And those were the lifetimes that cast the longest shadows across the eons. Those were the lifetimes that stood out and drew Luce like filings to a magnet as she stumbled through the Announcers. Those lives when he’d revealed to her what she needed to know, even though knowing it would destroy her.

  Like her death in Moscow. He remembered it keenly and felt foolish. The daring words he’d whispered, the deep kiss he’d given her. The blissful realization on her face as she died. It had changed nothing. Her end was exactly the same as always.

  And Daniel was exactly the same afterward, too: Bleak. Black. Empty. Gutted. Inconsolable.

  Gabbe stepped forward to kick snow over the ring of ash where Luschka had died. Her featherlight wings glowed in the night and a shimmering aura surrounded her body as she hunched over in the snow. She was crying.

  The rest of them came closer, too: Cam. Roland. Molly. Arriane.

  And Daniil, long-ago Daniel, rounded out their motley group.

  “If you’re here to warn us about something,” Arriane called, “then say your piece and go.” Her iridescent wings folded forward, almost protectively. She stepped in front of Daniil, who looked a little green.

  It was unlawful and unnatural for the angels to interact with their earlier selves. Daniel felt clammy and faint—whether that was because he was having to relive Luce’s death or because he was so close to his previous self, he couldn’t say.

  “Warn us?” Molly sneered, walking in a circle around Daniel. “Why would Daniel Grigori go out of his way to warn us about anything?” She got in his face, taunting him with her copper-colored wings. “No, I remember what he’s up to—this one has been skipping through the past for centuries. Always searching, always late.”

  “No,” Daniel whispered. That couldn’t be. He’d set out to catch her and he would.

  “What she means to ask,” Roland said to Daniel, “is what transpired to bring you here? From whenever you’re coming from?”

  “I’d almost forgotten,” Cam said, massaging his temples. “He is after Lucinda. She has fallen out of time.” He turned to Daniel and raised an eyebrow. “Maybe now you’ll forsake your pride and ask for our help?”

  “I don’t need help.”

  “Seems as if you do,” Cam jeered.

  “Stay out of it,” Daniel spat. “You’re enough trouble to us later.”

  “Oh, how fun.” Cam clapped. “You’ve given me something to look forward to.”

  “This is a dangerous game you’re playing, Daniel,” Roland said.

  “I know that.”

  Cam laughed a dark, sinister laugh. “So. We’ve finally reached the endgame, haven’t we?”

  Gabbe swallowed. “So … something’s changed?”

  “She’s figuring it out!” Arriane said. “She’s opening up Announcers and stepping through and she’s still alive!”

  Daniel’s eyes blazed violet. He turned away from all of them, looking back at the ruins of the church, the first place where he’d laid eyes on Luschka. “I can’t stay. I have to catch her.”

  “Well, from what I remember,” Cam said softly, “you never will. The past is already written, brother.”

  “Your past, maybe. But not my future.” Daniel couldn’t think straight. His wings burned inside his body, aching to be released. She was gone. The street was empty. No one else to worry about.

  He threw his shoulders back and let them out with a whoosh. There. That lightness. That deepest freedom. He could think more clearly now. What he needed was a moment alone. With himself. He shot the other Daniel a look and took off into the sky.

  Moments later, he heard the sound again: the same whoosh of wings unfurling—the sound of another pair of wings, younger wings, taking flight from the ground below.

  Daniel’s earlier self caught up with him in the sky. “Where to?”

  Wordlessly they settled on a third-story ledge near Patriarch’s Pond, on the roof across from Luce’s window, where they used to watch her sleep. The memory would be fresher in Daniil’s mind, but the faint recollection of Luce lying dreaming under the covers still sent a warm rush across Daniel’s wings.

  Both were somber. In the bombed-out city, it was sad and ironic that her building had been spared when she hadn’t. They stood in silence in the cold night, both carefully tucking back their wings so that they wouldn’t accidentally touch.

  “How are things for her in the future?”

  Daniel sighed. “The good news is that something is different in this lifetime. Somehow the curse has been … altered.”

  “How?” Daniil looked up, and the hope that shone bright in his eyes darkened. “You mean to say, in her current lifetime she has not yet made a covenant?”

  “We think not. That’s part of it. It seems a loophole has opened up and allowed her to live beyond her usual time—”

  “But it’s so dangerous.” Daniil spoke quickly, frantically, spewing out the same discourse that had been running through Daniel’s mind ever since the last night at Sword & Cross, when he’d realized that this time was different: “She could die and not come back. That could be the end. Every single thing is on the line now.”

  “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.

  THREE

  FOOLS RUSH IN

  MILAN, ITALY • MAY 25, 1918

  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.

  “Water.” An older woman’s voice came from inside the truck. “Bandages. Gauze.”

  She was distributing supplies to the girls, who loaded up, then set to work putting together a makeshift clinic on the side of the road. A row of injured men had already been moved behind the truck for treatment. More were on the way. Luce joined the line for supplies. It was dark and no one said a word to her. She could feel it now—the stress of the young nurses. They must have been trained to keep a poised, calm façade for the soldiers, but when the girl in front of Luce reached up to take her ration of supplies, her hands were shaking.

  Around them, soldiers moved quickly in pairs, carrying the wounded under the arms and by the feet. Some of the men being carried mumbled questions about the battle, asking how badly they’d been hit. Then there were the ones more seriously injured, whose lips could form no questions because they were too busy biting off screams, who had to be hoisted by the waist because one or both of their legs had been blown off by a land mine.

  “Water.” A jug landed in Luce’s arms. “Bandages. Gauze.” The head nurse dumped the ration of supplies mechanically, ready to move on to the next girl, but then she didn’t. She fixed her gaze on Luce. Her eyes traveled downward, and Luce realized she was still wearing the heavy wool coat from Luschka’s grandmother in Moscow. Which was a good thing, because underneath the coat were her jeans and button-down shirt from her current life.

  “Uniform,” the woman finally said in the same monotone, tossing down a white dress and a nurse’s cap like the other girls were wearing.

  Luce nodded gratefully, then ducked behind a truck to change. It was a billowing white gown that reached her ankles and smelled strongly of bleach. She tried to wipe the soldier’s blood off her hands, using the wool coat, then tossed it behind a tree. But by the time she’d buttoned the nurse’s uniform, rolled up the sleeves, and tied the belt around her waist, it was completely covered with rusty red streaks.

  She grabbed the supplies and ran back across the road. The scene before her was gruesome. The officer hadn’t been lying. There were at least a hundred men who needed help. She looked at the bandages in her arms and wondered what it was she should be doing.

  “Nurse!” a man called out. He was sliding a stretcher into the back of an ambulance. “Nurse! This one needs a nurse.”

  Luce realized that he was talking to her. “Oh,” she said faintly. “Me?” She peered into the ambulance. It was cramped and dark inside. A space that looked like it had been made for two people now held six. The wounded soldiers were laid out on stretchers slid into three-tiered slings on either side. There was no place for Luce except on the floor.

  Someone was shoving her to the side: a man, sliding another stretcher onto the small empty space on the floor. The soldier laid out on it was unconscious, his black hair plastered across his face.

  “Go on,” the soldier said to Luce. “It’s leaving now.”

  When she didn’t move, he pointed to a wooden stool affixed to the inside of the ambulance’s back door with a crisscrossed rope. He bent down and made a stirrup with his hands to help Luce up onto the stool. Another shell shook the ground, and Luce couldn’t hold back the scream that escaped her lips.

  She glanced apologetically at the soldier, took a deep breath, and hopped up.

  When she was seated on the tiny stool, he handed up the jug of water and the box of gauze and bandages. He started to shut the door.

  “Wait,” Luce whispered. “What do I do?”

  The man paused. “You know how long the ride to Milan is. Dress their wounds and keep them comfortable. Do the best you can.”

  The door slammed with Luce on it. She had to grip the stool to keep from falling off and landing on the soldier at her feet. The ambulance was stifling hot. It smelled terrible. The only light came from a small lantern hanging from a nail in the corner. The only window was directly behind her head on the inside of the door. She didn’t know what had happened to Giovanni, the boy with the bullet in his stomach. Whether she’d ever see him again. Whether he’d live through the night.

  The engine started up. The ambulance shifted into gear and lurched forward. The soldier on one of the top slings began to moan.

  After they’d reached a steady speed, Luce heard the pattering sound of a leak. Something was dripping. She leaned forward on the stool, squinting in the dim lantern light.

  It was the blood of the soldier on the top bunk dripping through the woven sling onto the soldier in the middle bunk. The middle soldier’s eyes were open. He was watching the blood fall on his chest, but he was injured so badly that he couldn’t move away. He didn’t make a sound. Not until the trickle of blood turned into a stream.

  Luce whimpered along with the soldier. She started to rise from her stool, but there was no place for her to stand unless she straddled the soldier on the floor. Carefully, she wedged her feet around his chest. As the ambulance shuddered along the bumpy dirt road, she gripped the taut canvas of the top sling and held a fistful of gauze against its bottom. The blood soaked through onto her fingers within seconds.