Lauren Kate: Passion

“I know.”

Daniil stopped, composed himself. “I’m sorry. Of course you know. But … the question is, does she understand why this life is different?”

Daniel looked at his empty hands. “One of the Elders of Zhsmaelim got to her, interrogated her before Luce knew anything about her past. Lucinda recognizes that everyone is focused on the fact that she has not been baptized … but there is so much she doesn’t know.”

Daniil stepped to the edge of the roof and gazed at her dark window. “Then what’s the bad news?”

“I fear there is also much that I don’t know. I cannot predict the consequences of her fleeing backward into time if I don’t find her, and stop her, before it’s too late.”

Down on the street, a siren blared. The air raid was over. Soon the Russians would be out combing the city, looking for survivors.

Daniel sifted through the shreds of his memory. She was going further back—but to which lifetime? He turned to look hard at his earlier self. “You recall it, too, don’t you?”

“That … she is going back?”

“Yes. But how far back?” They spoke simultaneously, staring at the dark street.

“And where will she stop?” Daniel said abruptly, backing away from the edge. He closed his eyes, took a breath. “Luce is different now. She’s—” He could almost smell her. Clean, pure light, like sunshine. “Something fundamental has shifted. We finally have a real chance. And I—I have never been more elated … nor more sick with terror.” He opened his eyes and was surprised to see Daniil nod.

“Daniel?”

“Yes?”

“What are you waiting for?” Daniil asked with a smile. “Go get her.”

And with that, Daniel teased open a shadow along the roof ledge—an Announcer—and stepped inside.

Łuce staggered out of the Announcer to the sound of explosions. She ducked and covered her ears.

Violent bursts rocked the ground. One heavy boom after another, each more spectacular and paralyzing than the one before, until the sound and the tremors reverberated so that there seemed to be no break in the assault. No way to escape the din, and no end.

Luce stumbled in the earsplitting darkness, curling into herself, trying to shield her body. The blasts thrummed in her chest, spat dirt into her eyes and mouth.

All this before she’d even had a chance to see where she’d ended up. With each bright explosion, she caught glimpses of rolling fields, crisscrossed with culverts and tumbledown fences. But then the flash would vanish and she’d be blind again.

Bombs. They were still going off.

Something was wrong. Luce had meant to step through time, to get away from Moscow and the war. But she must have ended up right back where she’d started. Roland had warned her about this—about the dangers of Announcer travel. But she’d been too stubborn to listen.

In the pitch-dark, Luce tripped over something and landed hard, facedown in the dirt.

Someone grunted. Someone Luce had landed on top of.

She gasped and squirmed away, feeling a sharp stab in her hip from where she’d fallen. But when she saw the man lying on the ground, she forgot her own pain.

He was young, about her age. Small, with delicate features and timid brown eyes. His face was pale. His breath came in shallow gasps. The hand cupped over his stomach was caked with black grime. And beneath that hand, his fatigues were soaked with dark red blood.

Luce couldn’t look away from the wound. “I’m not supposed to be here,” she whispered to herself.

The boy’s lips trembled. His bloody hand shook when he made the sign of the cross over his chest. “Oh, I’ve died,” he said, staring at her wide-eyed. “You are an angel. I’ve died and gone to—Am I in Heaven?”

He reached for her, his hand quaking. She wanted to scream or vomit, but all she could do was cover his hands and press them back over the gaping hole in his gut. Another boom rattled the ground and the boy lying on it. Fresh blood seeped through the web of Luce’s fingers.

“I am Giovanni,” he whispered, closing his eyes. “Please. Help me. Please.”

Only then did Luce realize she wasn’t in Moscow anymore. The ground below her was warmer. Not snow-covered, but a grassy plain that was torn up in places, exposing rich black soil. The air was dry and dusty. This boy had spoken to her in Italian, and just as she had in Moscow, she understood.

Her eyes had adjusted. She could see searchlights in the distance, roaming over purple-hued hills. And beyond the hills, an evening sky was flecked with bright white stars. Luce turned away. She couldn’t see stars without thinking of Daniel, and she couldn’t think about Daniel right now. Not with her hands pressed into this boy’s belly, not with him about to die.

At least he hadn’t died yet .

He only thought he had.

She couldn’t blame him. After he’d been hit, he’d probably gone into shock. And then maybe he’d seen her come through the Announcer, a black tunnel appearing out of thin air. He must have been terrified.

“You’re going to be fine,” she said, using the perfect Italian she’d always wanted to learn. It felt astonishingly natural on her tongue. Her voice, too, came out softer and smoother than she expected; it made her wonder what she’d been like in this lifetime.

A barrage of deafening shots made her jump. Gunfire. Endless, in quick succession, bright zipping tracers arcing through the sky, burning lines of white into her vision, followed by a lot of shouting in Italian. Then the thump of footsteps in the dirt. Coming closer.

“We’re retreating,” the boy mumbled. “That’s not good.”

Luce looked toward the sound of soldiers running in their direction and noticed for the first time that she and the injured soldier were not alone. At least ten other men lay wounded around them, moaning and trembling and bleeding into the black earth. Their clothes were singed and shredded from the land mine that must have taken them by surprise. The rich stink of rot and sweat and blood sat heavy in the air, coating everything. It was so horrific—Luce had to bite down on her lip to keep from screaming.

A man in an officer’s uniform ran past her, then stopped. “What’s she doing here? This is a war zone, not a place for nurses. You’ll be no help to us dead, girl. At least make yourself useful. We need the casualties loaded up.”

He stormed off before Luce could respond. Below her, the boy’s eyes were beginning to droop and his whole body was shaking. She looked around desperately for help.

About a half mile away was a narrow dirt road with two ancient-looking trucks and two small, squat ambulances parked at its side.

“I’ll be right back,” Luce told the boy, pressing his hands more firmly against his stomach to control the bleeding. He whimpered when she pulled away.

She ran toward the trucks, stumbling over her feet when another shell came down behind her, making the earth buck.

A cluster of women in white uniforms stood gathered around the back of one of the trucks. Nurses. They would know what to do, how to help. But when Luce got close enough to see their faces, her heart sank. They were girls. Some of them couldn’t have been older than fourteen. Their uniforms looked like costumes.

She scanned their faces, looking for herself in one of them. There must have been a reason why she’d stepped into this Hell. But no one looked familiar. It was hard to fathom the girls’ calm, clear expressions. Not one of them showed the terror that Luce knew was clear on her own face. Maybe they had already seen enough of the war to grow used to what it did.