Passion (9 page)

How foolish she had been to run! That night in her backyard, stepping through the Announcer had seemed like the right thing to do—the only thing to do. But why? Why had she done it? What stupid idea had made that seem like a smart move? And now she was far away from Daniel, from everyone she cared about, from anyone at al . And it was al her fault.

“You’re an idiot!” she cried into the dark.

“Hey, now,” a voice cal ed out. It was raspy and blunt and seemed to come from right beside her. “No need to be insulting!” Luce went rigid. There couldn’t be anyone inside the ut er darkness of her Announcer. Right? She must be hearing things. She pushed forward, faster.

“Slow down, wil ya?”

She caught her breath. Whoever it was didn’t sound garbled or distant, like someone was speaking through the shadow. No, someone was in here. With her.

“Hel o?” she cal ed, swal owing hard.

No answer.

The whipping wind in the Announcer grew louder, howling in her ears. She stumbled forward in the dark, more and more afraid, until at last the noise of the air blowing past died out and was replaced by another sound—a staticky roar. Something like waves crashing in the distance.

No, the sound was too steady to be waves, Luce thought. A waterfal .

“I said slow down.”

Luce flinched. The voice was back. Inches from her ear—and keeping pace with her as she ran. This time, it sounded annoyed.

“You’re not going to learn anything if you keep zipping around like that.”

“Who are you? What do you want?” she shouted. “Oof!”

Her cheek col ided with something cold and hard. The rush of a waterfal l ed her ears, close enough that she could feel cool drops of spray on her skin. “Where am I?”

“You’re here. You’re … on Pause. Ever heard of stopping to smel the peonies?”

“You mean roses.” Luce felt around in the darkness, taking in a pungent mineral smel that wasn’t unpleasant or unfamiliar, just confusing.

She realized then that she hadn’t yet stepped out of the Announcer and back into the middle of a life, which could only mean—

She was stil inside.

It was very dark, but her eyes began to adjust. The Announcer had taken on the form of some sort of smal cave. There was a wal behind her made of the same cool stone as the oor, with a depression cut into it where a stream of water trickled down. The waterfal she heard was somewhere above.

And below her? Ten feet or so of stone ledge—and then nothing. Beyond that was blackness.

“I had no idea you could do this,” Luce whispered to herself.

“What?” the hoarse voice said.

“Stop inside an Announcer,” she said. She hadn’t been talking to him and she stil couldn’t see him, and the fact that she’d ended up stal ed wherever she was with whoever he was—wel , it was de nitely cause for alarm. But stil she couldn’t help marveling at her surroundings. “I didn’t know a place like this existed. An in-between place.”

A phlegmy snort. “You could l a book with al the things you don’t know, girl. In fact—I think someone may have already writ en it. But that’s neither here nor there.” A rat ling cough. “And I did mean peonies, by the way.”

“Who are you?” Luce sat up and leaned back against the wal . She hoped whoever the voice belonged to couldn’t see her legs trembling.

“Who? Me?” he asked. “I’m just … me. I’m here a lot.”

“Okay.… Doing what?”

“Oh, you know, hanging out.” He cleared his throat, and it sounded like someone gargling with rocks. “I like it here. Nice and calm. Some of these Announcers can be such zoos. But not yours, Luce. Not yet, anyway.”

“I’m confused.” More than confused, Luce was afraid. Should she even be talking to this stranger? How did he know her name?

“For the most part, I’m just your average casual observer, but sometimes I keep an ear out for travelers.” His voice came closer, causing Luce to shiver. “Like yourself. See, I’ve been around awhile, and sometimes travelers, they need a smidge of advice. You been up by the waterfal yet? Very scenic. A-plus, as far as waterfal s go.”

Luce shook her head. “But you said—this is my Announcer? A message of my past. So why would you be—”

“Wel ! Sor-reee!” The voice grew louder, indignant. “But may I just raise a question: If the channels to your past are so precious, why’d you leave your Announcers wide open for al the world to jump inside? Hmm? Why didn’t you just lock them?”

“I didn’t, um …” Luce had no idea she’d left anything wide open. And no idea Announcers could even be locked.

She heard a smal whoomp, like clothes or shoes being thrown into a suitcase, but she stil couldn’t see a thing. “I see I’ve overstayed my She heard a smal whoomp, like clothes or shoes being thrown into a suitcase, but she stil couldn’t see a thing. “I see I’ve overstayed my welcome. I won’t waste your time.” The voice sounded suddenly choked up. And then more softly, from a distance: “Goodbye.” The voice vanished into the darkness. It was nearly silent inside the Announcer again. Just the soft cascade of the waterfal above. Just the desperate beat of Luce’s heart.

For just a moment, she hadn’t been alone. With that voice there, she’d been nervous, alarmed, on edge … but she hadn’t been alone.

“Wait!” she cal ed, pushing herself to her feet.

“Yes?” The voice was right back at her side.

“I didn’t mean to kick you out,” she said. For some reason, she wasn’t ready for the voice to just disappear. There was something about him. He knew her. He had cal ed her by name. “I just wanted to know who you were.”

“Oh, hel ,” he said, a lit le giddy. “You can cal me … Bil .”

“Bil ,” she repeated, squinting to see more than the dim cave wal s around her. “Are you invisible?”

“Sometimes. Not always. Certainly don’t have to be. Why? You’d prefer to see me?”

“It might make things a lit le bit less weird.”

“Doesn’t that depend on what I look like?”

“Wel —” Luce started to say.

“So”—his voice sounded as if he were smiling—“what do you want me to look like?”

“I don’t know.” Luce shifted her weight. Her left side was damp from the spray of the waterfal . “Is it real y up to me? What do you look like when you’re just being yourself?”

“I have a range. You’d probably want me to start with something cute. Am I right?”

“I guess.…”

“Okay,” the voice mut ered. “Huminah huminah huminah hummm.”

“What are you doing?” Luce asked.

“Put ing on my face.”

There was a ash of light. A blast that would have sent Luce tumbling backward if the wal hadn’t been right behind her. The ash died down into a tiny bal of cool white light. By its il umination she could see the rough expanse of a gray stone oor beneath her feet. A stone wal stretched up behind her, water trickling down its face. And something more: There on the floor in front of her stood a smal gargoyle.

“Ta-da!” he said.

He was about a foot tal , crouched low with his arms crossed and his elbows resting on his knees. His skin was the color of stone—he was stone—but when he waved at her, she could see he was limber enough to be made of esh and muscle. He looked like the sort of statue you’d nd capping the roof of a Catholic church. His ngernails and toenails were long and pointed, like lit le claws. His ears were pointed, too—and pierced with smal stone hoops. He had two lit le hornlike nubs protruding from the top of a forehead that was eshy and wrinkled. His large lips were pursed in a grimace that made him look like a very old baby.

“So you’re Bil ?”

“That’s right,” he said. “I’m Bil .”

Bil was an odd-looking thing, but certainly not someone to be afraid of. Luce circled him and noticed the ridged vertebrae protruding from his spine. And the smal pair of gray wings tucked behind his back so that the two tips were twined together.

“What do you think?” he asked.

“Great,” she said flatly. One look at any other pair of wings—even Bil ’s—made her miss Daniel so much her stomach hurt.

Bil stood up; it was strange to see the arms and legs that were made of stone move like muscle.

“You don’t like the way I look. I can do bet er,” he said, disappearing in another flash of light. “Hold on.” Flash.

Daniel stood before her, cloaked in a shining aura of violet light. His unfurled wings were glorious and massive, beckoning her to step inside them. He held out a hand and she sucked in her breath. She knew something was strange about his being there, that she’d been in the middle of doing something else—only she couldn’t recal what or with whom. Her mind felt hazy, her memory obscured. But none of that mat ered. Daniel was here. She wanted to cry with happiness. She stepped toward him and put her hand in his.

“There,” he said softly. “Now, that’s the reaction I was after.”

“What?” Luce whispered, confused. Something was rising to the forefront of her mind, tel ing her to pul away. But Daniel’s eyes overrode that hesitation and she let herself be pul ed in, forget ing everything but the taste of his lips.

“Kiss me.” His voice was a raspy croak. Bil ’s.

Luce screamed and jumped back. Her mind felt jolted as if from a deep sleep. What had happened? How had she thought she’d seen Daniel in—

Bil . He’d tricked her. She jerked her hand away from his, or maybe he dropped hers during the ash when he changed into a large, warty toad. He croaked out two ribbits, then hopped over to the spring of water dripping down the cave wal . His tongue shot out into the stream.

Luce was breathing hard and trying not to show how devastated she felt. “Stop it,” she said sharply. “Just go back to the gargoyle. Please.”

“As you wish.”

Flash.

Bil was back, crouched low with his arms crossed over his knees. Stil as stone.

“I thought you’d come around,” he said.

Luce looked away, embarrassed that he had got en a rise out of her, angry that he seemed to have enjoyed it.

“Now that that’s al set led,” he said, scurrying around so he was standing where she could see him again, “what would you like to learn first?”

“From you? Nothing. I have no idea what you’re even doing here.”

“I’ve upset you,” Bil said, snapping his stone ngers. “I’m sorry. I was just trying to learn your tastes. You know—likes: Daniel Grigori and cute lit le gargoyles.” He listed on his ngers. “Dislikes: frogs. I think I’ve got it now. No more of that funny business from me.” He spread his wings and flit ed up to sit on her shoulder. He was heavy. “Just the tricks of the trade,” he whispered.

“I don’t need any tricks.”

“Come now. You don’t even know how to lock an Announcer to keep out the bad guys. Don’t you want to at least know that?” Luce raised an eyebrow at him. “Why would you help me?”

“You’re not the rst to skip around the past, you know, and everybody needs a guide. Lucky you, you chanced upon me. You could have

“You’re not the rst to skip around the past, you know, and everybody needs a guide. Lucky you, you chanced upon me. You could have got en stuck with Virgil—”

“Virgil?” Luce asked, having a flashback to sophomore English. “As in the guy who led Dante through the nine circles of Hel ?”

“That’s the one. He’s so by the book, it’s a snooze. Anyway, you and I aren’t sojourning through Hel right now,” he explained with a shrug.

“Tourist season.”

Luce thought back to the moment she’d seen Luschka burst into ames in Moscow, to the raw pain she’d felt when Lucia had told her Daniel had disappeared from the hospital in Milan.

“Sometimes it feels like Hel ,” she said.

“That’s only because it took us this long to be introduced.” Bil extended his stony lit le hand toward hers.

Luce stal ed. “So what, um, side are you on?”

Bil whistled. “Hasn’t anyone told you it’s more complicated than that? That the boundaries between ‘good’ and ‘evil’ have been blurred by mil ennia of free wil ?”

“I know al that, but—”

“Look, if it makes you feel any bet er, have you ever heard of the Scale?” Luce shook her head.

“Sorta like hal monitors within Announcers who make sure travelers get where they’re going. Members of the Scale are impartial, so there’s no siding with Heaven or with Hel . Okay?”

“Okay.” Luce nodded. “So you’re in the Scale?”

Bil winked. “Now, we’re almost there, so—”

“Almost where?”

“To the next life you’re traveling to, the one that cast this shadow we’re in.” Luce ran her hand through the water running down the wal . “This shadow—this Announcer—is dif erent.”

“If it is, it’s only because that’s what you want it to be. If you want a rest-stop–type cave inside an Announcer, it appears for you.”

“I didn’t want a rest stop.”

“No, but you needed one. Announcers can pick up on that. Also, I was here helping out, wanting it on your behalf.” The lit le gargoyle shrugged, and Luce heard a sound like boulders knocking against each other. “The inside of an Announcer isn’t anyplace at al . It’s a neverwhere, the dark echo cast by something in the past. Each one is di erent, adapting to the needs of its travelers, so long as they’re inside.”

There was something wild about the idea of this echo of Luce’s past knowing what she wanted or needed bet er than she did. “So how long do people stay inside?” she asked. “Days? Weeks?”

“No time. Not the way you’re thinking. Within Announcers, real time doesn’t pass at al . But stil , you don’t want to hang around here too long. You could forget where you’re going, get lost forever. Become a hoverer. And that’s ugly business. These are portals, remember, not destinations.”

Luce rested her head against the damp stone wal . She didn’t know what to make of Bil . “This is your job. Serving as a guide to, uh, travelers like me?”

“Sure, exactly.” Bil snapped his fingers, the friction sending up a spark. “You nailed it.”

“How’d a gargoyle like you get stuck doing this?”

“Excuse me, I take pride in my work.”

“I mean, who hired you?”

Bil thought for a moment, his marble eyes rol ing back and forth in their sockets. “Think of it as a volunteer position. I’m good at Announcer travel, is al . No reason not to spread my expertise around.” He turned to her with his palm cupping his stony chin. “When are we going to, anyway?”