Passion - By Lauren Kate Page 0,9

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 onto a broad, tree-lined avenue with a wide view of the city. The only cars parked here were military vehicles. They looked old-fashioned, almost absurd, like relics in a war museum: soft-top jeeps with giant fenders, bone-thin steering wheels, and the Soviet hammer and sickle painted onto the doors. But aside from Luce and her grandmother, there were no people on this street. Everything--except for the awful rumbling in the sky--was ghostly, eerily quiet.

In the distance, she could see a river, and far across it, a great building. Even in the darkness, she could make out its elaborate tiered spires and ornate onion-shaped domes, which seemed familiar and mythic at the same time. It took a moment to sink in--and then fear shot through Luce.

She was in Moscow.

And the city was a war zone.

Black smoke rose in the gray sky, marking the pockets of the city that had already been hit: to the left of the vast Kremlin, and just behind it, and again in the distance to the far right. There was no combat on the streets, no sign that enemy soldiers had crossed into the city yet on foot. But the flames licking the charred buildings, the incendiary smell of war everywhere, and the threat of more to come were somehow even worse.

This was by far the most messed-up thing Luce had ever done in her life--probably in any of her lives. Her parents would kill her if they knew where she was. Daniel might never speak to her again.

But then: What if they didn't even have the chance to be furious with her? She could die, right here in this war zone.

Why had she done this?

Because she'd had to. It was hard to unearth that small hint of pride in the midst of her panic. But it must have been there somewhere.

She'd stepped through. On her own. Into a distant place and a faraway time, into the past she needed to understand. This was what she'd wanted. She'd been pushed around like a chess piece long enough.

But what was she supposed to do now? She picked up her pace and held tight to her grandmother's hand. Strange, this woman had no real sense of what Luce was going through, no real idea of who she even was, and yet the tug of her dry grip was the only thing keeping Luce moving.

Where are we going? Luce asked as her grandmother yanked her down another darkened street. The cobblestones tapered off and the road became unpaved and slippery. The snow had soaked through the canvas of Luce's tennis shoes, and her toes were starting to burn with the cold.

To collect your sister, Kristina. The old woman scowled. The one who works nights digging army trenches with her bare hands so you can get your beauty rest. Remember her?

Where they stopped, there was no streetlamp