Passion (33 page)

There was only one thing: Luce’s dying.

She was experiencing a montage of her death over and over and over again. This was what Daniel’s eyes looked like, throughout time, just before her life went up in ames. She had seen this fear in him before. She hated it because it always meant their time was over. She saw it now in every one of his faces. The fear flashed from infinite times and places. Suddenly, she knew there was more: He wasn’t afraid for her, not because she was walking into the darkness of another death. He didn’t fear that it might cause her pain.

He wasn’t afraid for her, not because she was walking into the darkness of another death. He didn’t fear that it might cause her pain.

Daniel was afraid of her.

“Lu Xin!” his voice cried out to her from the bat le eld. She could see him through the haze of visions. He was the only thing coming in clearly—because everything else around her was lit up startlingly white. Everything inside her was, too. Was her love of Daniel burning her up? Was it her own passion, not his, that destroyed her every time?

“No!” His hand reached out for hers. But it was too late.

Her head hurt. She didn’t want to open her eyes.

Bil was back, the oor was cool, and Luce was in a welcome pocket of darkness. A waterfal sprayed somewhere in the background, drizzling on her hot cheeks.

“You did okay out there after al ,” he said.

“Don’t sound so disappointed,” Luce said. “How about explaining where you disappeared to?”

“Can’t.” Bil sucked in his fat lips to show that they were sealed.

“Why not?”

“Personal.”

“Is it Daniel?” she asked. “He’d be able to see you, wouldn’t he? And there’s some reason you don’t want him to know that you’re helping me.”

Bil snorted. “My business isn’t always about you, Luce. I have other things stewing in the pot. Besides, you seem pret y independent of late. Maybe it’s time to end our lit le arrangement, bust of your training wheels. What the hel do you need me for anymore?” Luce was too exhausted to pander to him, and too stunned by what she’d just seen. “It’s hopeless.” Al the rage left Bil like air being let out of a bal oon. “How do you mean?”

“When I die, it’s not because of anything that Daniel does. It’s something that happens inside me. Maybe his love brings it out, but—it’s my fault. That has to be part of the curse, only I have no idea what it means. Al I know is, I saw a look in his eyes right before I died—it’s always the same.”

He tilted his head. “So far.”

“I make him miserable more than I make him happy,” she said. “If he hasn’t given up on me, he should. I can’t do this to him anymore.” She dropped her head into her hands.

“Luce?” Bil sat on her knee. There was the strange tenderness he’d shown when she rst met him. “Do you want to put this endless charade to rest? For Daniel’s sake?”

Luce looked up and wiped her eyes. “You mean, so he won’t have to go through this again? There’s something I can do?”

“When you assume one of your past self’s bodies, there is one moment in each one of your lives, just before you die, where your soul and the two bodies—past and present—split apart. It only happens for a fraction of an instant.” Luce squinted. “I think I’ve felt that. At the moment when I realize I’m going to die, right before I actual y do?”

“Exactly. It has to do with how your lives cleave together. In that fraction of a moment, there is a way to cleave your cursed soul from your present body. Kind of like carving out your soul. It would, ef ectively, extinguish that pesky reincarnation element of your curse.”

“But I thought I was already at the end of my cycle of reincarnations, that I wasn’t coming back anymore. Because of the baptism thing.

Because I never—”

“That doesn’t mat er. You’re stil bound to see the cycle to its end. As soon as you go back to the present, you could stil die at any moment because of—”

“My love of Daniel.”

“Sure, something like that,” Bil said. “Ahem. That is, unless you break the bond with your past.”

“So I’d cleave from my past and she would stil die as she always did—”

“And you would stil be cast out just as you’ve been before, only you’d leave your soul behind to die, too. And the body you would return to”—he poked her in the shoulder—“this one—would be free to live outside the curse that’s been hanging over you since the dawn of time.”

“No more dying?”

“Not unless you jump of a building or get into a car with a murderer or take a whole lot of Unisom or—”

“I get it,” she cut him of . “But it’s not like”—she struggled to steady her voice—“it’s not like Daniel would kiss me and I’d … or—”

“It’s not like Daniel would do anything.” Bil stared at her purposeful y. “You wouldn’t be drawn to him anymore. You’d move on.

Probably marry some dul sweetheart and have twelve kids of your own.”

“No.”

“You and Daniel would be free of the curse you so despise. Free. Hear that? He could move on and be happy, too. Don’t you want Daniel to be happy?”

“But Daniel and I—”

“Daniel and you would be nothing. It’s a hard reality, okay, ne. But think about it: You wouldn’t have to hurt him anymore. Grow up, Luce. There’s more to life than teenage passion.”

Luce opened her mouth but didn’t want to hear her voice break. A life without Daniel was unimaginable. But so was going back to her current life and trying to be with Daniel and having it kil her for good. She had tried so hard to nd a way to break this curse, but the answer stil eluded her. Maybe this was the way. It sounded awful now, but if she went back to her life and didn’t even know Daniel, she wouldn’t miss him. And he wouldn’t miss her. Maybe that would be bet er. For both of them.

But no. They were soul mates. And Daniel brought more into her life than just his love. Arriane, Roland, and Gabbe. Even Cam. It was because of al of them that she’d learned about herself—what she wanted, what she didn’t, how to stand up for herself. She’d grown up and become a bet er person. Without Daniel, she would never have gone to Shoreline, never have found the true friends she’d made of Shelby and Miles. Would she even have gone to Sword & Cross? Where on earth would she be? Who would she be?

Could she be happy one day without him? Fal in love with someone else? She couldn’t bear to think about that. Life without Daniel sounded colorless and grim—except for one bright spot that Luce kept circling back to: What if she never had to hurt him again?

“Say I did want to consider this.” Luce could barely muster a whisper. “Just to think it over. How does it even work?” Bil reached behind him and slowly unsheathed something long and silver from a tiny black strap on his back. She’d never noticed it Bil reached behind him and slowly unsheathed something long and silver from a tiny black strap on his back. She’d never noticed it before. He held out a dul , flat-tipped silver arrow that she immediately recognized.

Then he smiled. “Have you ever seen a starshot?”

EIGHTEEN

EIGHTEEN

BAD DIRECTIONS

JERUSALEM, ISRAEL • 27 NISSAN 2760

“So, you’re not actual y that bad of a guy?” Shelby said to Daniel.

They were sit ing on the lush bank of the old Jerusalem riverbed, watching the horizon where the two fal en angels had just parted ways.

The lightest breath of gold-hued light hung in the sky where Cam had been, and the air was beginning to smel a bit like rot en eggs.

“Of course I’m not.” Daniel dipped his hand in the cool water. His wings and his soul stil felt hot from watching Cam make his choice.

How simple it had seemed for him. How easy and how swift.

And al because of a broken heart.

“It’s just that when Luce found out you and Cam struck up that truce, she was devastated. None of us could understand it.” Shelby looked to Miles for af irmation. “Could we?”

“We thought you were hiding something from her.” Miles took o his basebal cap and rubbed his head. “Al we knew of Cam was that he was supposed to be pure evil.”

Shelby made claws with her fingers. “Al hiss! and rawr! and like that.”

“Few souls are pure anything,” Daniel said, “in Heaven, in Hel , or on Earth.” He turned away, looking high in the eastern sky for a hint of the silver dust Dani would have left when he unfurled his wings and flew away. There was nothing.

“Sorry,” Shelby said, “but it’s so weird to think of you as brothers.”

“We were al a family at one point.”

“Yeah, but, like, forever ago.”

“You think just because something’s been one way for a few thousand years, that it’s xed across eternity.” Daniel shook his head.

“Everything is in flux. I was with Cam at the Dawn of Time, and I’l see him through the End Times.” Shelby’s eyebrows shot up in disbelief. “You think Cam’s going to come back around? Like, see the light side again?” Daniel started to stand. “Nothing stays the same forever.”

“What about your love with Luce?” Miles asked.

That stopped Daniel cold. “That’s changing, too. She’l be di erent, after this experience. I just hope …” He looked down at Miles, who was stil seated on the bank, and Daniel realized he didn’t hate Miles. In their recklessly idiotic way, the Nephilim had been trying to help.

For the rst time, Daniel could say truthful y that he didn’t need help anymore; he’d got en al the help he needed along the way from each of his past selves. Now, final y, he was ready to catch up with Luce.

Why was he stil standing here?

“It’s time for you two to go home,” he said, helping Shelby, then Miles to their feet.

“No,” Shelby said, reaching for Miles, who gave her hand a squeeze. “We made a pact. We’re not going back until we know she’s—”

“It won’t be long,” Daniel said. “I think I know where to find her, and it’s no place you two can go.”

“Come on, Shel.” Miles was already peeling away the shadow cast by the olive tree near the riverbank. It pooled and swirled in his hands and looked unwieldy for a moment, like pot er’s clay about to spin of the wheel. But then Miles reined it in, spinning it into an impressively large black portal. He pressed open the Announcer lightly, gesturing for Shelby to step through first.

“You’re get ing good at that.” Daniel had drawn up his own Announcer, summoning it from the shadow of his own body. It trembled before him.

Because the Nephilim were not here through their own past experiences, they would have to leapfrog from Announcer to Announcer to get back to their own time. It would be di cult, and Daniel did not envy them their journey, but he did envy them because they were going home.

“Daniel.” Shelby’s head popped out of the Announcer. Her body looked warped and dim through the shadows. “Good luck.” She waved, and Miles waved, and the two of them stepped through. The shadow closed in on itself, col apsing into a dot just before it vanished.

Daniel didn’t see that happen. He was already gone.

Cold wind gnawed into him.

He sped through, faster than he’d ever traveled before, back to a place, and a time, to which he’d never thought he would return.

“Hey,” a voice cal ed out. It was raspy and blunt and seemed to come from right beside Daniel. “Slow down, wil ya?” Daniel jerked away from the sound. “Who are you?” he shouted into the invisible darkness. “Make yourself known.” When nothing appeared before him, Daniel unfurled his rippling white wings—as much to chal enge the intruder inside his Announcer as to help slow him down. They lit up the Announcer with their glow, and Daniel felt the tension inside him ease a lit le.