“Hey.” Griffon’s insistent tone brings me back to the present. “Everything okay?”
I nod slowly as the last traces of the image slip from my mind. “I’m fine.”
“Where were you?” His voice is gentle now. “Did you see Veronique again?”
“It was different this time. I was at the Tower again,” I say, trying to orient the image of the room with what I’d seen on my visit there. “Inside one of the buildings, looking out. I … I think it’s just before the vision I saw at the scaffold.” My heart starts racing as small pieces of the puzzle begin to fit together. “Oh my God, she called me Lady Allison!”
“Who did?” Griffon asked.
“The girl who was with me. She was brushing my hair, and she called me Lady Allison! When I had the memory in the hospital, the woman at the cottage called me Allison.”
Griffon pulls his fingers from my hair and wraps his arms around me. “It could mean anything,” he says. “Maybe you’re seeing a different life altogether.”
“No,” I insist, a little puzzled about why he isn’t as excited as I am about the discoveries I’m making. “It’s the same, I can feel it. The girl in the cottage on the cliff is the same person who was beheaded at the Tower.”
“I don’t think so,” Griffon says. “I’ve been on my Dad’s tour hundreds of times. There were only a few people who were actually beheaded inside the Tower walls, and none of them were named Allison.”
My conviction is growing stronger as I turn the images over in my mind. The scratchy black dress, the little house on the cliff—the two things were parts of the same lifetime, I’m sure of it. My name was Allison, and I was executed at the Tower of London.
“Well,” I say, “this time, history is wrong.” I feel like a puzzle with gaping holes, as all of these separate lives are piecing themselves together. How many lives have there been so far? How many more are still to come?
Griffon pulls me closer to him and rubs my shoulders to warm me. “I’m sure you’re right,” he says. He looks out at the water. “I wish we could stay here forever. Away from Veronique. No school. No Sekhem. Maybe you should just move in,” he says. “With me. Janine won’t mind, and Veronique will never be able to find you.”
“Right,” I say, wishing it was only that easy. “Not like I don’t have a real life or anything. I can totally picture that conversation with my parents. ‘Um, I’m in danger from someone I may have done something bad to in a past life, so I’m just going to move in with my—’” The word “boyfriend” almost slips out, but I catch it in time. Or so I think.
“Your—?” Griffon says, leaving the next word hanging. He pinches my side lightly and laughs. “Your what?”
My mind is racing. I have no idea what we really are, and I’m terrified of saying the wrong thing. “Um, my semi-platonic friend who doesn’t date high-school girls.”
“Is that what this is?” Griffon teases.
I pull away from him, suddenly serious. “I don’t know.”
“I think you do,” he says. A smile drifts across his lips, and he bends down to kiss me lightly. “Why are you afraid to say it?”
“I’m not afraid,” I say, hoping he believes me. I don’t want to come off like some lame teenager. I can feel my breath coming in short bursts, and I hope he doesn’t notice.
Griffon kisses me behind the ear. “Two truths,” he says quietly, his breath warm on my skin, “and a lie. My turn.”
My mind is on overload, the sensations from his touch threatening to take over any remaining rational thought. “Okay,” I manage.
“I once had a painting hanging in the Louvre. My cat’s name is Stanley,” he says, his lips tracing a route down my neck to my collarbone. “And my girlfriend has the most beautiful eyes in the world.”
I swallow hard. “I’ve seen your art, so I think the painting one is true.”
“One for one so far,” Griffon says.
“And you already said you don’t have any pets. So that’s the lie.”
“Good to see you were paying attention.” Griffon sits back, his thumb tracing my cheekbone. “Which would make the girlfriend one …?”
I smile. “A truth?”
He looks at me and grins, his deep dimples flashing even in the dim light of the moon. “I told you that you were good at this. If you’re my girlfriend, then what does that make me?”
“My boyfriend,” I whisper. I watch his face, waiting for him to turn this moment into a joke, but his features have turned serious.
“That’s the first time I’ve called anyone my girlfriend,” he says quietly.
Without taking his eyes off my face, Griffon lifts my left hand and gently kisses the palm, his fingers brushing the edge of the splint that hides the angry scar on my wrist. He runs his lips across my fingers, and I think I see a tear shining on his lashes before he closes his eyes.
I reach under his shirt and run my right hand along his warm skin so that he shivers. “You’re freezing,” he says.
“Your hands must be cold too,” I tease. I lead his hands tentatively under the layers I’m wearing. He looks at me questioningly as his fingers slide under my shirt, and it’s my turn to gasp as he slowly begins to explore my bare skin. Shifting forward, I press myself against him, feeling the vibrations between our bodies growing stronger. What has been a distant, steady hum now becomes an insistent pulsing between us that matches the beating of my heart exactly.
Griffon’s breath is heavy as I brush my palm against his chest, which tenses at my touch. I smile and look up into his face, pleased at the reaction I can get from just a small gesture. His eyes are closed, and he’s biting his bottom lip as if he’s struggling for control. He must feel my eyes on him, because his lids slowly open, revealing those golden amber eyes that are at once familiar and endless.
As my eyes lock on his, I feel a cold stab of fear flash through my body, a sensation so powerful it feels like a tremor.
I know those eyes.
They’ve been burned into my memory as one of the last things I saw before the metallic flash that brought total darkness. The same eyes that had shown no mercy, the only things visible beneath a hooded cloak on top of a wooden scaffold on a gray, foggy English morning. I’ve seen them in the vision—replayed that scene over and over in my head a hundred times—but failed to recognize them in real life. Everything else about him has changed, but the essence that’s behind his eyes is the same.
They are the eyes of my executioner.
“Oh my God!” I cry, scrambling backward and falling to the sand. “It was you!” I jump to my feet and take a step away from him. I stare at Griffon, but it’s like I can’t see him anymore. All I can see are the memories.
“Cole!” Griffon shouts, standing up quickly. There’s confusion in his voice, and I can tell he doesn’t think I know the truth, that I’m as clueless as I’ve been since the second we met. “What’s wrong?”
I keep my eyes on him as I pull my jacket tighter around me. How can I have missed it all this time? Even now, as he stares at me, I recognize those eyes from that morning so long ago. “I can’t believe you lied to me!” I
