Passion - By Lauren Kate Page 0,1

beyond her fingertips. She tried to grasp it, but the Announcer eluded her, flicking farther away. She leaped for it, and caught a tiny damp piece of it between her fingers-- But then, in an instant, the Announcer shattered into soft black fragments on the snow. They faded, then were gone.

Great, she muttered. Now what?

In the distance, the narrow road curved left to meet a shadowy intersection. The sidewalks were piled high with shoveled snow, which had been packed against two long banks of white stone buildings. They were striking, unlike anything Luce had ever seen, a few stories tall, with their entire fa?ades carved into rows of bright white arches and elaborate columns.

All the windows were dark. Luce got the sense that the whole city might be dark. The only light came from a single gas streetlamp. If there was any moon, it was hidden by a thick blanket of cloud. Again something rumbled in the sky. Thunder?

Luce hugged her arms around her chest. She was freezing.

Luschka!

A woman's voice. Hoarse and raspy, like someone who'd spent her whole life barking orders. But the voice was trembling, too.

Luschka, you idiot. Where are you?

She sounded closer now. Was she talking to Luce? There was something else about that voice, something strange that Luce couldn't quite put into words.

When a figure came hobbling around the snowy street corner, Luce stared at the woman, trying to place her. She was very short and a little hunched over, maybe in her late sixties. Her bulky clothes seemed too big for her body. Her hair was tucked under a thick black scarf. When she saw Luce, her face scrunched into a complicated grimace.

Where have you been?

Luce looked around. She was the only other person on the street. The old woman was speaking to her.

Right here, she heard herself say.

In Russian.

She clapped a hand over her mouth. So that was what had seemed so bizarre about the old woman's voice: She was speaking a language Luce had never learned. And yet, not only did Luce understand every word, but she could speak it back.

I could kill you, the woman said, breathing heavily as she rushed toward Luce and threw her arms around her.

For such a frail-looking woman, her embrace was strong. The warmth of another body pressing into Luce after so much intense cold made her almost want to cry. She hugged back hard.

Grandma? she whispered, her lips close to the woman's ear, somehow knowing that was who the woman was.

Of all the nights I get off work to find you gone, the woman said. Now you're skipping around in the middle of the street like a lunatic? Did you even go to work today? Where is your sister?

There was the rumbling in the sky again. It sounded like a bad storm moving closer. Moving fast. Luce shivered and shook her head. She didn't know.

Aha, the woman said. Not so carefree now. She squinted at Luce, then pushed her away to get a closer look. My God, what are you wearing?

Luce fidgeted as her past life's grandmother gaped at her jeans and ran her knobby fingers over the buttons of Luce's flannel shirt. She grabbed Luce's short, tangled ponytail. Sometimes I think you are as crazy as your father, may he rest in peace.

I just-- Luce's teeth were chattering. I didn't know it was going to be so cold.

The woman spat on the snow to show her disapproval. She peeled off her overcoat. Take this before you catch your death. She bundled the coat roughly around Luce, whose fingers were half frozen as she struggled to button it. Then her grandmother untied the scarf from her neck and wrapped it around Luce's head.

A great boom in the sky startled both of them. Now Luce knew it wasn't thunder. What is that? she whispered.

The old woman stared at her. The war, she muttered. Did you lose your wits along with your clothes? Come now. We must go.

As they waded down the snowy street, over the rough cobbles and the tram tracks set into them, Luce realized that the city wasn't empty after all. Few cars were parked along the road, but occasionally, down the darkened side streets, she heard the whinnies of carriage horses waiting for orders, their frosty breaths clotting the air. Silhouetted bodies scampered across rooftops. Down an alley, a man in a torn overcoat helped three small children through the hatched doors of a basement.

At the end of the narrow street, the road opened