Passion (7 page)

I know, Luce stopped herself from saying. “I’m—”

Her mind went blank. She tried to think of one name, any name that would work. “I’m Doree—Doria,” she nal y said. Almost her mother’s name. “Do you know—where do they take the soldiers who were in here?”

“Uh-oh. You’re not already in love with one of them, are you?” Lucia teased. “New patients get taken to the east ward for vitals.”

“The east ward,” Luce repeated to herself.

“But you should go see Miss Fiero at the nurses’ station. She does the registration and the scheduling”—Lucia giggled again and lowered her voice, leaning toward Luce—“and the doctor, on Tuesday afternoons!”

Al Luce could do was stare at Lucia. Up close, her past self was so real, so alive, so very much the kind of girl Luce would have befriended instantly if the circumstances had been any shade of normal. She wanted to reach out and hug Lucia, but she was overcome by an indescribable fear. She’d cleaned the wounds of seven half-dead soldiers—including the love of her life—but she was unsure what to do when it came to Lucia. The girl seemed too young to know any of the secrets Luce was searching for—about the curse, about the Outcasts. Luce feared she’d only frighten Lucia if she started talking about reincarnation and Heaven. There was something about Lucia’s eyes, something about her innocence—Luce realized that Lucia knew even less than she did.

She stepped down from the ambulance and backed away.

“It was nice to meet you, Doria,” Lucia cal ed.

But Luce was already gone.

It took six wrong rooms, three startled soldiers, and one toppled-over medicine cabinet before Luce found him.

Daniel was sharing a room in the east ward with two other soldiers. One was a silent man whose entire face had been bandaged. The other was snoring loudly, a bot le of whiskey not very wel hidden under his pil ow, two broken legs raised in a sling.

The room itself was bare and sterile, but it had a window that looked out onto a broad city avenue lined with orange trees.

Standing over his bed, watching him sleep, Luce could see it. The way their love would have bloomed here. She could see Lucia coming in to bring Daniel his meals, him opening up to her slowly. The pair being inseparable by the time Daniel recovered. And it made her feel jealous and guilty and confused because she couldn’t tel right now whether their love was a beautiful thing, or whether this was yet another

jealous and guilty and confused because she couldn’t tel right now whether their love was a beautiful thing, or whether this was yet another instance of how very wrong it was.

If she was so young when they met, they must have had a long relationship in this life. She would have got en to spend years with him before it happened. Before she died and was reincarnated into another life completely. She must have thought they’d spend forever together

—and must not even have known how long forever meant.

But Daniel knew. He always knew.

Luce sank down at the side of his bed, careful not to wake him. Maybe he hadn’t always been so closed o and hard to reach. She’d just seen him in their Moscow life whispering something to her at the critical moment before she died. Maybe if she could just talk to him in this life, he’d treat her di erently than the Daniel she knew did. He might not hide so much from her. He might help her understand. Might tel her the truth, for a change.

Then she could go back to the present and there wouldn’t have to be any more secrets. It was al she real y wanted: for the two of them to love each other openly. And for her not to die.

She reached out and touched his cheek. She loved his cheek. He was beat-up and injured and probably concussed, but his cheek was warm and smooth and, mostly, it was Daniel’s. He was as gorgeous as ever. His face was so peaceful in his sleep that Luce could have stared at him from every angle for hours without ever get ing bored. He was perfect to her. His perfect lips were just the same. When she touched them with her finger, they were so soft she had to lean down for a kiss. He didn’t stir.

She traced his jawline with her lips, kissed down the side of his neck that wasn’t bruised and across his col arbone. At the top of his right shoulder, her lips paused over a smal white scar.

It would have been almost indiscernible to anyone else, but Luce knew that this was the place from which Daniel’s wings extended. She kissed the scar tissue. It was so hard to see him lying helpless on that hospital bed when she knew what he was capable of. With his wings wrapped around her, Luce always lost track of everything else. What she wouldn’t give to see them unfurl now, into the vast white splendor that seemed to steal al the light from a room! She laid her head on his shoulder, the scar hot against her skin.

Her head shot up. She hadn’t realized she’d drifted o until the stretcher wheeling squeakily down the uneven wood oor in the hal way startled her awake.

What time was it? Sunlight streamed through the window onto the white sheets on the beds. She rotated her shoulder, trying to loosen a crick. Daniel was stil asleep.

The scar above his shoulder looked whiter in the morning light. Luce wanted to see the other side, the matching scar, but it was wrapped in gauze. At least, the wound seemed to have stopped bleeding.

The door opened and Luce jerked up.

Lucia was standing in the doorway, holding three covered trays stacked in her arms. “Oh! You’re here.” She sounded surprised. “So they’ve already had breakfast, then?”

Luce blushed and shook her head. “I—uh—”

“Ah.” Lucia’s eyes lit up. “I know that look. You’ve got it bad for someone.” She put the breakfast trays on a cart and came to stand at Luce’s side. “Don’t worry, I won’t tel —so long as I approve.” She tilted her head to look at Daniel, and stared at him hard for a long time.

She didn’t move or breathe.

Sensing the girl’s eyes widening at the sight of Daniel for the rst time, Luce didn’t know what to feel. Empathy. Envy. Grief. Al of it was there.

“He’s heavenly.” Lucia sounded as if she might cry. “What’s his name?”

“His name is Daniel.”

“Daniel,” the younger girl repeated, making the word sound holy as it left her lips. “Someday, I’l meet a man like that. Someday, I’l drive al of them crazy. Just like you do, Doria.”

“What do you mean?” Luce asked.

“There’s that other soldier, two doors down?” Lucia addressed Luce without ever taking her eyes of Daniel. “You know, Giovanni?” Luce shook her head. She didn’t.

“The one who’s about to go in for surgery—he keeps asking about you.”

“Giovanni.” The boy who’d been shot in the stomach. “He’s okay?”

“Sure.” Lucia smiled. “I won’t tel him you have a boyfriend.” She winked at Luce and pointed down at the breakfast trays. “I’l let you do the meals,” she said on her way out. “Find me later? I want to hear everything about you and Daniel. The whole story, al right?”

“Sure,” Luce lied, her heart sinking a lit le.

Alone with Daniel again, Luce was nervous. In her parents’ backyard, after the bat le with the Outcasts, Daniel had seemed so horri ed when he saw her step through the Announcer. In Moscow, too. Who knew what this Daniel would do when he opened his eyes and found out where she’d come from?

If he ever opened his eyes.

She leaned down over his bed again. He had to open his eyes, didn’t he? Angels couldn’t die. Logical y, she thought it was impossible, but what if—what if by coming back in time she’d messed something up? She’d seen the Back to the Future movies and she’d once passed a test in science class on quantum physics. What she was doing here was probably messing up the space-time continuum. And Steven Filmore, the demon who cotaught humanities at Shoreline, had said something about altering time.

She didn’t real y know what any of that meant, but she did know it could be very bad. Like erase-your-whole-existence bad. Or maybe kil -

your-angel-boyfriend bad.

That was when Luce panicked. Grabbing hold of Daniel’s shoulders, she began to shake. Lightly, gently—he’d been through a war, after al .

But enough to let him know that she needed a sign. Right now.

“Daniel,” she whispered. “Daniel?”

There. His eyelids began to ut er. She let out her breath. His eyes opened slowly, like they had last night. And like last night, when they registered the girl in front of them, they bulged. His lips parted. “You’re … old.” Luce blushed. “I am not,” she said, laughing. No one had ever cal ed her old before.

“Yes, you are. You’re real y old.” He looked almost disappointed. He rubbed his forehead. “I mean—How long have I been—?” Then she remembered: Lucia was several years younger. But Daniel hadn’t even met Lucia yet. How would he have known how old she

Then she remembered: Lucia was several years younger. But Daniel hadn’t even met Lucia yet. How would he have known how old she was?

“Don’t worry about that,” she said. “I need to tel you something, Daniel. I’m—I’m not who you think I am. I mean, I am, I guess, I always am, but this time, I came from … uh …”

Daniel’s face contorted. “Of course. You stepped through to get here.”

She nodded. “I had to.”

“I’d forgot en,” he whispered, confusing Luce even more. “From how far away? No. Don’t tel me.” He waved her o , inching back in his bed as if she had some sort of disease. “How is that even possible? There were no loopholes in the curse. You shouldn’t be able to be here.”

“Loopholes?” Luce asked. “What kind of loopholes? I need to know—”

“I can’t help you,” he said, and coughed. “You have to learn on your own. Those are the rules.”

“Doria.” A woman Luce had never seen was standing in the doorway. She was older, blond and severe, with a starched Red Cross cap pinned so that it sat at an angle on her head. At rst, Luce didn’t realize that the woman was addressing her. “You are Doria, aren’t you? The new transfer?”

“Yes,” Luce said.

“We’l need to do your paperwork this morning,” the woman said curtly. “I don’t have any of your records. But first, you’l do me a favor.” Luce nodded. She could tel she was in trouble, but she had more important things to worry about than this woman and her paperwork.

“Private Bruno is going into surgery,” the nurse said.

“Okay.” Luce tried to focus on the nurse, but al she wanted was to go back to her conversation with Daniel. She had nal y been get ing somewhere, final y finding another piece in the puzzle of her lives!

“Private Giovanni Bruno? He’s requested that the on-duty nurse be taken o his surgery. He says he’s sweet on the nurse who saved his life.

His angel?” The woman gave Luce a hard look. “The girls tel me that’s you.”

“No,” Luce said. “I’m not—”

“Doesn’t mat er. It’s what he believes.” The nurse pointed toward the door. “Let’s go.” Luce rose from Daniel’s bed. He was looking away from her, out the window. She sighed. “I have to talk to you,” she whispered, though he didn’t meet her gaze. “I’l be right back.”

The surgery wasn’t as awful as it could have been. Al Luce had to do was hold Giovanni’s smal , soft hand and whisper things, pass a few instruments to the doctor and try not to look when he reached into the dark red mass of Giovanni’s exposed gut and extracted the bits of blood-sheathed shrapnel. If the doctor wondered about her evident lack of experience, he didn’t say anything. She wasn’t gone more than an hour.

Just long enough to come back to Daniel’s bed and find it empty.

Lucia was changing the sheets. She rushed toward Luce, and Luce thought she was going to hug her. Instead she col apsed at her feet.

“What happened?” Luce asked. “Where did he go?”

“I don’t know.” The girl began to weep. “He left. He just left. I don’t know where.” She looked up at Luce, tears l ing her hazel eyes. “He said to tel you goodbye.”

“He can’t be gone,” Luce said under her breath. They hadn’t even had a chance to talk—

Of course they hadn’t. Daniel had known exactly what he was doing when he left. He didn’t want to tel her the whole truth. He was hiding something. What were the rules he’d mentioned? And what loophole?

Lucia’s face was ushed. Her speech was broken up by hiccups. “I know I shouldn’t be crying, but I can’t explain it.… I feel like someone has died.”