across state lines, into the recent past and right back here. Because her heart and her head were tangled up and confused, and being close to Daniel mucked everything up even more. Because Miles and Shelby seemed to hate him. Because of the plain horror on Vera's face when she recognized Luce. Because of all the tears that her sister must have cried for her, and because Luce had hurt her all over again by showing up at her blackjack table. Because of all of her other bereaved families, sunk into sadness because their daughters had the bad luck to be the reincarnation of a stupid girl in love. Because thinking of those families made Luce desperately miss her parents back in Thunderbolt. Because she was responsible for Dawn's kidnapping. Because she was seventeen, and still alive, against thousands of years' worth of odds. Because she knew enough to fear what the future would bring. Because in the meantime it was three-thirty in the morning, and she hadn't slept in days, and she didn't know what else to do.
Now he held her, encasing her body in his warmth, drawing her into him and rocking her in his arms. She sobbed and hiccupped and wished for a tissue to blow her nose. She wondered how it was possible to feel so bad about so many things at once.
"Shhh," Daniel whispered. "Shhh."
A day ago, she'd been sick watching Daniel love her into oblivion in that Announcer. The inescapable violence sewn into their relationship had seemed insurmountable. But now, especially after talking with Arriane, Luce could feel something big coming on. Something shifting--maybe the whole world shifting--with Luce and Daniel hovering right on the edge. It was all around them, in the ether, and it a ected the way she saw herself, and Daniel, too.
The helpless looks she'd seen in his eyes in those just-before-dying moments: Now they felt like--they were--the past. It reminded her of the way he'd looked at her after their rst kiss in this life on the marshy beach near Sword & Cross. The taste of his lips on hers, the feel of his breath on her neck, his strong hands wrapped around her: It had all been so wonderful--except for the fear in his eyes.
But Daniel hadn't looked at her like that in a while. The way he looked at her now surrendered nothing. He looked at her as if she were going to stick around, almost as if she had to. Things were di erent in this life. Everyone was saying it, and Luce could feel it, too: a revelation growing ever larger inside her. She'd watched herself die, and she'd survived it. Daniel didn't have to shoulder his punishment alone anymore. It was something they could do together.
"I want to say something," she said into his shirt, wiping her eyes on her sleeve. "I want to talk before you say anything."
She could feel his chin brushing the top of her head. He was nodding. She could feel his chin brushing the top of her head. He was nodding.
"I know you have to be careful about what you tell me. I know I've died before. But I'm not going anywhere this time, Daniel, I can feel it. At least, not without a ght." She tried to smile. "I think it will help us both to stop treating me like a fragile piece of glass. So I'm asking you, as your friend, as your girlfriend, as, you know, the love of your life, to let me in a little more. Otherwise I just feel isolated and anxious and--"
He caught her chin with his nger and tilted her head up. He was eyeing her curiously. She waited for him to interrupt, but he didn't.
"I didn't leave Shoreline to spite you," she continued. "I left because I didn't understand why it mattered. And I put my friends in danger because of it."
Daniel held her face in front of his. The violet in his eyes practically glowed. "I have failed you too many times before," he whispered. "And in this life maybe I've erred on the side of caution. I should have known you'd test whatever boundary you were given. You wouldn't be ... the girl I loved if you didn't." Luce waited for him to smile down at her. He didn't. "There's just so much at stake this time around. I've been so focused on--"
"The Outcasts?"
"They're the ones who took your friend," Daniel said. "They can barely identify right from