Passion (25 page)

“I wil always love you, Daniel.” Only, that didn’t seem quite right—or not quite enough. She had to make him understand, and damn the consequences—if she changed history, so be it. “I’l always choose you.” Yes, that was the word. “Every single lifetime, I’l choose you. Just as you have always chosen me. Forever.”

His lips parted. Did he believe her? Did he already know? It was a choice, a long-standing, deep-seated choice that reached beyond anything else Luce was capable of. Something powerful was behind it. Something beautiful and—

Shadows began to swirl in the rigging overhead. Heat quaked through her body, making her convulse, desperate for the ery release she knew was coming.

Daniel’s eyes flashed with pain. “No,” he whispered. “Please don’t go yet.” Somehow, it always took both of them by surprise.

As her past self’s body erupted into ames, there was a sound of cannon re, but Luce couldn’t be sure. Her eyes went blurry with brightness and she was cast far up and out of Lucinda’s body, into the air, into darkness.

“No!” she cried as the wal s of the Announcer closed around her. Too late.

“What’s the problem now?” Bil asked.

“I wasn’t ready. I know Lucinda had to die, but I—I was just—” She’d been on the brink of understanding something about the choice she’d made to love Daniel. And now everything about those last moments with Daniel had gone up in flames along with her past self.

“Wel , there’s not much more to see,” Bil said. “Just the usual routine of a building catching fire—smoke, wal s of flame, people screaming and stampeding toward the exits, trampling the less fortunate underfoot—you get the picture. The Globe burned to the ground.”

“What?” she said, feeling sick. “I started the re at the Globe?” Surely burning down the most famous theater in English history would have repercussions across time.

“Oh, don’t get al self-important. It was going to happen anyway. If you hadn’t burst into ames, the cannon onstage would have mis red and taken the whole place out.”

“This is so much bigger than me and Daniel. Al those people—”

“Look, Mother Teresa, no one died that night … besides you. No one else even got hurt. Remember that drunk leering at you from the third row? His pants catch on fire. That’s the worst of it. Feel bet er?”

“Not real y. Not at al .”

“How about this: You’re not here to add to your mountain of guilt. Or to change the past. There’s a script, and you have your entrances and your exits.”

“I wasn’t ready for my exit.”

“Why not? Henry the Eighth sucks, anyway.”

“I wanted to give Daniel hope. I wanted him to know that I would always choose him, always love him. But Lucinda died before I could be sure he understood.” She closed her eyes. “His half of our curse is so much worse than mine.”

“That’s good, Luce!”

“What do you mean? That’s horrible!”

“I mean that lit le gem—that ‘Wah, Daniel’s agony is in nitely more horrible than mine’—that’s what you learned here. The more you understand, the closer you’l get to knowing the root of the curse, and the more likely it is that you’l eventual y nd your way out of it.

Right?”

“I—I don’t know.”

“I do. Now come on, you’ve got bigger roles to play.”

Daniel’s side of the curse was worse. Luce could see that now very clearly. But what did it mean? She didn’t feel any closer to being able to break it. The answer eluded her. But she knew Bil was right about one thing: She could do nothing more in this lifetime. Al she could do was keep going back.

FOURTEEN

FOURTEEN

THE STEEP SLOPE

CENTRAL GREENLAND • WINTER, 1100

Ŧhe sky was black when Daniel stepped through. Behind him, the portal bil owed in the wind like a tat ered curtain, snagging and tearing itself apart before fal ing to pieces on the night-blue snow.

A chil crept over his body. At rst sight, there seemed to be nothing here at al . Nothing but arctic nights that seemed to go on forever, of ering only the thinnest glimpse of day at the end.

He remembered now: These fjords were the place where he and his fel ow fal en angels held their meetings: al bleak dimness and harsh cold, a two days’ trek north of the mortal set lement of Brat ahlíõ. But he would not nd her here. This land had never been a part of Lucinda’s past, so there would be nothing in her Announcers to bring her here now.

Just Daniel. And the others.

He shivered and marched across the snow-swept fjord toward a warm glow on the horizon. Seven of them were gathered around the bright-orange re. From a distance, the circle of their wings looked like a giant halo on the snow. Daniel didn’t have to count their shining outlines to know they were al there.

None of them noticed him crossing the snow toward their assembly. They always kept a single starshot on hand just in case, but the idea of an uninvited visitor happening upon their council was so implausible it was not even a real threat. Besides, they were too busy bickering among themselves to detect the Anachronism crouching behind a frozen boulder, eavesdropping.

“This was a waste of time.” Gabbe’s voice was the first one Daniel could make out. “We’re not going to get anywhere.” Gabbe’s patience could be a short-fused thing. At the start of the war, her rebel ion had lasted a split second compared to Daniel’s. Ever since then, her commitment to her side had run deep. She was back in the Graces of Heaven, and Daniel’s hesitation went against everything she believed in. As she paced the perimeter of the fire, the tips of her huge feathered white wings dragged in the snow behind her.

“You’re the one who cal ed this meeting,” a low voice reminded her. “Now you want to adjourn?” Roland was seated on a short black log a few feet in front of where Daniel crouched behind a boulder. Roland’s hair was long and unkempt. His dark pro le and his marbled gold-black wings glit ered like embers in the dusk of a fire.

It was al just as Daniel remembered.

“The meeting I cal ed was for them.” Gabbe stopped pacing and tossed her wing to point at the two angels sit ing next to each other across the fire from Roland.

Arriane’s slender iridescent wings were stil for once, rising high above her shoulder blades. Their shimmer looked almost phosphorescent in the colorless night, but everything else about Arriane, from her short black bob to her pale, drawn lips, looked harrowingly somber and sedate.

The angel beside Arriane was quieter than usual, too. Annabel e stared blankly into the far reaches of the night. Her wings were dark silver, almost pewter-colored. They were broad and muscular, stretching around her and Arriane in a wide, protective arc. It had been a long time since Daniel had seen her.

Gabbe came to a stop behind Arriane and Annabel e and stood facing the other side: Roland, Mol y, and Cam, who were sharing a coarse fur blanket. It was draped over their wings. Unlike the angels on the other side of the fire, the demons were shivering.

“We didn’t expect your side tonight,” Gabbe told them, “nor are we happy to see you.”

“We have a stake in this, too,” Mol y said roughly.

“Not in the same way we do,” Arriane said. “Daniel wil never join you.”

If Daniel hadn’t recal ed where he’d sat at this meeting over a thousand years before, he might have overlooked his earlier self entirely.

That earlier self was sit ing alone, in the center of the group, directly on the other side of the boulder. Behind the rock, Daniel shifted to get a bet er view.

His earlier self’s wings bloomed out behind him, great white sails as stil as the night. As the others talked about him as if he weren’t there, Daniel behaved as if he were alone in the world. He tossed stfuls of snow into the re, watching the frozen clumps hiss and dissolve into steam.

“Oh, real y?” Mol y said. “Care to explain why he’s inching closer to our side every lifetime? That lit le cursing-God bit he does whenever Luce explodes? I doubt it goes over so wel upstairs.”

“He’s in agony!” Annabel e shouted at Mol y. “You wouldn’t understand because you don’t know how to love.” She scooted nearer to Daniel, the tips of her wings dragging in the snow, and addressed him directly. “Those are just temporary blips. We al know your soul is pure. If you wanted to at last choose a side, to choose us, Daniel—if at any moment—”

“No.”

The clean nality of the word pushed Annabel e away as quickly as if Daniel had drawn a weapon. Daniel’s earlier self would not look at any of them. And behind the boulder, watching them, Daniel remembered what had happened during this council, and shuddered at the forbidden horror of the memory.

“If you won’t join them,” Roland said to Daniel, “why not join us? From what I can tel , there is no worse Hel than what you put yourself through every time you lose her.”

“Oh, cheap shot, Roland!” Arriane said. “You don’t even mean that. You can’t believe—” She wrung her hands. “You’re only saying that to provoke me.”

Behind Arriane, Gabbe rested a hand on her shoulder. Their wing tips touched, ashing a bright burst of silver between them. “What Arriane means is that Hel is never a bet er alternative. No mat er how terrible Daniel’s pain may be. There is only one place for Daniel.

There is only one place for al of us. You see how penitent the Outcasts are.”

“Spare us the preaching, wil ya?” Mol y said. “There’s a choir up there that might be interested in your brainwashing, but I’m not, and I don’t think Daniel is, either.”

The angels and demons al turned to stare at him together, as if they were stil part of the host. Seven pairs of wings casting a glowing aura The angels and demons al turned to stare at him together, as if they were stil part of the host. Seven pairs of wings casting a glowing aura of silver-gold light. Seven souls he knew as wel as his own.

Even behind his boulder, Daniel felt su ocated. He remembered this moment: They demanded so much of him. When he was so weakened by his broken heart. He felt the assault of Gabbe’s plea for him to join with Heaven al over again. Roland’s, too, to join with Hel . Daniel felt again the shape of the one word he had spoken at the meeting, like a strange ghost in his mouth: No.

Slowly, with a sick feeling creeping over him, Daniel remembered one more thing: That no? He hadn’t meant it. In that moment, Daniel had been on the verge of saying yes.

This was the night he’d almost given up.

Now his shoulders burned. The sudden urge to let his wings out almost brought him to his knees. His insides roiled with shame- l ed horror. It was rising in him, the temptation he’d fought so long to repress.

In the circle around the fire, Daniel’s past self looked at Cam. “You’re unusual y quiet tonight.” Cam didn’t answer right away. “What would you have me say?”

“You faced this problem once. You know—”

“And what would you have me say?”

Daniel sucked in his breath. “Something charming and persuasive.”

Annabel e snorted. “Or something underhanded and absolutely evil.”

Everyone waited. Daniel wanted to burst forth from behind the rock, to rip his past self away from here. But he couldn’t. His Announcer had brought him here for a reason. He had to go through the whole thing again.

“You’re trapped,” Cam said at last. “You think because there was once a beginning, and because you’re somewhere in the middle now, that there is going to be an end. But our world isn’t rooted in teleology. It’s chaos.”

“Our world is not the same as yours—” Gabbe started to say.

“There’s no way out of this cycle, Daniel,” Cam went on. “She can’t break it, and neither can you. Pick Heaven, pick Hel , I don’t real y care and you don’t, either. It won’t make any dif erence—”

“Enough.” Gabbe’s voice was breaking. “It wil make a di erence. If Daniel comes home to the place he belongs, then Lucinda … then Lucinda—”

But she couldn’t go on. The words were blasphemy to speak, and Gabbe wouldn’t do it. She fel to her knees in the snow.

Behind the rock, Daniel watched his earlier self extend a hand to Gabbe and raise her from the ground. He watched it play out before his eyes now, just as he remembered:

He gazed into her soul and saw how brightly it burned. He glanced back and saw the others—Cam and Roland, Arriane and Annabel e, even Mol y—and he thought about how long he’d dragged the whole lot of them through his epic tragedy.

And for what?

Lucinda. And the choice the two of them had made long ago—and over and over again: to put their love above everything else.

That night on the fjords, her soul was between incarnations, newly purged from her last body. What if he stopped seeking her out? Daniel was tired to his core. He didn’t know if he had it in him anymore.

Watching his earlier struggle, sensing the imminent arrival of absolute breakdown, Daniel recal ed what he had to do. It was dangerous.

Forbidden. But it was absolutely necessary. Now, at least, he understood why his future self had taken him that long-ago night—to lend him strength, to keep him pure. He had weakened at this key moment in his past. And future Daniel could not let that weakness be magni ed across the span of history, could not let it corrupt his and Lucinda’s chances.

So he repeated what had happened to him nine hundred years before. He would make amends tonight by joining with—no, overriding his past.