Passion (19 page)

TEN

THE DEPTHS

LHASA, TIBET • APRIL 30, 1740

Daniel hit the ground running.

Wind ripped across his body. The sun felt close against his skin. He was running and running and had no idea where he was. He’d burst from the Announcer without knowing, and though it felt right in almost every way, something nagged at his memory. Something was wrong.

His wings.

They were absent. No—they were stil there, of course, but he felt no urge to let them out, no burning itch for ight. Instead of the familiar yearning to soar into the sky, the pul he felt was down.

A memory was rising to the surface of his mind. He was nearing something painful, the edge of something dangerous. His eyes focused on the space in front of him—

And saw nothing but thin air.

He threw himself backward, arms ailing as his feet skidded along the rock. He hit the ground on his backside and came to a stop just before he plunged of an unfathomable clif .

He caught his breath, then rol ed his body careful y around so he could peer over the edge.

Below him: an abyss so eerily familiar. He got to his hands and knees and studied the vast darkness below. Was he down there stil ? Had the Announcer ejected him here before or after it had happened?

That was why his wings hadn’t burst forth. They’d remembered this life’s agony and stayed put.

Tibet. Where just his words had kil ed her. That life’s Lucinda had been raised to be so chaste, she wouldn’t even touch him. Though he’d ached for the feel of her skin on his, Daniel had respected her wishes. Secretly, he had hoped that her refusal might be a way to outsmart their curse at last. But he’d been a fool again. Of course, touch wasn’t the trigger. The punishment ran far deeper than that.

And now he was back here, in the place where her death had driven him into a despair so overwhelming that he’d tried to put an end to his pain.

As if that were possible.

The whole way down, he’d known he would fail. Suicide was a mortal luxury not af orded to angels.

His body trembled at the memory. It wasn’t just the agony of al his shat ered bones, or the way the fal had left his body black and blue.

No, it was what came afterward. He’d lain there for weeks, his body wedged in the dark emptiness between two vast boulders. Occasional y he’d come to, but his mind was so awash in misery that he wasn’t able to think about Lucinda. He wasn’t able to think about anything at al .

Which had been the point.

But as was the way of angels, his body healed itself faster and more completely than his soul ever could.

His bones knit back together. His wounds sealed in neat scars and, over time, disappeared completely. His pulverized organs grew healthy.

Al too soon his heart was ful again and strong and beating.

It was Gabbe who’d found him after more than a month, who’d helped him crawl out from the crevasse, who’d put splints on his wings and carried him away from this place. She’d made him vow to never do it again. She’d made him vow to always maintain hope.

And now here he was again. He got to his feet and, once more, teetered at the edge.

“No, please. Oh God, don’t! I just couldn’t bear it if you jumped.”

It wasn’t Gabbe speaking to him now on the mountain. This voice dripped with sarcasm. Daniel knew who it belonged to before he even spun around.

Cam lounged against a wal of tal black boulders. Over the colorless earth, he’d spread out an enormous prayer tapestry woven with rich strands of burgundy and ochre thread. He dangled a charred yak’s leg in his hand and bit of a huge hunk of stringy meat.

“Oh, what the hel ?” Cam shrugged, chewing. “Go ahead and jump. Any last words you want me to pass along to Luce?”

“Where is she?” Daniel started toward him, his hands bal ing into sts. Was the Cam reclining before him of this time period? Or was he an Anachronism, come back in time just as Daniel had?

Cam flung the yak bone of the clif and stood up, wiping his greasy hands on his jeans. Anachronism, Daniel decided.

“You just missed her. Again. What took you so long?” Cam held out a smal tin plat er brimming with food. “Dumpling? They’re divine.” Daniel knocked the plate to the ground. “Why didn’t you stop her?” He had been to Tahiti, to Prussia, and now here to Tibet in less time that it would take a mortal to cross a street. Always he felt as if he were hot on Luce’s trail. And always she was just beyond reach. How did she continue to outpace him?

“You said you didn’t need my help.”

“But you saw her?” Daniel demanded.

Cam nodded.

“Did she see you?”

Cam shook his head.

“Good.” Daniel scanned the bare mountaintop, trying to imagine Luce there. He cast a quick eye around, looking for traces of her. But there was nothing. Gray dirt, black rock, the cut of the wind, no life up here at al —it al seemed to him the loneliest place on earth.

“What happened?” he said, gril ing Cam. “What did she do?”

Cam walked a casual circle around Daniel. “She, unlike the object of her a ection, has an impeccable sense of timing. She arrived at just the right moment to see her own magnificent death—it is a good one, this time, looks quite grand against this stark landscape. Even you must be able to admit that. No?”

Daniel jerked his gaze away.

“Anyway, where was I? Hmm, her own magni cent death, already said that … Ah yes! She stayed just long enough to watch you throw yourself over the edge of the clif and forget to use your wings.”

Daniel hung his head.

Daniel hung his head.

“That didn’t go over very wel .”

Daniel’s hand snapped out and caught Cam by the throat. “You expect me to believe you just watched? You didn’t talk to her? Didn’t nd out where she was going next? Didn’t try to stop her?”

Cam grunted and twisted out of Daniel’s grip. “I was nowhere near her. By the time I reached this spot, she was gone. Again: You said you didn’t need my help.”

“I don’t. Stay out of this. I’l handle it myself.”

Cam chuckled and dropped back onto the tapestry rug, crossing his legs in front of him. “Thing is, Daniel,” he said, drawing a handful of dried goji berries to his lips. “Even if I trusted that you could handle it yourself—which, based on your existing record, I don’t”—he wagged a finger—“you’re not alone in this. Everyone’s looking for her.”

“What do you mean, everyone?”

“When you took o after Luce the night we fought the Outcasts, do you think the rest of us just sat around and played canasta? Gabbe, Roland, Mol y, Arriane, even those two idiot Nephilim kids—they’re al somewhere out there trying to find her.”

“You let them do that?”

“I’m not anyone’s keeper, brother.”

“Don’t cal me that,” Daniel snapped. “I can’t believe this. How could they? This is my responsibility—”

“Free wil .” Cam shrugged. “It’s al the rage these days.”

Daniel’s wings burned against his back, useless. What could he do about half a dozen Anachronisms blundering about in the past? His fel ow fal en angels would know how fragile the past was, would be careful. But Shelby and Miles? They were kids. They’d be reckless. They wouldn’t know any bet er. They could destroy it al for Luce. They could destroy Luce herself.

No. Daniel wouldn’t give any of them the chance to get to her before he did.

And yet—Cam had done it.

“How can I trust that you didn’t interfere?” Daniel asked, trying not to show his desperation.

Cam rol ed his eyes. “Because you know I know how dangerous interference is. Our end goals may be di erent, but we both need her to make it out of this alive.”

“Listen to me, Cam. Everything is at stake here.”

“Don’t demean me. I know what’s at stake. You’re not the only one who’s already struggled for too long.”

“I’m—I’m afraid,” Daniel admit ed. “If she too deeply alters the past—”

“It could change who she is when she returns to the present?” Cam said. “Yeah, I’m scared, too.” Daniel closed his eyes. “It would mean that any chance she had of breaking free of this curse—”

“Would be squandered.”

Daniel eyed Cam. The two of them hadn’t spoken to each other like this—like brothers—in ages. “She was alone? You’re sure none of the others had got en to her, either?”

For a moment, Cam gazed past Daniel, at a space on the mountaintop beyond them. It looked as empty as Daniel felt. Cam’s hesitation made the back of Daniel’s neck itch.

“None of the others had reached her,” Cam said final y.

“Are you certain?”

“I’m the one who saw her here. You’re the one who never shows up on time. And besides, her being out here at al is no one’s fault but yours.”

“That’s not true. I didn’t show her how to use the Announcers.”

Cam laughed bit erly. “I don’t mean the Announcers, you moron. I mean that she thinks this is just about the two of you. A stupid lovers’

quarrel.”

“It is about the two of us.” Daniel’s voice was strained. He would have liked to pick up the boulder behind Cam’s head and drop it over his skul .

“Liar.” Cam leaped to his feet, hot fury ashing in his green eyes. “It’s far bigger, and you know it is.” He rol ed back his shoulders and unleashed his giant marbled wings. They l ed the air with golden glory, blocking the sun for a moment. When they curved toward Daniel, he stepped back, repulsed. “You’d bet er find her, before she—or someone else—steps in and rewrites our entire history. And makes you, me, al of this”—Cam snapped his fingers—“obsolete.”

Daniel snarled, unfurling his own silvery-white wings, feeling them extend out and out and out at his sides, shuddering as they pulsed near Cam’s. He felt warmer now, and capable of anything. “I’l handle it—” he started to say.

But Cam had already taken o , the kickback from his ight sending smal tornadoes of dirt spiraling up from the ground. Daniel shielded his eyes from the sun and looked up as the golden wings beat across the sky, then, in an instant, were gone.

ELEVEN

ELEVEN

COUP DE FOUDRE

VERSAILLES, FRANCE • FEBRUARY 14, 1723

Splash.

Luce came out of the Announcer underwater.

She opened her eyes, but the warm, cloudy water stung so sharply that she promptly clamped them shut again. Her soggy clothes dragged her down, so she wrestled of the mink coat. As it sank beneath her, she kicked hard for the surface, desperate for air.

It was only a few inches above her head.

She gasped; then her feet found bot om and she stood. She wiped the water from her eyes. She was in a bathtub.

Granted, it was the largest bathtub she had ever seen, as big as a smal swimming pool. It was kidney-shaped and made of the smoothest white porcelain and sat alone in the middle of a giant room that looked like a gal ery in a museum. The high ceilings were covered by enormous frescoed portraits of a dark-haired family who looked royal. A chain of golden roses framed each bust, and eshy cherubs hovered between, playing trumpets toward the sky. Against each of the wal s—which were papered in elaborate swirls of turquoise, pink, and gold—

was an oversized, lavishly carved wooden armoire.

Luce sank back into the tub. Where was she now? She used her hand to skim the surface, parting about ve inches of frothy bubbles the consistency of Chantil y cream. A pil ow-sized sponge bobbed up, and she realized she had not bathed since Helston. She was lthy. She used the sponge to scrub at her face, then set to work peeling o the rest of her clothes. She sloshed al the sopping garments over the side of the tub.That was when Bil oated slowly up out of the bathwater to hover a foot above the surface. The portion of the tub from which he’d risen was dark and cloudy with gargoyle grit.

“Bil !” she cried. “Can’t you tel I need a few minutes of privacy?”

He held a hand up to shield his eyes. “You done thrashing around in here yet, Jaws?” With his other hand, he wiped some bubbles from his bald head.

“You could have warned me that I was about to take a plunge underwater!” Luce said.

“I did warn you!” He hopped up to the rim of the tub and tot ered across it until he was in Luce’s face. “Right as we were coming out of the Announcer. You just didn’t hear me because you were underwater!”

“Very helpful, thank you.”

“You needed a bath, anyway,” he said. “This is a big night for you, toots.”

“Why? What’s happening?”

“What’s happening, she asks!” Bil grabbed her shoulder. “Only the grandest bal since the Sun King popped o ! And I say, so what if this boum is hosted by his greasy pubescent son? It’s stil going to be right downstairs in the largest, most spectacular bal room in Versail es—and everybody’s going to be there!”

Luce shrugged. A bal sounded fine, but it had nothing to do with her.

“I’l clarify,” Bil said. “Everyone wil be there including Lys Virgily. The Princess of Savoy? Ring a bel ?” He bopped Luce on the nose.

“That’s you.”

“Hmph,” Luce said, sliding her head back to rest against the soapy wal of the tub. “Sounds like a big night for her. But what am I supposed to do while they’re al at the bal ?”

“See, remember when I told you—”

The knob on the door of the great bathroom was turning. Bil eyed it, groaning. “To be continued.” As the door swung open, he held his pointy nose and disappeared under the water. Luce writhed and kicked him to the other side of the tub. He resurfaced, glared at her, and started floating on his back through the suds.