauty waiting to be painted and Robert found himself stirring with the need to be that painter.

I should go, Kyrissa whispered. Yet she remained frozen before him.

Stay. Robert didn't know where that came from. As though someone else, a person from long ago took control. An entity that tired of being alone. I mean, I could give you a personal tour.

You'd do that? She narrowed her eyes, her gaze raking him from his dark hair, across his fitted, button-down shirt, tailored trousers and spit-shined shoes. Puffing his chest out a bit on her return trip up his body, Robert couldn't help but smile. No one had looked at him like that in a long time. Her blush returned. I wouldn't want to be a bother.

The eagerness in her voice contradicted her statement and sent a charge through him. This was ridiculous. Why was he offering to show a perfect stranger paintings he kept at arm's length from everyone else? Because she understands them.

No bother, he answered. You are already here after all. Smiling when Kyrissa cringed, Robert gestured to the first of his paintings. After a moment, she smiled back. The brightness of her grin lit up her whole face and sent another rush through him that chipped away at his cold hard core.

I've admired your collection for years and your own work too, she added quickly. "Your debut was a smashing success. I wish I had been able to make it. Seeing the Isle of the Dead alone would have been worth the trip. Tried, but tickets were impossible to get. Not even my best friend could get them and she can usually get anything she wants. It must have been amazing to be among all those... She glanced up, trailing off, but dropped her gaze again quickly. Sorry, I ramble when I'm nervous."

I make you nervous? Robert was glad to know the energy vibrating through his body wasn't limited only to him. I am just a painter. Like you. The comment casual, Robert hoped it might garner more information on this mysterious woman who understood his work.

Pfft. Not like me. There is so much emotion in your images. She paused in front of one of the pieces he painted under his current persona of Robert Shoalman. I painted like this once.

He inhaled sharply. No one painted like him. Without thinking, he grabbed her hand. Every emotion captured in the paintings hanging in the small cramped space amplified as though doubled. She jumped but didn't pull away. Her breath increased along with his. Fingers tightening, the heat where skin met burned like fire. Did she feel the increased power too?

You cannot learn this kind of painting, he whispered. The thrum of his heartbeat pounded in his ears until it echoed between the walls and pulsed within the connection of their hands. Her touch, hands rough from the paints and harsh cleaning chemicals of their chosen profession, more arousing than the slide of the softest silk across his bare skin. You either can paint emotion into the canvas or you cannot.

I have. Once. Her mouth took a firm line and she pulled her hand out of his. Both of them frowned as the connection severed. Did she feel the loss too?

A hundred years passed since his last connection to another—a hundred years of loneliness. Until this moment, a solitude he expected to continue for another century. Robert rubbed his hands together. The tingle of where she touched him still coursing with energy. His paintings. They were creating an emotional overload, one he was not sure he wanted to stop or embrace further.

We should step outside, he stated. Coward.

Afraid to touch her again, Robert held open the glass door. Staring at her until she moved, he followed behind her. Pulling a keychain from his pocket, the power imbued in the ancient etched symbol calming him, he made sure to engage the electronic locks this time. Immediately reason returned as the smell of stale beer and the pounding beat of music from the DJ replaced the charged sensation between them. Robert took several deep breaths before turning to confront Kyrissa. His body and mind back under control, he took in her tense form. Once again picking at the flecks of paint on her nails, she gazed around, searching the room. Probably looking for an escape as much as he. But her comment stuck with him.

What if she was truly gifted?

He had only found one other with the true gift and she had been ruthlessly torn away from him. In spite of his best efforts to the contrary, the prospect of seeing Kyrissa again morphed from atypical interest to anticipation.

I would like to see your painting. He locked his hands behind him. One, to hide their shaking, and two, to keep himself from reaching out to touch her again. Perhaps his body was not merely charged from the emotions within the paint, but also from the beautiful woman standing in front of him.

You're serious? Kyrissa stared at him like he'd sprouted wings. She shook her head and closed her mouth. I could show you tonight. After the show.

"Eternity finished a while ago." Taking a step closer, the pulse point in her neck increased its pace exponentially. A spot he wanted to feel beneath his lips.

Oh. Well, I should check with my roommate though, before I invite a strange man home from a bar.

Check with me about what? Mandy Hayworth appeared and Kyrissa darted away from him, grabbing on to Mandy with the desperation of a drowning woman. Robert? What are you doing with Kyrissa?

Robert gasped and several unanswered questions surrounding Mandy fell into place. "This is your roommate?"

You know Robert Shoalman? Kyrissa accused Mandy at the same moment.

Kyrissa's ability to sense his paintings just took a hard right turn, circled around itself, and piqued his curiosity a hundred fold. Now he had to see her painting. The sooner the better.

Robert had numerous Guardians over the past five centuries—mortals pledged to protect him from the darkness of his immortal curse and guard him against the demon that coveted his power. Exactly why Kyrissa Spears required a Guardian, he intended to find out.

CHAPTER THREE

KYRISSA WALKED HAND in hand with her best friend from Gallery towards their apartment. Two men she barely knew walked beside them, filling the trip with trepidation and excitement at once. She'd technically never brought a man back to their apartment from a bar, but then Robert Shoalman wasn't a typical bar patron either.

She tried to ignore that one of the men seemed to be able to stare straight through her. Gorgeous brown eyes, the darkest shade of umber she'd ever seen. In the center, a spot of gold shimmered and Kyrissa wanted nothing more than to capture that glint in paint. Except she had never seen that exact color before.

You know you're doing this whole one night stand thing all wrong, right? Mandy asked. I mean, usually you bring someone home that you don't know and will never see again.

Who says I ever see him again after tonight? Kyrissa skipped ahead to their apartment door. She turned to face the grouping. Just because you're dating his helper, or boy toy, or whatever Lucien is to Robert, doesn't mean I'm exactly tied to the pair.

Actually it does, Mandy assured her then smiled up at Lucien. Kyrissa liked seeing Mandy happy finally. And admittedly, Lucien was rather easy to be around and not too bad to look at, which was good because she was certain she'd see him a lot more often after tonight.

But Robert... he was Robert Shoalman, art protégé, apprenticed since he was sixteen to a master artist, and owner of the most famous painting collection dedicated to death. Kyrissa wasn't even entertaining the idea of seeing him again after tonight. She was just showing him a painting. Nothing more. And she wasn't even sure why she was doing that.

Besides, this isn't technically a one night stand in the most definable way. It's not like I'm inviting him in to have sex or anything close. Kyrissa shrugged. She entered the security code into the lock pad, pushing the door open with her hip at the same perfectly timed moment.

They do know we can hear them, right? Robert asked Lucien.

Of course we know you can hear us, Kyrissa answered, mock glaring at the two men. Lucien laughed. She held the door open while Mandy and Lucien took the steps two at a time as if they were racing to see who got to the top first. Lucien had longer legs, but Mandy used her arms, pulling her weight up the railing to help push her ascent of the four-story staircase faster. Their laughter drifted through the air.

Robert hesitated. He had removed his red silk tie for the walk here, securing it inside his jacket, but his pressed white shirt remained tucked neatly into a pair of dark grey pants perfectly tailored to his athletic cut frame. Holding the suit jacket over his shoulder, his arm flexed against the shirt trying to contain it. Kyrissa admired the man entirely too long for her own good.

Robert cleared his throat, staring straight ahead, then leaned to see the top of the open spiral stairs. Does she always race up the steps like a five year old and leave you in the lobby alone?

Yes. Kyrissa made sure the door clicked behind them and entered the security code to lock the building up again. Though I'm hardly alone. She nudged his shoulder. He jumped.

Robert glared at the first step. He glanced over his shoulder, eyes narrowing then back to the staircase. His head leaned to one side, brows drawn together as if he heard something Kyrissa hadn't.

You still want to come up? Kyrissa looked back at the door wondering if Robert was about to excuse himself and leave her standing in the spot alone.

Yes. Of course. Robert shook his head, but a soft smile appeared, erasing the harsh furrows in his brow. She liked his smile. Please, lead the way.

The elevator is right over there. Kyrissa pointed. Unprepared for Robert’s abrupt halt in the middle of the foyer, she ran into a hard wall of solid muscle.

In a nineteenth century building, it is called a lift and would be most unsafe if original equipment. His voice waivered and Kyrissa swore he turned almost as white as his shirt.

"Well, I don’t think it’s the original elevator, I mean lift. Mandy’s father is restoring the building back to the authentic specification, but somehow I don’t think the city would let him keep mechanical equipment from the 1800’s. It wouldn’t be safe, like you said, and I know he just had work done on it, so..." Kyrissa trailed off.

Was she rambling? Again.

Or we could just walk up the stairs, she offered lamely.

I prefer the stairs myself. Robert said. Besides, walking allows me to see more of the interior restoration. For instance, the architecture in this stairwell alone outshines every single new building in this entire city and is worth the trip. He circled several times, running his finger along the carved finials on the post at the foot of the main staircase.

Color returned to his face and his breathing slowed to a more normal rate. Kyrissa envied the crisp white shirt sliding across his shoulders with each new gesture and had to catch herself from staring. Twice. Smiling, she nodded to cover her missing the first part of his foyer description.

I find it interesting that you live on one of the most historical blocks in the entire city. Robert stood in the center of the foyer staring straight up into the domed ceiling four stories above.

Okay, Kyrissa said. She wasn't exactly an aficionado when it came to buildings, no matter when they were built. Robert on the other hand was more than just an architectural enthusiast; he seemed practically obsessed with it.

On the first step, Robert named all the peculiarly shaped cornices that Kyrissa hadn't bothered to note prior to today. He pointed out the curve that wrapped the stairs and on the second floor landing, enlightened her on the history of how it had become so popular over a hundred years ago. On the third floor, he told her the pattern name for the molding that outlined the windows. By the time they reached her apartment, Kyrissa knew Robert's eye for detail wasn't limited to just paintings. He found the beauty in everyday items she took for granted. Was that how he captured such emotion in his art?

"Nineteenth century architecture is my favorite. So intricate, detailed in ways that is often lost in the monstrosities of modern