Passion

Luce turned away from him, growing angrier herself. Maybe Daniel changed after this lifetime in Chichén Itzá, maybe he’d become more cautious in the future. But what about the past?

She approached the limit of the ledge inside the Announcer, looking up into the vast, gaping blackness that tunneled above into her dark unknown.

Bill hovered over her, circling her head as if he were trying to get inside it. “I know what you’re thinking, and you’re only going to end up disappointed.” He drew close to her ear and whispered. “Or worse.”

There was nothing he could say to stop her. If there was an earlier Daniel who still dropped his guard, then Luce was going to find him.

SIXTEEN BEST MAN

JERUSALEM, ISRAEL • 27 NISSAN 2760 (APPROXIMATELY APRIL 1, 1000 BCE)

Daniel was not entirely himself.

He was still cloven to the body he had joined with on the dark fjords of Greenland. He tried to slow down as he left the Announcer, but his momentum was too great. Heavily off-balance, he spun out of the darkness and rolled across rocky earth until his head slammed into something hard. Then he was still.

Cleaving with his past self had been a vast mistake.

The simplest way to split apart two entwined incarnations of a soul was to kill the body. Freed from the cage of the flesh, the soul sorted itself out. But killing himself wasn’t really an option for Daniel. Unless …

The starshot.

In Greenland, he had snatched it from where it lay nestled in the snow at the edge of the angels’ fire. Gabbe had brought it along as symbolic protection, but she would never have expected Daniel to cleave and steal it.

Had he really thought he could just drag the dull silver tip across his chest and split apart his soul, casting his past self back into time?

Stupid.

No. He was too likely to slip up, to fail, and then instead of splitting his soul, he might accidentally kill it. Soulless, Daniel’s earthly guise, this dull body, would wander the earth in perpetuity, searching for its soul but settling for the next best thing: Luce. It would haunt her until the day she died, and maybe after that.

What Daniel needed was a partner. What he needed was impossible.

He grunted and rolled over onto his back, squinting into the bright sun directly overhead.

“See?” a voice above him said. “I told you we were in the right place.”

“I don’t see why this”—another voice, a boy’s this time—“is proof of us doing anything right.”

“Oh, come on, Miles. Don’t let your beef with Daniel keep us from finding Luce. He obviously knows where she is.”

The voices drew closer. Daniel opened his eyes in a squint and saw an arm slice the light of the sun, extending toward him.

“Hey there. Need a hand?”

Shelby. Luce’s Nephilim friend from Shoreline.

And Miles. The one she’d kissed.

“What are you two doing here?” Daniel sat up sharply, rejecting Shelby’s offered hand. He rubbed his forehead and glanced behind him—the thing he’d collided with was the gray trunk of an olive tree.

“What do you think we’re doing here? We’re looking for Luce.” Shelby gaped down at Daniel and wrinkled her nose. “What’s wrong with you?”

“Nothing.” Daniel tried to stand up, but he was so dizzy he quickly lay down again. Cleaving—especially dragging his past body into another life—had made him sick. He fought his past from inside, slamming up against the edges, bruising his soul on bones and skin. He knew the Nephilim could sense that something unmentionable had happened to him. “Go home, trespassers. Whose Announcer did you use to get here? Do you know how much trouble you could get yourselves in?”

All of a sudden, something silver gleamed under his nose.

“Take us to Luce.” Miles was pointing a starshot at Daniel’s neck. The brim of his baseball cap hid his eyes, but his mouth was screwed in a nervous grimace.

Daniel was dumbstruck. “You—you have a starshot.”

“Miles!” Shelby whispered fiercely. “What are you doing with that thing?”

The dull tip of the arrow quaked. Miles was clearly nervous. “You left it in the yard after the Outcasts left,” he said to Daniel. “Cam grabbed one, and in the chaos, no one noticed when I picked up this one. You took off after Luce. And we took off after you.” He turned to Shelby. “I thought we might need it. Self-defense.”

“Don’t you dare kill him,” Shelby said to Miles. “You’re an idiot.”

“No,” Daniel said, very slowly sitting up. “It’s okay.”

His mind was spinning. What were the odds? He had only seen this done once before. Daniel was no expert at cleaving. But his past writhed inside him—he couldn’t go on like this. There was only one solution. Miles was holding it in his hands.

But how could he get the boy to attack him without explaining everything? And could he trust the Nephilim?

Daniel edged backward until his shoulders were against the tree trunk. He slid up it, holding both empty hands wide, showing Miles there was nothing to be afraid of. “You took fencing?”

“What?” Miles looked bewildered.

“At Shoreline. Did you take a fencing class or not?”

“We all did. It was kind of pointless and I wasn’t all that good, but—”

That was all Daniel needed to hear. “En garde!” he shouted, drawing out his concealed starshot like a sword.

Miles’s eyes grew wide. In an instant he’d raised his arrow as well.

“Oh, crap,” Shelby said, scurrying out of the way. “You guys, seriously. Stop!”

The starshots were shorter than fencing foils but a few inches longer than normal arrows. They were featherlight but as hard as diamonds, and if Daniel and Miles were very, very careful, the two of them might make it out of this alive. Somehow, with Miles’s help, Daniel might cleave free of his past.

He sliced through the air with his starshot, advancing a few steps toward the Nephilim.

Miles responded, fighting off Daniel’s blow, his arrow glancing hard toward the right. When the starshots clashed, they did not make the tinny clanks that fencing foils made. They made a deep, echoing whooomp that reverberated off the mountains and shook the ground under their feet.

“Your fencing lesson wasn’t pointless,” Daniel said as his arrow crisscrossed with Miles’s in the air. “It was to prepare for a moment like this.”

“A moment”—Miles grunted as he lunged forward, sweeping his starshot up until it slid against Daniel’s in the air—“like what?”

Their arms strained. The starshots made a frozen X in the air.

“I need you to release me from an earlier incarnation that I’ve cloven to my soul,” Daniel said simply.

“What the…,” Shelby murmured from the sidelines.

Confusion flashed across Miles’s face, and his arm faltered. His blade fell away, and his starshot clattered to the ground. He gasped and fumbled for it, looking back at Daniel, terrified.

“I’m not coming after you,” Daniel said. “I need you to come after me.” He managed a competitive smirk. “Come on. You know you want to. You’ve wanted to for a long time.”

Miles charged, holding the starshot like an arrow instead of a sword. Daniel was ready for him, dipping to one side just in time and spinning around to clash his starshot against Miles’s.

They were locked in each other’s grip: Daniel with his starshot pointing past Miles’s shoulder, using his strength to hold the Nephilim boy back, and Miles with his starshot inches away from Daniel’s heart.