I nod, still about as far from excited as it gets but trying to hide it. Scoping out the ginormous room with its tall ceilings, glass windows, and plethora of corridors and halls that probably make it incredibly bright and welcoming in the daytime, but kind of creepy at night. “This place is huge. Have you been here before?”

He nods, heading for the round info desk in the center. “Once. Right before it officially opened. And though I know there’s lots of important works to see, there’s one exhibit in particular I’m extremely interested in.”

He swipes a guest guide off the stand, pressing his palm to the front until the desired location appears in his head. Then dropping it back in its slot, he leads me down a series of halls and up a few stairs, our path lit only by a series of security lights and the glint of the moon shining in through the windows.

“Is this it?” I ask, watching as he stands before a luminous painting titled Madonna Enthroned with St. Matthew, body still with awe, expression transformed to one of pure bliss.

He nods, unable to speak as he takes it all in, struggling to compose himself before turning to me. “I’ve traveled a lot. Lived in so many places. But when I finally left Italy just over four centuries ago, I swore I’d never return. The Renaissance was over, and my life—well—I was more than ready to move on. But then I heard about this new school of painters, the Carracci family in Bologna, who’d learned their craft from the masters, including my dear friend Raphael. They started a new way of painting, influencing the next generation of artists.” He motions to the painting before us, face filled with wonder as he softly shakes his head. “Just look at the softness—the textures! The intensity of color and light! It’s just—” He shakes his head. “It’s just brilliant!” he says, voice tinged with reverence.

I glance between the painting and him, wishing I could see it in the same way as he. Not as some old, priceless, highly regarded picture hanging before me, but as a true thing of beauty, an object of glory, a miracle of sorts.

He leads me to the next one, our hands grasped together as we marvel at a painting of Saint Sebastian, his poor, pale body pierced with arrows—all of it appearing so real I actually flinch.

And that’s when I get it. For the first time ever, I can see what Damen sees. Finally understanding that the true journey of all great art is in taking an isolated experience and not just preserving it, or interpreting it, but sharing it for all time.

“You must feel so—” I shake my head and press my lips together, searching for just the right word. “I don’t know—powerful—I guess. To be able to create something as beautiful as this.” I peer at him, knowing he can easily create a work with as much beauty and meaning as those that hang here.

But he just shrugs, moving on to the next one as he says, “Other than our art class at school, I haven’t painted in years. I guess I’m more of an appreciator than a creator now.”

“But why? Why would you turn your back on a gift like that? I mean, it is a gift, right? There’s no way it can be an immortal thing since we’ve all seen what happens when I try to paint.”

He smiles, leading me across the room and stopping before a magnificent rendition called Joseph and Potiphar’s Wife. Gaze searching every square inch of the canvas when he says, “Honestly? Powerful doesn’t even begin to describe how I feel with a brush in my hand, a blank canvas before me, and a full palette of paint by my side. For six hundred years I’ve been invincible, heir to the elixir sought by all men!” He shakes his head. “And yet nothing can rival the incredible rush the act of creation brings. Of crafting something you just know is destined to be great for all time.”

He turns toward me, hand at my cheek. “Or at least that’s what I believed up until I saw you. Because seeing you for the very first time—” He shakes his head, eyes gazing into mine. “Nothing can ever compare with that very first glimpse of our love.”

“You didn’t stop painting for me—did you?” I hold my breath, hoping I wasn’t the cause of his artistic demise.

He shakes his head, gaze returning to the painting before him as his thoughts travel a long way away. “It had nothing to do with you. It’s just—well—at some point, the reality of my situation set in.”

I squint, having no idea what that means, or what he could possibly be getting at.

“A cruel reality I probably should’ve shared with you before.” He sighs, looking at me.

I gaze at him, stomach filling with dread, unsure I want to hear the answer when I ask, “What do you mean?” Sensing from the look in his eyes just how much he’s struggling with this.

“The reality of living forever,” he says, eyes dark, sad, focused on mine. “A reality that seems incredibly vast and infinite and powerful, with no limits in sight—until you realize the truth lurking behind it—the truth of watching your friends all wither and die while you stay the same. Only you’re forced to watch it from afar, because once the inequity becomes obvious, you’ve no choice but to move on, to go somewhere new and start over again. And again. And again.” He shakes his head. “All of which makes it impossible to forge any real bonds. And the ironic thing is, despite our unlimited access to powers and magick, the temptation to make a big impact or effect any real change is something that must be avoided at all costs. It’s the only way to remain hidden, with our secrets intact.”