Passion (18 page)

Daniel’s movement on the ground made Luce jump.

He stirred in his blanket of snow. An agonized groan escaped his lips.

“What’s happening?” Luce said, dropping to her knees and reaching for him.

“Don’t wake him!” Bil said quickly. “His sleep is riddled with nightmares, but it’s bet er for him than being awake. Until your soul is set led in a new life, Daniel’s whole existence is a kind of torture.”

Luce was torn between wanting to ease Daniel’s pain and trying to understand that waking him up might only worsen it.

“Like I said, on occasion, he sort of has insomnia … and that’s when it gets real y interesting. But you wouldn’t want to see that. Nah.”

“I would,” she said, sit ing up. “What happens?”

Bil ’s eshy cheeks twitched, as if he’d been caught at something. “Wel , uh, a lot of times, the other fal en angels are around,” he said, not meeting her eyes. “They get in and they, you know, try to console him.”

“I saw them in Moscow. But that’s not what you’re talking about. There’s something you’re not tel ing me. What happens when—”

“You don’t want to see those lives, Luce. It’s a side of him—”

“It’s a side of him that loves me, isn’t it? Even if it’s dark or bad or disturbing, I need to see it. Otherwise I stil won’t understand what he goes through.”

Bil sighed. “You’re looking at me like you need my permission. Your past belongs to you.” Luce was already on her feet. She glanced around the cemetery until her eyes fel on a smal shadow stretching out from the back of her tombstone. There. That’s the one. Luce was startled by her certainty. That had never happened before.

At rst glance this shadow had looked like any of the other shadows she had clumsily summoned in the woods at Shoreline. But this time, Luce could see something in the shadow itself. It wasn’t an image depicting any speci c destination, but instead a strange silver glow that suggested that this Announcer would take her where her soul needed to go next.

It was cal ing to her.

She answered, reaching inside herself, drawing on that glow to guide the shadow up of the ground.

The shard of darkness peeled itself o the white snow and took shape as it moved closer. It was deep black, colder than the snow fal ing al around her, and it swept toward Luce like a giant, dark sheet of paper. Her ngers were cracked and numb with cold as she expanded it into a larger, control ed shape. It emit ed that familiar gust of foul-smel ing wind from its core. The portal was wide and stable before Luce realized she was out of breath.

“You’re get ing good at this,” Bil said. There was a strange edge to his voice that Luce didn’t waste time analyzing.

She also didn’t waste time feeling proud of herself—though somewhere she could recognize that if Miles or Shelby had been here, they’d have been doing cartwheels right now. It was by far the best summoning she’d ever done on her own.

But they weren’t here. Luce was on her own, so al she could do was move on to the next life, observe more of Lucinda and Daniel, drink it al in until something began to make sense. She felt around the clammy edges for a latch or a knob, just some way in. Final y, the Announcer creaked open.

Luce took a deep breath. She looked back at Bil . “Are you coming or what?” Gravely, he hopped onto her shoulder and grabbed hold of her lapel like the reins on a horse, and the two of them stepped through.

LHASA, TIBET • APRIL 30, 1740

Luce gasped for breath.

She’d come out of the dark of the Announcer into a swirl of fast-moving fog. The air was thin and cold and every lungful stabbed at her chest. She couldn’t seem to catch her breath. The fog’s cool white vapor blew her hair back, rode along her open arms, soaked her garments with dew, and then was gone.

Luce saw that she was standing at the edge of the highest cli she’d ever seen. She wobbled and staggered back, dizzy when she saw her feet dislodge a pebble. It rol ed forward a few inches and over the edge, plummeting forever down.

She gasped again, this time from fear of heights.

“Breathe,” Bil coached her. “More people pass out up here from panicking over not get ing enough oxygen than from actual y not get ing enough oxygen.”

Luce inhaled careful y. That was slightly bet er. She lowered the dirty mink on her shoulders and enjoyed the sun on her face. But she stil couldn’t get used to the view.

Stretching away from the cli where she stood was a yawning val ey spot ed with what looked like farmland and ooded rice paddies.

And to either side, rising into misty heights, were two towering mountains.

Far ahead, carved right into one of the steep mountainsides, was a formidable palace. Majestical y white and capped by deep-red roofs, its outer wal s were festooned with more staircases than she could count. The palace looked like something out of an ancient fairy tale.

“What is this place? Are we in China?” she asked.

“If we stood here long enough, we would be,” Bil said. “But right now, it’s Tibet, thanks to the Dalai Lama. That’s his pad over there.” He pointed at the monster palace. “Swanky, eh?”

But Luce wasn’t fol owing his finger. She’d heard a laugh from somewhere nearby and had turned to seek out its source.

Her laugh. The soft, happy laugh she hadn’t known was hers until she’d met Daniel.

She nal y spot ed two gures a few hundred yards away along the cli . She’d have to clamber across some boulders to get closer, but it wouldn’t be that dif icult. She hunched in her muddy coat and started careful y picking her way through the snow, toward the sound.

“Whoa there.” Bil grabbed her by the col ar of the coat. “Do you see any place for us to take cover?” Luce looked around the bare landscape: al rocky drop-of s and open spaces. Nothing even to serve as shelter from the wind.

“We’re above the tree line, pal. And you’re smal , but you ain’t invisible. You’re going to have to hang back here.”

“But I can’t see a thing—”

“Coat pocket,” Bil said. “You’re welcome.”

She felt around in the pocket of the coat—the same coat she’d been wearing at the funeral in Prussia—and pul ed out a brand-new, very expensive-looking pair of opera glasses. She didn’t bother asking Bil where or when he’d got them, she just held them up to her eyes and twisted the focus.

There.

There.

The two of them stood facing each other, several feet apart. Her past self’s black hair was knot ed in a girlish bun, and her woven linen dress was the pink of an orchid. She looked young and innocent. She was smiling at Daniel, rocking back and forth on her feet like she was nervous, watching his every move with unbounded intensity. Daniel’s eyes had a teasing look in them; a bunch of round white peonies were in his arms and he was doling them out to her one by one, making her laugh harder each time.

Watching closely through the opera glasses, Luce noticed that their ngers never touched. They kept a certain distance from each other.

Why? It was almost startling.

In the other lives she’d spied upon, Luce had seen so much passion and hunger. But here, it was di erent. Luce’s body began to buzz, eager for just one moment of physical connection between them. If she couldn’t touch Daniel, at least her old self could.

But they were just standing there, now walking in circles. Never get ing any closer to each other or any farther apart.

Every once in a while, their laughter would carry over to Luce again.

“Wel ?” Bil kept trying to squish his lit le face next to Luce’s so he could look through one of the lenses of the opera glasses. “What’s the word?”

“They’re just talking. They’re irting kind of like they’re strangers, but at the same time they also seem to know each other real y wel . I don’t get it.”

“So they’re taking it slow. What’s wrong with that?” Bil asked. “Kids today, they just want things to go fast—boom boom BOOM.”

“Nothing’s wrong with taking it slow, I just—” Luce broke of .

Her past self fel to her knees. She began to rock back and forth, holding her head, then her heart. A horri ed look crossed Daniel’s face.

He looked so sti in his white pants and tunic, like a statue of himself. He shook his head, looking at the sky, his lips mouthing the words No. No. No.

The girl’s hazel eyes had gone wild and ery, like something had possessed her. A high-pitched scream echoed out across the mountains.

Daniel fel to the ground and buried his face in his hands. He reached out for her, but his hand hung in the air without ever connecting with her skin. His body crumpled and quaked, and when it mat ered most, he looked away.

Luce was the only one watching as the girl became, out of nowhere, a column of fire. So fast.

The acrid smoke swirled over Daniel. His eyes were closed. His face glistened—wet with tears. He looked as miserable as he had looked every other time she’d watched him watch her die. But this time, he also looked sick with shock. Something was di erent. Something was wrong.

When Daniel had rst told her about his punishment, he’d said there had been some lives in which a single kiss had kil ed her. Worse, in which something short of a kiss had kil ed her. A single touch.

They had not touched. Luce had been watching the whole time. He’d been so careful not to come near her. Did he think he could have her longer by holding back the warmth of his embrace? Did he think he could outwit the curse by holding her always just out of reach?

“He didn’t even touch her,” she murmured.

“Bummer,” Bil said.

Never touching her, not once the whole time they were in love. And now he’d have to wait it al out again, not knowing whether anything would even be dif erent next time. How could hope live in the face of that kind of defeat? Nothing about this made sense.

“If he didn’t touch her, then what triggered her death?” She turned to Bil , who tilted his head and looked up into the sky.

“Mountains,” he said. “Pret y!”

“You know something,” Luce said. “What is it?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know anything,” he said. “Or nothing I can tel you.” A horrible, desolate cry echoed across the val ey. The sound of Daniel’s agony resounded and returned, multiplied, as though a hundred Daniels were crying out together. Luce brought the opera glasses back up to her face and saw him dash the owers in his hands to the ground.

“I have to go to him!” she said.

“Too late,” Bil said. “Here it comes.”

Daniel backed away from the cli edge. Luce’s heart pounded for fear of what he was about to do. He certainly wasn’t going to sleep. He got a running start, picking up inhuman speed by the time he reached the clif ’s edge, and then launched himself into the air.

Luce waited for his wings to unfurl. She waited for the soft thunder of their grand unfolding, opening wide and catching the air in awesome glory. She’d seen him take flight like this in the past, and every time, it struck her to her core: How desperately she loved him.

But Daniel’s wings never shot out from his back. When he reached the edge of the clif , he went over like any other boy.

And he fel like any other boy, too.

Luce screamed, a loud and long and terri ed cry, until Bil clapped his dirty stone hand over her mouth. She threw him o , ran to the edge of the clif , and crawled forward.

Daniel was stil fal ing. It was a long way down. She watched his body grow smal er and smal er.

“He’l extend his wings, won’t he?” she gasped. “He’l realize that he’s going to fal and fal until …” She couldn’t even say it.

“No,” Bil said.

“But—”

“He’l slam right into that ground a couple of thousand feet down, yes,” Bil said. “He’l break every bone in his body. But don’t worry, he can’t kil himself. He only wishes he could.” He turned to her and sighed. “Now do you believe his love?”

“Yes,” Luce whispered, because al she wanted to do at that moment was plunge o the cli after him. That was how much she loved him back.

But it wouldn’t do any good.

“They were being so careful.” Her voice was strained. “We both saw what happened, Bil : nothing. She was so innocent. So how could she have died?”

Bil sput ered a laugh. “You think you know everything about her just because you saw the last three minutes of her life from across a mountaintop?”

“You’re the one who made me use binoculars … oh!” She froze. “Wait a minute!” Something haunted her about the way her past self’s eyes had seemed to change, just for a moment, right at the end. And suddenly, Luce knew: “What kil ed her this time wasn’t something I could have witnessed, anyway.…”

Bil rol ed his claws, waiting for her to finish the thought.

Bil rol ed his claws, waiting for her to finish the thought.

“It was happening inside her.”

He applauded slowly. “I think you might be ready now.”

“Ready for what?”

“Remember what I mentioned to you in Helston? After you talked to Roland?”

“You disagreed with him … about me get ing close to my past selves?”

“You stil can’t rewrite the story, Luce. You can’t change the narratives. If you try to—”

“I know, it distorts the future. I don’t want to change the past. I just need to know what happens—why I keep dying. I thought it was a kiss, or a touch, or something physical, but it seems more complicated than that.” Bil yanked the shadow out from behind Luce’s feet like a bul ghter wielding a red cape. Its edges ickered with silver. “Are you ready to put your soul where your mouth is?” he asked. “Are you ready to go three-D?”

“I’m ready.” Luce punched open the Announcer and braced herself against the briny wind inside. “Wait,” she said, looking at Bil hovering at her side. “What’s three-D?”

“Wave of the future, kid,” he said.

Luce gave him a hard stare.

“Okay, there’s an unsonorous technical term for it—cleaving—but to me, three-D sounds much more fun.” Bil dove inside the dark tunnel and beckoned her with a crooked finger. “Trust me, you’l love it.”

TEN