by Lauren Kate
“What’s happening?” Luce said, dropping to her knees and reaching for him.
“Don’t wake him!” Bill said quickly. “His sleep is riddled with nightmares, but it’s better for him than being awake. Until your soul is settled in a new life, Daniel’s whole existence is a kind of torture.”
Luce was torn between wanting to ease Daniel’s pain and trying to understand that waking him up might only worsen it.
“Like I said, on occasion, he sort of has insomnia … and that’s when it gets really interesting. But you wouldn’t want to see that. Nah.”
“I would,” she said, sitting up. “What happens?”
Bill’s fleshy cheeks twitched, as if he’d been caught at something. “Well, uh, a lot of times, the other fallen angels are around,” he said, not meeting her eyes. “They get in and they, you know, try to console him.”
“I saw them in Moscow. But that’s not what you’re talking about. There’s something you’re not telling me. What happens when—”
“You don’t want to see those lives, Luce. It’s a side of him—”
“It’s a side of him that loves me, isn’t it? Even if it’s dark or bad or disturbing, I need to see it. Otherwise I still won’t understand what he goes through.”
Bill sighed. “You’re looking at me like you need my permission. Your past belongs to you.”
Luce was already on her feet. She glanced around the cemetery until her eyes fell on a small shadow stretching out from the back of her tombstone. There. That’s the one. Luce was startled by her certainty. That had never happened before.
At first glance this shadow had looked like any of the other shadows she had clumsily summoned in the woods at Shoreline. But this time, Luce could see something in the shadow itself. It wasn’t an image depicting any specific destination, but instead a strange silver glow that suggested that this Announcer would take her where her soul needed to go next.
It was calling to her.
She answered, reaching inside herself, drawing on that glow to guide the shadow up off the ground.
The shard of darkness peeled itself off the white snow and took shape as it moved closer. It was deep black, colder than the snow falling all around her, and it swept toward Luce like a giant, dark sheet of paper. Her fingers were cracked and numb with cold as she expanded it into a larger, controlled shape. It emitted that familiar gust of foul-smelling wind from its core. The portal was wide and stable before Luce realized she was out of breath.
“You’re getting good at this,” Bill said. There was a strange edge to his voice that Luce didn’t waste time analyzing.
She also didn’t waste time feeling proud of herself—though somewhere she could recognize that if Miles or Shelby had been here, they’d have been doing cartwheels right now. It was by far the best summoning she’d ever done on her own.
But they weren’t here. Luce was on her own, so all she could do was move on to the next life, observe more of Lucinda and Daniel, drink it all in until something began to make sense. She felt around the clammy edges for a latch or a knob, just some way in. Finally, the Announcer creaked open.
Luce took a deep breath. She looked back at Bill. “Are you coming or what?”
Gravely, he hopped onto her shoulder and grabbed hold of her lapel like the reins on a horse, and the two of them stepped through.
LHASA, TIBET • APRIL 30, 1740
Luce gasped for breath.
She’d come out of the dark of the Announcer into a swirl of fast-moving fog. The air was thin and cold and every lungful stabbed at her chest. She couldn’t seem to catch her breath. The fog’s cool white vapor blew her hair back, rode along her open arms, soaked her garments with dew, and then was gone.
Luce saw that she was standing at the edge of the highest cliff she’d ever seen. She wobbled and staggered back, dizzy when she saw her feet dislodge a pebble. It rolled forward a few inches and over the edge, plummeting forever down.
She gasped again, this time from fear of heights.
“Breathe,” Bill coached her. “More people pass out up here from panicking over not getting enough oxygen than from actually not getting enough oxygen.”
Luce inhaled carefully. That was slightly better. She lowered the dirty mink on her shoulders and enjoyed the sun on her face. But she still couldn’t get used to the view.
Stretching away from the cliff where she stood was a yawning valley spotted with what looked like farmland and flooded rice paddies. And to either side, rising into misty heights, were two towering mountains.
Far ahead, carved right into one of the steep mountainsides, was a formidable palace. Majestically white and capped by deep-red roofs, its outer walls were festooned with more staircases than she could count. The palace looked like something out of an ancient fairy tale.
“What is this place? Are we in China?” she asked.
“If we stood here long enough, we would be,” Bill said. “But right now, it’s Tibet, thanks to the Dalai Lama. That’s his pad over there.” He pointed at the monster palace. “Swanky, eh?”
But Luce wasn’t following his finger. She’d heard a laugh from somewhere nearby and had turned to seek out its source.
Her laugh. The soft, happy laugh she hadn’t known was hers until she’d met Daniel.
She finally spotted two figures a few hundred yards away along the cliff. She’d have to clamber across some boulders to get closer, but it wouldn’t be that difficult. She hunched in her muddy coat and started carefully picking her way through the snow, toward the sound.
“Whoa there.” Bill grabbed her by the collar of the coat. “Do you see any place for us to take cover?”
Luce looked around the bare landscape: all rocky drop-offs and open spaces. Nothing even to serve as shelter from the wind.
“We’re above the tree line, pal. And you’re small, but you ain’t invisible. You’re going to have to hang back here.”
“But I can’t see a thing—”
“Coat pocket,” Bill said. “You’re welcome.”
She felt around in the pocket of the coat—the same coat she’d been wearing at the funeral in Prussia—and pulled out a brand-new, very expensive-looking pair of opera glasses. She didn’t bother asking Bill where or when he’d got them, she just held them up to her eyes and twisted the focus.
There.
The two of them stood facing each other, several feet apart. Her past self’s black hair was knotted in a girlish bun, and her woven linen dress was the pink of an orchid. She looked young and innocent. She was smiling at Daniel, rocking back and forth on her feet like she was nervous, watching his every move with unbounded intensity. Daniel’s eyes had a teasing look in them; a bunch of round white peonies were in his arms and he was doling them out to her one by one, making her laugh harder each time.
Watching closely through the opera glasses, Luce noticed that their fingers never touched. They kept a certain distance from each other. Why? It was almost startling.
In the other lives she’d spied upon, Luce had seen so much passion and hunger. But here, it was different. Luce’s body began to buzz, eager for just one moment of physical connection between them. If she couldn’t touch Daniel, at least her old self could.
But they were just standing there, now walking in circles. Never getting any closer to each other or any farther apart.
Every once in a while, their laughter would carry over to Luce again.
“Well?” Bill kept trying to squish his little face next to Luce’s so he could look through one of the lenses of the opera glasses. “What’s the word?”
“They’re just talking. They’re flirting kind of like they’re strangers, but at the same time they also seem to know each other really well. I don’t get it.”
“So they’re taking it slow. What’s wrong with that?” Bill asked. “Kids today, they just want things to go fast—boom boom BOOM.”
“Nothing’s wrong with taking it slow, I just—” Luce broke off.
&nbs
p; Her past self fell to her knees. She began to rock back and forth, holding her head, then her heart. A horrified look crossed Daniel’s face. He looked so stiff in his white pants and tunic, like a statue of himself. He shook his head, looking at the sky, his lips mouthing the words No. No. No.
The girl’s hazel eyes had gone wild and fiery, like something had possessed her. A high-pitched scream echoed out across the mountains. Daniel fell to the ground and buried his face in his hands. He reached out for her, but his hand hung in the air without ever connecting with her skin. His body crumpled and quaked, and when it mattered most, he looked away.
Luce was the only one watching as the girl became, out of nowhere, a column of fire. So fast.
The acrid smoke swirled over Daniel. His eyes were closed. His face glistened—wet with tears. He looked as miserable as he had looked every other time she’d watched him watch her die. But this time, he also looked sick with shock. Something was different. Something was wrong.
When Daniel had first told her about his punishment, he’d said there had been some lives in which a single kiss had killed her. Worse, in which something short of a kiss had killed her. A single touch.
They had not touched. Luce had been watching the whole time. He’d been so careful not to come near her. Did he think he could have her longer by holding back the warmth of his embrace? Did he think he could outwit the curse by holding her always just out of reach?
“He didn’t even touch her,” she murmured.
“Bummer,” Bill said.
Never touching her, not once the whole time they were in love. And now he’d have to wait it all out again, not knowing whether anything would even be different next time. How could hope live in the face of that kind of defeat? Nothing about this made sense.
“If he didn’t touch her, then what triggered her death?” She turned to Bill, who tilted his head and looked up into the sky.
“Mountains,” he said. “Pretty!”
“You know something,” Luce said. “What is it?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know anything,” he said. “Or nothing I can tell you.”
A horrible, desolate cry echoed across the valley. The sound of Daniel’s agony resounded and returned, multiplied, as though a hundred Daniels were crying out together. Luce brought the opera glasses back up to her face and saw him dash the flowers in his hands to the ground.
“I have to go to him!” she said.
“Too late,” Bill said. “Here it comes.”
Daniel backed away from the cliff edge. Luce’s heart pounded for fear of what he was about to do. He certainly wasn’t going to sleep. He got a running start, picking up inhuman speed by the time he reached the cliff’s edge, and then launched himself into the air.
Luce waited for his wings to unfurl. She waited for the soft thunder of their grand unfolding, opening wide and catching the air in awesome glory. She’d seen him take flight like this in the past, and every time, it struck her to her core: How desperately she loved him.
But Daniel’s wings never shot out from his back. When he reached the edge of the cliff, he went over like any other boy.
And he fell like any other boy, too.
Luce screamed, a loud and long and terrified cry, until Bill clapped his dirty stone hand over her mouth. She threw him off, ran to the edge of the cliff, and crawled forward.
Daniel was still falling. It was a long way down. She watched his body grow smaller and smaller.
“He’ll extend his wings, won’t he?” she gasped. “He’ll realize that he’s going to fall and fall until …”
She couldn’t even say it.
“No,” Bill said.
“But—”
“He’ll slam right into that ground a couple of thousand feet down, yes,” Bill said. “He’ll break every bone in his body. But don’t worry, he can’t kill himself. He only wishes he could.” He turned to her and sighed. “Now do you believe his love?”
“Yes,” Luce whispered, because all she wanted to do at that moment was plunge off the cliff after him. That was how much she loved him back.
But it wouldn’t do any good.
“They were being so careful.” Her voice was strained. “We both saw what happened, Bill: nothing. She was so innocent. So how could she have died?”
Bill sputtered a laugh. “You think you know everything about her just because you saw the last three minutes of her life from across a mountaintop?”
“You’re the one who made me use binoculars … oh!” She froze. “Wait a minute!” Something haunted her about the way her past self’s eyes had seemed to change, just for a moment, right at the end. And suddenly, Luce knew: “What killed her this time wasn’t something I could have witnessed, anyway.…”
Bill rolled his claws, waiting for her to finish the thought.
“It was happening inside her.”
He applauded slowly. “I think you might be ready now.”
“Ready for what?”
“Remember what I mentioned to you in Helston? After you talked to Roland?”
“You disagreed with him … about me getting close to my past selves?”
“You still can’t rewrite the story, Luce. You can’t change the narratives. If you try to—”
“I know, it distorts the future. I don’t want to change the past. I just need to know what happens—why I keep dying. I thought it was a kiss, or a touch, or something physical, but it seems more complicated than that.”
Bill yanked the shadow out from behind Luce’s feet like a bullfighter wielding a red cape. Its edges flickered with silver. “Are you ready to put your soul where your mouth is?” he asked. “Are you ready to go three-D?”
“I’m ready.” Luce punched open the Announcer and braced herself against the briny wind inside. “Wait,” she said, looking at Bill hovering at her side. “What’s three-D?”
“Wave of the future, kid,” he said.
Luce gave him a hard stare.
“Okay, there’s an unsonorous technical term for it—cleaving—but to me, three-D sounds much more fun.” Bill dove inside the dark tunnel and beckoned her with a crooked finger. “Trust me, you’ll love it.”
TEN
THE DEPTHS
LHASA, TIBET • APRIL 30, 1740
Daniel hit the ground running.
Wind ripped across his body. The sun felt close against his skin. He was running and running and had no idea where he was. He’d burst from the Announcer without knowing, and though it felt right in almost every way, something nagged at his memory. Something was wrong.
His wings.
They were absent. No—they were still there, of course, but he felt no urge to let them out, no burning itch for flight. Instead of the familiar yearning to soar into the sky, the pull he felt was down.
A memory was rising to the surface of his mind. He was nearing something painful, the edge of something dangerous. His eyes focused on the space in front of him—
And saw nothing but thin air.
He threw himself backward, arms flailing as his feet skidded along the rock. He hit the ground on his backside and came to a stop just before he plunged off an unfathomable cliff.
He caught his breath, then rolled his body carefully around so he could peer over the edge.
Below him: an abyss so eerily familiar. He got to his hands and knees and studied the vast darkness below. Was he down there still? Had the Announcer ejected him here before or after it had happened?
That was why his wings hadn’t burst forth. They’d remembered this life’s agony and stayed put.
Tibet. Where just his words had killed her. That life’s Lucinda had been raised to be so chaste, she wouldn’t even touch him. Though he’d ached for the feel of her skin on his, Daniel had respected her wishes. Secretly, he had hoped that her refusal might be a way to outsmart their curse at last. But he’d been a fool again. Of course, touch wasn’t the trigger. The punishment ran far deeper than that.
And now he was back here
, in the place where her death had driven him into a despair so overwhelming that he’d tried to put an end to his pain.
As if that were possible.
The whole way down, he’d known he would fail. Suicide was a mortal luxury not afforded to angels.
His body trembled at the memory. It wasn’t just the agony of all his shattered bones, or the way the fall had left his body black and blue. No, it was what came afterward. He’d lain there for weeks, his body wedged in the dark emptiness between two vast boulders. Occasionally he’d come to, but his mind was so awash in misery that he wasn’t able to think about Lucinda. He wasn’t able to think about anything at all.
Which had been the point.
But as was the way of angels, his body healed itself faster and more completely than his soul ever could.
His bones knit back together. His wounds sealed in neat scars and, over time, disappeared completely. His pulverized organs grew healthy. All too soon his heart was full again and strong and beating.
It was Gabbe who’d found him after more than a month, who’d helped him crawl out from the crevasse, who’d put splints on his wings and carried him away from this place. She’d made him vow to never do it again. She’d made him vow to always maintain hope.
And now here he was again. He got to his feet and, once more, teetered at the edge.
“No, please. Oh God, don’t! I just couldn’t bear it if you jumped.”
It wasn’t Gabbe speaking to him now on the mountain. This voice dripped with sarcasm. Daniel knew who it belonged to before he even spun around.
Cam lounged against a wall of tall black boulders. Over the colorless earth, he’d spread out an enormous prayer tapestry woven with rich strands of burgundy and ochre thread. He dangled a charred yak’s leg in his hand and bit off a huge hunk of stringy meat.
“Oh, what the hell?” Cam shrugged, chewing. “Go ahead and jump. Any last words you want me to pass along to Luce?”
“Where is she?” Daniel started toward him, his hands balling into fists. Was the Cam reclining before him of this time period? Or was he an Anachronism, come back in time just as Daniel had?
