Passion (5 page)

Where was he?

“Don’t touch!” Cam shouted at both of them. He was dressed in an o cer’s fatigues, combat boots, and a bulky black coat. At the sight of Daniel, his eyes blazed.

Unwit ingly, both Daniels had drawn closer, stepping around one another in a cautious circle in the snow. Now they reared back.

“Stay away from me,” the older one warned the newer. “It’s dangerous.”

“I know that,” Daniel barked. “Don’t you think I know that?” Just being this close made his stomach lurch. “I was here before. I am you.”

“What do you want?”

“I’m—” Daniel looked around, trying to get his bearings. After thousands of years of living, of loving Luce and losing her, the tissue of his memories had grown ragged. Repetition made the past hard to recal . But this place wasn’t so long ago, this place he remembered—

Desolate city. Snow on the streets. Fire in the sky.

It could have been one of a hundred wars.

But there—

The place on the street where the snow had melted. The dark crater in the sea of white. Daniel sank to his knees and reached for the ring of black ash stained on the ground. He closed his eyes. And he remembered the precise way she had died in his arms.

Moscow. 1941.

So this was what she was doing—tunneling into her past lives. Hoping to understand.

The thing was, there was no rhyme or reason to her deaths. More than anyone, Daniel knew that.

But there were certain lifetimes when he’d tried to shed some light for her, hoping it would change things. Sometimes he’d hoped to keep her alive longer, though that never real y worked. Sometimes—like this time during the siege of Moscow—he’d chosen to send her on her way more quickly. To spare her. So that his kiss could be the last thing she felt in that lifetime.

And those were the lifetimes that cast the longest shadows across the eons. Those were the lifetimes that stood out and drew Luce like lings to a magnet as she stumbled through the Announcers. Those lives when he’d revealed to her what she needed to know, even though knowing it would destroy her.

Like her death in Moscow. He remembered it keenly and felt foolish. The daring words he’d whispered, the deep kiss he’d given her. The blissful realization on her face as she died. It had changed nothing. Her end was exactly the same as always.

And Daniel was exactly the same afterward, too: Bleak. Black. Empty. Gut ed. Inconsolable.

Gabbe stepped forward to kick snow over the ring of ash where Luschka had died. Her featherlight wings glowed in the night and a shimmering aura surrounded her body as she hunched over in the snow. She was crying.

The rest of them came closer, too: Cam. Roland. Mol y. Arriane.

And Dani l, long-ago Daniel, rounded out their motley group.

“If you’re here to warn us about something,” Arriane cal ed, “then say your piece and go.” Her iridescent wings folded forward, almost protectively. She stepped in front of Dani l, who looked a lit le green.

It was unlawful and unnatural for the angels to interact with their earlier selves. Daniel felt clammy and faint—whether that was because he was having to relive Luce’s death or because he was so close to his previous self, he couldn’t say.

“Warn us?” Mol y sneered, walking in a circle around Daniel. “Why would Daniel Grigori go out of his way to warn us about anything?” She got in his face, taunting him with her copper-colored wings. “No, I remember what he’s up to—this one has been skipping through the past for centuries. Always searching, always late.”

“No,” Daniel whispered. That couldn’t be. He’d set out to catch her and he would.

“What she means to ask,” Roland said to Daniel, “is what transpired to bring you here? From whenever you’re coming from?”

“I’d almost forgot en,” Cam said, massaging his temples. “He is after Lucinda. She has fal en out of time.” He turned to Daniel and raised an eyebrow. “Maybe now you’l forsake your pride and ask for our help?”

“I don’t need help.”

“Seems as if you do,” Cam jeered.

“Stay out of it,” Daniel spat. “You’re enough trouble to us later.”

“Oh, how fun.” Cam clapped. “You’ve given me something to look forward to.”

“This is a dangerous game you’re playing, Daniel,” Roland said.

“This is a dangerous game you’re playing, Daniel,” Roland said.

“I know that.”

Cam laughed a dark, sinister laugh. “So. We’ve final y reached the endgame, haven’t we?” Gabbe swal owed. “So … something’s changed?”

“She’s figuring it out!” Arriane said. “She’s opening up Announcers and stepping through and she’s stil alive!” Daniel’s eyes blazed violet. He turned away from al of them, looking back at the ruins of the church, the rst place where he’d laid eyes on Luschka. “I can’t stay. I have to catch her.”

“Wel , from what I remember,” Cam said softly, “you never wil . The past is already writ en, brother.”

“Your past, maybe. But not my future.” Daniel couldn’t think straight. His wings burned inside his body, aching to be released. She was gone. The street was empty. No one else to worry about.

He threw his shoulders back and let them out with a whoosh. There. That lightness. That deepest freedom. He could think more clearly now. What he needed was a moment alone. With himself. He shot the other Daniel a look and took of into the sky.

Moments later, he heard the sound again: the same whoosh of wings unfurling—the sound of another pair of wings, younger wings, taking flight from the ground below.

Daniel’s earlier self caught up with him in the sky. “Where to?”

Wordlessly they set led on a third-story ledge near Patriarch’s Pond, on the roof across from Luce’s window, where they used to watch her sleep. The memory would be fresher in Dani l’s mind, but the faint recol ection of Luce lying dreaming under the covers stil sent a warm rush across Daniel’s wings.

Both were somber. In the bombed-out city, it was sad and ironic that her building had been spared when she hadn’t. They stood in silence in the cold night, both careful y tucking back their wings so that they wouldn’t accidental y touch.

“How are things for her in the future?”

Daniel sighed. “The good news is that something is dif erent in this lifetime. Somehow the curse has been … altered.”

“How?” Dani l looked up, and the hope that shone bright in his eyes darkened. “You mean to say, in her current lifetime she has not yet made a covenant?”

“We think not. That’s part of it. It seems a loophole has opened up and al owed her to live beyond her usual time—”

“But it’s so dangerous.” Dani l spoke quickly, frantical y, spewing out the same discourse that had been running through Daniel’s mind ever since the last night at Sword & Cross, when he’d realized that this time was di erent: “She could die and not come back. That could be the end. Every single thing is on the line now.”

“I know.”

Dani l stopped, composed himself. “I’m sorry. Of course you know. But … the question is, does she understand why this life is dif erent?” Daniel looked at his empty hands. “One of the Elders of Zhsmaelim got to her, interrogated her before Luce knew anything about her past.

Lucinda recognizes that everyone is focused on the fact that she has not been baptized … but there is so much she doesn’t know.” Dani l stepped to the edge of the roof and gazed at her dark window. “Then what’s the bad news?”

“I fear there is also much that I don’t know. I cannot predict the consequences of her eeing backward into time if I don’t nd her, and stop her, before it’s too late.”

Down on the street, a siren blared. The air raid was over. Soon the Russians would be out combing the city, looking for survivors.

Daniel sifted through the shreds of his memory. She was going further back—but to which lifetime? He turned to look hard at his earlier self. “You recal it, too, don’t you?”

“That … she is going back?”

“Yes. But how far back?” They spoke simultaneously, staring at the dark street.

“And where wil she stop?” Daniel said abruptly, backing away from the edge. He closed his eyes, took a breath. “Luce is di erent now.

She’s—” He could almost smel her. Clean, pure light, like sunshine. “Something fundamental has shifted. We nal y have a real chance. And I—I have never been more elated … nor more sick with terror.” He opened his eyes and was surprised to see Dani l nod.

“Daniel?”

“Yes?”

“What are you waiting for?” Dani l asked with a smile. “Go get her.”

And with that, Daniel teased open a shadow along the roof ledge—an Announcer—and stepped inside.

THREE

THREE

FOOLS RUSH IN

MILAN, ITALY • MAY 25, 1918

Łuce staggered out of the Announcer to the sound of explosions. She ducked and covered her ears.

Violent bursts rocked the ground. One heavy boom after another, each more spectacular and paralyzing than the one before, until the sound and the tremors reverberated so that there seemed to be no break in the assault. No way to escape the din, and no end.

Luce stumbled in the earsplit ing darkness, curling into herself, trying to shield her body. The blasts thrummed in her chest, spat dirt into her eyes and mouth.

Al this before she’d even had a chance to see where she’d ended up. With each bright explosion, she caught glimpses of rol ing elds, crisscrossed with culverts and tumbledown fences. But then the flash would vanish and she’d be blind again.

Bombs. They were stil going of .

Something was wrong. Luce had meant to step through time, to get away from Moscow and the war. But she must have ended up right back where she’d started. Roland had warned her about this—about the dangers of Announcer travel. But she’d been too stubborn to listen.

In the pitch-dark, Luce tripped over something and landed hard, facedown in the dirt.

Someone grunted. Someone Luce had landed on top of.

She gasped and squirmed away, feeling a sharp stab in her hip from where she’d fal en. But when she saw the man lying on the ground, she forgot her own pain.

He was young, about her age. Smal , with delicate features and timid brown eyes. His face was pale. His breath came in shal ow gasps. The hand cupped over his stomach was caked with black grime. And beneath that hand, his fatigues were soaked with dark red blood.

Luce couldn’t look away from the wound. “I’m not supposed to be here,” she whispered to herself.

The boy’s lips trembled. His bloody hand shook when he made the sign of the cross over his chest. “Oh, I’ve died,” he said, staring at her wide-eyed. “You are an angel. I’ve died and gone to—Am I in Heaven?”

He reached for her, his hand quaking. She wanted to scream or vomit, but al she could do was cover his hands and press them back over the gaping hole in his gut. Another boom rat led the ground and the boy lying on it. Fresh blood seeped through the web of Luce’s fingers.

“I am Giovanni,” he whispered, closing his eyes. “Please. Help me. Please.” Only then did Luce realize she wasn’t in Moscow anymore. The ground below her was warmer. Not snow-covered, but a grassy plain that was torn up in places, exposing rich black soil. The air was dry and dusty. This boy had spoken to her in Italian, and just as she had in Moscow, she understood.

Her eyes had adjusted. She could see searchlights in the distance, roaming over purple-hued hil s. And beyond the hil s, an evening sky was ecked with bright white stars. Luce turned away. She couldn’t see stars without thinking of Daniel, and she couldn’t think about Daniel right now. Not with her hands pressed into this boy’s bel y, not with him about to die.

At least he hadn’t died yet.

He only thought he had.

She couldn’t blame him. After he’d been hit, he’d probably gone into shock. And then maybe he’d seen her come through the Announcer, a black tunnel appearing out of thin air. He must have been terrified.

“You’re going to be ne,” she said, using the perfect Italian she’d always wanted to learn. It felt astonishingly natural on her tongue. Her voice, too, came out softer and smoother than she expected; it made her wonder what she’d been like in this lifetime.

A barrage of deafening shots made her jump. Gun re. Endless, in quick succession, bright zipping tracers arcing through the sky, burning lines of white into her vision, fol owed by a lot of shouting in Italian. Then the thump of footsteps in the dirt. Coming closer.

“We’re retreating,” the boy mumbled. “That’s not good.”

Luce looked toward the sound of soldiers running in their direction and noticed for the rst time that she and the injured soldier were not alone. At least ten other men lay wounded around them, moaning and trembling and bleeding into the black earth. Their clothes were singed and shredded from the land mine that must have taken them by surprise. The rich stink of rot and sweat and blood sat heavy in the air, coating everything. It was so horrific—Luce had to bite down on her lip to keep from screaming.

A man in an o cer’s uniform ran past her, then stopped. “What’s she doing here? This is a war zone, not a place for nurses. You’l be no help to us dead, girl. At least make yourself useful. We need the casualties loaded up.” He stormed o before Luce could respond. Below her, the boy’s eyes were beginning to droop and his whole body was shaking. She looked around desperately for help.