body on a pyre, all the DNA samples in earthen jars beside her. Her oldest son lighting the fire with a torch. The flames scorching the heavens.
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.
The world is fading, just like I knew it would, color bleeding away as each person I love dies. I will blink my eyes and Isabelle’s children will pass away, I will turn around and then her grandchildren will be gone.
But the amazing thing is, with each generation, this family of mine grows.
We live in the mountains, hidden from the world. Omega and his mate, Alpha, are with us. He brings her back every time she falls, with a kiss. The wolf prefers to roam through the jungles, but Omega always comes back to be with Angelique.
From time to time, Neville pulls me back to the edge of eternity. Every time he dies. We are linked, ’til Judgment Day. Our hands clasped as we stand on the edge of heaven and hell, we fight, we struggle to be set free from each other, from this horrid destiny.
I have tried to turn my head around, to see that which is behind me. Streets of gold, chariots of fire, angels with skin like brass. My father, my mother, and now, Isabelle.
I saw Russ once, on the other side. His face had melted into something almost unrecognizable, but I’m certain it was him. He still carries the stench of gen-spike addiction. He looked at me, anguish in his gaze, and I wished I could do something. I wish I could’ve done something back when it really mattered.
“Isabelle’s safe,” I told him. It was all I could think to say.
“I know,” he answered. “I can see her behind you.” He tried to smile, but I guess joy isn’t possible on his side of the Great Divide. He turned and walked away. I never saw him again.
Civilizations turn to dust around me, buildings seem to crumble the same day they are built. Time no longer has meaning, and yet, it continues to reign over the lives of those around me. It won’t stand still but it has become transparent, almost like a mist without beginning or end.
Angelique is my wife, my Eve, my mate for eternity.
She died, a few days ago. Once she struggled with cancer, once she died from pneumonia. This time it was a heart attack. I found her several hours later.
Her body was cold, her face pale. I held her to my chest, whispered that I love her, that I will always love her. Kissed her lips. Felt the warmth return, slowly. Listened for that first gasp, that precious shallow breath, watched her wince from the pain. Felt the pain like it was my own.
Then she opened her eyes and stared up at the sky, like always, catching slivers of turquoise and sapphire. Another breath, more steady this time.
“How many times is it now?” she asked, still looking up. I always wonder what she sees, but we don’t talk about it.
“I lost count,” I answered. “Seventeen? Twenty?”
She smiled, soft, the grin that makes my heart skip a beat. Then she looked at me and I saw the love that I need to keep going one more day. And something else. A gift that I’ve come to need almost as much.
For a few sweet moments I can see what I have never been allowed to see.
In her eyes, I see the reflection of heaven.
And it reminds me that one day I might see it for myself.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The list of people who have influenced/helped/cheered/cajoled me while writing this book is nearly as long as the book itself. People who helped transform the book into something much better than it was: my amazing agent, Kimberley Cameron; my awesome editors, Diana Gill and Ellen Leach; the brilliant cover designer, Amy Halperin, and illustrator, Gordon Crabb; Will Hinton and the rest of the HarperCollins staff—all of you deserve Warrior status. A heartfelt curtsy to both of my critique groups for performing red-pencil surgery on my behalf several times a month, whether I wanted it or not. Hugs and a round of applause for my husband, Tom, my son, Jesse, and our friend, Brad, for helping me understand the heart and soul of jazz. Kudos to the musicians who provided inspiration while I wrote every page: Coldplay, Jars of Clay, and Moby. And finally, to the person reading this book right now: Thank you. Really. I’ve wanted to write a story for you for a very long time now…
About the Author
MERRIE DESTEFANO left a 9-to-5 desk job as a magazine editor to become a full-time novelist and freelance editor. With twenty years’ experience in publishing, her background includes editor of Victorian Homes magazine and founding editor of Cottages & Bungalows magazine. She lives in Southern California with her husband, their two German shepherds, and a Siamese cat. For more information, visit www.merriedestefano.com.
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