Passion

she was dizzy with bliss. Until dark traces of shadows swirled and blackened the stars overhead. An obsidian symphony. But behind it: There was light. For the first time, Luce could feel the light shining through.

It was absolutely glorious.

It was time for her to go.

Get out while the getting’s good, Bill had warned her. While she was still alive.

But she couldn’t leave yet. Not while everything was so warm and lovely. Not with Daniel still kissing her, wild with passion. She opened her eyes and the colors of his hair and his face and the night itself burned brighter and more beautiful, lit up by an intense radiance.

That radiance was coming from deep inside Luce herself.

With every kiss, her whole body edged closer to the light. This was the only true way back to Daniel. Out of one mundane life and into another. Luce would happily die a thousand times just as long as she could be with him again on the other side.

“Stay with me,” Daniel pleaded even as she felt herself incandesce.

She moaned. Tears streamed down her face. The softest smile parted her lips.

“What is it?” Daniel asked. He would not stop kissing her. “Lys?”

“It’s … so much love,” she said, opening her eyes just as the fire bloomed through her chest. A great column of light exploded in the night, rocketing heat and flames high in the sky, knocking Daniel off his feet, knocking Luce clear out of Lys’s death and into darkness, where she was ice-cold and could see nothing. A shuddering wave of vertigo overtook her.

Then: the smallest flash of light.

Bill’s face came into view, hovering over Luce with a worried look. She was lying prone on a flat surface. She touched the smooth stone beneath her, heard the water trickling nearby, sniffed at the cool musty air. She’d come out inside an Announcer.

“You scared me,” Bill said. “I didn’t know … I mean, when she died, I didn’t know how … didn’t know whether maybe you might get stuck somehow.… But I wasn’t sure.” He shook his head as if to banish the thought.

She tried to stand, but her legs were wobbly and everything about her felt incredibly cold. She sat cross- legged against the stone wall. She was back in the black gown with the emerald-green trim. The emerald-green slippers stood side by side in the corner. Bill must have slipped them off her feet and laid her down after she’d … after Lys … Luce still could not believe it.

“I could see things, Bill. Things I never knew before.”

“Like?”

“Like she was happy when she died. I was happy. Ecstatic. The whole thing was just so beautiful.” Her mind raced. “Knowing he’d be there for me on the other side, knowing that all I was doing was escaping something wrong and oppressive. That the beauty of our love endures death, endures everything. It was incredible.”

“Incredibly dangerous,” Bill said shortly. “Let’s not do that again, okay?”

“Don’t you get it? Ever since I left Daniel in the present, this is the best thing that’s happened to me. And —”

But Bill had disappeared into the darkness again. She heard the trickle of the waterfall. A moment later, the sound of water boiling. When Bill reappeared, he’d made tea. He carried the pot on a thin metal tray and handed Luce a steaming mug.

“Where did you get that?” she asked.

“I said, let’s not do that again, okay?”

But Luce was too wrapped up in her own thoughts to really hear him. This was the closest she’d come to any kind of clarity. She would go 3-D—what had he called it? cleaving?—again. She would see her lives through to their ends, one after another until in one of those lives, she found out exactly why it happened.

And then she’d break this curse.

TWELVE THE PRISONER

PARIS, FRANCE • DECEMBER 1, 1723

Daniel cursed.

The Announcer had dumped him out onto a bed of damp, dirty straw. He rolled and sat up, his back against a frozen stone wall. Something from the ceiling was dripping cold, oily drops onto his forehead, but there wasn’t enough light to see what it was.

Opposite him was an open slot of a window, crudely cut into the stone and hardly wide enough to stick a fist through. It let in only a sliver of moonlight, but enough blustery night air to bring the temperature near freezing.

He couldn’t see the rats scampering in the cell, but he could feel their slimy bodies writhing through the moldy straw beneath his legs. He could feel their ragged teeth sawing into the leather of his shoes. He could hardly breathe for the stink of their waste. He kicked out and there was a squeal. Then he gathered his feet beneath him and rose onto his haunches.

“You’re late.”

The voice next to Daniel made him jump. He had carelessly assumed he was alone. The voice was a parched and raspy whisper, but somehow still familiar.

Then came a scraping sound, like metal being dragged across stone. Daniel stiffened as a blacker piece of shadow detached itself from the darkness and leaned forward. The figure moved into the pale-gray light under the window, where at last the silhouette of a face grew dimly visible.

His own face.

He’d forgotten this cell, forgotten this punishment. So this was where he’d ended up.

In some ways, Daniel’s earlier self looked just as he did now: the same nose and mouth, the same distance between the same gray eyes. His hair was scruffier and stiff with grease, but it was the same pale gold it was now. And yet, prisoner Daniel looked so different. His face was horribly gaunt and pale, his forehead creased with filth. His body looked emaciated, and his skin was beaded with sweat.

This was what her absence did to him. Yes, he wore the ball and chain of a prisoner—but the real jailer here was his own guilt.

He remembered it all now. And he remembered the visitation of his future self, and a frustrating, bitter interview. Paris. The Bastille. Where he’d been locked up by the Duc de Bourbon’s guards after Lys disappeared from the palace. There had been other jails, crueler living conditions, and worse food in Daniel’s existence, but the mercilessness of his own regret that year in the Bastille was one of the hardest trials he’d ever overcome.

Some, but not all of it, had to do with the injustice of being charged with her murder.

But—

If Daniel was already here, locked up in the Bastille, it meant that Lys was already dead. So Luce had already come … and gone.

His past self was right. He was too late.

“Wait,” he said to the prisoner in the darkness, drawing closer, but not so close that they risked touching. “How did you know what I’ve come back for?”

The scrape of the ball being dragged across the stone meant his past self had leaned back against the wall. “You’re not the only one who’s come through here looking for her.”

Daniel’s wings burned, sending heat licking down his shoulder blades. “Cam.”

“No, not Cam,” his past self responded. “Two kids.”

“Shelby?” Now Daniel pounded his fist into the stone floor. “And the other one … Miles. You’re not serious? Those Nephilim? They were here?”

“About a month ago, I think.” He pointed at the wall behind him, where some crooked tally marks were