Time After Time: Time Chronicles, #3 4r5x6k

Time After Time By Katie Tate “I am nothing more than a son of Purgatory—trapped between Heaven, Hell and Earth. I have chosen Earth, but my stay is conditional upon Heaven’s grace.” EMORY

Table of Contents

Title Page

Time After Time (Time Chronicles, #3)

All Hollow’s Eve | CHAPTER 1

A Lost Head | CHAPTER 2

Heaven’s Errand | CHAPTER 3

Flying | CHAPTER 4

Following Hudson | CHAPTER 5

Dying in Public | CHAPTER 6

The Mime Shirt | CHAPTER 7

Visions of Petra | CHAPTER 8

Russia | CHAPTER 9

Immortal | CHAPTER 10

You Who Enter Here | CHAPTER 11

Home | CHAPTER 12

Rendezvous | CHAPTER 13

Heaven and Earth | CHAPTER 14

A Note from the Author

After barely escaping Sleepy Hollow with their lives, Petra Baron and her immortal boyfriend, Emory Ravenswood, find themselves thrust into the bustle of modern-day New York, where the dangers – although no longer Headless nor Horsemen – are both living and dead. A chance encounter with Grigory Rasputin’s daughter sends Emory and Petra on another time spiral – this time to St. Petersburg on the eve of the Russian Revolution. Their goal? Destroy the Msytic’s Amulet. Sounds simple, right? They thought so, too, until their actions unintentionally set off a war between Heaven and Hell. Peace can come only at the highest of prices – and they wonder if their love is as Timeless as they’d once believed. This thrilling conclusion to Katie Tate’s Time Chronicles will keep you at the edge of your seat as you dance along the Timelines.

Time After Time Copyright 2013 Kristy Tate All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Thank you for respecting the author’s work.

All Hollow’s Eve

CHAPTER 1

Petra woke to screaming . She bolted up, pushed her hair off her face, and tried to read the landscape for tale-tell signs—anything that might tell her where—and more importantly in what century— she had landed. Wood smoke hung in the air, and the mist chilled her skin. The ageless moon looked down, stars winked, and tombstones that looked as old as the night sky had nothing to say. That, she decided, was the problem with time travel. She never knew where or when she might land. Emory stirred beside her and she reached for him. “You okay?” she asked. His hand felt warm, solid, and real. As long as they were together, nothing else really mattered. Another scream tore the night, and Petra twisted toward the sound. An old stone church engulfed in an unearthly orange glow stood on a hill, its steeple pointing toward Heaven. Petra wore jeans and a dark hoodie, but Emory, in his breeches and white billowing shirt, looked like he belonged in a living history museum. Which one of them would look out of place in this place and time? “I am okay.” Emory slipped into her 21st century vernacular, gave her a crooked grin, and stood. “But someone is definitely not.” The screams, followed by maniacal laughter, tore through the air. “Do you think they need help?” Emory asked. Petra climbed to her feet, drawn to the sound. “We should go and see.” “Any idea where we are?” Emory brushed dead leaves and grass off his clothes as he headed for the hill. “Or when?”

“I think we’re still in the Tarrytown cemetery.” She considered the deserted graveyard. A skin-pricking feeling that said they weren’t alone tickled Petra. She squeezed Emory’s hand as they walked toward the glowing church. “Do you think the ale worked?” Emory lifted the flagon they had taken from Washington Irving’s Sleepy Hollow ghosts. Who would have guessed that Kip/Rip Van Winkle’s story was more fact than fiction? Petra paused at a wrought iron gate attached to a stone wall. Blackened by moss and lichen, it looked old and squealed in complaint when Emory pushed it open. A shiver ran through Petra. Horses thundered past, and Emory pulled her behind a tall obelisk. They waited in the dark night with their backs pressed against the monument for the sound of falling hooves to fade. Petra peeked but only caught a glimpse of a swirling black cape. “Irving,” Emory breathed. Petra nodded. The last time, only moments—or maybe centuries—ago, they had seen Irving, he had looked exactly the same. “I guess we’re still in Tarrytown.” She blew out a breath of frustration and glanced around the dark cemetery. “But where is Ichabod Dane?” Emory stepped out of the obelisk’s shelter. “He must be here, as well.” Petra shivered again, ing their last clash with the greedy schoolmaster. “I’m glad he’s not.” “Still, we must be vigilant.” He pulled her through the gate, and she trailed after him, keeping a hold of his hand. Petra thought about telling him that in 2010 no one under the age of eighty used the word vigilant, but ed that they probably weren’t in 2010 so he could use any word he wanted. Sounds of screaming, harsh laughter, and galloping horses came from over the hill. Emory glanced at her and she tightened her hold on him. Up ahead, lanterns lined the dirt path.

“Where did the lanterns come from? I don’t those,” Petra whispered. Why was she whispering? She didn’t know, except for the creepy, not-alone feeling. She glanced at the ground. Was the path too perfect? No meaningful rocks, no potholes. What was on it? Sawdust? When a creature draped in gauze jumped out from behind a crypt, Petra screamed. Emory cocked his arm and punched the ghoul in the face, sending him flying backward. Swatches of gauze floated and fluttered midair. Petra caught sight of a pair of Toms shoes and Hurley shorts. “Oh my gosh, Emory, stop!” Petra ran to help the ghoul-guy to his feet. With his white makeup now smeared with the blood pulsing from his nose, the ghoul-guy sprawled on the ground. His coal-rimmed eyes blinked open in surprise. “Whatcha do that for?” He sat up, grabbed his gauzy costume, and held it to his face to staunch the bleeding. “Man, I don’t get paid enough.” He glared at Emory through narrowed eyes and lowered brows. “What are you? Some sort of moron?” Emory stood, his clenched fists dangling at his side, his mouth open as if he wanted to say something, but wasn’t sure what. “So sorry.” Petra tried to fill the awkward pause. “We thought you were someone else.” “Someone else draped in a white sheet and hanging out at Hollow’s Halloween?” The guy turned his glower toward her, and sarcasm laced his voice. “Yeah, I can see how you could make that mistake.” “Look, he’s sorry.” Petra sent Emory a pleading glance. “I am, indeed.” Emory stepped forward and offered his hand. “Please accept my most heartfelt apologies. If I can make restitution—” “Restitution?” The guy crab-crawled away from Emory before bouncing to his feet and addressing Petra. “You look normal enough. Why are you hanging with this psycho?”

“Psycho?” Emory muttered. The guy untied the rope belt that hung at his waist and threw off his costume. “I should call the cops.” “Please don’t,” Petra begged. “I know... I mean, I wouldn’t blame you if you did...but please—we really did think you were someone else.” Petra scrambled in her bag and drew out a gold coin. “Look—for restitution.” The kid took it and turned it over. “What is it?” “It’s gold from 1810.” “Are you freaking kidding me? This has got to be worth a mint!” He handed it back to her. “If it’s real. Which it’s not. Look, just stay away from me. I don’t need this.” He turned away. “I’m outta here.” Emory waited until the guy had disappeared into the dark woods, before he said, “Petra?” Her name held all of his questions. She took his hand and pulled him close. Not wanting anyone to overhear, she whispered, “It’s Halloween. We’re still in Tarrytown, but it’s 2010.” Glancing around, she added up the evidence. The starry sky was dimmed by refracted light, traffic sounded on a distant road, and the air smelled different—less like a farm and more like a city laced with exhaust and fumes. She tried to lead Emory toward the town. “We’re home.” But Emory dragged his feet. “Why was that youth dressed as a goblin? Why was his face painted? Do the men of this age wear face paint?” “No, at least not most of them.” She laughed and shrugged, so relieved to be back in her own century, she couldn’t care less about anything else. “Some do, but not very many.” She took a deep breath and launched into an explanation of how Washington Irving had made Sleepy Hollow famous. “And now every October it’s a tourist attraction.” “But why would anyone want to attract these unfriendly tourists?” When a woman shrouded in black emerged from the shadows and sidled up to Emory, he flinched away with a puzzled look on his face. “This is what I don’t

understand.” He waved his hand at her. “Why? Pray tell—why are you dressed thus?” The Goth girl’s gaze ran up and down Emory and snorted. “Hey! My costume is way better than yours.” He turned to Petra. “Is this common attire?” Petra grabbed his arm, sent the Goth girl an apologetic smile and drew Emory away. “No! People pay to come here and be scared,” she whispered. “People pay money to be scared by hoydens dressed as phantoms?” Emory planted his feet and refused to move. “And why would anyone be scared or surprised if they paid money to be scared or surprised?” His gaze went over her shoulder. “Although, I have to say, that is surprising...and horrifying.” Petra turned and saw the carnage. Creatures dressed in rags feasted on corpses lying on the cemetery lawn. Blood dripped from their blackened lips and stained their hands and clothes. They lurched from one torn body to the next. “Zombies,” Petra told him. “I beg your pardon?” Petra rolled her eyes. “Those are people pretending to be zombies.” “And what is a zombie?” Really? They finally arrived in 2010—an age of amazing technological miracles —and she had to explain zombies? She took his arm and led him toward the graveyard gates. “Never mind. When we get home I’ll show you Night of the Living Dead. I can probably find it on Hulu.” “How am I to pay this no mind?” He waved a hand at the bloody scene behind them. “The Living Dead? And what is a Hulu?” “It’s a TV show.” And now she had to explain TV. “It’ll be easier to show you than tell you.” “Where are we going now?” Emory asked.

Good question.

EMORY FOLLOWED PETRA into the church. Inside, away from the revelry and boisterous crowd, the quiet chapel quieted Emory’s unease. Aside from the strange, blue lighting radiating from under the eaves, the sanctuary looked nearly the same as it had two hundred years ago: stain glass windows, wood floors, soaring buttresses ing the distant ceiling. Petra dropped into a pew and Emory followed, his gaze flitting across the room. They were alone, but the noise of the crowd seeping through the windows and doors reminded Emory that he was a stranger in a strange time and place. Petra pulled out her contraption and pressed a button. It buzzed and lit up. She must have noticed his puzzlement, because she said, “It does more than make music. So glad it’s still got juice.” Emory nodded as if he understood. She had carried the thing to both Dorrington, England, 1610, and Tarrytown, New York, 1810. He didn’t seeing it with juice, nor did it look as if it held liquid. “It’s a phone.” She sighed when she must have realized he didn’t understand what a phone was. “Never mind, I’ll explain Alexander Bell to you later, but for right now—a phone is like having a ginormous library in your pocket. It can tell you almost everything you could ever want to know...although you have to be careful because not all of it’s true. And there are definitely some things you do not want to know. But right now, we do need to know if we can get back to New York, or if we have to wait for a morning train.” “Of course. But New York is at least a day’s journey. ‘Twould be foolish to travel so far— ” She smiled and shook her head. “’Tis not?” “No, it’s less than an hour train ride.” “Ah. I am anxious to ride this train. Is it pulled by horses?” Petra laughed. “No. It’s...I’m not sure what makes it go. Electricity? They used

to have steam engines, and coal. I’m pretty sure it’s electricity now.” When she saw his blank look, she said, “Wait—you should know about electricity. Benjamin Franklin and his kite?” “Benjamin Franklin, the statesman, had a kite?” “Didn’t he? We learned about him in school—how he flew his kite during an electrical storm and got hit by lightning.” “He never mentioned it.” Petra held up her hand to stop him. “Never mind. It’s after midnight.” “Tonight—shall we ask a farmer if we can stay in his barn?” “No.” Petra grinned at the thought. “People don’t do that in 2010. A farmer might be seriously creeped-out if you asked if you could sleep in his barn with his animals.” Emory wanted to ask about creeping out and what it meant, other than the obvious of creeping outside, but Petra continued. “Besides, there aren’t very many farmers around here.” “There are not?” “No. Tarrytown is a commuter town with way more investment bankers than farms and barns.” “’Tis more than one bank?” Petra blew out a breath. “Right now we don’t need a bank—we need a place to stay.” Emory watched as she pressed a series of buttons on her phone. “There’s a Days Inn close by.” She met his gaze. “You can stay there during the night—it’s not just for daytime.” “Of course, I understand that.” He hated that he knew so little and Petra, with her

magic phone, seemed to know everything. “Although I will it that there is much I do not know.” Petra bumped his shoulder with hers. “No worries. You can ask me anything, and if I don’t know, you can always look it up.” She showed him how to connect with a person named Siri. “Watch me. Siri, how do I get to the Days Inn?” His mouth dropped when Siri replied, “Head south on U.S. 9 S/Broadway toward Harwood Ave for 1.8 miles then turn left onto 15/Benedict Ave. Continue to follow Benedict Avenue. Destination will be on your left.” “Where is this Siri?” Petra laughed and slipped the phone back into her carryall. “I don’t know.” “Perhaps we should ask her. Does she not mind being bothered so late at night?” Petra laughed again. “No, I’m sure she doesn’t mind. She’s not a real person, you know.” “No. I did not know.” It seemed that what he did not know could fill a universe. “Let’s go.” Petra stood, and Emory followed her out the door. She paused on the stone steps before following Siri’s instructions. “Do you want to try it?” Petra asked as they followed the road that led out of town. She fumbled in her bag for the device. “Go ahead. Ask it a question.” Emory held the phone and shook it to hear the juice. It didn’t sound as if it held liquid. It felt small, fragile, and incapable of answering any questions at all, let alone any question he could think of. He mentally sorted through all that he didn’t know. What now? Would they find the Kidd Pirate’s treasure? What happened to Dane and Annie? What, exactly, would he do in the year 2010? Finally, he chose the question most puzzling of all. “Siri, why does Petra love me?”

A Lost Head

CHAPTER 2

Although not nearly as grand as the castles and palaces in Europe, and, in fact, not grand at all, the Days Inn was one of the largest buildings Emory had ever seen in the Americas since his arrival seventy—no, two-hundred and seventy— years ago. He marveled at the enormous glass plate windows, the beds made of something other than straw or feathers, and heating boxes that required no flame or wood, and produced no smoke. Petra curled on the edge of a giant bed she called king-sized, although Emory could never imagine a king that would need such a bed. He doubted that even Charles the Fat of Charlemagne would require so much space. Buried in blankets with only the top of her blonde head poking out, she looked like a child. His heart swelled with appreciation and love as he gazed on her. It still amazed him that she would travel so far and at such peril for him. But at the moment, so many things amazed him: the largest, noisiest chamber pot imaginable, hot water that rushed from silver spigots, a voice in something called a phone that could answer almost any question, and a TV box filled with actors and a mind-boggling array of stages and sets. While Petra slept, Emory flipped through the TV stations, mesmerized by the flashing colors, shocked by the violence, and scandalized by the women’s attire. Finally, he landed on the history channel. He found the show about loving the 1880s much more amusing than the caricatures of a speedy bird and a dimwitted coyote. Keeping one eye on the TV, Emory also engaged in an activity on Petra’s phone that she called “surfing the net,” another phrase that Emory found had little to do with reality. For all the questions he had, and all the answers he received, the one question that repeatedly haunted him was how would he ever learn all he needed

to know to survive in this time and place?

THE NEXT MORNING PETRA slipped out the door while Emory still slept. She thought that maybe she could find a Walmart or a Target, but instead, she found a small grocery store that also had a variety of touristy-type sweatshirts. She chose the least offensive one, a black hoodie with the words I lost my head printed across the chest in red lettering. Not wanting to take too much time, she grabbed a few yogurt containers, a couple of cheese sticks, and a pair of apples. Back at the Days Inn, she found Emory tucking his shirt into his breeches. “Breakfast.” She held up the bag. “And a sweatshirt.” Emory gave the food containers a questioning glance and frowned at the sweatshirt. “I lost my head?” “It was the only one that wasn’t orange. I didn’t want you to look like a skinny pumpkin.” She handed him a cheese stick. “Your boots are okay, but no one, and I mean no one, wears breeches anymore. We’ll have to get you some jeans.” “Jeans?” Emory turned the cheese stick over, running his fingers over the plastic encasing before trying to tear it open. “Like mine, see?” Emory stopped worrying the cheese stick to study her. “I will not fit into your pants, nor will I consent to wear feminine attire.” Petra took the cheese from him and ripped it open before handing it back to him. “Do these look feminine?” “On you they do,” he said. “Are you sure this is safe to eat? It looks a lot like your plastic.” He sniffed at the cheese before taking a bite. “It’s fine. I thought you would like it.” She double-checked the expiration date on hers to make sure. “We’ll look for a mall, but first we need to see if we can find the treasure.” Emory gave up on the cheese and picked up an apple. “We might not find it. After all, it’s been two hundred years. For all we know the Kidd Pirate returned

for it.” “Or someone built a tire factory over it.” Petra pointed her cheese stick at him. “Still, we should go and look. The treasure isn’t doing anyone any good rotting in a cave, and we can use it.” “For?” Emory asked. “Gosh...so many things. We need to somehow create an identity for you— port, social security number, driver’s license.” She didn’t know how to do any of those things, and she really doubted if any of it was legal, but according to the action movies her dad liked to watch, it was possible to create a new identity. “And then you’ll need a place to live.” She took a deep shuddering breath. True, her stepmother tried to make her stand on her own financial feet, but her dad had been paying her way her entire life, and she really didn’t know anyone who carried their own weight without any help from someone. “Okay, first thing—retrieve the treasure,” Emory said.

EMORY TRIED TO IGNORE the stares of all who ed by as he followed Petra to the smoking caravan she called a bus. Several smaller caravans sped by. Colored lights dangling above the gray roads seemed to dictate their progress. “Are there no horses?” he asked. “Usually not in town, and not on the streets for sure. Some of the larger cities have horses, but only the police ride them.” She paused. “That’s true in New York. We don’t have any mounted police in Orange County.” The bus pulled up beside them and the doors folded open. Petra climbed up the stairs, dropped some coins in a container, and found an empty seat. Emory followed. He wanted to ask to sit by the window but decided that would be childish. He felt like a child, a clueless child, but he didn’t want to sound like one, so he sat quietly, watching the fellow engers. Many had plastic strings that ran from their ears to their pockets. A number looked at their phones. Very few met his gaze. He turned his attention to the city outside the window. The women dressed like men. Only some wore dresses or skirts, and all of those were cut above the knee, displaying a shocking amount of leg. Almost all of the women, and even some of the males, wore face paint. He shot a glance at Petra. He loved the way she looked. He hadn’t kissed her since she had applied what she called lip gloss, and he wanted to. He wondered how it would taste. The bus roared to life. It was faster than any carriage, and Emory had to bite his lip to keep from crying out. He glanced around. No one, especially not Petra, seemed frightened by the bus’s erratic behavior as it carried them through the busy town. Eventually, the buildings gave way to pastures, barns, and fields. “Here are the horses.” Emory nodded out the window. “And there’s the Catskills.” Petra pointed at the mountains looming in the distance. Awash in autumn colors, they looked so untouched by the past two hundred years that Emory could almost imagine himself back in 1810. When the bus stopped, they climbed off and the bus rumbled away in a puff of black smoke. He followed Petra off the main road to a small lane that ran between two

cornfields. Brown, broken and fallen stalks dotted the deserted property. Emory inhaled deeply. The air felt cleaner here than it had in the city and some, but not all, of the constant noise had abated. “What is that humming?” Petra glanced around. “I don’t hear anything.” He put his hand on her arm. “Yes. Stop. Listen.” Petra obliged him with a small smile on her lips. Cocking her head, she listened. Realization dawned. “You’re right. I think it’s the buzz of the electrical wires.” She pointed up at the tall poles draped with long, black, shiny ropes. As they walked, she told him about Thomas Edison channeling electricity before moving onto Alexander Bell and the first telephone, which was a lot like the talking phone in her pocket but required poles and wires. “Now we have cell towers and satellites.” “Satellites?” She laughed. “Space stations that float in the air.” Emory looked at the sky. “Can I see such a space station?” Petra shook her head. “Probably not in real life, but I can show you 2001: A Space Odyssey. I bet we can even watch the landing on the moon on YouTube.” She had shown him the wonders of YouTube the night before. “I would like to go to the moon.” “You won’t think so after seeing Space Odyssey.” She laughed. “Oh look!” she squealed, pointing to a thatch of underbrush hiding something rubber—or was it plastic? He kept getting those two mixed up. “There’s Rohan’s bike! I can’t believe it’s been here all this time.” She paused. “It seems weird it’s only been a few days since I borrowed it. It really does seem like it’s been two hundred years.” Emory scratched his head. “This contraption belongs to Rohan?”

Petra smiled. “I can’t really imagine him riding it.” “You ride it?” Petra nodded. “I rode it here.” “And Rohan just happened to be around to give it to you?” “No, I found him at the academy.” “The academy?” “He’s a professor there.” Emory bit his lip, trying to piece all of this information together. He was so used to Rohan tagging after him and helping him to fulfill Heaven’s assignments that he found it difficult to believe that Rohan had found the time to study, let alone teach. “Tell me again about our lives in 2010,” Emory said as they started the long climb up the Catskill Mountain. Their road dwindled to a path that led through a canopy of trees. Sunlight coupled with the autumn leaves bathed the woods in an orangey glow. “Do you think we changed it all by going back?” Petra asked with a sigh. “We were so happy. Everything seemed perfect.” “We must have changed some things because it was May when you left 1610.” “And May 2010 when I returned to Orange County.” “And you say that I was there.” Petra nodded, ing. “And you didn’t want me to go to Sleepy Hollow. I wanted to attend the Hudson River Academy, and you asked me not to. It was after I burned the college applications that everything freaked.” “Freaked?” “Got weird.”

Emory laughed softly. “Yes...that’s when it got weird. I would hazard a guess that most would say things freaked the moment you left the fortuneteller’s tent and entered Dorrington, England, in the year of our God 1610.” She lifted her shoulder with a smile, conceding his point. “Okay. That was weird, too.” “Back to 2010—” Emory watched the memory cloud over Petra’s expression. Obviously, whatever had happened had caused her pain. “The morning after I burned the applications, it was like you had never existed. My family didn’t even know who you were.” “Which means that they probably won’t know me now. Tell me about them again.” “Well, there’s my dad, and my stepmother, Laurel.” “I you were upset when you lost your little sister.” When he had first met Petra in 1610, she had been looking for Zoe. Petra had described her as a spotty-skinned child with kumquat colored hair. He smiled at the memory. “I’m glad that I will finally get to meet her.” “You might not feel that way when you actually do. You’ll meet my mom’s sister, Aunt Dee—she has an art gallery in New York.” Petra paused. “But what about your family? You never talk about them.” “They died so long ago.” He didn’t want to talk about them, but just mentioning his family brought painful memories to the surface. Suddenly, he felt the heat of the fire, smelled the ash, and heard the screams of people and animals. He banished the visions. “Tell me more about our lives—or your life after I was gone— in 2010.” Petra bit her lip and twisted her hair around her finger. Emory could tell the memories hurt. “Your website had disappeared.” “I had a website?” He had learned about websites from surfing the net. “Yes, you made beautiful wood furniture and sold it online. And your house was in ruins.”

“I had a house? Did I have a dog?” She looked over her shoulder to meet his gaze. “Do you want a dog?” “Of course.” “It’s hard to have a dog while you’re in medical school.” “Medical school? I know you told me about this before, but I really don’t understand why I wanted to be a blood-letter. I think I would rather be a moonwalker.” “Believe me, you don’t want to be a moonwalker.” She stopped at the gate, pulled out her phone, and showed him a video clip of a skinny man dressed in a black sparkly jacket and bright white stockings on a stage surrounded by screaming youths. Music with a steady, heavy beat sounded while the man skimmed across the stage—backward. “Who is that?” “That’s Michael Jackson. He’s probably the most famous moonwalker.” Petra put her phone back in her back and turned up the trail. “Is he a free-man?” “He was. I guess he still is, because he died. Everyone is free now, you know.” She stopped to consider this. “At least, I think so. Slavery is illegal everywhere...I think. At least, it should be.” Emory followed behind her, his boots crunching the dry and dead leaves lining the forest floor. He had so many questions. Everything was so confusing. Even the music and dancing were odd. “What do you call the people who actually walk on the moon?” “Lunatics.” Emory smiled, wondering if Petra caught her own pun. Luna-tics. “, I told you that medicine has changed a lot in two hundred years.”

“But fortunately, the woods have not.” He glanced around at the tall maples and mighty pines surrounding them. “Do you think we’ll be able to find the Pirate Kidd’s treasure?” Emory shrugged. “Does it matter if we do? According to that ghoul in the cemetery, your bag of gold is, as he said, worth a mint.” “We should at least look though, right? Getting an apartment in Tarrytown isn’t as expensive as getting one in New York, but still... I’ve been trying to guess how much money you’ll need to live on, and it makes me miss my dad. He has all the best money answers. Emory didn’t comment on the treasure or her dad, instead, he asked a question that had been puzzling him for some time. “Why do you think I didn’t want you to come to Sleepy Hollow?” Petra’s expression clouded. “I don’t know.” He touched her arm. “I think you do. Or at least you know more than I do.” Petra sighed and continued walking without looking back at him. “You got really upset when Dane showed up.” Emory stopped and it took Petra some time to realize that he was no longer directly behind her. “What do you mean when Dane showed up?” Petra turned around and cocked her head as if trying to read him. “And not just Dane, but Annie Walker, too.” Emory pointed at the ground. “Dane and Annie came here?” Petra shook her head as she turned back up the trail. “No, not here, dummy. They came to my house in Orange County.” “They came to 2010, Orange County,” Emory repeated woodenly, his steps dragging. “How is that even possible?”

“You and I have time traveled more than once, you know. So why does it surprise you that they did, too?” “Is there more that you aren’t telling me?” “Like what?” she asked without looking back at him. Emory dogged her steps. “So, there is.” She flipped her hair over her shoulder, something she did when nervous. “I don’t know why you think that.” But he could tell from the set of her shoulders and the way she carried her back that she wasn’t telling the truth. He had learned to read people a long time ago, and Petra was a fairly open book. Usually. “What were Dane and Annie doing in Orange County?” Petra sighed. “I think they were looking for us.” “But why?” Petra paused. “I’m not sure.” “Why would they travel two hundred years to find us?” But then Petra had traveled two hundred years to find him, so maybe it wasn’t so hard to believe.

OF COURSE, SHE WASN’T going tell Emory about Dane kissing her. The 2010 Orange County Emory hadn’t liked it, so she was pretty sure the newly arrived from 1810, practically puritanical Emory would like it even less. She didn’t know the rules of 1810 etiquette, but she guessed that kissing before marriage was usually punishable by marriage. Kissing was considered even more shameful than ankle-showing. She considered herself lucky that Emory had first kissed her in the bawdy 1600s. If she had first tried to coax a kiss out of him in 1810, he probably would have been shocked and appalled. She smiled, ing what he had been watching on TV last night before she had fallen asleep. It had been a rerun of Desperate Housewives. She had to try to explain the word “spoof.” Stopping, she turned and put her arms around him. “Stop worrying about Annie and Dane. What can they do? They can’t hurt you.” “But they can do great harm to you.” He held himself still and stiff, so she laid her head on his chest and listened to the steady thump of his heart. “I’m so glad you’re here. I can’t wait to introduce you to everyone.” He relaxed an inch, held her close, and rested his chin on the top of her head. “Do you think your family will like me?” She twisted so she could look into his face. “They loved you before, so I’m positive they’ll love you now.” “Even if I want to be a moonwalker instead of a doctor?” “Will you wear a stupid white glove like Michael Jackson?” “No gloves.” “Doctors wear gloves.” “They do? Whatever for?”

Petra took a deep breath and let it fill her lungs. Would she ever be able to catch Emory up on everything that had happened in two hundred years? No. But maybe yes. How had the 2010 Emory been able to study for the MCAT, and not only but be accepted to the University of California? “Do you hear that?” Emory whispered in her ear. She held still and listened to a breeze rustling through the trees and birds chirping as they flitted above her. She shook her head. “Listen.” Petra froze as the autumn breeze carried the sound of voices. Emory stepped away and pushed back the branches of a tree so that they could see Annie and Dane on a bluff, standing guard at the foot of the cave where the treasure was hidden. “Are they dead or alive?” Petra whispered. He shook his head. “’Tis impossible to know.” Petra squeezed Emory’s hand and tried to tug him away. “We should let them have the treasure. We can probably get by without it.” “They have no need for treasure. They will only use it to buy accomplices and steal souls. You saw how Scratch used it to corrupt John Walker and young Thaddeus.” For a brief moment, Petra relived the horror of Thaddeus’s death. She closed her eyes against the memory of Thaddeus’s confrontation with the hillside ghosts. Emory was right; the treasure could make people do awful things. “But how can we get it? We don’t even know what they are. Are they ghosts?” She shivered. As frightening as Annie and Dane were, they were nothing compared to the devil, Scratch. “I know! Let’s ask Rohan.” Emory’s eyes lit up. “Do you think he’s still at the academy?” Petra led him back to the trail, steering him away from Dane. Emory hadn’t met

the 2010 Dane or Annie, and Petra knew that was a good thing. 1810 Dane had seemed harmless, but the 2010 Dane had been a sinister and sexy combo. She tried not to think of Dane’s kiss and the way it made her blood thrum, but just trying not to think of it started a flush that crept up her neck and flooded her cheeks. She tugged on Emory’s arm, urging him to keep up. Petra hated Annie, even though they had only exchanged a few words. Her memory went back to the first time she had seen Annie at the baseball game. Tall, lanky, fire-engine red hair, dressed in cut-off jeans and a cropped white T that exposed her flat, tan belly. Petra puzzled over the tan. Redheads weren’t supposed to tan. It defied their DNA. If nature had followed a normal course, Annie should have been frying under the hot California sun. She should have been hiding beneath a big-brimmed hat and sporting fifty SPF sunscreen. She should not have been nearly naked, chatting up Emory, and she definitely should not have been tan. A tan, especially for redheads, takes a while. Just how long had Annie been in the twenty-first century? Obviously long enough. Although she didn’t want them to, Petra’s thoughts went back to the first time she saw the 1810 Annie. Emory and Annie had stood at a well, talking. Annie said something and Emory threw back his head and laughed. “Hush!” Annie had hissed at Emory. “You must be quiet, or my husband will hear.” When Emory continued to laugh, the sound echoed in a hollow place inside of Petra. Annie had pointed her bucket at Emory and splashed water all over him, making him laugh even harder. He had held out his arms, letting the water rain off his sleeves, and Annie had stepped into his embrace. Wrapping her arms around his neck, she had kissed him. The memory burned in Petra’s heart. She dropped Emory’s arm, suddenly doubtful of where to go and what to do next. Slowly, she turned away, and as she did, she saw what Emory did not. Annie and Dane.

Heaven’s Errand

CHAPTER 3

Other than her flaming red curls and curvy body, this Annie looked very different from the Annie that belonged in 1810 or the one Petra had met in August of 2010. Today’s Annie wore a black lace dress and black patent leather shoes with three-inch heels. Petra wanted to ask why Annie was seriously overdressed for a walk in the woods, but then decided that Annie’s wardrobe was the least of her questions. She blurted out the most important one. “What are you doing here?” Dane stood in the middle of the path. He wore dark pants, and a skinny, shiny black tie. Annie had her hand on his shoulder, her red fingernails stark against his white shirt. Dane laughed. “Why wouldn’t we be here?” “You’re supposed to be dead,” Petra reminded them. Dane lifted an eyebrow at Emory. “The same could be said of you. Am I right?” “You and I,” Emory said slowly, “are not the same. I am sure of it.” “But how do you know?” Dane’s upper lip curled in what could be called both a sneer and a smile. “What makes you think we are not on Heaven’s errand? Perhaps we have been sent to bring you home.” “Home?” Petra repeated, her voice sounding weak. “Heaven wants Emory?” Emory shot her a quick glance and squeezed her hand. “They are not Heaven’s agents.”

Petra opened her mouth to ask how he could tell, but thought better of it and swallowed back her worries. “How can you be so sure?” Annie asked. “You murdered your husband,” Emory reminded her. “Left him in a pool of blood right before you set your house on fire.” Petra started. She hadn’t known. Annie laughed. “Everyone makes mistakes.” Emory shook his head. “Mistakes are never intentional. Your mistake was going into league with Scratch...and Dane.” Emory’s gaze flashed from Dane to Annie. “What do you want?” “I told you,” Dane said, his voice hard. “We’re here to take you home.” He laughed and it sounded cruel. “I find it funny that you should criticize me for burning my home,” Annie said. “I do not find your fire funny,” Emory said. “But my fire was just one little farm, whereas your fire...” She let her voice trail away. Petra looked at Emory, expecting to see confusion in his expression. Instead, she saw mounting anger. “I’m not going with you,” Emory said. “Hell is a choice I’m not likely to make. Not now. Not ever.” Dane and Annie looked at each other and laughed. “We shall see,” Dane said, stepping forward, placing his finger beneath Petra chin before Petra could flinch away. Emory pulled Petra close to his side and turned her down the path. Emory’s boots snapped twigs and Annie and Dane’s laughter hushed. Under the shelter of the trees, Petra and Emory strode down the mountain.

Petra didn’t know if Dane and Annie followed. She tagged after Emory, feeling his anger radiating through his grip on her arm. They hiked in silence, Emory obviously lost in thought. Petra didn’t know what to say, so she remained quiet until they got to the bottom of the hill. “The bike!” Her breath came out in huffs, and she tried to catch her breath. She pulled away from Emory to retrieve the bike from its hiding place behind a boulder. Red, with a wide brown leather seat, the bike had the word Schwinn written on it in big white letters. “What is a Schwinn?” Emory studied it. Petra swallowed hard, her breath still ragged. “You’ve really never seen a bike?” He slowly shook his head. Petra climbed on and rode around, demonstrating. She pulled up beside him, smiling. “Okay, get on.” Emory stepped away as if the bike had a disease. “Get on?” Petra wanted to laugh at Emory’s expression, but she was too nervous about Annie and Dane. “You wanted to talk to Rohan—this will get us there faster than our feet.” “There is but one seat, and it is taken by you.” Emory scowled his hands on his hips. “I will run beside you.” Resolution laced his voice. “No, silly. Get on the handlebars.” She glanced up the mountain, expecting to see Annie and Dane flying after them. “We’ll be fine,” she said, but even in her own ears, the words sounded unsure. “Climb on.” “Climb on?” Emory repeated. Petra ran her hand over the handlebars. “Sit here.” When Emory tried to straddle the handlebars, Petra wanted to laugh, but it took everything she had to keep the bike upright. “No. Face forward.” Emory climbed off, looking pissed. “I think it’ll be faster if I just run.”

“No, it won’t.” She cast another worried glance up the hill and adjusted her carryall so that it hung across her back. “Stop being a baby and get on.” Emory’s expression hardened, but he did as she asked. Petra steadied the bike under his weight, mounted, and pushed off. Because they were heading downhill, they gained speed quickly, flying past cows, farms, and pastures. Emory’s legs spread wide, and she thought she could hear him laughing. The wind blew in her face, pushing her hair out behind her. She pedaled as fast and as hard as she could while a plan, of sorts, ran through her mind. Running away from Dane and Annie, as if they were scared of them, bothered her. But she reminded herself that everyone should be afraid of Satan, and if Annie and Dane worked for, or with, Satan, she needed to be afraid of them, too. Or at least stay as far away from them as possible. She liked her plan, but first, she wanted to talk it over with Emory and Rohan. They knew more about Annie and Dane’s situation than she could even guess. When they turned off the small road and onto a busy highway, Emory began kicking his legs back and forth, throwing off Petra’s balance. She pulled over to the sidewalk, and Emory jumped off. “What’s with you?” Petra asked. Emory took a quick look around before he tilted forward and whispered, “I do not want to be seen being carried by a woman.” Petra laughed. “Are you telling me that riding on the handlebars threatens your masculinity?” Emory shushed her. She continued laughing as she steered the bike through the gates of Hudson River Academy, the college where she had last seen Rohan. While Emory tagged beside her, she steered the bike to a rack, parked it, and swung back to Emory. “Come on, let’s find Rohan.” “A few have their tros tucked into their boots, but most are ladies,” he whispered to Petra. “You are right. No one here is wearing breeches.”

“Cool boots, dude,” a floppy-haired kid said. Emory looked at his knee-high leather boots and then at the students around him. “He’s right,” Petra said. “They are cool boots.” “And cool is a good thing, correct? It has nothing to do with temperature?” Petra grinned, nodded, and took his arm. “What does Rohan look like in 2010?” Emory asked as they walked across campus. His gaze followed the students, and Petra noticed he caught more than his own fair share of attention. “A lot like the 1610 Rohan,” Petra said. “Surprising.” Petra shot him a quick glance. “No one else is dressed the same.” “Rohan wasn’t wearing a monk’s frock, but he was wearing a cape.”

EMORY’S EYES LINGERED on a furry bag slung over a man’s back that had an odd resemblance to an enormous raccoon, except for where there should have been feet there was a strap with black, plastic buckles. He followed Petra up a short flight of stairs and through wide wooden doors. The hall was quiet, and their footsteps echoed. Petra paused in front of a door with a plaque with Dr. Addington’s name on it. She knocked. When no one responded, she tried the door, but it didn’t budge. “You looking for Dr. Addington?” a student with an armful of books asked. Emory was unclear of his—her?— gender. This bothered him. He should be able to tell by looking—but even this person’s voice didn’t offer a clue. “Yes,” Petra said. “He left this morning for Paris,” the youth said. “Paris?” Petra wailed. “But he was just here.” The youth smirked. “And he just left. He said he’ll be back in time for classes on Monday.” “Monday,” Petra muttered. “Thank you,” Emory said, sticking out his hand. The youth looked at the hand for a moment, as if wondering what to do with it and after a moment, put his/her hand in Emory’s. A female, Emory decided after taking note of the soft skin. This was a hand that had never chopped wood or bridled a horse. He smiled, grateful that at least one of his senses hadn’t failed him. “Do you know his address?” Petra asked the girl. “I want to drop something off.” The girl cocked her head at Petra, suspiciously. “Why not just leave it here?” “Oh, good idea,” Petra said in a flat voice that Emory read it as not a good idea.

After the girl with her armful of books disappeared, Petra sank to the floor and pushed some buttons on her phone. She sat with her back up against the wall and her legs crossed, a position no lady in 1810 would dare consider. Grinning, she looked up at him. “23 West Winchester,” she said. “I beg your pardon?” “23 West Winchester,” Petra repeated. “It’s where Rohan lives.” She stood back up and took Emory’s arm. “We’ll stay there until we decide what to do next. But first, let’s buy you some clothes.” “Do you have money other than the gold?” Emory asked. “Something better,” she flashed a smile at him. “I have a debit card.” Emory didn’t know what that was, but he followed her outside anyway. They navigated across the square, ing the oddly dressed students until they reached the university gates. He inwardly groaned as Petra headed up the busy street. Not wanting his fear and intimidation to show, he braced his shoulders and followed Petra toward an idling bus. He really didn’t want to get on the vehicle again. In fact, he would have rather taken the Schwinn, but he held his peace while Petra asked the man behind a giant wheel if the bus ed a mall. They rode in silence. The bus narrowly missed colliding with several much smaller vehicles. Horns blared and Emory worried for the safety of all the engers, but no one else seemed frightened, so Emory rode with his hands clutching the seat ahead of him. The mall was much larger than the Days Inn, although still not as grand as a palace. Acres of parked cars surrounded the enormous building. Emory followed Petra through the wide glass doors and crowded halls, deftly dodging ladies pushing babies in buggies and youth in baggy clothes. His feet faltered when he caught sight of a pink and white striped storefront with portraits of ladies in the briefest of undergarments hanging on the side of the wall. He quickly averted his gaze and hurried after Petra. “Why is that gentleman not wearing a shirt?” Emory pointed at a large, very lifelike painting inside a shop called Abercrombie and Fitch. “Is this not a

clothing store? Surely, if we all dressed such as this, the store would have no sales.” Petra laughed. “I’m sure it helps their sales, or else they wouldn’t hang those pictures.” She took his arm and led him to a place called the GAP. He halfexpected to find a crevice on the floor, given the name. Plastic human forms in a variety of colors stood in the window. “See anything you like?” Petra asked, motioning at the plastic people. “I like you,” he said, turning to her. She flushed. “I meant the clothes.” Emory pointed to a pair of pants that Petra called jeans. “These seem to be the breeches of 2010.” “Hey there.” A fellow with a shaved head and a name tag reading Brick approached. “Can I help you guys?” “I would like to purchase some jeans,” Emory told him. Brick looked Emory up and down and placed a finger on his chin. “I would guess you’re a yummy 31.” “Why is a 31 yummy?” Emory whispered to Petra as Brick plucked several pairs of pants off the shelves. Petra grinned in response. “And why does Brick have a silver ring in his nose? It looks painful.” Petra laughed. “Sometimes people make sacrifices for fashion.” “I don’t.” “I know.” She patted his arm. “No worries. No one is going to pierce you without your permission.” Brick, carrying a pile of jeans in his arms, led Emory to a hall filled with tiny rooms. Beneath each closed door was a pair of naked feet. Emory closed the

door and gazed at his reflection in the full-length mirror. Alongside him, he knew there were nearly nude females and males. He listened to the chatter and sounds of people dressing and undressing before he undid the tie on his breaches. Moments later, Emory stepped out, still wearing his breeches. “I want a tasteless 32. The 31s are too tight.” Brick stuck out his lip, pouting. “Oh, you have to let us see!” Emory handed Brick the armful of jeans. “No. I will sacrifice for a great many things, but not fashion.” Brick rolled his eyes. “Alrighty then, Mr. Sassypants. I’ll be back with 32s, but I know you would have looked fine in 31s.” “I do not wish to look fine,” Emory complained to Petra as soon as Brick rounded the corner. Petra looked at her phone with a frown before glancing back up at him. “My phone is dying.” “Oh dear.” “No...It’s not literally dying. As soon as we get your clothes, I need to get a charger.” “A charger? A bus is much faster and not nearly as messy.” Although terrifying. Disbelief mixed with confusion crossed Petra’s face. “Did you think I was talking about a horse?” Brick returned with the pants, and Emory took them into the dressing room. He turned his back on the mirror and moments later came out to model the jeans. “Turn around.” Brick whirled his finger in the air. Emory obliged. “Double yum,” Brick sighed. “I still think 31s would have been best, but the 32s

are delish.” “What is a delish?” Emory whispered to Petra as they headed for the vendor behind a counter.

“ARE YOU SURE ROHAN won’t mind if we stay at his house?” Petra asked as they approached a small brick home on a quiet, tree-lined street. “I have known Rohan for centuries—six centuries, in fact.” Emory pushed Schwinn through a white picket gate. “He is always generous. ‘Be not forgetful to entertain strangers: for thereby some have entertained angels unaware’ and so forth.” “But we’re not angels.” Emory paused on the front porch, propped the bike up against the wall, and grinned at Petra. “Doesn’t matter.” He bent down, picked up a green watering can and shook it. A rattle answered, and Emory pulled out a key. “How did you know there would be a key there?” “As I said, I have known Rohan for a very long time.” Emory pushed open the door. “But,” Petra paused on the porch, “I know Rohan didn’t have a green plastic watering can in the 1600s.” “But he did have a bucket that he kept on the front porch.” “A bucket isn’t a very good place to hide a key.” “Neither is a watering can...especially if you have employed the same hiding place for centuries.” Emory held out his hand. “Come. We are welcome here.” Petra didn’t know what she thought they’d find in Rohan’s home, but whatever she had expected, this wasn’t it. Rohan’s office at the university had been a mishmash of furniture, books, stuffed birds, and traveler’s mementos. She had guessed his home would be the same, except more crowded, but when she stepped inside, she saw his house was pretty bare. A sofa, a table, a chair, a clock...and not much else. “He’s lived so long—you’d think he would have more stuff.” “Perhaps that is precisely why he has less stuff. He’s lived long enough to

know stuff has little to no value.” Petra set the McDonald’s bags down on the table. The brightly colored wrappers looked shockingly out of place in Rohan’s sterile, white kitchen. Emory also emptied his pockets of gold coins, loose emeralds, rubies, and diamonds. Petra’s mouth fell open. “I’d forgotten you brought some of the treasure with you.” He pulled the diamond-studded tiara from his knapsack. “It reminded me of you.” A current of warmth spread through her as she ed the first time they had met. Emory had used the cheap rhinestones in her tiara to buy off the gypsies. She had posed as his wife. “I’m guessing these jewels are real?” Emory nodded. “As is this.” He drew out a long knife with a ruby-encrusted hilt. “What are we going to do with it?” Petra asked. “Leave it here?” Emory shrugged, sat at the table, and unwrapped his sandwich. He eyed it speculatively. “This is a fish?” Petra nodded as she poured the honey mustard sauce on her snack-wrap, but her gaze kept wandering to the cache on the table. “We can’t just leave this here. It’s way too valuable. We have to hide it.” “It looks nothing like a fish.” Emory considered his lunch, clearly uninterested in the treasure. “What is this white goo?” “Tartar sauce.” Petra’s gaze flicked around the room looking for a hiding place. “We’ll keep the gold and knife with us. Maybe we can hide the tiara in the attic.” Emory sniffed his sandwich. “Do you want to trade?” Petra held out her snack-wrap. Emory glanced from the sandwich to the wrap before taking a bite. He spent a long time chewing and swallowing. “’Tis good,” he finally said.

Petra put down her food, picked up the tiara, and went to find access to the attic. No stairs. Finally, she buried the tiara in a bag of rice she found in the kitchen. Emory watched her while storm clouds gathered outside. A few scattered raindrops hit the window. “We can’t hide out at Rohan’s forever.” She turned to face him, her hands on her hips. “We need a plan. We have to get the treasure away from Annie and Dane.” “We don’t even know if it’s still there.” Emory picked up the wrappers and threw them in the trash before heading for the sofa. “It has to be, right?” She followed him. “Or why else were they there?” “Waiting for us?” “That’s the bigger question. Why are they waiting for us? What are they doing here? They should have died in the 19th century.” Petra bit her lip and nestled down on the sofa, curling her feet beneath her, trying to wrap her head around the fact that Emory, displaced from 1810, couldn’t anything from 2010, just like she hadn’t been able to 1810 when she had been with him in 2010. Emory ran his fingers through her hair. “We are safe here. I am sure of it.” He looked out at the gathering storm. “We will stay here tonight and come up with a plan for tomorrow.” Petra wanted a plan now, but while Emory watched TV, she fell into an uneasy sleep. “Wine and cheese?” The deep voice, silky and smooth lilted like a question or an offering. Black hair, blue eyes, red lips, and an athletic build. He sauntered to the counter and picked up a bottle of wine. “After all, this long-last reunion deserves a celebration.” “Who are you?” she wanted to sound intimidating, but her voice came out barely louder than a whisper. “Sweetling, have you forgotten?” His eyes swept over her and goose-pimples rose on her bare arms and legs.

“Don’t come any closer,” Petra said, finding her voice. “We were close at one time,” he murmured. His black jeans matched the color of his hair; his shirt, blue but nearly black, matched his eyes. He wore boots— could she outrun him outside, barefoot? He laughed louder and the sound resonated inside her head. She recognized the laugh from another time and place. “You’ve forgotten.” He cocked his head at her and looked hurt. “How could you?” He leaned forward, his eyes focused on her lips. “We were lovers.” “No, you’re lying,” she said, but she didn’t sound convincing, even to herself. “You know angels can’t lie.” He smiled, but somehow it looked wicked. And not at all angelic. How could a smile look so menacing? She choked and then spat out, “You’re not an angel.” This time her voice carried more certainty. “Who says?” Two wine goblets appeared on the counter, and he filled them with a golden liquid. “Champagne?” He studied her. “No?” He sipped from his goblet. “Pity. It’s sad to drink alone, and I’ve missed you these past two hundred years.” “Once upon a time,” she said, quietly ing that the original translation of ‘once upon a time’ was two hundred years. “Just like a fairy tale,” he told her, setting down his goblet. A heartbeat later, he stood beside her and placed his hand on her cheek. They stood in a meadow of buttercups and dandelions. Puffy clouds filled the sky. Birds sang. He kissed her, and the world faded to black. Petra resurfaced from the dream. She swallowed two large breaths and sat up. A dream, or a memory? Where was Emory? While she slept, he must have brought her the blanket and pillow, but she didn’t see him. She didn’t know what was real and what was not anymore. Dreams, memories, centuries, everything melded together into the puddle she called her mind.

Rain streamed down the window. The darkness seemed complete. It had to be late. Grabbing her pillow and blanket, she padded into the kitchen. The digital clock on the stove said five a.m. She headed down a hall and found Emory asleep in a large bed. Even though she suspected practically puritan Emory might complain, she pulled back the covers and climbed in beside him. In his sleep, Emory threw his arm around her and drew her close. They were together. Nothing else mattered. The next time Petra woke, the sky was pink. Beside her, Emory slept with his mouth open. She found him beautiful—even when he looked a little like a dead fish. Knowing that sleep wouldn’t return, she slipped from the covers, put on her shoes, and headed out the door. When she got back, she found Emory in the kitchen frying eggs. “Where did you go?” He held his spatula like a scepter. “To the store.” “You scared me.” She grinned. “I can be very scary in the morning.” Emory returned his attention to the pan. “Probably not as scary as this.” He pointed at the refrigerator. “I found eggs in that giant metal box. It must be an ice chest, but the only actual pieces of ice I found were very small.” “It’s called a fridge.” “Because it’s frigid?” “Probably.” “I found pots and pans, but this thing—” He pointed at the stove. “Where is the fire?” “ electricity?” Petra opened her bag and pulled out a couple of boxes

of hair dye, a pair of scissors, and a phone charger. “What do you have?” Emory narrowed his eyes at her loot. Petra found an outlet and plugged in her phone. As she opened boxes of hair dye, she explained her plan to Emory. After he dished up their plates, he sat and ate his breakfast with a frown. She should have known that if riding on handlebars was going to threaten his masculinity, that he wouldn’t like dying his hair. After they cleaned up their dishes, Petra pulled a chair to the center of the kitchen, found a broom in a closet, and an old towel in the bathroom. “You can cut my hair first if you want.” Emory held the scissors away from him as if they were dangerous. “Why are we changing our hair?” “So Dane and Annie can’t find us.” Petra sat and draped the towel over her shoulders. “Let’s first talk about why we don’t want Dane and Annie to find us.” Emory picked up a lock of her hair and let it fall. He set the scissors down on the table. “I can’t do it. I won’t be responsible for cutting your hair.” “Emory! Just cut it off at my chin.” “Your chin?” Emory blanched. “I love your hair. I won’t cut it. I do not understand why we are hiding from Ichabod Dane and Annie Walker.” Petra opened her mouth to say something, but then closed it. She couldn’t tell him about 2010 Dane. Emory ran his fingers through her hair. “I want a life with you, Petra Baron. I don’t want to run and hide. I don’t want to fight immortals for hidden pirate treasure, and I no longer want to try to save souls.” Petra’s breath caught. “What are you saying?” Emory brought a kitchen chair over so that he could sit in front of her and watch

her face as he spoke. “I want a life with you. A house, children, a home.” She searched his eyes. “You are who you are. I don’t think you can go back. You already had your life.” “But I want one with you.” “We’re together now. That should mean something.” Emory took her hands and cradled them in his. “You need to return to your family until I can learn why Dane and Annie followed us here and be rid of them.” “Get rid of Dane and Annie?” Her voice squeaked and she had to clear her throat. “How are you going to do that? What does that even mean?” He shrugged and his casual indifference sent a chill down Petra’s spine. “I need you to be safe,” he said. “I can’t—” he paused as if searching for the right word— “contend with them while you are close. I cannot be harmed, but you can.” “No one’s tried to hurt me.” Petra gave him a reassuring smile. “Besides, I’m staying with you.” When Emory didn’t reply, Petra bounced from her chair, picked up the scissors, and went into the bathroom, locking the door. “Petra, please come out.” But Petra didn’t want to talk. She hacked at her hair. It fell in clumps around her, but it didn’t make her feel any better. She didn’t understand everything about Emory’s thin place between Heaven and Earth, and of course, he understood it way better than she did, but according to him, he had to stay in Heaven’s good graces to remain on Earth. His entire existence depended on his acting as Heaven’s agent. He couldn’t just decide to be human again. Could he? And getting rid of Dane and Annie? What did that even mean? It didn’t sound

like something Heaven would approve of. “Petra, please,” Emory called through the door. “I want to talk about this.” The doorknob rattled. The hair made more of a mess than she had expected. But swinging her head from side to side, she liked the feel of it, even if it looked a little ragged. She felt free. She had no idea how much her hair had weighed her down. She emerged from the bathroom and met Emory’s shocked face. “I loved your hair.” Emory sounded as if she had just killed his pet cat. “This is completely unnecessary. If you would but listen—” “No! I’m not going to talk about your going Rambo while I have to go into hiding like Princess Petra.” She pointed the scissors in his face. “That’s not who I am. That’s not who we are!” “What does it mean to go Rambo?” Emory’s expression turned grim and he didn’t wait for her to answer. “As an immortal, I cannot be injured...or worse. When I’m with you, I constantly fear for your safety.” “Well, don’t.” Emory ran his fingers through his hair. “Your turn.” She waved the scissors at the empty chair. “Sit.” When he didn’t budge, she added, “If I can cut my hair, then I can cut yours.” Emory slowly lowered himself into the chair. “Before today—have you ever cut hair before?” “Huh. No.” Petra ran her fingers through his hair, liking the feel of it. Emory blew out a sigh. “Is this another sacrifice for fashion? , I do not make fashionable sacrifices.” “This is a sacrifice for safety,” Petra told him, wondering why it was so much harder to cut Emory’s hair than hers. Willing herself to be brave, she picked up

his hair, the scissors, and just as she was going to snip—her phone rang. With a breath of relief, she set down the scissors. “Hey, Daddy,” she said, and she took the phone outside.

Flying

CHAPTER 4

Emory took the scissors into the bathroom. He had noticed that most men wore their hair above their collars. After a quick look at his ears to make sure they weren’t offensive like those of Doc Martin on the TV box, he snipped again and again. He grinned at his reflection. Petra slammed through the back door, her face pale. “My parents. They’re here.” “Here?” Emory put down the scissors. “Not here, here, but here in New York City.” Petra wrung her hands. “They want to know where I am.” “You didn’t tell them Sleepy Hollow, 1810, did you?” “Duh.” Emory scratched his head, wondering what ‘duh’ meant. “I told them what I told Aunt Dee, that I had been staying at the Academy with friends.” She took a deep breath. “And they were fine with that—but now they’re here and they want to see me.” Emory nodded and grinned. “I have to go.” She scowled at his grin. “This is exactly what you want, isn’t it?” She stepped closer, the expression on her face made Emory glad that he held the scissors—just in case he needed a weapon.

“Did you somehow make my dad call?” “You know I cannot do that.” Emory set down the scissors so that he could take hold of both of her hands. “You will see, this is better. I will contend with Dane and Annie while you meet up with your parents. We will rendezvous soon. Did you not say the train ride to New York is but an hour?” Petra sniffed, still looking unhappy. “Less than that, I think.” “You go to the city to be with your parents. I will stay here and find a way to get the treasure and get rid of Dane and Annie.” “I want to stay with you. I don’t want to be separated.” Again, a feeling that told him Petra had secrets—things that she refused to share with him—nagged him. But since he had secrets of his own, he tried to make peace with the niggling feeling. “I don’t want you to get rid of Annie and Dane.” “You have to go.” “I know,” Petra said in a small voice. “But how will we find each other?” “You will know where to find me. I will stay here at Rohan’s house.” “Of course,” Petra looked around. “He has a landline.” She spotted a black device on the counter and picked it up. Emory didn’t know what a landline was, but he liked the smile on Petra’s face. She pressed a button and the landline sang a tune. “It’s a phone,” she told him. Emory took it and pressed some buttons. It only made noise. He studied the thing. “Where is Siri?” Petra shook her head. “No Siri, but when you want to talk to me, you dial this.” After finding a pen and a pad of sticky notes, she scribbled down her number. “Try it.”

Emory obeyed. “Now press here.” Petra showed him a red button. Immediately her phone sang out a tune. “Hello?” She put her phone to her ear and motioned for Emory to do the same. “Hello?” he returned. But he really wasn’t say hello, he was saying goodbye. For now.

AFTER A TENSE RUN-IN with a machine Petra called a vacuum, Emory put Petra on the train and returned to Rohan’s to retrieve Schwinn. He didn’t know how to ride it, but he decided he needed to learn. Not wanting to chance a fall that might put a tear in his delish pants, he started slowly, but Schwinn had a mind of its own. Thanks to a gradual slope, he picked up speed as he rolled down the path toward the busy street. “Pardon!” he yelled to students blocking his path. “Make way!” He nearly crashed into a couple holding hands and narrowly avoided a small, ferocious dog, but eventually, he found himself flying down the streets, heading for the mountain. He wished that Petra would understand that every dangerous situation was even worse with her. He could not be hurt or killed, but Petra could not say the same. So Emory, who cared little for his own safety or existence, spent every moment in Petra’s presence terrified for her. Without her, he could dispose of Dane and Annie and retrieve, or at least find a new hiding place, for the treasure. Not that he knew how to dispose of Dane and Annie, because he didn’t know what Dane and Annie were. Two hundred years ago, Dane had been little more than a vain and greedy school teacher. What had happened between now and then? Had Dane been alive all this time? Emory knew Dane wasn’t in a purgatory state, which could only mean Dane had fallen from Heaven’s graces and was now in Satan’s employ. Emory shivered— and it had nothing to do with the cold breeze whipping him in the face. And Annie. Sweet Annie. What had become of her? At the base of the mountain, Emory rolled the bike behind a boulder and out of sight. As he started the long walk toward the cave and treasure, the horrible memory of his last meeting with Annie played through his mind. “Ah, there you are!” Annie said when Emory pushed open the door. She stood in the center of the room beside the bloody remains of her husband. John Walker lay on the floor, legs splayed, his one arm reaching out as if

beseeching his wife. Fresh red blood matching the color of Annie’s hair seeped from under him. “I didn’t believe Scratch when he said you would come.” Laughter and wonder filled Annie’s voice. “And yet, here you are—just as he promised.” “Scratch cannot be trusted,” Emory said with a tight voice. “I believe he promised your husband a treasure.” “And he found it. Scratch kept his promise.” “And what has he promised you?” Annie lifted her chin. “A dreadful fire. The house and all in it shall be destroyed. Our bodies will never be discovered.” She smiled, it was both dangerous and beautiful. “You and I will disappear with the treasure.” Emory took a step back and considered lying, for just a moment. How easy it would be to placate Annie, to acquiesce to her plan with no intention of following through. But then he ed his pledge to Heaven and Rohan. He thought of Petra. “Annie, I cannot disappear with you.” “But you must.” Panic touched Annie’s voice. “As a woman, I cannot even travel without a chaperone. I cannot purchase property. I am useless without a man by my side—and I have chosen you to share my life and my treasure.” Annie edged around her dead husband, skirting the bloody pool. She pressed herself against Emory. “Think of all I am offering you. Together we can visit the capitals of the Earth— Rome, Paris, the Far East.” Emory placed his hands on her shoulders and held her at arms’ length. “What am I to do without you?” Tears rolled down Annie’s cheeks. “Scratch promised me you.” Emory shook his head. “Scratch cannot give or promise another soul.” Annie sniffed and nodded. “He said that either you will accompany me or else he will see you in Hell.”

Emory tightened his hold on Annie’s shoulders. “He cannot send me to Hell. I have to choose Hell. And that is not a choice I will be making.” Annie bit her lip. “He said that there is Hell on Earth.” Her voice lowered, and her eyes shone with an ungodly light. “For unlike my wastrel husband, you cannot die, can you? What will happen should they try to hang you? Will you merely dangle at the end of a rope like a fish on a hook?” As he trudged up the hill, Emory’s memories were dark and difficult to dismiss. He tried to recall the 1810 Dane. He had seemed harmless, but for some reason, Dane terrified Petra. Emory blamed himself for Annie. It might not have been intentional, but Annie was where she was now because of him. He hoped he would find Dane and Annie on the mountain so that he could help them get back to Heaven, where they belonged. Not that he knew if they belonged there. But it wasn’t his place to judge. His job was to try to save their souls. Although they probably wouldn’t appreciate his help, just as he rarely appreciated Rohan’s, but they were stuck in limbo, and if Emory could help them move on, he would. He just wasn’t sure how. Emory rounded a corner and spotted the cave. He let out a deep sigh of satisfaction. Everything looked the same. No tire factory. He wondered if he would find the treasure. It mattered little to him. He had hoped to find Annie and Dane, but he appeared to be alone. The morning light filtered through the autumn leaves, casting the woods in a warm glow. Birds flew in and out of the branches, singing to each other. A light wind carried the woodsy smell, and for the first time since his arrival to this century, Emory felt at peace. A snapping twig drew his attention to a long, lanky youth lounging on a branch overhanging the opening of the cave. Thaddeus. The boy sat up, flicked a lock of hair from his eyes, and gave Emory a grin. “Surprised to see me?”

Emory had watched Thaddeus die in 1810 on this same mountain. Had Thaddeus been hanging around for two hundred years? Emory nodded and took a step back. His past meetings with Thaddeus had always included a lot of flying fists. Thaddeus jumped off the branch and landed on his feet. He looked different, although not nearly as different as a person from the nineteenth century should. “Well met, young Thad.” Emory kept his voice friendly while he scanned the forest floor for a stick, rock, or anything that could be used as a weapon. Thaddeus’s grin didn’t reach his eyes. “You haven’t changed at all.” “Nor have you.” “Still trying to steal my treasure?” Thaddeus shook his head. “I would think that you would give it up by now.” “And what do you plan to do with it?” Thaddeus studied his fingernails before he raised his gaze to meet Emory’s. “Not give it to you.” Emory let out a small, hollow laugh. “Have you been waiting here for two hundred years for someone to show up?” “Not someone.” Thaddeus’s voice turned hard. “Just you.” “Me?” “Oh, don’t worry. I won’t hurt you.” He angled over to whisper. “We both know we can’t hurt each other. At least not physically.” He let out a long shuddering sigh. “It’s been so very long, hasn’t it, Emory?” Emory acknowledged this with a nod. “What happened to you? After you drank the ale? Did you leave—or die? Did the ghosts possess your soul?” “What do you think happened?” Thaddeus laughed and it sounded ugly. “Poor Emory—caught in limbo for six hundred years. Six hundred effing years. And in all that time, did you ever question Heaven?” He laughed again. “No, I didn’t think so. You just did their bidding, didn’t you?”

Thaddeus swaggered to the mouth of the cave and kicked at a few fallen leaves. “Tell me, what are your plans? How can you have a future with that girl?” “A future is something I have in spades.” “Huh, interesting word choice. What do you mean—in spades?” “Simply that time—and the future—are mine in abundance.” “But not hers, right?” Thaddeus spun around. “She’ll get old. She’ll age. She’ll want to have a family.” Emory shrugged. “I can do that.” “You can’t age!” Thaddeus spat on the ground. “You won’t get old.” “I just don’t see that as a problem.” “And she’ll die.” Emory shrugged. “And when she does, I’ll her.” “Really? For six hundred years you chose to remain in Purgatory, but when she goes, you go?” Thaddeus narrowed his eyes. “Why?” “I can ask you the same question. Why are you here?” Thaddeus stepped closer, as if sharing a confidence. “I’m here to bring your soul to Hell.” “Haven’t they told you, Thaddeus?” He repeated the words he had told Annie. “We choose Hell, or we choose Heaven. It’s a choice. There’s nothing you can say or do to make me follow you.” “Or Satan?” Thaddeus looked up, as if consulting with someone. “How do you feel about following Satan?” “Why would I?” Emory asked. “Why would you, or anyone, choose Satan and Hell?” “Haven’t you heard? It’s much more fun to play with the sinners than cry with

the saints.” Emory didn’t say anything, but flexed his jaw. “You don’t have to live by Heaven’s dictates, you know. There are other choices. You’ve been so blind, but you will see. You’ll follow me...eventually.” “Why would I do that?” Emory asked. “I didn’t like you two hundred years ago, and I don’t like you any better now.” “Yes, but you like Petra Baron.” And the tone of his voice made him fear for Petra’s safety. “She’s with her family.” Thaddeus barked out a laugh. “Is that what you think?” Emory froze as a hundred suspicions played out in his head, each more horrifying than the last. Finally, he managed to ask, “What have you done to her?” “What makes you think that I have had anything to do with her disappearance?” “Disappearance?” Thaddeus opened his arms wide. “I don’t see her here, do you?” Emory grabbed Thaddeus around the neck, lifted him off the ground, and shook him hard. “What have you done with her, you little horses’ ass?” Thaddeus’s feet spun, looking for solid ground, but his grin didn’t fade. “Well, that’s the strange thing, isn’t it? I can’t do anything to you and you can’t do anything to me. We’re enemies, and neither of us can be vanquished. But that’s not true of her, is it?” “You’re not my enemy.” Emory threw Thaddeus, and the youth tumbled backward. “You are not worth my time or energy.” “But she is, isn’t she?”

Emory clenched his fist, wanting to punch Thaddeus, but knowing, just as he had said, that it wouldn’t hurt him...for long. “Where is she? You know I have an eternity to find her.” “But she could be anywhere. And in any time. And just think of all the myriad of things that can befall her!” Emory spun and ran down the mountain, his strides long and his breath short. The wind picked up and spat falling leaves in his face. Leaves crunched beneath his feet. Thaddeus’s laughter rang in his ears.

PETRA CAUGHT THE TEN-fifteen train and settled onto a window seat. Well past the commuting hour, her fellow engers were students, housewives, and the occasional businessman. Her nerves jingled as the train click-clacked down the line. Her thoughts spun around Emory, Dane, and Annie, but eventually, her fatigue caught up with her and she fell into an uneasy sleep. She saw herself with Emory in a field of wildflowers—no buildings, no cars, nothing but endless green grass dotted with dandelions and buttercups, and a blue, blue sky filled with marshmallow clouds. She wore white, but Emory was covered in black soot and tattered clothes. Petra jolted awake as the train pulled into Grand Central station. She shook her head, trying to clear her mind of the cobwebby lingering dream. Climbing from the car, she let the tide of New Yorkers sweep her through the subway tunnels and up the stairs. She blinked against the sudden glare of daylight. She had always found New York easy to navigate, as most of the city was laid out on a grid, but she still had her aunt’s address typed into the GPS on her phone. A text from her dad buzzed. Meet us at the observation deck of the Empire State Building. We have a surprise for you. So not like her dad. Petra mentally shrugged and typed the Empire State Building into her phone’s map app. She loved walking on Park Avenue, watching the men in suits and ties and the women in pencil skirts, silk blouses, and coordinating sneakers. It was close to the lunch hour, and she knew that the women must keep their heels in a desk drawer or in a briefcase. Petra also knew that when she was a history teacher, she wouldn’t ever need to be a part of New York’s business bustle, but for the moment, she loved being here. Even if she missed and worried about Emory. Her dad loved business. He liked the stability of numbers and figures adding to concrete, tangible profits, and she knew that he wanted the same financial security for her. True, there probably weren’t very many rich history teachers, but then again, she didn’t know how many could time travel. But maybe all history teachers did travel time, one way or another.

Petra paused on 5th Avenue and looked up at the Empire State Building. The early afternoon sun filled her eyes and she had to squint to imagine King Kong swinging from the top with Fay Wray hanging on, screaming for her life. Petra pushed through the doors. She looked around at the glistening marble floors, walls, and art deco accents. She expected a line of tourists at the ticket booth, but only a handful of people filled the massive room. The soaring ceilings made her feel small. Twenty-seven dollars to ride an elevator to the observation deck. Petra glanced at her phone to reread the text. All of this was so un-Dad-like. For one thing, he hated surprises. He didn’t want them happening to him, and he didn’t like springing them on anyone else. Which made him kind of a poop at Christmastime. After her mom died, Christmas with her dad meant going to Nordstrom, picking out her gifts, wrapping them herself, and placing them under a plastic tree. Things changed after he married Laurel, of course, and not necessarily for the better, but at least her Christmas gifts were surprising, although not always in a good way. And her dad never spent any money easily. Petra paid her twenty-seven dollars, handed her ticket to a round man in a burgundy-colored suit jacket and funky black hat, and climbed on an elevator, wondering if maybe this was the same one that Meg Ryan rode to meet Tom Hanks in Sleepless in Seattle. The speed of the ride made her queasy. She glanced at her fellow engers. No one else seemed bothered. Petra held on to the handrail, her stomach roiling as if it was trying to tell her something. She looked at her phone again, hoping the text had clues she had missed. When the elevator doors slid open, she slipped out. The thin crowd mingled on the deck, and Petra swept her gaze over their heads, looking for her dad, who generally stood a foot over everyone else. She saw an Asian family, a cluster of gray-haired ladies clutching guide books, and teenagers with dark hair and kohl-rimmed eyes. But not her dad. The text had used the pronoun ‘we.’ What did that mean? Had he brought Laurel with him? Had Laurel found a substitute for the dance studio? And what about Zoe? Had they taken her out of school? That would be a shocker. Her dad

considered regular school attendance more important than eating or sleeping. Which probably made her wasted school semester really hard for him. Not that the ‘accident’ that had pushed her behind graduation had been her fault. She hadn’t ever intended on being swept away into the seventeenth century. But even though it had messed up her college plans, she was glad she had gone. Delayed graduation was a small price to pay for Emory. Thinking about him made her warm inside, which was good, because a cold wind blew around the observation deck. She tucked her hands into the pocket of her hoodie and continued to search for her dad. She froze when she spotted Dane leaning against the rail and grinning. Taking a step back, she bumped into a gum-chewing kid. “Sorry,” she mumbled to him, and she was. More than she could say. How could she have been so stupid? She glanced at her phone. Had Dane used her dad’s phone? Impossible. But her mind went to the night in the canyon—wine goblets and bottle of champagne appearing out of thin air, and the sudden transportation to a meadow. The kiss. She studied him. Why did he seem to have more...magic...than Emory? What would happen if she tried to push him over the ledge? Not that she could. Not that she would. But what would happen if she did? He would probably take her with him, and she would die, and he would stay in his limbo state. She would never see Emory again. Never go to college, or Europe, or a million and one other things she always thought she would do. Of course, she never thought she would time travel or regularly hang-out with immortals. “Good surprise, huh?” Dane pushed away from the railing and came to her side. Petra flinched away from his warmth. “What are you doing here?”

He shrugged. “I just wanted you to see the world.” Petra turned to the view. The sun glistened off the metal fencing. “This is New York City, not the world.” “But it’s easy to forget that when you can see forever.” He cocked his head to meet her gaze. “Forever is a long time, you know.” “What do you mean by that?” “To live forever—who would want that?” A smile pulled at the corner of his lips. “Your boyfriend, for example—he’s been alive for over six hundred years.” “What’s your point?” Petra hugged her arms for warmth. “I’m just saying not everyone wants to live forever.” Dane nodded at the fence. “They put up this screen in 1947, after five people tried to jump during a threeweek span.” Petra stared out over the city. The cars and people looked like busy toys rushing around on a carpet of cement. They looked small, crushable, and insignificant, and yet she knew that each and every single person below her had people they loved, and who loved them in return. Everyone was significant to someone else. “A woman near your age leaped to her death from this deck and landed on a limousine parked at the curb.” Dane’s grin just made his words worse. “A photographer took her picture and later it was used by the graphic artist, Andy Warhol. He called it Beautiful Suicide. Have you seen it?” Petra wanted to leave, she wanted to turn her back on Dane, but she had so many questions—questions that Emory wouldn’t, or couldn’t, answer. But Dane might. So she stayed. And hated herself for it. “Elvita Adams jumped from the 86th floor, only to be blown back onto the 85th floor by a gust of wind. Tragic, right?” Dane’s smile widened, even though Petra couldn’t think of what there was to smile about. “She thought her life so awful that she wanted to end it, but stayed alive with the same old problems—and a broken hip.” He sighed. “So, was the wind helping or hurting?” “Maybe both.” Petra swallowed and looked around at the people standing

nearby. She hoped none of them were listening, because she knew her next question would sound so strange. “Dane, what happened when you died?” Dane laughed, and people turned to stare. He lowered his voice and bent closer. “You know I can’t tell you that.” “Why not? I mean, if you’re not playing by Heaven’s rules, what’s to stop you?” She stepped closer to him. “Or, who is stopping you?” Dane’s lips twisted. “Why don’t you me and find out?” Petra blinked. “ you?” He nodded. “Sure. If not for me and the pleasure of my company—then for your precious boyfriend.” He trailed his finger along her arm, sending chills across her skin. “In your earthly state, you’re bound by time, space, and a myriad of societal rules. But in Limbo,” he smiled and shrugged, “no rules.” “But that’s not true.” She pointed at his chest. “You just said that you couldn’t tell me—” He grabbed her finger and the friendly light in his eyes turned cold. “There are some things you have to experience for yourself. Think about salt.” “Salt?” She tried to pull her finger out of his grasp, but he held it tight. “Can you describe salt without using the word salty?” Petra bit her lip, trying to think of adjectives for salt. Dane dropped her finger and she tucked her hands into her pockets. Dane waved toward the sky. “Can you describe the smell of rain? Or the touch of a lover?” He paused to make his point. “There are some things that cannot be described, defined or told. Words simply fail.” “No, that’s not it.” Petra didn’t know how she knew that, but she did. It wasn’t that Dane couldn’t tell her, but that he wouldn’t. He took her arm and pulled her close so that he could whisper in her ear. “Come with me, Petra.” His breath fanned her cheek. He smelled of leather and

lavender. “Together we can span the universe. Any time, any place, we will be completely free of earthly concerns and limitations.” “I can do that with Emory.” Her voice sounded small because she knew what she said wasn’t true. Dane must have known it, too, because he laughed. “Emory is more bound to Earth than even you! And you know it! He’s been Heaven’s errand boy almost since time began.” Petra blinked back a tear and tore away from Dane. “Leave me alone, Dane.” He caught up to her as she pulled open the door. The warmth of the building hit her. She hadn’t realized how cold she’d been on the deck. “I can’t leave you alone, Petra.” Dane took her arm. “You know how Emory is compelled to help every ailing gypsy, how he tries to save every wayward soul?” Petra didn’t want to nod, although she almost did. She didn’t want to stay to listen, but she couldn’t move. “It’s the same for me, except for me—you are that gypsy, you are that soul to save.” Petra shook her arm free of Dane and ran for the elevator. “Petra, don’t go—just imagine.” “No!” Dane caught up to her and wrapped his arm around her waist. Petra closed her eyes, and when she opened them again she was flying.

Following Hudson

CHAPTER 5

Emory found Schwinn at the base of the mountain where he had left it. The thought of riding the contraption all the way to New York City left him cold. He glanced over his shoulder to make sure Thad hadn’t followed him. In 1810, the Hudson River ran from Tarrytown to New York City. Although much had changed since then, he doubted that the path of the river had. He didn’t know how long it would take to ride such a distance, but for the train he would need money, and at the moment, all he had was antique gold coins, some jewels, and a fancy knife. Emory climbed on Schwinn and began to pedal. He knew New York City lay on the banks of the Hudson, and once he was in the city, an art gallery shouldn’t be too hard to find. He dismissed the niggling worry that Tarrytown had much changed and that, perhaps, New York City had also. But how many art galleries run by a woman could there be? Emory followed Broadway along the bank of the Hudson River. Cars sped past him. A few almost hit him when he failed to heed a red light. In time, he learned to follow the cars and mind the lights. He stopped when they stopped and went when they went. An angry woman in a bubble-shaped vehicle pulled up beside him. “Where’s your helmet? You’re a bad example to kids.” The woman rolled up her window and sped away, leaving Emory to wonder why he had to be an example to goats. As he rode, he noticed others on bikes wearing large, plastic hats in a variety of bright colors. Petra had never mentioned the need for plastic hats. Perhaps she did not like them. Understandable, really. More and more cars filled the road the further south he traveled. Black smoke from the cars filled his eyes and nose, and the air grew thick and heavy. Emory

pedaled on. Soon the green lawns disappeared and the city became more congested. Emory pulled onto the sidewalk and looked around. Buildings touched the sky. Lights in a host of strange colors flickered on almost every shop. People dressed in strange costumes pushed around him. This New York City was almost as frightening as the zombies.

DANE HELD HER IN A tight, vice-like grip. If she pulled away from him, would she fall? She didn’t want to find out. They sailed over the city—high above the pedestrians and the skyscrapers, but lower than the airplanes. Wouldn’t someone notice them? Weren’t they violating airspace regulations? What about the tourists on the observation deck? They were supposed to be observing, weren’t they? Wouldn’t someone notice them flying away? But after a few minutes of the wind in her face, her terror and worries left her as she let Dane carry her through the clouds and sky. The sun sparkled on the Hudson River. Children played in Central Park. A bright red balloon floated past. “This is what it’s like,” Dane said, “to live free of rules and stipulations, unfettered by even gravity.” Despite the wind rushing in her ears, she heard his voice distinctly. “But there are laws—laws of nature. How can we, even if we’re, I mean if you’re, dead, defy those laws?” Her thoughts went to Emory. He obeyed every law with precision. “I can’t tell you, ? You have to experience it for yourself.” Dane squeezed her hand. “But if you’re really curious, read your bible. There are numerous s of the afterlife. Isaac, Jacob, Aaron, and Moses are just a few mentioned in the Old Testament.” “But, oddly, no mention of flying.” Petra had no intention of dying any time soon, just like she had no intention of ever choosing Dane over Emory. Dane laughed and he let go of her hand. Petra screamed as she fell and the ground rushed up to meet her. She landed in a flower bush, her body bruised from the fall. But her mind went to another place and time. She returned to the meadow. In her vision, she sat on the ground, her white lacy skirt spread out around her. Emory lounged beside her, working a cluster of buttercups into a braid. His raggedy clothes were black and reeked of smoke, but his expression wasn’t as dark as it had been in her earlier dream.

PETRA WOKE UNDERNEATH of a bush. The first thing she did was check her pulse. Still alive. That was good, right? But what had happened? Flying with Dane? No one can just fly through Central Park unnoticed, right? And then the strange dream—or was it a memory? A vision? Her practical side skittered away from the thought. She sat up, brushed plant debris off her hoodie and jeans, and looked up to find a toothless woman dressed in a black, tent-like dress grinning at her. “Oh, hello,” Petra said. The woman smiled, stepped forward, snatched Petra’s phone off the ground, and took off running. “Hey!” Petra scrambled to her feet and went after the woman. The path wound through lawns, flower beds, and past a merry-go-round, and the weathered old woman, who looked to be at least a hundred years old, disappeared behind a hotdog stand. Breathless, Petra stopped beside a mounted police. “That woman,” Petra panted and pointed at the fleeing woman, “she stole my phone.” “What woman?” the police turned his horse in the direction of Petra’s finger. “That woman...” Petra’s voice faltered as the old woman in black turned into a redhead with curls the color of flame streaming in the wind. Annie Walker. Petra glanced back at the friendly-faced officer. Knowing that he didn’t stand a chance against Annie’s voodoo—or whatever she possessed—Petra apologized with a shake of her head. “I’m mistaken. I...must have dropped it.” Worry creased his forehead. “Are you sure?” Petra nodded and turned away with sagging shoulders and a heavy sigh. Without her phone, how would Emory ever find her? And if she was losing her mind— how would she ever find it again?

EMORY WAS SURPRISED to find an enormous park between Fifth and Eighth Avenues where there had once been a terrain of swamps and bluffs. Pushing Schwinn along the black path, he stopped when he saw a gypsy woman peddling paintings. She looked nothing like the blonde and pale Petra, so he sincerely doubted that this could be Aunt Dee, but perhaps, being in the same business, she knew of Petra’s aunt. “Pardon me, mistress,” Emory said. “I’m looking for a gallery called Dee.” “Dee’s Gallery?” The woman lifted her eyebrows and ran her gaze up and down Emory. She tossed her black curls over her shoulder and gave Emory a smile. “Why would you want Dee’s Gallery when you can find everything you want here?” “It is not art I seek, but the lady named Dee.” Emory searched his memory for Dee’s surname. He knew that Dee did not share the name Baron. “Then I can’t help you.” The woman turned her back on him, looking, perhaps, for paying customers. Emory stepped around so that he could address her face, rather than her backside. He flashed his best smile. “Perhaps you could direct me to an art gallery?” The woman grinned and leaned forward slightly so that her breasts swung toward him. “You sure you’re not seeing anything you like here, sugar?” When Emory shook his head, the woman shrugged and pointed at a magnificent building across the park and busy avenue. “That’s one of the best art galleries in the world.” “Thank you,” Emory said, before turning to stride across the lawn. He hesitated at a red and white stand selling “hot dogs.” Despite the tantalizing smell, Emory’s stomach turned as he watched a child bite into a cylinder of meat. “Hey! You want something or not?” the vendor demanded of Emory.

“No!” Emory shook his head. He had heard of the poor and starving resorting to consuming dogs, and he knew it to be a standard practice in a few foreign countries, but to make such a public display... He turned away, sickened, and headed for the wide staircase. The Metropolitan Museum of Art was nearly as grand as the palaces and cathedrals of Europe. Emory slowly climbed the steps. This was clearly not Dee’s Gallery, but surely the curator would know of Petra’s aunt. Emory followed a crowd of children all dressed in blue through the massive doors. He stopped in the foyer and let his gaze wander over the soaring ceilings. The immense space made him feel insignificant. In a world filled with people, places, and times, how could he hope to ever find the only person that truly mattered to him? A man dressed in light brown pants and a shirt with a picture of a man with wild hair bumped into him. “Excuse me.” Emory nodded a greeting and his gaze landed on the man’s shirt, which read, “Reality is merely an illusion, albeit a very persistent one.” How odd to have a wild-haired man emblazoned on one’s shirt, Emory thought. But then he ed his own sweatshirt, as Petra had called it, and thought it no stranger than “I lost my head.” “Takes your breath away, doesn’t it?” the man said. “Yes,” Emory agreed, following the man’s gaze to the ornate ceiling. “Are you by any chance familiar with Dee’s Gallery?” “Is it in one of the other buildings?” “There are more buildings than this one?” The man nodded and showed Emory a map that made him feel even more overwhelmed. “Thank you.” “Enjoy your visit,” the man said. Emory glanced at the queue at the desk selling tickets and headed out the door.

He stopped and asked a man in a uniform if he knew of Dee’s Gallery. When the man shook his head, Emory left. Across the park, Emory spotted another palace-like building. Enormous flags with images of giant spiders on them hung from a soaring facade. With more curiosity than hope, Emory climbed the steps. When he entered the doors, a dragon constructed of bones faced him. He spun to find another bone monster on his left. Emory watched the children around him. Not one seemed terrified or surprised by the creatures. Of course, they weren’t alive—but what were they? Dragons were fiction—were they not? Emory found a bench and sank down on it. First zombies and now dragons. He spotted a nearby pamphlet and picked it up. People have been finding dinosaur fossils for hundreds, perhaps even thousands of years. The Greeks and Romans may have found fossils, giving rise to their many ogre and griffin legends. There are references to "dragon" bones found in Wucheng, Sichuan, China over two thousand years ago; these were probably dinosaur fossils. Emory stumbled out the door and down the steps, his mind spinning. He believed in monsters because he had met them, but all of the evil he had encountered had been in human form. The bone beasts he had just faced probably contained no more of an evil disposition than a hungry bear, but still, Emory felt shaken. He needed Petra. Without her, he was lost. But how would he ever find her in this sea of humanity?

PETRA USED HER KEY to let herself into her aunt’s tiny apartment. She made herself lunch while she dialed Rohan’s landline. When Emory didn’t answer, she hung up the phone and just stared at her sandwich. She knew she should eat, but she couldn’t do it. Her nerves were too tangled. She called her dad. Her resolve to somehow disappear from Dane and Annie hardened while she waited for her dad to answer the phone. She got his secretary, Leigh Anne. “Can you have him call Dee’s home number?” Petra asked. “Someone stole my phone.” Petra listened to Leigh Anne’s condolences, explained what happened, without mentioning Annie’s transformation, or flying with Dane, of course, and hung up. ing the box of hair dye, she headed for the bathroom. Forty minutes later, she was a brunette. But that didn’t make her feel any smarter, or even any less blonde.

EMORY WANDERED BACK across the park and sat on a bench. He thought about the girl he knew and loved, and his heart twisted. Because of him she was knew Dane, Annie, and Thaddeus. If she had remained in her own time, she would never have met these discontented spirits. He retrieved Schwinn and pushed it down 5th Avenue. Buses spit smoke at him as they sputtered by. The smells of a McDonald’s tempted him. He ed numerous carts and vendors hawking food goods, and he steered clear of the dog stands. A man with a fiddle played on wide cements steps leading to another magnificent building. Two enormous lions flanked the stairs. The sign read, New York City Public Library. Maybe if he couldn’t find Petra, he could find some answers. Emory left Schwinn against a stone balustrade.

PETRA SAT AT THE TABLE staring at the phone and willing it to ring. Where was Emory and why wasn’t he calling her back? And then she realized that Emory probably didn’t know how to check an answering machine. All he would see was a box with a flashing red light. Petra’s gaze flitted across the room, counting all the devices she spotted with lights: microwave, dishwasher, DVD player, TV screen, coffee maker, computer, and an answering machine. So, unless he happened to hear and answer the phone when she called again, he would never get her message. She dialed Rohan’s number once more, just in case. Sighing, she placed her forehead on her folded arms. After sitting there for a few minutes, she sat up, grabbed her carryall, and headed out the door. Swinging down 42nd Street, she turned into Bryant Park. A fountain splashed water high into the air. She considered tossing a coin in to make a wish, but then she caught sight of Annie and Dane. They stood beside a hotdog stand, arguing. Would they hurt her? She had given Dane plenty of opportunities, and the worst that had happened was he had taken her flying. Even the landing hadn’t really hurt her. Still, she ran back to the street to lose herself in the crowd. Her heart raced, matching her footsteps. She didn’t want to run, or call attention to herself in anyway, so she scurried more than walked, with her shoulders hunched and her face down. Even though she didn’t want them to, her thoughts kept returning to Dane’s words. Beautiful suicide. Who would want to live forever? In an earthly state, you’re bound by time, space, and a myriad of societal rules. She tried to shut him out, but couldn’t. And the flying...She had been terrified, and yet—free. Why could Dane fly and not Emory? But maybe Emory could, and she just didn’t know it. That would be a strange thing to ask—excuse me, can you fly? Did Emory have the same abilities as Dane and he just wasn’t telling her? She was almost to Aunt Dee’s gallery when she caught sight of a familiar bike parked outside the New York City Library. So relieved that she almost laughed, Petra sat beside the bike. If she could travel over two hundred years to find Emory, then she could wait for him outside of the library.

HE FOUND HER CURLED up on the library steps beside Schwinn. Sinking down beside her, he gently slipped his hands beneath her arms and lifted her into his lap. Her eyes fluttered open. “Hey,” she said. “Hi,” he said, proud of himself for using a modern form of greeting. She touched his cheek. “I missed you.” He caught her hand and kissed her palm. “I missed you, too. I was worried that I had lost you again.” Emory ran his hand over her shorn, dark hair. “I will miss your hair.” “It’ll grow back.” He nodded sadly. “We can’t stay here,” she told him. “Annie and Dane are looking for us. I saw them, but I don’t think they saw me.” “Petra.” He reached up and touched her face. He loved the way her skin felt beneath his fingertips. He loved her warmth and softness. He knew she wasn’t being cold or heartless when it came to Annie and Dane; she simply didn’t understand Heaven’s laws or the order of things. “, I don’t want to run from Annie and Dane. They need our help.” Petra bit her lip and Emory watched her internal struggle. He wanted to help her see, but he knew he couldn’t tell her all she wanted to know. It had been more than six hundred years since his death and consignment to Purgatory. He learned much of his current estate as he went along. With Rohan as his tutor and guide, he had found a balance between earthly and heavenly demands, but it had been difficult in the beginning. Sometimes, like now, he still struggled. He wanted nothing more than Petra. If Heaven asked him to abandon her—to turn away and never look at her again—could he do it? No.

But, fortunately, Heaven hadn’t asked, yet. In fact, Heaven had been remarkably undemanding since his arrival in 2010. But Emory knew the worth of a soul. He looked around to make sure that none could overhear. “Since Dane and Annie reside on the Earth, they are still within Heaven’s grasp. Their hearts can be won and their souls saved from Satan and Hell.” Petra looked doubtful. Emory continued, “Since my arrival in 2010, I have, on a few occasions, heard the phrase ‘go to hell’ on the TV box. I suspect that the mortals speaking thus have no real comprehension of what they are saying.” “Well, of course, Hell isn’t a nice place—” Petra began. Emory interrupted her. “You don’t understand. Hell is not, strictly speaking, a place at all. Hell, rather, is a state of being. It’s an attitude. It’s anger, rage, frustration. Damnation isn’t a destination. It means simply to be ‘damned.’” He pointed in the direction of the river. “Consider the mighty Hudson. Its goal is to reach the ocean. As humans, we all have a similar goal—to return to Heaven. We are damned—in Hell—when that progression is stopped.” Emory could tell from Petra’s expression that she didn’t understand, and he decided that that was, as she would say, okay. She didn’t need to know everything right now. She had a lifetime to learn. He stood and reached for her hand. “Come, show me your world. Introduce me to your aunt and the rest of your family.” She looked up at him— her familiar blue eyes, her beautiful face all framed by a wild mop of shockingly dark hair. Would he ever grow used to her as thus? “What if I didn’t?” she asked. Emory didn’t know what to say. He felt as if she had punched him in the gut. “You do not wish for me to be a part of your world?” “No, of course I do. But...what if instead, of you ing me in my world, I you in yours?” Emory dropped his hand to his side. “I do not understand.”

Petra stood and faced him. “What if we left this world—” Emory took her face in his hands, and pressed a quick, hard kiss on her lips to silence her. After pulling away, he placed his forehead against hers. “Do not ever speak—or even think—what I thought you were going to say.” “You can’t tell me what to think or not think.” He heard the anger in her voice. “Life is precious, Petra. More dear than you know.” “I just want my life to be with you.” “We are together now.” “Yeah, and that’s a miracle, isn’t it?” She stepped away from him. “It’s amazing that we even found each other. Not just now in New York City, although if you think about it, that was pretty remarkable, too—but ever. A girl from the twentyfirst century and a guy from the Middle Ages—that never happens, right?” He grinned and she looked like she wanted to slap him to show him how serious she was. “The way things are right now—any minute, I can lose you.” Emory picked up her hand and squeezed it. “Every couple on the planet Earth can say the same. No one here has any guarantee of a tomorrow.” “You do. You have a boatload of tomorrows.” She scuffed the ground with her shoe. “Maybe I want that, too. I want you in all of my tomorrows.” He drew her into his arms, loving the way her body felt against his. “If you think about it, you and I have a better chance of sharing our tomorrows than most. As you said, I have a boatload of tomorrows, and I can promise you all of them. Very few can make such a promise.” They walked together, their hips occasionally bumping together. “Tell me,” Emory said, “did something happen to make you consider such a choice?” “No,” she said in voice that clearly said yes.

“You are angry with me.” Emory gave her a sideways glance. “No. Of course not.” Petra blew out a frustrated sigh. “I just don’t see how it’s possible to save Dane and Annie. Or why we have to be the ones to do it.” “If not us, then who?” Petra shrugged. “I don’t know.” She walked along, not in silence, because noises blared at them from all sides: airplanes in the sky, cars and trucks on the busy street, music from a performer on a nearby corner, and a million conversations swirling around them. But Petra didn’t say anything, because she didn’t know what to say. Sometimes it was really hard having a six-hundred-year-old boyfriend. Emory had all this experience, so he knew just about everything, except about life in the modern world. She knew about tangible, real things—things that could be seen, heard, tasted, and felt. Emory knew about things like Heaven, Hell, and history. Emory paused on the corner of Barclay Street. “I can’t believe this church still stands.” He slowly turned, gazing at the high rises, the Starbucks, and all the storefronts and businesses jockeying for position on the crowded street. He took her hand and pulled her up the stairs to St. Peter’s Cathedral. “Amazing. This was built at considerable expense more than two hundred and twenty years ago. Come, I must see if it remains the same on the inside as it appears on the outside.” He placed the bike against the iron rail surrounding the church grounds. Petra let him lead her, but she went much more slowly. “Let me tell you of Pierre Reynolds, a slave, born in an area of Santo Domingo about 1766.” He glanced at her face and paused. “Have you never heard of Santo Domingo?” She shook her head. “It is an island to the south, but never mind,” Emory continued. “Upon her death, Pierre’s mistress granted Pierre his freedom. In return, the good man devoted most of his time to works of charity. During the yellow fever epidemics, Pierre

entered barricaded areas to nurse the sick. He brought many victims into his home, where he brought them back to health. Over the years, he and his wife took in poor black boys, raised and educated them, and made certain they learned trades that would enable them to earn a living.” “Why are you telling me this?” Petra afollowed Emory up the stairs. “To make a point. You see, very few people know this, especially those who have petitioned for Pierre to be canonized.” He noticed her puzzled expression, and added, “To be made a Saint. You see, Pierre is, excuse me, was, a murderer. He killed the man who beat and raped his first wife.” Petra took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Emory, reading her face, added softly, “We do not know if John Walker sorely mistreated his wife. For all we know, Annie may have killed her husband in selfdefense. We can never know the circumstances that drive another. It’s not our place to judge.” Emory climbed the steps to the cathedral and Petra trailed after him, knowing that he was a much better person than she could ever be. She followed him through the wide wooden doors into the quiet chapel. The hushed room echoed their footsteps. “I cannot believe so little has changed,” Emory whispered. Petra lifted a questioning eyebrow. “So much out there.” Emory nodded over his shoulder. “But so little in here.” “What now?” Emory kept his gaze fixed on the stained-glass window. “I’m not sure,” he said. “Usually I just go about my daily work and Heaven finds and employs me.” “Then maybe that’s what we should do now.” Emory turned to her and smiled. “Shall we go and find your aunt’s gallery?” Petra nodded.

Emory took her hand and led her out of the chapel and back onto the crowded street. The church bells rang five and people surged from the office buildings and onto the sidewalks. Emory paused on the steps. “Oh dear. Schwinn is missing.” Petra sighed. She should have known better. “This is New York City. We shouldn’t have left it unlocked.” “I suppose we will need to buy Rohan a new Schwinn,” Emory said sadly. “Pity. I really liked that one. Do we have enough coins to cover the cost?” Petra thought about this. Rohan had given her the bag of gold coins, which were a lot more valuable today than they had been in 1810. “It seems wrong to use the money Rohan gave me to repay him for losing his bike.” “He won’t mind,” Emory said. “In fact, I can hardly imagine him on a Schwinn. It’s quite possible that he had it for the sole intention of lending it to you.” He noticed the scowl on her face. “What is the matter, Pet?” “Everyone is so good. You, Rohan...” She shook her head. “My motives are not nearly as unselfish as yours.” “How do you know this?” Emory laughed softly. “I daresay you do not know what your motives are.” Petra’s scowl deepened and Emory noticed. “Do not be angry or upset by this. You are not alone. I would hazard a guess that most do not know their own true motivation.” Petra glanced at Emory. She couldn’t tell him that he was her motivation. He was all she really wanted. Everything else was fluff—unimportant fluff. Where she went to school, what she studied, what career she dedicated her life to, all of that was secondary to him. Maybe that was not the way things were supposed to be, and was backward to what her dad had tried to teach her, but that was how she felt, and she didn’t want any of it to change. She tightened her grip on Emory’s hand, afraid to let him go. The shadows grew dark as the sun slipped behind the sky-scrapers, heading for the horizon. A mime, dressed in black pants, suspenders, and a black and white striped T pretended to be trapped in an invisible box on the street corner. A crowd had

gathered to watch, and Petra drew Emory in for a closer view. The mime, with his painted white face and black, slicked-back hair, escaped the box and tugged on an invisible rope. Emory watched and Petra watched Emory, loving everything about him. A sharp tug on her shoulder. Her bag—gone. “Hey!” Petra whirled, but whoever had taken her bag had disappeared. “What is it?” Emory asked. “My bag! Someone took it.” Emory rose to his toes for a better look, then pushed through the crowd. Petra followed. When she lost Emory, she climbed onto the low stone wall bordering the park, searching. After several moments of peering through the gloom, she spotted Emory chasing a man dressed in a dark blue hoodie across the lawn. She ran after them. A mean wind kicked up, and fallen autumn leaves swirled around. The dying sun lingered on the horizon. The hooded man and Emory disappeared into an alley. Moments later, Petra stood between the towering buildings, glancing in the darkened windows, wondering through which door they had gone. Raised voices. Swearing. Something crashed. Petra rose to her tiptoes to look through rusty black bars securing a gray-shrouded window. Inside, the hooded man flew backward across a pool table.

Dying in Public

CHAPTER 6

Petra pushed her way into the bar, moving aside a guy with his gut hanging over his belt. He shifted beneath her hands and she recoiled from the touch of his bare, pimply arm. Someone else stood between her and Emory—a small man, pale, skinny, all collarbones and ribs. She elbowed him to move. Tobacco smoke, the smell of beer and too many bodies filled the dimly lit room. The men cheered and hooted as Emory cocked back his arm for a right hook. The hooded man grabbed him around the middle and the two men crashed to the floor. Petra shoved her way through the crowd, yelling, “Emory! Stop!” Noticing her purse and its spilled contents, she scooped it up. Grateful, and somewhat surprised that no one had stopped to inspect the gold, which now that she studied it, did sort of look like play money, she shoved everything back into her purse. “Please, Emory.” Petra pleaded as she climbed back to her feet, but he ignored her. She sent the bartender a pleading look, but he watched the fight with a smile tugging at his lips. Emory had the thug on the floor, wedged between his knees, but the hooded guy had his hands around Emory’s throat. “Somebody stop them,” Petra called to the crowd. The tattooed guy next to her folded his arms and nodded at Emory. “He deserves it. Came in here throwing punches.” Petra fluttered with the horrible realization that stopping the fight rested securely on her shoulders. None of the people surrounding the grappling men seemed

interested in breaking them up. This was probably better entertainment for them than the two professional wrestlers prancing in tights on the TV screen. Emory and the hooded guy rolled at her feet. Emory was on top, and then the thug, and then Emory; Petra couldn’t tell who was winning, for both appeared to be losing, although she knew that Emory couldn’t be hurt for long. Their fists flew around them and occasionally landed with a sickening thud. Emory managed to ease away and tried to stand, but the hooded guy grabbed his ankle. Emory went down with a bellow, then quickly retaliated, catching ahold of the thug’s shirt and bumping his head on the floor. “Emory!” Petra called. She kicked his shoulder and he sagged onto the hooded guy who wrapped his fingers around Emory’s throat. Then Emory had the hooded guy’s throat. Within seconds, both their faces turned red. Frantically looking around, Petra spotted a pitcher of beer on a nearby table and scooped it up. Ignoring calls of protest, she poured it over the two men. The hooded guy hollered and Emory sputtered. Petra grabbed Emory’s collar and pulled him up with one hand. She smacked the pitcher on the table and broke it in two. With her arm around Emory’s waist, she brandished her new weapon at the hooded guy, who struggled to his feet. “Back off,” she said, her voice sounding small and apprehensive. The hooded guy laughed, pushed past Emory, scooped Petra up and tossed her over his shoulder. Petra waved the broken pitcher in the air while the men around her roared and laughed. Seconds later, her captor howled in pain as Petra pierced his ear with the broken glass from the pitcher. Emory caught Petra before she fell to the floor, and carried her out to the alley amidst the catcalls from the bar. Outside, Petra wiggled in Emory’s arms until he let her go. She landed on her feet on the sidewalk and pushed away from him. His shirt hung in shreds. Blood dripped from his nose and a cut above his eyebrow. He touched his sweaty forehead with the cuff of his shirt. “You can’t just pick a fight with random strangers,” Petra told him.

“He took your purse,” Emory protested. “You could have been killed.” “No, I couldn’t,” he reminded her. Petra pointed a shaky finger at the bar. “Well, he didn’t know that. You could have killed him.” “I wouldn’t have done that.” A howl erupted behind them. Petra stood on her toes to look over Emory’s shoulders. The hooded guy came barreling out the door, his face dark and glowering. Emory barely had time to turn before the hooded guy tackled him. The fight resumed. The crowd that had gathered to watch the mime now turned to watch Emory and the hooded guy wrestling on the sidewalk. The hooded guy pulled a knife from his belt and the crowd collectively inhaled a long breath. A woman screamed. “Somebody stop him!” the mime yelled, breaking his silence. The knife glistened in the light of the fading sun before plunging into Emory’s chest. Emory winced, but moments later, pulled the knife out, and despite the rushing blood, stood. The hooded guy spun away, shock and terror on his face. He plowed into a policeman. “Let’s go.” A policeman pointed a gun at the hooded guy’s chest. When Emory staggered to his feet, the policeman ran his gaze over him and watched the blood flow slow, the wound heal, and the color returned to Emory’s cheeks. “You, too,” the policeman said, in a voice much less certain. He waved his gun

at the two men, motioning for them to climb in the patrol car idling on the street corner.

PETRA AND EMORY SAT side-by-side on cold metal chairs at the police station while the arresting officer kept shooting questioning glances at Emory’s now completely healed chest. “This is why you can’t pick fights.” Petra slouched in the chair and it complained with a squeak. “I’ll have to call my dad.” “This is definitely not the first impression I had hoped to make with your father.” Emory watched the policeman, his face grim. Petra watched the officer that had confiscated the flagon. It sat on his desk beside a stained and cracked coffee mug and on top of a messy pile of papers. Could they jump over the desk, get the flagon... “If we could get to the ghost ale—we could travel anywhere.” Emory must have shared her thoughts. Petra shot the front doors a quick look. “That might work for you, but it won’t for me. Not if I ever want to return. He has both of our names. Besides, if he thought your magically healing chest was weird, he will think it’s totally bizarre if we disappear.” Standing, she took a deep breath before approaching the secretary behind a large wooden counter. “Can I make a phone call?” The secretary’s gum snapped and popped as she chewed. “You ain’t got a cell? I thought phones were like noses for you kids. Everybody has to have one.” “Not everyone.” Petra thought about bloodying the secretary’s nose but knew that wouldn’t help...even if it might make her feel better...momentarily. “Isn’t everyone allowed a telephone call? Besides, I don’t even know what we’re doing here. I wasn’t doing anything wrong.” The secretary smirked. “Tell that to Lansford. He must have had a reason for roping you in.” Petra shot Officer Lansford a glance, wishing she could see his computer screen.

The secretary scooted the phone, a big black monster with dozens of red flashing lights, closer to Petra. “Make it quick, sweetie. This is a busy place with real criminals to catch.” “Exactly! That’s why I can’t understand why I’m here.” The secretary ran her gaze over Petra, her lips twitching. “Sometimes the Prom Queen types turn out to be the most dangerous.” Petra decided to ignore Mrs. Secretary, and she punched in her dad’s number. “Hey, Daddy,” Petra said. “Pet, where are you?” “I’m, huh—” There really wasn’t any good way to say at the police station. “Where are you?” “At Dee’s.” “You’re really here?” “Of course I’m really here. Now, where are you? Dee said she hasn’t seen you for days.” “Well, yeah, that’s because...” She swallowed over the knot growing in her throat. “Dad, I’m at the police station. Precinct 34.” When her dad bellowed, she cut him off. “I didn’t do anything! My friend—” “What friend? What happened?” “Daddy, you’re not listening.” Officer Landsford bit his lip and studied his computer screen, confusion and disbelief flickering across his face. Petra knew he was wondering why he couldn’t find any information on Emory. Sitting back, Landsford ran his thick paw over the top of his bald head and picked up his coffee cup. After throwing back a swallow, he set the cup down, his gaze lingering on the flagon. While her father ranted on his end of the telephone line, Petra’s attention

remained focused on Officer Lansford. He lifted the flagon, tipped back the lid, and sniffed the ale. She needed to placate her dad, but she also had to get Officer Lansford to put down the flagon. Her dad’s voice rose in anger, and Petra’s worry ratcheted up a notch or two, or ten. “Daddy, I can explain,” she whispered into the phone. But there were some things, like how a policeman could vanish into thin air, that was really hard to explain. What if Lansford drank the ale? Where would he go? How would he find his way back? Did he have a family? Would he leave behind a wife and children who depended upon him financially? Maybe he had an aging mom or a pet that would die when he didn’t come home. Oh no. Put down the flagon, Petra silently pleaded. Lansford raised the flagon to his lips. Petra tried to get Emory’s attention, but he was being questioned by another officer. “Are you even listening to me?” her dad’s voice thundered through the phone. “Of course, Daddy,” Petra said. Lansford disappeared. Petra dropped the phone and tried to look unhurried and unworried as she sidled across the room to pick up the fallen flagon. Glancing inside, she saw that it was still half full. The secretary still banged away on her keyboard. The officer at a neighboring desk hadn’t looked up from his papers. No one seemed to notice Lansford’s sudden disappearance, yet. Except for Emory. His gaze met hers. Hoping no one would see, Petra tucked the flagon into her bag and motioned for the door. But as Emory stood, the policeman at a neighboring desk looked around. “Hey, Lansford! Anybody see Lansford?” Emory, Petra, and the other people in the room all shook their heads. “He was right here.” Mrs. Secretary looked up from her keyboard. “Did you see

him leave?” The officer scratched his head and the secretary tapped her desk with her pencil. “I’m sure he’ll be right back.” The door opened, and a tiny, gray-haired woman strode into the room. She approached the nearest officer and nodded at Emory. The officer behind the desk stood and looked their way. The woman’s gestures became increasingly animated, and the officer looked more and more stumped. Finally, he rubbed a hand over his face, shrugged, and pointed at them. “You two, you’re free to go.” He jerked his thumb at the door. The tiny woman beamed and patted the officer’s arm as if he was an obedient dog. On pointy high-heeled shoes, the woman tottered over to Emory. She placed her hand on his chest where his wound should have been. “I can tell we’re going to be great friends,” she said in a heavy Russian accent. “Please, will you me for dinner? We have much to talk about.”

THEY FOLLOWED TAISIA Aristov out to the street. Petra balked. “I can’t.” Her voice faltered. “I have to find my dad. He’s going to go totally ballistic if I don’t go to my aunt’s. Soon.” Emory nodded, and Petra read his agreement in his eyes. “But you must come. Just for a short tête-à-tête.” Taisia’s gaze flicked between Petra and Emory. She must have read the resolve on Petra’s face, because she placed her hand on Emory’s arm. “We will call a cab for your lady-love, but you and I...we must chat.” Petra reached into her bag and pulled out a pen and a scrap of paper. Quickly, she scrawled down Dee’s number. “This is her cell.” She scribbled some more. “And this is her home and the gallery’s addresses.” A cab pulled up beside them, splattering mud up the curb. Her dad. Emory followed her to the cab. “I should go with you. Your father is angry, and I can explain...” Petra put her hand on his blood-stained chest, stopping him. “You can’t explain. How could anyone explain any of this?” Petra shot her dad a quick glance. As soon as he finished paying the driver, he would be on the sidewalk raising hell. “Right now, you need to disappear. This is definitely not how I want you to meet my dad.” Emory opened his mouth to argue, but Petra pushed him away. “Just go.” She gave Taisia and her cane a worried look. “As fast as you can.”

TAISIA CARRIED A CANE, but didn’t need its help. She used it to push aside dogs and slow-moving pedestrians. They turned down a quiet street filled with tall trees, fluttering autumn leaves, and row-houses. Even over the traffic and the sounds of the busy sidewalk, Emory heard Petra and her father arguing. He hated leaving her. His indecision grounded him. “Mr. Ravenswood,” Taisia called over her shoulder. “Need I remind you that you are a free man because of my kind words?” With a sigh, Emory followed. “You must think me very forward,” Taisia said when Emory fell into step beside her. “But when I saw your brazen display of fisticuffs, I thought finally, after so many years, here is my answer.” Emory wondered about Taisia as he followed her up a short flight of stairs to the door of a brownstone. Taisia used her key and pushed open the door. Her home had lovely wooden floors, a soaring staircase, and an elaborate fireplace mantle. A furry dog that was almost as gray as Taisia sat on the sofa. He lifted his head and greeted them with a few thumps of his tail. “Come in, my dear,” Taisia said.

HER DAD FACED HER, his arms folded and a crease wrinkling his forehead. “I have so many questions for you I don’t even know where to start!” Petra took her dad’s arm and turned her back on Emory and Taisia. “Not now, Daddy.” She lifted her hand to her chest. “I’ve had a really scary day.” Competing emotions crossed her dad’s face. Comion won. He placed his arm around her shoulders and steered her into the waiting cab. “Tell me what happened to put you in the police station,” he said, after he gave the driver Dee’s address. “Then tell me what happened to your hair.” Petra slid across the seat, and after her dad settled in beside her, she leaned her head against his shoulder. Where should she start? She couldn’t tell him about flying with Dane, although she really wanted to. He shook his head. “Forget the hair. That’s not important. Tell me about the guy,” “Emory? I was with Emory, going to Aunt Dee’s when someone grabbed my purse.” She paused. “That was after someone stole Emory’s bike.” “You know better than to leave a bike unlocked in New York City.” “I know. And I should have been more careful about my purse. But this is Emory’s first time here.” She filled him in on the fight and the knife, although she left out the part where Emory miraculously recovered, and she glossed over most of what happened in the police station. “Tell me how you know this boy again.” Not really a boy, dad. Petra thought back to the first time she saw Emory. He had his brown, shoulder-length hair tied back with a leather thong, and had on soft, fawn-colored breeches and matching knee-high boots. His white shirt had billowed around a wide leather belt that hung about his hips. The small smile that curved his lips had sent a jolt of recognition up her spine, although she knew they’d never met. Yet. “We met at the stables.”

“In Orange County?” The forehead crease deepened. “Yes—at Bear Ranch.” “Huh. So, Zoe knows him.” “They definitely met. That doesn’t mean she re him.” “And what’s he doing here?” “Looking for work.” “Not a lot of horse stables in New York City.” “I didn’t say he worked at the stables.” “You didn’t say where he worked.” Her dad frowned out the window. “He’s not the reason you’re here, is he, Pet? Tell me you didn’t rearrange your life for this guy.” Petra sighed, leaned back in her seat, and gave her dad her best don’t-think-I’ma-moron look. “We bumped into each other here. There’s no crime in that.” “Okay, speaking of crimes...” Petra groaned. “I told you. Someone stole my purse. Emory got it back.” “And got into a fight.” “Not really his fault.” “Is that why he was arrested?” “He wasn’t arrested.” Petra’s voice sounded a lot like her dog’s growl. “Why isn’t he in school?” “He got accepted to med school.” In a different time dimension. Her dad folded his arms, conflicting emotions fleeting across his expression. “How old is he?”

Petra shrugged and decided to avoid the question. “He took the MCAT, and was accepted to the University of California.” She paused. “In Irvine,” she added, knowing that would please her dad. “So...why isn’t he there.” Petra shrugged. “He wanted a year off.” The crease returned. “What do his parents think about that?” “His parents are both dead. He was pretty much raised by Dr. Addington, a professor at Hudson Academy.” Instantly Petra knew she had made a mistake. Suspicion sparkled in his eyes. “Isn’t that the school you wanted to attend?” “Yes,” Petra drug out the word. “But think about it, Dad. If I was rearranging my life around Emory, why would I want to go to school on the East Coast, while he goes to med school in California?” Her dad drummed his fingers on his knee. “When are you coming home?” “I told Dee I’d stay and help at the gallery until after the holidays.” Well, maybe she hadn’t told her that yet, but she would the next time she saw Dee. He looked somewhat pacified. “I have another meeting out here in a few weeks. I thought we could spend Thanksgiving together.” “That’s great.” Petra tried to infuse enthusiasm in her voice. Her dad draped his arm across her shoulders, pulled her against him, and dropped a kiss on the top of her head. “I love you, Pet. If I sound harsh, it’s just because I’m so afraid of losing you.”

“COME, MY BOY. me by the fire.” Taisia motioned to a pair of wingback chairs flanking the marble fireplace. Emory followed her direction. “But is boy the proper term, I wonder?” Taisia asked as she settled down beside Emory. When Emory didn’t respond, she studied him as if his face could tell the signs of his age. “How old are you really?” She chuckled at his prolonged silence. “Of course, you can’t tell me. I should know that.” She sighed, flashed him a quick smile, and reached forward and ripped the front of his sweatshirt nearly in two. Emory stood, and the edge of something sharp pricked his skin. He stared at the bright red scratch that traveled from his breast to his navel. The wound healed in seconds. Taisia, still smiling, sat back in her chair. “Forgive me. I had to see if you had an amulet. Curious.” For Emory, the biggest curiosity was why he stayed in this room with this crazy woman. “Excuse me,” Emory said, wondering why he even bothered with civilities as he headed for the door. Taisia gave a high-pitched cackle. “You can’t go.” “I’m pretty sure I can.” Emory called over his shoulder as he held the sweatshirt together and strode toward the door. Taisia remained in her chair, her voice calm. “But we have so much to discuss. I know how to live forever, and you know how to thwart pain. We could help each other, you and I.” She cocked her head. “Are you not the least bit curious?” Emory, with his hand on the doorknob, paused. “You know how to live forever?” “I just said so, didn’t I?” She fingered the amulet that hung around her neck. Emory slowly turned back into the room. “How is this done?”

“You first, my dear.” She motioned to the wingback chair. “Tell me your secret over pain.” Emory made his way to the chair and slowly lowered himself into it. “I’m afraid you may have misunderstood. I feel pain.” “But you are not subjected to it.” “Everyone with a physical body is subject to pain.” Taisia smiled. “And pleasure.” Emory nodded. “Of course.” Taisia sighed and brushed back her gray hair with a hand gnarled and twisted with arthritis. “It’s so sad, so worthless, to have a prolonged life and yet still be subject to aches and pains.” Emory glanced around the room. China figurines, vases, and urns crowded shelves and table-tops. Photographs, yellowed with age, hung on the walls. Emory tried to read her age, but found it impossible. “Surely you must be interested in how I have lived so long.” “How long have you lived?” Emory asked. Taisia giggled, exposing her decaying teeth. “Don’t you know it’s impolite to ask one’s age?” Emory again stood to leave. “Oh, don’t be huffy, boy.” She studied him for a moment, twisted her lips, and also stood. “I shall make us some tea. Would you like that? No? Truly? Well, I should. I’m parched. Please sit. Make yourself at home. I shall return momentarily.” Emory waited until she had left the room before he stood to examine the photographs. Most were old, but some more than others. If he had a shared history, then perhaps he could better discern the ing eras. But as it was, the evolution of the cars, the rising and falling of the ladies hemlines, and the

metamorphosis of men’s hats told him little. A few landmarks he recognized: the Brooklyn Bridge, the Eiffel Tower, and even the Anichkov Bridge in St. Petersburg. Something about the photo rankled in the back of his mind, but he dismissed it when he heard the rattle of teacups on a tray. Trying to hold his ripped sweatshirt together, he sat and crossed his arms. Taisia placed the tray on the ottoman between them and poured two cups of steaming tea. Smiling, she raised a cup to her lips. “Is there nothing I can do to win your secrets?” “My lady, I have no secrets worth knowing.” She laughed again. “I didn’t think people like you could lie.” “People like me?” Emory picked up a cup. It smelled of nutmeg, cloves, and honey. “I once knew someone just like you. I loved him dearly.” Taisia sipped her tea, her eyes dancing, giving Emory the impression that she was waiting...and watching. He tasted the tea and felt its warmth slide down his throat and warm his belly. “Yes, my father. Everyone loved him. Although some feared him. He had tremendous power. You may have heard of him, Grigory Rasputin.” She watched Emory’s face closely, her eyes unblinking. “You haven’t heard of him? Odd.” She looked away, sadness seeping into her eyes. “You must have loved him dearly.” “Yes, you see, he never should have died.” “Is that the similarity you find in me?” Emory finished the tea and placed his cup on the tray. “Perhaps. That and the cyanide.” Taisia placed her cup beside Emory’s. “You see, shortly before my father’s death, he was given the same amount of cyanide that I just gave you. It would kill most mortals within minutes. I find it remarkable that it was of no effect on you.” She bit her lip, considering Emory.

“And yet, you don’t possess an amulet. How is that?” Emory placed his fingers on his temples, knowing he had been tricked, and wondering if he was being tricked still. The tea may or may not have been poisoned. He had no way of knowing. It warmed his belly but did little else. “Tell me about this amulet.” “Why should I?” “Fair enough. Tell me about your father, Grigory Rasputin.” Taisia closed her eyes, and pain touched her features. “Some called him a saint. Others demonized him.” “And which was he?” Her eyes fluttered open. “Perhaps a bit of both. You do not know? You are not aware he was the supreme mystic in the Romanov Court?” She smiled, flashing her yellow teeth at Emory. “Can you imagine a mystic in the White House today? Can you see yourself with such power?” “I am not a mystic.” “No, I didn’t think you were.” Taisia tapped her finger on the tray. “And yet, you cannot be harmed. Why is that?” “Why do you think your father couldn’t be harmed?” Taisia blinked. “Because of the amulet.” “And yet, you say he died.” She nodded. “Because he gave the amulet to me.” Her voice grew bitter. “I wish he hadn’t.” “You do not wish to live forever?” “No. I thought I did, but I’m tired now. At the time, I thought my father had bestowed me a great favor, but now I see what he must have seen long ago.” She sighed deeply. “So very long ago.”

“If you do not wish to continue, why not forsake the amulet?” “I cannot. It must be bestowed on someone worthy.” She paused. “And since I have come to know that eternal life is more a curse than a blessing—I cannot give it to someone I love.” Realization dawned on Emory. “You want to give it to me.” “Aha! I knew you were the missing piece of my puzzle.” Emory chuckled. “There is wisdom in your logic.” “Will you do it? Will take it from me?” “In the wrong hands, the amulet will be very dangerous.” “But not in your hands.” “How can you know that?” Taisia drew herself up and lifted her chin. “My father, despite all his foibles and debauchery, was indeed a holy man. I am his daughter. I can recognize goodness when I see it.” Slowly Taisia unbuttoned the top of her blouse and pulled out a once red, frayed ribbon. The amulet dangled between her sunken breasts. “Will you take it?” “Why not return it to its origins?” Emory wanted to study the medieval runes engraved on the gold talisman, but he couldn’t bring himself to get any closer. “But I do not know what those are. I don’t know where the amulet came from or why it exists.” “Can it be destroyed?” “Do you think I haven’t tried? It haunts me—follows me. I’ve thrown it into the river, only to find it the next day on my dressing table, smelling of fish. I have tried to melt it down, but it refuses to burn. I have exhausted every resource in a means to find its end. My father told me it cannot be destroyed, only granted. I need someone, someone like you, to return it to Heaven’s care.” She fingered the gold, and it glittered in the refracted firelight. Emory found it entrancing, and he

considered its power. He knew it was a dangerous gift to accept. “I assume you already possess immortality.” She held up her hand to stop Emory’s interruption. “You have the power to regenerate. Do not tell me how—I do not need to know. But the girl, she does not. Am I right?” Emory didn’t respond, but the expression on his face must have answered her question. “You love her,” Taisia continued. “And she loves you. The amulet ensures your future together. With this amulet you have the power to remain together.” As if Emory didn’t understand, she spoke slowly and carefully and enunciated her words. “All you have to do is give it to her, boy, and she is yours. Forever. How long have you been alive?” “I’m not really alive.” Emory’s voice cracked. “Semantics.” Taisia waved her hand. “Let me rephrase my question. How long have you been on Earth?” “I died 1410.” “Goodness, so long. Much longer than my mere century and some.” She cocked her head at him, studying him. “You must be tired and lonely.” Emory blinked, acknowledging her assessment. “How long will you continue thus?” “’Tis not so bad.” The prospect of sharing a life with Petra made it much better. But he couldn’t give her the amulet. It would have to be destroyed before it could canker her soul, or his. Emory knew the dangers of living with black magic. But still, the temptation was strong. Taisia stood and drew the amulet from around her neck. Emory stopped her. “Do you not worry what will happen to you?” The amulet hung between them, swinging slightly in an otherwise undetected

breeze. “I have no fear of death. I welcome it.” She breathed a heavy sigh. “I have been waiting for someone like you for a very long time.” She dropped the amulet over Emory’s head. After placing a bony hand on his chest, she whispered, “Это ваш.” It is yours. “As long as I have the medallion I shall never die.” She smiled and patted his chest with her long pointy fingers. “But you—you are special—just like my papa. You are already in Heaven’s employ. You can return this dark magic to Heaven’s care. Or, if you choose, keep the girl with you always.” But Emory knew that was something he could never do, for if he did, he would risk losing the Petra he loved forever. The black magic would change her. But it would also, in the short term, keep her safe.

The Mime Shirt

CHAPTER 7

The autumn chill bit through Emory’s severed sweatshirt as he headed for Petra’s aunt’s gallery. New York, laid out on a grid, was easy to navigate now that he knew where to go, but he also had to replace his clothes before meeting Petra’s family. He scanned the buildings as he walked, careful not to trip over anyone on the busy sidewalks. No one seemed to notice or care that his sweatshirt hung open. Maybe a few cast the amulet a curious glance, but Emory knew that Petra would react much differently. He couldn’t tempt her. She mustn’t ever know the amulet’s power. Perhaps Taisia’s fantastic story proved untrue? The thought made Emory pause. The crowd around him surged as he stood stock still, gazing up at the sky, hoping for answers, but receiving only compounding questions. “It must be granted,” Taisia had said. But if everything Taisia had said was true, Emory knew that it could prove the destruction of most men. He toyed with the temptation to fling it in the Hudson, or melt it in an incinerator, just to see what would happen. But he couldn’t risk it falling into the wrong hands. If he could find Rohan, he could it off to him. But finding Rohan had proved much harder than he had ever thought. Holding his sweatshirt closed, he braced against the sharp wind and looked for another GAP. His path took him past the library. He hesitated on the steps for only a moment. He knew the library couldn’t answer all his questions, but he did know that if Rasputin was the man Taisia claimed him to be, the library could help him find some answers.

A FEW HOURS LATER, Emory spotted Petra through a two-story tall window. Paintings in an array of sizes of styles scattered over the startling white walls. The art appeared similar to an Elizabethan style, but Emory didn’t recognize the artist. He found none of the pieces as captivating as the girl in the middle of the room, frowning at her tools in her hand. Pushing open the door, he let himself in. Petra’s smile froze when she saw him, and she nearly dropped her hammer. “Oh my gosh, what are you wearing?” Emory glanced down at his black and white striped shirt, and tugged at the zipper that ran down the middle to cover the amulet’s ribbon. “I met a man, a very red-faced, angry man, who was about to throw this in the trash.” Petra blinked at him. “And you stopped him?” Emory struggled to keep his expression open and guileless. “It reminded me of the mind.” “The mime,” Petra corrected him, her lips twitching. “You wanted to dress like the mime?” “I didn’t want to meet your family in a shirt proclaiming that I had lost my head.” He pulled a contraption from his pocket. “Besides, the man gave me this as well.” Emory raised the small, black device to his lips, but before he could blow into it, Petra placed her hand on his arm, stopping him. “I know what a whistle can do.” She looked him up and down before wrapping a finger through the belt loop of his delish pants and pulling him close. Emory glanced around. They appeared to be alone, but the soaring windows ensured their complete lack of privacy. Beyond the window, the sidewalks teemed with people coming and going. He leaned into her, unable to resist, but looked around at the nearly empty space. “Where is your family?” Petra frowned up at him, her lips both pouty and puckered. He wanted to kiss her, as he knew she wanted to be kissed, but he dare not do it.

“My aunt is at the bank, my dad is in a meeting, and my little sister and stepmother are at the Natural History Museum.” “I went there.” ing the bone monsters, Emory shivered and hoped Petra didn’t notice. “When will I meet them?” “Tonight at dinner.” Petra fiddled with the zipper on his shirt. He stayed her hand, grinned and distracted her with a kiss. She relaxed against him with a sigh as he lifted his lips. “Why are you kissing a referee?” a high pitched voice asked. Emory took a hasty step back, and Petra raised her hammer as if to use it as a weapon. Emory found himself smiling. He had seen Petra battle villains and demons, but he had never before seen the look of frustration that she currently wore as she faced a tiny, freckly redhead. The child wore purple, leather boots, an orange button-down sweater, and a polka-dot pink skirt. Beside the girl stood a woman in a splotchy red, gypsy-type skirt and a flowing white blouse. So, why then did Petra mock his clothes? “I know you,” the girl said, pointing her finger at Emory. “You do?” Emory and Petra asked at the same time. “Sure,” the girl took a few steps closer, her boots clanking the wooden floor. “I saw you at the museum. You were scared of the dinosaurs.” “Isn’t everyone afraid of—” he paused for a moment, offering a prayer that he could properly pronounce the word, “dinosaurs?” “No,” the child scoffed. “No one is afraid of dinosaur bones.” “Are you telling me that if a collection of bronto bones came charging at you, you wouldn’t run and scream?” Petra challenged the girl. Brontos? Were they not discussing dinosaurs? Petra slipped her hand into his and gave his fingers an encouraging squeeze.

“Laurel, Zoe, this is Emory.” Emory tried to smile while Laurel and Zoe stared at him with two pairs of identical blue, unfriendly eyes. Zoe turned her gaze to Petra. “What happened to your hair? Why is it that funny color?” “I wanted a change,” Petra said through clenched teeth. “Huh,” Zoe grunted. “Weird.” Laurel recovered her manners. “Nice to meet you, Emory. How did you meet Petra?” Emory’s mind raced back to Dorrington, England’s busy marketplace before jumping to her sudden appearance in Tarrytown, New York, 1810. Neither answer, although both honest, seemed appropriate...or believable. “At the Renaissance fair last May.” Petra smiled at Zoe. “You him, don’t you? He let you ride the stallion.” Zoe narrowed her eyes and ran her gaze up and down Emory before returning her hostility to Petra. “You mean when you ditched me for Kyle?” Petra blew out a puff of air. “I didn’t ditch you.” Laurel curtailed the brewing argument with a question. “You’re from Orange County?” “Not originally,” Emory said. “I’m from England. I’m here studying.” He was learning so much in this strange place and time that, at least, was true. Laurel’s expression brightened. “Oh, where do you go to school?” “My—” Emory searched for the right word, “guardian is a professor at the Hudson River Academy.” The wariness in Laurel’s gaze returned as her attention flicked back to Petra. “Isn’t that where you want to attend?”

Petra nodded and squeezed Emory’s hand in what he recognized as a defensive gesture. “What are you studying?” Laurel asked. “I plan to attend medical school.” “But—” Laurel stammered, “I thought Hudson River is a liberal arts school.” Emory felt Petra’s tension radiating toward him. “Who says doctors can’t be artsy or liberal?” “Or referees?” Zoe piped in. “But I don’t think they offer the science classes he needs.” Laurel’s shoulders sank a fraction and she looked around as if tired of Emory. “Is your aunt here?” “She went to the bank.” Petra put her hand on her hair, patting its raggedy edges. Laurel gave a short, fast nod before her attention wandered to the paintings lining the walls. Taking in the unicorns frolicking with centaurs, Laurel’s lips tightened. She placed her hand on Zoe’s wild curls. “We should go, Zoe.” She turned to Petra with a tight smile. “We’re going to the top of the Empire State Building,” Zoe said. “I went there just this morning,” Petra said. “You were supposed to meet us there,” Zoe said. “Dad was mad when you didn’t show up.” “But I did—” “Then where were you?” Zoe asked. Laurel ran a hand over her eyes. “I...saw someone else I know, and he said that he had sent the text. I guess he tricked me.” “Tricked you? You’re pretty easily tricked. How did you think he had sent you a

text using Dad’s phone?” Petra looked like she was drowning. Emory wondered who she had met and why she hadn’t mentioned meeting anyone before. Giving her a sideways glance, he instantly knew that she had met Dane...and that something had happened. “If you went this morning, why go again?” Emory asked. Was it really just that morning? So much had happened. So much had changed. So much more than just his shirt. “Because we spent all our time waiting around in the lobby for Petra,” Zoe said, using a tone that clearly suggested she considered Emory as stupid as a donkey. “Besides, Dad says that this time will be better because we can see the city lights at night.” Zoe was right. Night had fallen. At last, the long day had ended. But where would he sleep? He supposed he would have to go back to Rohan’s. Since he had lost the Schwinn, he would have to take a train. Petra would stay here with her family. The thought of separation pained him. “We’ll see you at dinner?” Laurel asked. Petra nodded. “Ginger’s Spice Place off Times Square,” Laurel reminded her. “Vegan,” Zoe muttered, wrinkling her nose. “We’ll be there,” Petra promised. Laurel and Zoe walked out the door, letting in a waft of cold November air and the sounds of the city. Their departure brought a sudden, sharp silence. “Laurel dislikes me,” Emory said after a moment. “Why do you think that? Just because she doesn’t trust you, doesn’t mean that she doesn’t like you.” Petra tucked her finger back through his belt loop. “Everyone likes you.” She tugged him closer. “Especially females. Most especially me.”

Petra stood on her toes and planted a kiss on his lips. “Although, you can’t wear a referee shirt to dinner, even if we’re going vegan.”

PETRA BOUGHT HIM A button-down shirt and a brown leather jacket with her magic plastic card. Running her hands across his shoulders, she smiled, obviously pleased with her purchase. Emory kept his arms at his sides, resisting the urge to touch the medallion around his neck. He couldn’t draw Petra’s attention to it, and he wondered that she hadn’t, as yet, notice its outline beneath the cotton shirt. “Nervous?” she asked. He nodded. “Well, you shouldn’t be.” Petra sounded brittle. “They loved you before and they’ll love you again.” She slid her hand into his and led him out of the store and onto the sidewalk. Mist fell, coating the street in a glimmering sheen. Lights in every color sparkled around them, and the cars rushed past, like a river of sound. Emory squeezed Petra’s hand and followed her without a word. An itch on the back of his neck told him they were being watched. Draping his arm around Petra’s shoulder, he kissed her hair, using the gesture as an excuse to gaze over her shoulder. People in every shape and size surged around him. He thought of the wide-open spaces of his past life with a pang of longing. He tightened his hold of Petra, wanting nothing more than the pleasure of being with her, even if that meant living in a tide of humanity in New York City. She smiled up at him, making him forget the itch on the back of his neck. “, my dad—” her words broke off. “What is it?” Emory followed her stare and realized he had asked the wrong question. Who not what. Annie and Dane stood outside Ginger’s Spice Place. Dane, dressed in all black, lounged against the brick wall. Annie stood beside him, her collar turned up against the chilly mist. Neither had noticed them. Yet. “Introducing my parents to one immortal was going to be drama enough,” Petra whispered, “but three is just impossible.” Emory looked past Annie and Dane and into the restaurant’s dining room. He

spotted Zoe’s bright curls, and Laurel’s gypsy garb. A man dressed in a dark suit, white shirt, and red tie sat beside them. While Laurel and Zoe studied their menus, the man kept glancing around with a scowl wrinkling his forehead. Emory knew that this must be Petra’s father, and that he was worried about her. On the sidewalk, Annie and Dane stood. Like Petra’s father, they also waited. Guilt tugged at Emory. If not for him, Petra would be with her family or perhaps studying history at the university. She would not be trying to dodge Satan’s agents. Or would she? He had most certainly not arranged for her to fall into his lap in 1610, nor had he expected to see her again in 1810—and 2010? Everything about 2010 was beyond his imagination. “At least Thaddeus isn’t here.” “Thaddeus?” Petra stuttered. “I thought he died.” “No one ever really dies,” Emory told her. “I thought you understood that.” “But...” He could tell she didn’t understand. And how could she, really? There were some things that one had to experience to understand. “Come on,” Petra whispered, tugging at his hand. Emory wanted to tell her that Annie and Dane couldn’t be avoided indefinitely, but he pressed his lips closed and followed Petra, deciding that she was right. He didn’t want to confront Annie and Dane and try to make a good impression on Petra’s family all at the same time. They turned down a dark and smelly alley. Heavy shadows hung between the towering buildings, nearly hiding the doors and windows overlooking the narrow age. Petra scanned each door, before selecting the green one with a red tomato painted on it. She pulled it open. Emory stared at the shiny white and chrome kitchen. Dozens of people, all dressed in stain-splattered white coats, were too busy to look up and greet them. While they hesitated in the alley, unsure of what to do and where to go, an enormous man rounded on them.

“Hey, you. Can we help you?” Petra opened her mouth, but nothing came out. “We apologize. Wrong door,” Emory said, and he let it shut. Darkness filled the alley again, and Emory found it symbolic. Was he keeping Petra from a normal life filled with people who loved her? How could he build her a life free from demons? He resolved to try. He didn’t really know where to turn now, but because of the flagon, they could go anywhere, to any time. Turning to her, he took her face in his hands. “Do you love me?” She blinked at him. “You know I do.” “Will you do something for me?” “You know I’ll do anything for you.” “Then you must go and be with your family. I will take care of Annie and—” “No!” “But you just said—” “I know what I said.” Petra took hold of both of his hands. “I’ll do anything you ask, except for leave you. We stay together.” The corners of Emory’s lips twitched. “You know that we can’t always be together, right?” “Maybe not every second...” “Okay, so for this second, or for the next few thousands of seconds, I want you to your family. I’ll meet you tomorrow morning at your aunt’s gallery.” “What am I going to tell my dad?” “The truth.” “The truth? That’s nuts. I can’t tell my dad that you decided you needed to send

some wayward souls back to Hell.” Emory grinned. “Who said they are wayward? Who says they’re going to Hell?” “Ugh. I hate arguing with you.” He touched her cheek. “And I hate arguing with you.” “Then you should just agree with everything I say.” “I agree.” Emory rested his forehead against hers. “As long as you agree to everything I say.” “That’s not ever going to happen, is it?” “Of course not.” Petra blew out a sigh. “I didn’t think so.” “It’s a nice thought, but it never works.” He threaded his fingers through hers, to lead her back toward the sidewalk, where the lights were brighter and the sounds of the city louder, but they didn’t get that far. Shrouded in the darkness, Annie and Dane lounged against the wall. Beside him, Petra hesitated when Dane raised his eyes to hers. “Just go,” Emory urged her, ignoring the crazy tangle of his emotions as he tried to decipher the look Dane sent Petra. “ your family. Let me handle Dane and Annie.” “I’m not leaving you,” Petra said through clenched teeth. “You can’t make me.” Dane pushed away from the wall and sauntered toward them. He had his gaze locked on Petra. Lust and something else—something that looked like ownership —burned in his eyes. Petra took a step back, bumping into Emory. His warmth sent her a reassuring comfort that steadied her. With Emory’s strength backing her, Dane couldn’t hurt her. The memory of flying in Dane’s arms returned, but Petra mentally shrugged it away, knowing that Emory would keep her grounded and secure in his

embrace and love. “Do not be afraid of him,” Emory whispered in her ear. “He cannot hurt you.” Dane drew a knife. Its long blade glistened in the moonlight, shining like a handheld star. “I know this won’t seem like it, but I’m actually doing you both a favor,” he said as he plunged the blade into Petra’s heart. “Now you can be together forever.”

Visions of Petra

CHAPTER 8

“Y ou fool,” Emory said as he held Petra upright. Her blood, warm and sticky, pulsed around his hand. Visions of Petra flitted through Emory—memories of their past encounters as well as projections of his hopes for their future together. Petra in her blue ball gown and shiny tiara throwing a rotting turnip at young Lord Fallstaff. Petra wearing his ring in the gypsy camp. A future Petra holding his child...He couldn’t let her die here in this dirty New York City alleyway. But if he did let her go, he would go with her. And Dane would win. No. It couldn’t end here. Not like this. Not now. A warm surge of strength told him that Petra’s life mission wasn’t at an end yet. Knowing the real and imagined dangers, Emory slowly drew the amulet forth. Holding Petra against him with one arm wrapped around her, he pulled the medallion from around his neck. It glistened in the moonlight. Feeling the weight of Dane and Annie’s curious eyes, he placed it over Petra’s head and whispered, “Это ваш.” It is yours. Dane stepped back as Petra slowly regained her strength and color flooded back into her cheeks. “What the hell?” Dane sputtered. Blood dripped from the knife gripped in his hand. “Yes, Hell, exactly where you belong,” Emory said without looking away from Petra’s face. He watched her ashen skin turn pink again; color returned to her gray lips.

“What happened?” Petra asked him. Relief flooded through Emory. Until that moment, he hadn’t been certain of the amulet’s power. Reluctantly, Emory tore his gaze away from Petra’s sweet face. He had to deal with Dane. Petra’s death had to be avenged. But when Emory searched the dark alley, Dane and Annie could not be found. Anger shook Emory. The swell of it coursed through him. Tenderly, he helped Petra to her feet. Running his hands up and down her arms, he asked, “How do you feel?” “I’m fine...just confused.” Petra’s fingers touched her torn and bloody shirt before traveling up to the amulet. “What just happened?” Emory drew her into a tight embrace. He knew he was probably smothering her, but at that moment, if he could, he wanted nothing more than to press her into himself and make her a physical part of who he was. They belonged together, always. But he didn’t know how to make that happen. The fear of losing her rifled through him. He had to protect her from Annie, Dane, and any other of Satan’s agents. And he didn’t know how to do that, either. He slid his hands down her arms and took possession of her hands. Taking one step back, he said, “Go.” Emory lifted the medallion and slid it inside her blouse. Then he pushed her toward the sidewalk. “ your family. You are safe for the moment. I will meet you as soon as I can.” “No!” Petra’s eyes pleaded with him. “Do not leave me!” Emory shook his head. “I have to find Dane. The medallion will keep you safe. Trust its power.” “But what is it?” She fingered the amulet. “How can I trust something I don’t understand?” Emory laughed softly. “That, my dear, is the nature of faith.” “I have faith in you...”

“That’s not enough.” He grabbed her hand. “Listen, Pet, if it had been your time to die, nothing could have saved you. Not me. Not an amulet. Heaven marks our days, and no one else.” His eyes met hers, willing her to understand. Petra took a few faltering steps away from him, one hand covering what should have been a mortal wound, and another hand resting on the medallion. Emory pulled her sweater closed and buttoned it up to hide the bloodstains. Sick regret washed over him. Endangering Petra had been a mistake, but giving her the medallion was probably an even bigger one, and yet he knew everything he said was true. He had made a mess, and somehow, someway, he had to clean it up. Taking Petra’s hand he led them out of the alley and out onto the sidewalk. All around them, people walked, some fast, some slow, not one of them knowing the miracle that had happened just a few feet away, not one of them suspecting the miracle that was Petra, even though she ed right by them.

PETRA’S LEGS SHOOK as Emory pushed her through the restaurant’s doors. She watched him leave and felt lost without him. Shock, her mind told her. I’m in shock. Blood pinged through her, and her nerves tingled. Heat radiated from her center so much that she had to look at the mirror hanging in the restaurant foyer to see if she looked as strangely as she felt. Her bright eyes stared back at her. Her cheeks flushed under her scrutiny. She looked pink, but not too much. She peeked at the bloody tear in her shirt. Her smooth skin looked healthy, much healthier than it should just minutes after a knife wound. What had happened? A waitress caught her eye in the mirror, and Petra quickly rebuttoned her sweater, hiding the raggedy, bloody shirt and her exposed skin. She flashed the menu-carrying waitress a smile, before turning to the dining room, searching for her family. She spotted her dad first, just like she usually did. For many years, he had been her universe. They had been close before her mother died, but living together, just the two of them trying to reconstruct a life without her mom, it had been a lot like her raggedy shirt. They had tried to cover up the emptiness, tried to patch up the hole left by death, but eventually, he had found Laurel, who came with Zoe, and then life wasn’t as empty anymore. Still, Petra wasn’t used to keeping secrets from her dad, and she hated lying to him. Touching the medallion beneath her clothes, tracing its outline, she tried to not think about it. But it was hard. Part of her wanted to rush back outside, confront Emory, and even Dane, and demand answers to all her millions of questions. But her dad noticed her, stood, and waved. She couldn’t ignore him or there would be hell to pay—and more questions. Questions that Petra couldn’t answer. So she gave the waitress another wavering smile before nodding in her dad’s direction. “I see my family over there.”

Sliding into the booth beside Zoe, Petra tried to act normal. Her blood continued to ping, her nerves still tingled, and everything inside of her made her feel like a brand new comic-book hero with just discovered superpowers. She felt capable of jumping high buildings and outrunning speeding bullets, but not so capable of sitting still and making chit-chat with her parents and step-sister. Her legs bounced, and even her hair felt jittery. “Hey,” she said, scooting in. Zoe frowned, Laurel looked up from of her menu to give her a look that could have meant anything from don’t you dare order anything that’s not organic to why are you so fidgety, and her dad studied with a crease wrinkling his forehead. “So, how was the top of the Empire State Building?” Petra asked. Zoe’s frown deepened and Laurel returned her attention to the menu. No one responded for a couple of seconds, and then Zoe blurted out, “It wasn’t my fault.” Petra sent her dad a questioning glance and he met her gaze. His twitching lips told her he was trying not to laugh. “That bird had to have been sick, or something.” Zoe picked up her menu and held it in front of her face. “I mean, birds just don’t fall over dead like that.” Petra slid her gaze over to Zoe and saw that, despite her outraged tone, Zoe’s lips quivered. Petra patted Zoe’s knee, trying to comfort her. “None of this would have happened if you had just let me stay at home,” Zoe said without lowering the menu. “You know that wasn’t an option,” Laurel said. “Most people would love to spend a weekend in New York,” her dad said. Zoe slammed down her menu so that she could glare at the parentals. “The only horses I’ve seen so far are the ones pulling those stupid carriages. I mean, how pathetic is that? Horses belong in a field, or on a trail. They don’t want to spend their lives shitting all over the streets of New York City.”

Laurel sucked in her breath, a tell-tale sign of an approaching lecture. Petra’s dad slowly lowered his menu to study Zoe as if she was an alien creature. Petra tried not to smile, and folded her arms so that she couldn’t hug Zoe and thank her for diverting her parent’s attention. “Not quite feeling the New York vibe, Zoe?” Petra asked at the same time Laurel began the young-lady speech. Zoe harrumphed and disappeared behind her menu again. “If you do not apologize for your language right now—” Laurel stopped midsentence, clearly unable, for some reason, to think up a good threat. Petra turned and saw Emory winding his way through the dining room. The dimmed lighting touched on his hair, and his expression glowed with warmth. Petra turned back to her stepmother. Sometimes she forgot how others reacted to Emory. She tried to the first time she had met him. Had she been as charmed? Probably. Standing, she waved at him. “Dad, this is Emory. The friend I was telling you about.” Her dad swiveled in his chair so that he could size up Emory, while Petra settled back on the bench and scooted closer to Zoe, making room for Emory to squeeze in. “You already met Laurel and Zoe, but I really want you to meet my dad.” Emory shook hands with both her parents before he sat beside her, his thigh pressing against hers. Laurel tried to hide her enthralled expression behind her menu. Her dad cleared his throat. “So, Emory, why don’t you tell us about yourself?” Emory gave her dad the magic smile that worked so well on females, and not nearly as well on middle-aged men. “What would you like to know?”

Her dad opened his mouth, but whatever he had been about to say was drowned out by the sound of shattering glass. Everyone at their table, and most of the people in the restaurant, jumped to their feet, except for Emory. He tugged on Petra’s hand, calling her attention to the flagon. While glass shards sparkled in the air, Emory handed her the flask. “Quick,” he whispered. Petra gave her family a quick glance to make sure they were safe. All three of them had slipped beneath the table, and her dad had his arms around Laurel and Zoe, pulling them close. They huddled together with their heads bent. Annie and Dane sat in the front seat of the car that had plunged through the wide windows. “Your family will be safer with you gone,” Emory said, wrapping his hand around her hand holding the flask. Without argument, Petra pulled off the stopper and the scent of the ale wafted to her. Pine mixed with ginger and nutmeg filled her head. She lifted the flagon. Emory steadied her. As soon as the ale ed through her lips she would have fallen, except for Emory. Emory took the flagon as it slipped from her fingers and drank. Seconds later, Petra defied gravity, floating away as if carried on a gentle, yet impossibly strong breeze.

EMORY HAD TO FOCUS. Petra had no idea of his plan, and he hated that she might think he intentionally deceived her. She probably thought they were to travel back to Tarrytown to undo the mess they had made—to avoid ever meeting Ichabod Dane and Annie Walker, but Emory had other plans. The pleasant sensation lulled him and dulled all of his senses, but he had to remain focused. His eyes swam, his head grew heavy, and he fell.

Russia

CHAPTER 9

Petra woke as a donkey -pulled wagon rumbled by. A trio of dirty-faced kids in brown cloth tunics gazed at her with wide eyes from their perch in the wagon. Their rags made Petra extra cold. Shivering, she sat up and saw Emory standing beside her, overlooking a crowded marketplace. Petra tried to orient herself. She rubbed her eyes, hoping that she would see something different when she opened them again. “Добрый день!” She blinked at Emory. “Russia? We’re in Russia?” He laughed, but it sounded off. “Well, where did you want to go?” “Not to Russia!” She looked around. Farmers, artisans, and peddlers shared the square, competing for business, breathing the same foul air. Hawkers called out, voices rising in an indecipherable din above the bellow of cows and the snorts of pigs. “Especially not to Russia without coats!” Emory held up his hands, quieting her. “Wait here.” “No!” She grabbed his hand. “You don’t get to tell me where to go and what to do. Taking me here without talking to me about it first was wrong!” “I’m sorry, Pet.” “That’s not really good enough, Emory. Just because you’re six hundred years older than me doesn’t mean that I don’t get to have a say on where I go and what I do.”

“Do you want to me? Or would you rather wait here and be mad?” He tugged her toward him. “Where are you going?” She locked her knees and planted her feet, refusing to move. “First, to find coats, hats, and boots.” He placed his hands on either side of her face. “Second, we must find Rasputin.” And then he kissed her. As if that could distract her. Okay, it did. Some. But Rasputin? She followed Emory through the market. It seemed everything was for sale: apples, cheese, clocks, dishes, goblets, harps, oil paintings. Emory stopped by a wagon holding a pile of fur. “Сколько?” Emory said. “You speak Russian?” She had thought she knew everything about him, and now this. What were they doing here? Why would he bring her here? Emory nodded. “I have traveled some.” Petra bit her lip, watching the transaction, thinking of what her stepmother would say if she knew Petra even thought of wearing animal furs and wondering what, exactly, was the definition of ‘some.’ Emory paid with a gold coin and draped a coat over her shoulders and placed a tall furry hat on her head. Immediately she felt better, warmer, and more invincible, but she still wasn’t happy. “Everyone will think I’m a guy.” Emory gave her a crooked grin and pulled the hat down so that it nearly covered her eyes. “And that is a good thing.” He tucked her hair up under her hat. She shrugged into the smelly coat, conceding his point. Watching him slip into what looked a lot like a bearskin rug, she asked, “Why are we looking for Rasputin?” Everything she knew about Rasputin she had learned from the Disney movie, Anastasia. Suspicion tingled her thoughts. “Do you know what year this is?”

“If I am correct, it is 1916.” “1916—are you crazy?” She looked around. Many people watched her through slitted and suspicious eyes, but she hoped none of them spoke English. “This is not a good time to be in Russia.” She racked her memories of her AP world history class. She loved history, and that class had been her favorite, so she knew that in 1916, Russia was on the verge of a revolution. And she also knew that Emory couldn’t know that, or else he wouldn’t have brought her here. “Is there ever a good time to be in Russia?” Petra thought of everything she knew about the beleaguered country to finally whispered, “I don’t know.” Her mind went to the stories of the revolution, of frozen corpses lining the streets and women and children killing each other over loaves of stale bread. “But I do know that you bringing us here now is NOT OKAY.” She took a deep breath. “And that car smashing into the restaurant? What about my parents? How are they not going flip when they can’t find me?” “I don’t know the answers to everything, Petra. I just want to keep you safe.” “So you brought me to Russia?” She waved her arms toward the marketplace. “The Russian Revolution is your idea of a safe place and time?” “Dane isn’t here. Besides, what do you know of Rasputin?” Emory asked. “What do you know?” she challenged. “I asked you first.” Petra chewed on her lip. “Not much. There was the movie about the last surviving child of the Russian Royal Family, Anastasia, who hooks up with two con men to reunite her with her grandmother, the Empress, while the undead Rasputin tries to kill her.” Petra paused as an idea sunk in. “Wait—you don’t believe Rasputin was really an immortal, do you? And how do you know about Rasputin?” Emory took her hand and led her out of the crowded square. His hand felt tickly warm. Together they slipped into a dark alley, away from the market’s chaos. Emory propped his shoulder against the wall and faced her. “They say he was given enough cyanide to finish off ten horses. He took a dozen bullets and an ax

to the head. In the end, they still had to drown him.” Emory handed her the boots and motioned for her to put them on. “I’m wondering if he was the one who really drowned.” Petra slipped off one shoe and stepped into a boot. “But he did die.” Emory raised his eyebrows as he watched her trade shoes. “Did he?” Petra considered this and wiggled her toes in the just barely too big, but furry and warm boots. “I don’t know.” She abandoned her shoes. “But I do know that you—” Emory grinned before he finished her sentence. “Were wrong to bring you here without permission.” Petra glared at him. Emory took her arm and steered the conversation back to Rasputin. “It is speculated that it was another body pulled from the river.” Petra’s curiosity helped her to feel less mad. “Then where is he? Where did he go?” Emory smiled. “That is why we are here. The medallion belonged to Rasputin. So, it’s not as if he was/is an immortal, but that the talisman that allows him to be. We need to destroy that medallion or return it to Heaven for safekeeping.” “My medallion?” Emory watched her through half-lowered eyelids. “’Tis not yours, Pet.” “But—why destroy it?” She imagined the weight of the medallion as it pressed against her. She loved the way it made her feel, but most importantly, she loved what she guessed it could do, what it might mean for her, for Emory, and their future. “We cannot keep it.” Emory touched her cheek, his hand as gentle as his words were painful. “But Emory, don’t you see? Don’t you get it?” Her fingers touched where the

medallion should have been. “Now I can stay with you. With this, I can be like you. I can feel it. This—whatever it is—makes me stronger. We already saw what happened with Dane—” Emory shook his head. “This is dark magic. It will destroy you.” “No.” Petra took a step away from him. “It will save me.” Emory shook his head again, took her hand, and led her out of the alley. Petra opened her mouth to say something, but thought better of it and closed it again. At least they were safe from Annie and Dane. But as they left the quiet alley and returned to the tumult of the marketplace, she decided that they weren’t safe at all. “Is it 1916 before or after Rasputin’s death?” Petra asked, even though she really didn’t want to know. “It won’t be long now.” Petra stopped in the middle of the road. “We can’t interfere. You know that, right? We can’t play with major historical events.” He touched her cheek. “I know, Petra.” She caught his hand. “What are we doing here then, Emory? What do you really want to know?” Emory took a deep breath before he began. “They called Rasputin a holy man. He was neither a monk nor a saint. He never belonged to any order or religious sect. He was considered a strannik and a starets.” “I don’t know what any of that means.” “A mystic and a faith healer.” Emory shot her a quick glance. “But he did not live a monk’s life. It would seem he still held Heaven’s power, but he did not live by Heaven’s rules.” “Emory.” Caution laced Petra’s voice. “I don’t like this.”

Emory turned to face her. “I’m not comfortable with you here, either. If I could feel safe sending you home, I would.” He shook his head. “But I fear that you are safer here with me than you would be in 2010 where Dane can find you.” “But other than Dane—I was pretty safe.” Petra looked at the rows of soldiers lining the streets, their fingers poised on the triggers of their guns. “I don’t think anyone is safe here.” “Listen. We will find a place for you to hide. I only want to see Rasputin before and after his death to be sure he truly died. And then we must return the medallion to the place it was created.” “What you really want to know is how and why Dane and Annie can live in Limbo without following Heaven’s command. That’s what you really want, isn’t it?” Emory looked at his boots and Petra ducked her head so that he had to meet her gaze. “I don’t blame you, Emory. You’ve been on Heaven’s errand for six hundred years.” He took her hand and pulled her close. “I want to be with you, Petra, really be with you. I want to marry you, have children with you, grow old, and die with you.” “I want that too.” She squeezed his hand. “I want to live a normal, human life with you—not as Heaven’s agent, but as a man. A human, earthly man. Is that so wrong?” “It doesn’t matter if it’s wrong or right. What matters is if it’s possible.” Emory blew out a breath. “For others, it is possible.” “One of those others being Rasputin.” Petra swallowed. “But if you can’t be like me, then why not let me be like you?” “No.” Emory got a faraway look in his eyes, as if he could see things that she couldn’t. “I want to be with you always. Not just while we’re on Earth, but forever. For most, Earth is a brief sojourn.”

“But not for you, so why not let me stay with you?” “I would if I could, but it’s not that simple.” He reached out and touched her as if he could feel the medallion beneath the layers of fur and clothes. “This guarantees us nothing, but a few short years. Eventually, we will have to face eternity.” He paused. “And I want to do it together.” “I want that, too.” “Then let us destroy this black magic before it corrupts you the way it did Rasputin.” “I’m not Rasputin.” “Yes, thank goodness.” Emory stepped closer and planted a short kiss on her lips. “I know I can’t believe all the rumors. I know that there are myths mingled with truth. I just want to see him.” “To see him? Or to ask him where he got the medallion?” “Taisia Aristov told me about the talisman.” Emory’s voice carried a tone of urgency. “She’s the one who gave it to me. At first, it seemed unbelievable and sensationalistic. But what can be more unbelievable than our own stories?” Petra followed Emory into a small café. He led her to a table near a roaring fire and pulled out a chair. “Here, sit. I will buy us food.” Her skin tingled as it slowly warmed. The heat flushed her cheeks, and her fingers lost their stiffness. She watched as Emory approached the counter and took note of the stone floor, plaster walls, and low wood ceiling. Everything looked clean—except for the men in the room. She glanced around at the greasy hair, dirt-encrusted fingernails, and unwashed tunics. She didn’t see any women. ing she was supposed to be a guy, she tucked her chin into her coat’s collar to hide her whiskerless chin. Emory returned moments later. “I ordered borshch and pirozhki.” She didn’t ask what either of those were, because she didn’t want to know. Emory settled into a chair beside her. “Tomorrow will not be the first attempt on

Rasputin’s life.” He glanced around, and then as if confident no one could understand English, he continued, “I did some research on him in the library. In 1914, Rasputin traveled with his father from the capital to Pokrovskoye. After dining on a Sunday afternoon, Rasputin left the house and was attacked by a poor, peasant woman. She concealed her face with a black kerchief, approached him, and pulled out a dagger. She stabbed him in the stomach, just above the navel, exposing his entrails. After ten hours, a doctor arrived and operated on him in the middle of the night. Later, the Tsar sent his own physician and, after almost seven weeks in the hospital, Rasputin recovered, even though he had reportedly died.” Emory fell silent as a man as big as a bull arrived with their food. Petra hoped that the utensils that the man had used were cleaner than his apron. “Okay, but then why did I recovered immediately when Dane stabbed me?” Petra poked the folded pastry on her plate with her spoon. “What’s in that?” “Potatoes, meat, cabbage, and cheese.” “Sounds harmless and smells good.” Emory grinned at her, and Petra waved her fork at him. “I’m still not happy about being here.” “I know, and I am truly sorry. I could think of no other way.” He set down his spoon and pinned her with his gaze. “If I had said to you that I wanted the ale to travel to the heart of the Russian Revolution so that I could meet Rasputin, a reported heretic and man, to discover if he was a wayward immortal, what would you have said?” Petra gazed into her soup at the floating bits of beets. “Exactly.” Emory bit into the pastry. “And I didn’t want to leave you alone, not with Dane and Annie. Tonight Rasputin will receive a telephone call, begging his attendance at the Youssupov Palace. I shall wait for him in his apartment.” She reached for his hand and curled her fingers through his. “What makes you think that he’ll tell us where he got the amulet?” Emory shrugged. “Perhaps he won’t. Perhaps I will have to find out some other

way.” “When do we go?” “We will rent a room at that inn.” He nodded at a building across the way. “You will wait for me there.” Petra blinked at him. “Do you really think you can ditch me at an inn while you go and talk to a wayward immortal?” Emory smiled. “Yes.” “Huh—no. Especially not now that I have the medallion. You don’t have to worry about me. I’m immortal already.” “But are you?” Petra slapped the table with both hands. “We’ve already talked about this. Of course I am. The medallion makes me strong.” She flashed a brilliant smile at him. “Invincible.” Emory bit his lower lip, considering her. “Do you have the medallion?” “Of course I do.” “Are you sure?” She reached into her coat, fumbling for the cord, but found nothing but her own skin. Her hand froze. “Where is it?” “It’s 1916. Where do you think it is?” Petra chewed on a beet, disliking everything, especially time travel, but she now better understood why Emory didn’t want to take her with him. Thinking everything through, she mentally shrugged. With or without the medallion, she had no intention of hiding out at an inn. And she had every intention of getting the medallion back. And keeping it. And staying with Emory, on Earth, forever. They walked back through the crowded marketplace. Night had fallen, but the crowds hadn’t waned. Petra spotted a young boy stealing a loaf of bread from a

baker’s cart. He gave her an idea, and she wondered if she would be able to find him again. She had her chance moments later when a cart of potatoes and onions tipped over and the root vegetables spilled across the flagstones. Petra stooped to help retrieve rolling produce, while Emory tried to help the farmer right the cart. Although wondering how the cart came to be lying on its side with two wheels spinning mid-air, Petra turned away, her gaze searching for the boy-thief. She spotted him eating his bread and hiding beneath a cart holding bundles of fabric. Her eyes met his. The boy, knowing he was about to be caught, tried to scurry away, but she squatted next to him and took him by the arm. He felt fragile and painfully thin and smelled of urine. He looked up at her with watery brown eyes. “I saw what you did,” she whispered, even though she knew that he couldn’t possibly understand her. She pointed at the baker’s cart and then at the loaf of bread in his hand. The boy fought her grasp. “Don’t worry. I won’t tell.” She pressed her fingers to her lips before opening her palm and showing him a gold coin. The boy’s eyes widened and he stopped wriggling. She looked over to Emory who was still busy trying to lift the farmer’s cart. “Meet me in the lobby of that inn tonight, and I will tell you how this and more can be yours.” She motioned at the inn before closing her fingers around the coin. “Do you understand?” The boy nodded. Petra held her finger to her lips to keep him quiet. “Petra?” Boots that Petra immediately recognized paused beside the wagon. Petra let the boy go and he scrambled away. The sawdust stirred beneath his feet. She crawled out from under the wagon, stood and brushed the loose straw and sawdust off her furry coat. “I saw that boy steal some bread, and I felt sorry for him so I gave him a coin.”

The frustration in Emory’s eyes faded and he drew her close. “You frightened me.” “Sometimes you frighten me, too,” she whispered. “But that still doesn’t mean you get to tell me what to do.”

THE ROOM AT THE INN had an iron frame bed, a table and chair, and a gas lamp. “I will be back as soon as I can,” Emory said. He checked the window before he drew the curtains closed. He stopped in front of Petra, picked up her hands, and drew her close. “Promise me that you will stay here where you are safe.” When she didn’t answer, he placed a finger beneath her chin and tilted her face so he could look in her eyes. She met his gaze and asked, “Where else would I go?” His lips twitched and his eyes searched hers as if he could read her secrets. She distracted him with a kiss. His body leaned into hers and her head swam. “Promise me,” he whispered as his lips trailed down her neck. Her breath caught in her throat as his lips found hers again. He pulled away and pinned her with his stare. “You have not promised.” “How could I promise anything? You were kissing me. It’s really hard for me to do anything else when that happens.” He grinned. “I’m not kissing you now.” She smiled in return. “No, you’re not. Would you like to kiss me again?” “Only if you promise not to leave this building.” She shifted her feet. “Okay. I promise I will stay where I’m safe.” “That is not what I asked.” Petra rolled her eyes. “I promise not to leave this building.” He kissed her again. “Thank you,” he said.

Immortal

CHAPTER 10

Acruel wind blew through the alley, ruffling the fur on Emory’s coat. He watched the dark windows of Gorochovaia 64 for movement or shadows. According to his research, Rasputin would return to his room around nine and leave for the palace—and his supposed death—at midnight. Emory found a drain pipe running up the side of the building. He tugged on it, doubting its ability to hold his weight. Never the less, he grasped the pipe with one hand and braced his foot against the wall. With every hand up he expected the pipe to give away. He knew he was moments from lying on his backside and staring at the stars, so he was surprised when he reached the window ledge of the third floor. He pushed open the shutters and hoisted over the sill. Without the aid of moon or stars, Emory had to let his eyes adjust to the inky darkness. He brushed bits of leaves and petals off his clothes and looked around the room. A lone beam of light shot out from under the door and fanned across the floor. While a pair of footsteps sounded in the hall, Emory stood still and silent beside the wardrobe, searching for a safe place to hide. The footsteps paused and then resumed. Emory let out his breath and cracked open the door to survey the hallway. The two other doors sharing the landing stood open. He edged forward and saw the two rooms were identical to the first and empty as well. He took the stairs with more confidence. The dining room door creaked when he pushed it open. Several crates of wine lined the walls. A large oak table laden with plates of sweets, nuts, and fruits dominated the room. Emory stood in the shadows.

PETRA WATCHED FROM the window as Emory emerged from the building, crossed the deserted courtyard, and disappeared around a corner. She slipped her hat back on and left the room. The boy waited for her in the inn’s boisterous dining hall. Taking his shoulder, she steered him to the counter and made motions of eating. The boy looked at the innkeeper and back at Petra. She nodded and tried to make him understand. Finally, the boy ordered and Petra paid a gold coin. Satisfied, Petra led the boy to a table. She pointed at a cluster of soldiers standing near a roaring fireplace and then motioned to her hat. When his eyes widened with understanding, she held up two fingers. He mimicked her. “And a coat.” Petra mimed buttoning up a jacket. She stopped while the innkeeper placed a large tray of steaming-hot pastries in front of them. The boy lost all interest in Petra as he wolfed down his food, so she waited until he was done. “Can you do that?” She showed him two gold coins. The boy gave her a lop-sided grin and took off running. His chair bounced to the ground and it was as if he had never been there. Petra waited by the door, pacing back and forth. She wanted to go out into the night, but she had promised Emory that she wouldn’t leave, and so she didn’t. Her heart pounded. She didn’t know when Emory would return and she wanted to be waiting for him in their room when he did. She counted her steps as she walked from the fireplace to the door. As if understanding her pacing need, the people in the room stayed out of her way. On her twentieth trip across the room, the boy reappeared with a large bulging burlap sack. Petra peeked inside, smiled, and handed over two gold coins.

A MINUTE, OR MAYBE an hour later, Emory didn’t know which, a key turned in the door. A clear tenor voice rang through the room. The words of a bawdy gypsy song slurred together as a bearded man lurched for the liquor cabinet. Emory tried to be as still and small as possible as he peeked around the case. He knew that Rasputin was forty-seven years old, but this man looked much younger, perhaps just as Emory had the body of a seventeen-year-old, but was, in reality, hundreds of years old. Still, the bright eyes and gleaming medallion told Emory that this was Rasputin. He looked like his pictures—wild, unkempt hair, penetrating eyes, and filthy clothes. The medallion looked exactly the same in 1916 as it had in 2010. The engraving looked ancient and a memory stirred in Emory. The marks—were they occult symbols? Rasputin threw himself into a chair and spread his legs before him. “My God,” he addressed a crucifix on the wall, “have I not served thee well? How many years since my death and our contract?” He stopped and a heavy pause filled the air. “Who is here? Who has ed me?” Emory stepped into the center of the room and met Rasputin’s gaze without flinching. Rasputin laughed and it was an ugly sound. “I perceive it is one of Heaven’s own. You wonder how I know. Ah, the voices. Do you, unknown visitor, have constant voices keeping you company as well?” “No,” Emory replied. “No voices.” “You are lucky, then.” Rasputin took a long, slow drink of wine and motioned for Emory to sit down. “How I long for them to hush! The grass, the trees, the keening of sheep for their slaughtered lambs...it is too much for one man to know so many secrets and sorrows. The voices will whisper your secrets as well, you know.” His voice sank to mumbling and Emory strained to hear his final question. “How many sins have I committed since then? Why do you think Heaven insists on

keeping me here on His watch?” “I cannot tell you that.” Emory sat in a chair opposite of the great man. Despite his disheveled appearance, Rasputin had a magnetic charm, a charisma that Emory felt drawing him in. “Then you are not here to relieve me.” His voice sank lower. “I had almost hoped you were.” “Almost?” “Living a double life, I find it painful. I am a man of God, but a debauched one. Rasputin’s eyes glazed and his twitching hands fell still, but his eyes never shut. Emory wanted to leave but also wanted to linger. He knew that Petra would worry if he stayed overlong, but Rasputin’s mumblings—the talisman around his neck—all these things and more whetted Emory’s curiosity. Had Rasputin sinned so that God would release him from Purgatory? And yet, despite the sins, Rasputin clearly stayed in God’s employ. So why wear the talisman? Emory’s gaze roamed the room. Could there be something, somewhere, that would tell him the history of the medallion? Would knowing how it was made tell him how to destroy it? The pictures on the wall, the books on the shelves—was there a clue hiding here somewhere? “Ah, I know what you want...you want my talisman.” He studied him. “But not for yourself.” Emory shrank beneath Rasputin’s piercing gaze. He felt as if Rasputin could see inside of him, and read the thoughts and desires Emory didn’t dare it even to himself. “You want to know where the medallion came from, who made it, and why.” Rasputin sat back in his chair, as if weary. “I cannot tell you these things. Some things you have to find out for yourself.” The clock chimed twelve. “It is time,” Rasputin muttered as he bent forward, braced his hands on his knees, and pushed himself out of his chair.

“Wait.” Emory knew he couldn’t interfere with major historical events, but he still wanted to warn Rasputin. Rasputin raised in hand in a farewell. “’Tis but a ploy. A farce. Do not worry about me. I, like you, am beyond harm.” “But how can you be sure?” “My life has been spared many times. I am still, despite my wicked ways, Heaven’s errand boy.” “How is it possible? If the rumors are true, how can you serve Heaven and your own appetites?” Rasputin smirked. “Let me tell you a fable, a parable, if you will. Daily a man carried two pots of water from the river to water his fields. One pot was solid, flawless, and perfect, but the other was cracked. The pot with the hole valiantly tried to hold the water as well as the perfect pot, but despite his efforts, by the time the man returned to his fields, the flawed pot always held half as much water as the perfect pot. One day the farmer noticed the flawed pot’s unhappiness and said, “My dear pot, I knew you had a crack, that’s why I used you to water the flowers on the side of the road.” Rasputin pressed his hands together in the manner of prayer and considered Emory. “Don’t you see, friend? You and I, and every soul that has ever lived is a cracked pot.” He nodded. “Yes, we are all crackpots, and Heaven uses us all the same, for the purposes to which we are best suited. I sin, you sin, and God still uses us the best He can.” “They will try to kill you tonight,” Emory told him. “They will not succeed.” “Maybe God is tired of your sins. Maybe you’ll be dismissed.” “The talisman is my added insurance. With it, I cannot be destroyed.” “That is a prideful thing to say.” Rasputin barked out a sharp laugh. “Pride, the capstone of the deadly sins.” “Do you not worry?” Emory glanced around the opulent room at the food

wasting on the table and the crates of wine lining the floor. “How many of the sins are you party to?” “Does it matter?” His gaze burned through Emory. “Ah, I see it does to you. There is something you want, something you think has been denied, despite all your efforts to live blameless before God.” He chuckled and headed for the door. “Well, good luck, my friend. I am going to my death.” Emory rose from his chair. “But I thought—” “Don’t you see? Have you not ed your scriptures? Come, man, the words of Isaiah—My thoughts are not your thoughts. My ways are not your ways.” “So tonight you will die, but you will not die.” “The world will think me dead, yes.” “Maybe I am here to ensure your death.” Rasputin laughed again as he ed through the door. “Then I shall see you on the other side,” he said over his shoulder. He stopped and turned. “Oh, but you do not want that, do you? You have no interest in the other side, do you?” Rasputin tapped the amulet. “It has to be bestowed. It cannot be stolen. Just like life.” Standing at the window, Emory watched the man cross the courtyard and head for the palace. Soon Rasputin would eat pastries laced with cyanide, receive numerous bullet wounds, and be thrown off the Petrovsky Bridge—but would he die? Rasputin clearly didn’t think so. Emory waited for the moon to climb to the top of the sky before he let himself out the window. He found the heavily embossed walls easy to climb and he made it back to the inn without anyone, other than a lone tomcat, taking notice. A blast of warm air hit him when he entered the crowded inn’s dining hall. He spun when he felt a touch on his arm. He spun to face a soldier. Petra grinned at him beneath a gray felt hat.

Emory’s questions tangled inside his head, and he spat out the first he could find. “Where did you get that?” “Jealous? You shouldn’t be. I got one for you, too.” Emory shook his head, trying to make sense of it all. “How did you come by a uniform?” “These people are really hungry.” She smiled at him. “It’s sad, and sort of useful.” Emory ed all the food on Rasputin’s table and felt sick. “Don’t worry. I kept my promise. I didn’t leave the building.” “Why?” He raked his hands through his hair. She gave him a wide-eyed smile. “Because I promised you I wouldn’t?” “That is not what I meant and you know it.” He waved his hands before her uniform. “Why are you dressed thus?” She laughed and took his arm. “Come on, I’ll tell you while you try yours on.” “’Tis not a costume.” He glanced around at the many soldiers in the room. “Tis not a lark. There is, perchance, a steep penalty for impersonating a soldier.” She put her finger to her lips, silencing him, and took his hand to lead him to their room. While Petra closed and locked the door, Emory shrugged into the soldier’s coat and placed the hat on his head. “This changes nothing,” he said. “Except your appearance.” “I still can’t take you to the Palace.” “Yes, you can, and you will.”

Emory had to pull the coat tight to button it. It smelled of tobacco and body odor. Slipping on the hat, he caught Petra’s gaze in the mirror. He could tell that she liked the way he looked in his uniform, as his fit much better than hers. Petra’s coat floated around her, making her look like a starving adolescent soldier. “I won’t stay here,” she said to his reflection. “You can’t make me. As soon as you leave, I’ll follow you.” Frowning, Emory pushed the hat on his head. “Then we will leave for the Americas now.” Petra smiled. “If we’re leaving, why are you buttoning up your coat?” He blew out a breath of frustration, knowing that she was right. “So, what’s our plan? How are we going to steal the medallion?” Emory shook his head. “I’m not sure. But we have to try. Perhaps there will come a moment in the mayhem.” “Oh good! I love moments of mayhem.” Emory took her face in his hands. “This is not a game, Petra. You could be killed.” “I don’t think you’ll let that happen.” “Do you have any idea of the fear I carry for you?” She came close to kiss him. “Thank you for loving me enough to worry about me.”

TWENTY MINUTES LATER, Petra and Emory stood outside the Youssupov Palace, a grand building complete with more soldiers and guards than pillars and windows. “Good thing we have these costumes, right?” Petra asked, watching her breath rise into the cold night. Emory gave her a dark look. She could tell he was still unhappy about her coming with him. “You musn’t speak English here.” He pulled her hat down so that it nearly covered her eyes. “Stay close,” he whispered. They moved through the crowd until they found a back entrance. Petra headed for the door, but Emory grabbed her arm and pulled her into the shadows. He nodded at a basement window near their feet. Four wine bottles lined the sill, partially blocking their view. In the far left corner, standing beside a table draped with velvet cloth, a gramophone played Yankee Doodle. Rasputin and five other men sat on settees. “That’s Yusupov,” Emory whispered. “And those petit fours he just offered Rasputin are laced with cyanide.” “Don’t you think he’d be suspicious since no one else is eating?” Petra whispered. Emory nodded. “That’s probably why he didn’t take any.” Petra sucked in her breath. “Oh! He just did!” “I guess I can’t trust everything I read on the internet,” Emory said. Time dragged on, and Petra thought her feet would freeze to the ground. She wanted to snuggle against Emory, mostly for warmth, but couldn’t. She didn’t know how the Russian military would react to two cuddling soldiers. When the gramophone fell silent, Yusupov played his guitar, and Gypsy music floated through the window. Only Rasputin drank heavily. The other men watched him with wary, waiting eyes.

After what seemed like an eternity, Yusupov, clearly anxious, left the room. He came back carrying a revolver. Petra turned and buried her head against Emory’s chest, not wanting to watch. Gun shots rang through the night. She turned back to watch Yusupov stoop over Rasputin’s fallen, bloody body. Rasputin opened his eyes and lunged at him. He tore a hole in Yusupov’s tunic and tried to strangle him, while the other men rushed to Yusupov’s aid. Petra glanced across the courtyard to the street where a dark car pulled alongside the curb. A big man climbed out. Moonlight reflected off the revolver in his hand. “вы там!” Emory grabbed her hand. She didn’t need him to tell her to hurry. Their boots skidded and slipped across the icy courtyard as they ran. As Emory pulled her around a building, Petra threw a glance over her shoulder. The soldier was nowhere in sight, but they continued to run until they reached the bridge. They ducked underneath and ed the raggedy crowd of homeless sleeping beneath layers of coats and blankets. Petra glanced around at the still, silent forms huddling in the dark. She knew they must be as cold, if not colder than she was, and she was freezing. A part of her wanted to help them, but another part of her—the part that knew she could never ease their suffering— just wanted to leave. As her eyes adjusted to the gloom, she realized that most of the people were soldiers, many amputees, while the rest were women with gaunt, gray faces. “Now what?” Petra’s breath huffed out a gray cloud. “Sometime soon, a body will be dropped in the river.” “But you don’t think it will be Rasputin?” Emory shook his head. “Not after what we saw.” Petra looked at her feet.

“You weren’t watching, were you?” “I counted the gunshots. Or I tried to.” Emory took a deep breath. “I watched. He took at least twelve bullets to the chest.” “And he still had enough strength to attack Yusupov.” “He’s not dead,” Emory said. “I’m sure of it.” “Plenty of mayhem moments, but not a medallion stealing one.” “Perhaps not, but—” He stopped talking when they heard heavy footsteps on the bridge. Putting his finger to his lips, Emory drew her back into the dark shadows. The footsteps ed. Together, Emory and Petra sat under the bridge, waiting and watching. Too cold to sleep, but too tired to talk, Petra’s mind wandered as the minutes inched by. She tried to imagine a 2010 life with Emory. A part of her wanted things to go back to the way they were before Sleepy Hollow, but she knew that was impossible. Her time in 1810 had changed her, just as she knew this 1916 experience would forever change her relationship with Emory. That, she decided, was okay. They could both change, as long as they stayed together. And the medallion guaranteed that. Not that Emory saw it that way. She blew out a breath of frustration as she once again tried to imagine a real, modern-day life with Emory that wasn’t complicated by immortals, Satan’s agents, and Heavenly demands. Minutes or maybe hours later, two men with axes clambered under the bridge. Two more men carrying something that looked a lot like a body rolled up in a blanket followed. The men with the axes began to hack at the ice, while the other two lowered their load to the ground. “What now?” Petra shivered, her words barely audible above the sound of metal striking the frozen river. Shards of ice flew in the air, caught the moonlight, and looked like rising and falling diamonds. Emory squeezed her hand. “How would you like to go to Siberia?”

“Siberia?” He nodded. “That’s where they send criminals, right?” “And that is where Rasputin is from, and that is where he will return if he is not dead, as I suspect.” “But aren’t his children here?” “His wife remains in Siberia.” Petra looked at the dark, frozen river. “I bet Siberia is even colder. And how far is it?” “About twenty-five hundred miles.” “Twenty-five hundred miles? That’s like going from L.A. to New York. We’ll never make it there and back in three days.” The hammering stopped. Petra watched as the men slid the body into the hole in the ice. A bloody stain remained behind, but Petra knew that wasn’t the end of Rasputin. “We can if we drink the ale,” Emory said, as he lifted the flagon. “It will take Rasputin some time to travel, especially if he’s going incognito.”

PETRA WOKE ON THE SHORE of an ice-bitten river. The cold was so sharp, it hurt to breathe. She sat up and pulled her collar tighter. Emory stood gazing at the small glaciers tumbling past. “This is where I think he first died,” Emory said. “I didn’t mean for us to come here, but it must have been on my mind because here we are.” Petra raised her eyebrows. “Do we have to stay?” Emory shook his head and held out his hand. “Come, let us find the good Mistress Rasputin, I’m sure her husband will be close.” Petra followed Emory into the tiny village, her feet dragging. “When Rasputin was but a child, he nearly drowned in the Tura.” Emory nodded at the river. “His brother, unfortunately, did. how I told you that at our death we are gathered to our people?” Petra nodded and shivered at the same time, her teeth rattling. “I suspect that Rasputin was somehow responsible for his brother’s death, and rather than face him, he chose purgatory.” Petra wanted to ask why Emory chose purgatory, but she kept her lips pressed together. She knew that Emory had secrets. She just hoped that someday he would share them. “A local man heard their cries and fished them out. Both boys took fevers and three days later Misha, Rasputin’s brother, died. They say that soon after Rasputin woke with voices in his head. Sometimes the voices told him things that hadn’t happened yet; other times they revealed secrets. It is said that the trees, grass, and even the raindrops speak to him.” They stopped at the edge of the village. The Siberian plain stretched to a distant horizon where the sky and land melded together. The houses and shops of the village huddled on the frozen plains, the smoke from the chimneys rising in a smudge-gray fog.

“Come, there is Rasputin’s home.” Emory nudged her forward. Petra followed, but she felt her temper rising. “Emory, when did you plan all this? How did you find the addresses and people?” Emory looked down at his boots and wouldn’t meet her gaze. “You have like this whole agenda planned out, and you didn’t even tell me about it, or ask if I wanted to come.” He lifted his head and met her eyes. A worried frown creased his forehead. “If I had told you, would you have come?” Petra blew out a breath. Emory took her hand and turned to face her. His eyes pleaded for understanding. “I had thought to come without you, but after what happened with Dane—I couldn’t leave you. So here we are.” He squeezed her hand. “Please say you don’t mind.” Petra tamped down her frustration and followed Emory up the stone walk to a small wood-framed house surrounded by dead grass. He knocked on the door, but it sounded hollow. A neighbor poked her head out of a window and jabbered in Russian. Emory responded and gave the woman his devastating smile. The woman turned pink, fluttered her eyelashes, and ducked back into her house. “It seems that Mistress Rasputin has gone to Kiev.” Emory’s shoulders hunched. “Why would she go there? It is impossible for her to yet know of Rasputin’s death.” “Not if Rasputin knew—or suspected.” Petra hunched into her coat, trying to stay warm. “But how will we find her in Kiev? We don’t even know what she looks like.” Emory nodded at the empty house. “Perhaps we can find a likeness inside.” “Maybe it’s warmer.”

“Perhaps there is food.” Emory grinned. Worry tugged at Petra. Stealing was definitely anti-Emory behavior. “We can’t just take her food. There are so many people here starving.” “And believe me, Rasputin isn’t one of them.” He tugged on her hand. “We’ll go inside for only a brief moment, find some food, and warm our bones.” Petra followed Emory to the side of the house, but stopped when she heard a noise. “There’s already someone in there,” she whispered, cocking her head. Together they crept to a window. Inside, three children raided the cupboards, shoving all of the food they could find inside their pockets. “I thought you said his children were in St. Petersburg,” Petra whispered. “I don’t believe that those are his children,” Emory replied. “They’re probably starving.” Petra felt sick watching them forage. “But they’re not eating. See? They’re saving it. They plan on taking all the food somewhere else.” An idea warmed Petra. “Let’s follow them to see what they’re up to. Maybe their parents are too sick to care for them. We can give them some of our gold or jewels.” Emory squeezed her hand, signaling that he agreed, or that she needed to be quiet, or that she should duck before one of the kids saw her. She met the gaze of a dark-eyed girl. The girl called out to the others and together they bolted out the door, holding their food cache inside of their raggedy clothes. Emory motioned for Petra to follow. When she started to run, Emory shook his head. “But we’ll lose them.” Emory pointed at the small footsteps in the snow. “Not unless they can fly.”

They followed the children to a tall weathered building on the edge of town. Smoke rose from the chimney, and cries of delight came from behind the shuttered windows. “Do you think it’s a school?” Petra asked. “Or an orphanage,” Emory said. “Let’s give them our gold!” Petra said. “No,” Emory said. “It would probably be stolen from them. Let’s buy food at the marketplace and leave it on their doorstep.” “Okay. Good plan.” She glanced around. “Um, where do you think we can find the marketplace?” A few minutes later they had bundles of bread, potatoes, and beets tucked inside their coats. “How are we going to give all this to them?” Emory asked. “I know...it’ll be great.” Petra told her idea to Emory and motioned for him to follow her. Together they walked up the steps of the orphanage, and let themselves in through the front door. The great room, lined with beds, smelled of cooked cabbage. Children wrapped in blankets huddled around a stone fireplace. Everyone was too busy eating Rasputin’s food to look up at the visitors. Petra cleared her throat. A few kids turned to look at her with questions in their eyes and food in their mouths. She smiled at them and opened her coat to show them more food. Emory, following her example, did the same. The children’s’ mouths collectively dropped open, and a few rushed toward them. Emory handed Petra the flagon. Together they disappeared amid cries of astonishment.

“THIS IS KIEV?” PETRA blinked against the gloom. “I think we’re in a cave,” Emory said, taking her hand. “We’ll never find Rasputin in here.” “And neither will anyone else,” Emory said. “That is probably his intent.” Petra turned around, studying the seemingly endless cave system. A dank breeze floated past, carrying the smell of bats and mud. While it was still cold, it wasn’t nearly as cold as it had been in Siberia. “We don’t even know if we’re in Kiev...” “Or if we’re in the twentieth century.” Petra swallowed. “For all we know, a dinosaur could come charging out.” Slowly her eyes adjusted to the gloom and she saw the dirt floor and walls carved of stone. Light came from a distant opening and Petra instinctively headed for the mouth of the cave. “Wait.” Emory tugged on her hand. “We will never find Rasputin in the open. If anywhere, he is in the depths of the cave.” “But we don’t even have a light. How will we see him—or anything else?” An idea struck. She fumbled in her bag for a moment and pulled out a ring with Dee’s apartment key attached. A tiny flashlight also hung on it. She didn’t even know if the light worked, but when she pressed its button, a weak light cut a small beam in the dark. Emory peered at the writing on the wall. Petra couldn’t read any of it. “It says the catacombs of the Lavra stretch for hundreds of miles, reaching as far as Moscow and Novgorod.” “Then this is impossible,” Petra said. “It claims to be a labyrinth,” Emory told her, “that can trap malevolent spirits or winds in its coils.”

Petra studied the markings, wondering how and when Emory learned Russian. If she lived for six years would she learn as much and travel as far? “What else does it say?” Emory bit his lip, a nervous tell, making Petra wonder if he was sharing everything. “Not much,” he said. “You should put your light away to save juice.” Petra dropped the keychain back into her bag and slowly her eyes adjusted to the gloom. The dark grew thicker as the path sloped down. Emory walked the age, keeping one hand on the wall and another straight in front of him. He suddenly stopped, and Petra bumped into him. She felt him quiver and dropped his hand. “What is it?” she asked. “I cannot be sure. A ledge of some sort, holding...something.” Petra rifled through her bag and pulled out her light. Just like before, the tiny light reflected off the walls. Emory looked over his shoulder and sent her a thank you smile. She started to grin back at him, but then bit back a scream as the beam landed on a shelf holding a row of perfectly arranged skulls. Up ahead, the age gave way to an opening. Emory tugged on her hand, pulling her away. “Come,” he urged. Petra didn’t need urging. She didn’t want to be anywhere near the skulls, although she did wonder why they were there, how long they had been there, and who had they once belonged to. Emory stopped in the center of a cave-room. “It’s a chapel.” Rough wood crucifixes adorned the white-washed walls. Emory stared at the mosaic on the floor while Petra shone her light throughout the tiny space. “What is it?” she asked, coming behind him. The marks made no sense to her, but Emory clearly found them fascinating.

“I have seen these before,” he said. “Where?” But after a careful look, Petra knew. They were the same markings she had seen on the amulet. “That doesn’t mean that Rasputin is here now. It only hints at a connection between him and this place—and we already knew that.” Laughter echoed off the walls as the two doors of the chapel were suddenly sealed. Petra ran to one entrance, while Emory ran to the other. She pounded on the now solid stone wall. Nothing shifted or moved. Turning, she searched the room for Emory. Reaching back into her bag, she grabbed the key chair. Holding her the light like a torch, she circled her beam of light around the stone chapel. Emory was gone.

You Who Enter Here

CHAPTER 11

Petra screamed for Emory until her voice became raspy. Using her fingernails, she clawed at the walls until her hands bled. She sat on the cold, dirt floor, and discouragement slowly seeped through. Would she die in here? Had Emory found a way out? Would he be able to bring help? Knowing nothing good could happen while she moped, Petra stood, shook herself to send the blood to the far reaches in her body and felt along the walls, searching for an opening. Her light landed on a crucifix that listed to the right. Petra automatically straightened it and with an earth-shuddering rumble, the stone blocking the age rolled away. She hesitated at the entrance. From the near-complete darkness, she guessed that the ageway before her led down, not up and out. And if she left, how would Emory find her? And who was to say that once she ed through the entryway, the stone might roll back into place. Holding up her phone, she peered into the inky-black corridor. She screamed when a face appeared. “Hello,” a familiar voice said. Petra didn’t want to be rude, but she had to stare. Somehow she knew the voice. She recognized the silvery-gray curls, weather-beaten skin, and hoop earrings. The light landed on the red, balloon-ish pants. She only knew one person with pants like those. “Fester?” He grinned. “I didn’t know if you would recognize me,” Fester said. “It’s been an age.”

“An age?” You have no idea. The last time she had seen him was in the fortuneteller’s tent seconds before she’d traveled to Dorrington, England, 1610. “What are you doing here?” Petra asked. Fester looked uncomfortable. “Waiting for you. I’m supposed to show you around.” “Says who?” “I can’t answer that,” Fester said. “Well, I’m not going anywhere without Emory.” Fester nodded. “They told me you would say that. That’s why I’m supposed to say I’ll take you to him.” Petra folded her arms. “Are you going to take me to him, or are you just saying that, too?” Fester scratched his head. “Well, both, I guess. I’m going to take you to him and I’m saying it.” “Do you know where he is?” Fester gave her a blank stare. “I don’t have to know where he is, and neither do you.” “What? That doesn’t make any sense.” Petra hugged herself. “Why would I go with you?” “Because it’s better than staying here.” “How do I know that?” He scratched his head again. “Because I just told you?” He moved away from her, and Petra noticed something weird. Fester’s feet pointed toward the depths of the cave, but his face still faced her. “Huh, Fester?” How do you ask someone why their head was on backward? “You’re probably wondering why I’m walking backward. It’s okay—I get that a

lot.” He moved pretty fast for not being able to see where he was going. As if he could read her mind, he said, “I’ve been here awhile, so I’ve learned my way around.” He shrugged. “It’s a good thing I’ve gotten used to seeing one way and having to walk another.” “But why do you?” Petra trailed after him. Fester scratched his head and sighed. “It’s that whole fortunetelling thing. Big mistake. You know that old saying, if you want to make Heaven laugh, make plans? Anyway, so not true. Heaven doesn’t laugh when you make plans. But when you try to predict the future, it makes Heaven mad. There’s a few of us like this here.” Directly in front of them stood a black caldron about the size of a small car. Red, yellow, and blue flames shot toward the cave’s ceiling. The glow from the fire barely penetrated the dark. “What’s that?” Petra asked. “The Flames of Black Magic,” Fester told her. “It’s the mother of all magic. Everything magical is first created here. It will continue to burn as long as there is magic in the world. When magic ceases, the flames die.” Giant iron gates flanked with a pair of giant dog statues on stone pedestals loomed ahead, and Fester headed for them. Petra slowly followed, mesmerized by the dogs’ eyes. She could see they were carved out of marble, but their obsidian eyes glowed. She paused to read the inscription on the gates. “ABANDON ALL HOPE, YOU WHO ENTER HERE.” “I’m not ready to abandon my hope,” Petra told Fester in a shaky voice. “But you want to find Emory, right?” “Yes, but—” “He would do it for you.” “Do what? Abandon all hope?” “He would follow you anywhere, no matter the cost.” Fester shuffled backward.

Petra slowly followed, knowing that Fester spoke the truth. “This is the outlying region of Hell,” Fester told her, sounding very much like a tour guide. “What a minute.” Petra stopped. “Emory said we all choose Heaven or Hell, and I know Emory would never choose Hell.” “But he would choose you.” Petra snorted. “Okay. I think that was the most insulting thing anyone has ever said to me.” Fester stopped and placed his hands on his hips, as if he was tired of her. “We’re never going to get through all the circles if you stop to argue every two steps. You haven’t even ed through the gates.” “I’m not ing through these gates!” “Not even for Emory?” “How do I know Emory’s down here? I don’t think he is.” “Well then, Miss Know-it-all, you can just find your own way out.” Petra looked around. He had a point. She didn’t know where else to go. With dragging feet, she ed through the gates. Had she abandoned hope? No. She still hoped to find Emory, the flagon of ale that could take them anywhere they wanted to go, and, eventually, home. “This isn’t even Hell, yet.” Fester pointed to a dark spot ahead, barely visible through the thickening fog. “We need to cross the river.” Fester raised his hand, hailing the ferryman. “Ho! Charon!” Mist coiled around the river, and a hunched man dressed in rags rowed a small boat up to a wooden dock. Petra inched forward. Her eyes adapted to the foggy dark, and she spotted people dancing along the bank of the river.

“They’re not dancing,” Fester told her as if he could read her mind. “They’re slapping bugs...and hornets.” “But...why?” Fester looked at her as if she were crazy. Which, by the way, Petra was beginning to think was entirely possible. “Because they don’t want to be bit. Do you like being bit by bugs and hornets?” “No, but what I meant was why don’t they go inside their house or something?” Fester fixed her with his eye. “These people don’t have houses. They don’t even get a something. There’s nothing for them but this place and these bugs.” “Forever?” “Forever.” Fester took a deep breath. “You know something about that, don’t you? Your boyfriend has told you about forever, right?” Petra stopped on the edge of the bank, refusing to take one step closer to Hell. “I am not getting on that boat.” “Not even for Emory?” She shook her head. “He loves me. He wouldn’t want me to go to Hell.” “And yet that is exactly what you ask of him.” “What? No—I would never.” “Yes,” Fester said. “Even as we speak, our friend Emory is plotting ways to leave Heaven behind. He would rather be with you.” Realization, cold and horrible, washed over Petra. “Is that why he’s trying to find Rasputin? He’s trying to be like him?” She thought about Emory and all that he had said. “No, he said that he wanted to destroy the medallion. He called it black magic. He said he wanted to be with me in the eternities, not just for this life.” She braced against a stone wall, feeling it solid and firm against her back. “You’re lying to me. I don’t believe anything you’re saying.”

Fester waved his arm at the tormented creatures dancing away from the bugs. “This is nothing compared to the place prepared for liars.” “I don’t believe in Hell,” Petra gasped. “Not this sort of Hell. None of this is real. This is an illusion. Maybe a trap.” Fester cocked his head at her. “How can you be so sure?” “Emory is kind and good. He’s the best person I know. He doesn’t belong here.” “No, you’re right. He doesn’t,” Fester said. “But you need to tell him that. You need to tell him to go to Heaven where he belongs.” “Without me,” Petra whispered. “Exactly,” Fester said. “You have to let him go.”

“AH, MY HEAVENLY FRIEND, we meet again.” Rasputin’s voice reverberated in the hollow darkness. Emory searched for him and saw nothing but black emptiness. He reached for Petra but didn’t find her. Where had she gone? And where was Rasputin? Emory slowly turned, trying to see more than shadows. Without sight, his other senses grew increasingly perceptive: an almost undetectable breeze tickled his skin, he heard water tumbling somewhere nearby, and the cave’s dampness tasted musty in his mouth. “I could ask you why you’ve come, but I already know that,” Rasputin said. “You seek my amulet.” “Where are you?” Emory slowly circled the dark room. “You tell yourself that you’ll destroy that amulet, but it’s not that easy, is it?” Rasputin continued as if Emory hadn’t spoken. “For one thing, it is mine. It cannot be stolen or won. I, as the keeper, must bestow it.” “What have you done with Petra?” Emory asked. “The girl...she’s the problem, isn’t she? She’s the temptation. Without her, you would never consider thwarting the plans of God.” Emory swallowed back his frustration. “I am not thwarting the plans of God. Do you think me a fool?” “And do you think me a fool?” Emory shook his head. He could think of a good many adjectives to describe Rasputin, but foolish was not one of them. “How have you deceived Heaven?” Rasputin’s laugh echoed in the dark chamber. “Why do you ask? So you can try to do the same?” “No...I...Damn you, Rasputin, show yourself!” Emory burst out. “Why keep me in the dark?”

“We’re all in the dark, are we not?” Rasputin’s voice sounded more resigned than questioning. “Stumbling along toward our eventual deaths. What point is it anyway? We are merely Heaven’s pawns.” Emory looked up, wishing Heaven would provide answers. Air whooshed past him as a heavy object fell. “The medallion,” Rasputin said. “It is yours.” Emory fell to his knees and scrabbled through the dirt until his fingers found the cool, smooth amulet. He climbed to his feet, his fingers curled around the talisman, suspicion twirling his thoughts. Too easy, he thought, this was too easy. “And here is the girl.” Petra appeared beside him in a brief flash of light. Emory blinked, and Petra reached for him. “If you destroy the amulet, which you really should,” Rasputin said, “you are ensuring the destruction of the girl.” Emory drew Petra in his arms, loving the solid feel of her against him. Through their layers of clothing, he thought he could feel the steady thrum of her heart. Everything Rasputin said was true. By destroying the amulet, he guaranteed Petra’s eventual death. But keeping the amulet would canker her soul. He immediately recognized the test. “We must destroy the amulet,” Emory whispered in Petra’s hair. She didn’t speak, but slowly nodded. “How?” “How is it to be done?” Emory asked Rasputin. Rasputin laughed. “Toss it in the fire where it was forged. If you dare.” “And how do we find the fire?” “I know,” Petra said. “You do?” Emory asked.

“Yes...I saw it, The Flames of Black Magic” Petra swallowed. “I’m sure it was made there.” “And now I see why you want to keep her,” Rasputin said. “Such a pity to let her go.” “Come on.” Petra stepped out of Emory’s embrace and took his hand. “I’ll show you.” Emory followed her lead, marveling that she could see what he could not, that she could go, and most willingly, do what he most feared.

PETRA HELD THE AMULET in her hand, basking in its radiating power. The flames licked toward the ceiling, bathing the cave in a dim warm, orange glow. “Here, you have to do it,” Petra said, handing it to Emory. “I can’t,” Emory said. Petra nudged him with it. “You have to. Rasputin gave it to you. I can’t do it.” Tears gathered in Emory’s eyes. “I can’t lose you, Petra. I can’t imagine an existence without you.” “If we keep this, I’ll be lost...maybe not right away, but eventually. You know it’s true.” Emory nodded. “I know it’s true, but how do you?” Petra’s lips twitched. “Because I watched The Lord of the Rings” “The what?” “Never mind. I’ll introduce you to Gollum later.” Petra watched the flames, and as she stood by the fire, she felt warm, strong, and invincible. “We can do this.” The amulet dangled from Emory’s fingers, slightly swinging in a light breeze. “Throw it in the fire, and we can go home,” she said. “We’ll collect the treasure and give it to the Siberian orphanage. We’ll spend the rest of our lives proving to Heaven that we’re on the side of good, and—” Her words died as Emory tossed the amulet into the flames. “It is now yours,” Emory said, his gaze riveted on the caldron. “Let us go home,” Emory said in a strangled voice. Petra nodded as Emory lifted the flagon. As the warm liquid slid down her throat, Petra thought she heard laughter echoing off the cave’s walls.

SECONDS LATER, PETRA and Emory stood on the Petrovsky Bridge. People surged around them; they came running from all directions, carrying bowls, jugs, pots, and pans—anything that could hold water. The crowd pushed and shoved around a hole in the blood-stained ice. Some cried while others knelt in prayer. “What are we doing here?” Petra whispered to Emory. “I thought we were going home.” “I want to make sure Rasputin is really dead,” Emory said. “But we know he’s not here—we just saw him in Kiev.” Emory shook his head. “But we didn’t see him. We only heard his voice.” He sucked in a long breath. “It was all too easy.” Petra wanted to argue with him, but couldn’t think of anything to say. Her gaze wandered around the scene before her. “What are they doing?” Emory lifted his shoulder, itting ignorance. He spoke Russian to a woman hurrying past him, lugging a chamber pot. She replied in a brisk, matter-of-fact tone. “They are ladling Rasputin’s ghost,” Emory whispered. “They believe that the water in which the strannik died is now holy water.” Soldiers on horseback tried to push the mob back and away. One man in uniform raised his arm and fired a gun into the air. Horses reared and women and children screamed. “Where is the body?” Petra whispered. “They must have it somewhere,” Emory said. “I wonder who it was.” Emory pointed at the drifts of snow, and Petra noticed something that she hadn’t before. Piles of frozen corpses lined the street. “It could have been anyone with a beard,” Emory said. “Three months from now Rasputin’s body will be exhumed

and transported to a private location in the country. We have to be there.” “If we can’t find him here, what makes you think that we’ll be able to find him there?” “There will be eight men guarding the truck, but a crowd of peasants will overtake them and search the coffin for gold. We will be one of the peasants.” Petra reached for the flagon. “So, is that where we’re going?” Emory smiled. “To the forest of Pargolovo.” “And then we go home.” “And then we will begin the rest of our lives.” Emory smiled, took her face in his hands, and kissed her. “I promise.”

NOVEMBER OR MARCH—IN Russia, one month was almost as cold as another. Snow covered the ground, icicles hung from the trees, and Petra’s breath clouded the air. She bounced on her toes trying to stay warm. Other than Emory, the forest was deserted. “Where are the peasants? There should be peasants, right? We can’t force the truck to stop on our own.” Emory blew out a frustrated breath. “Did we get the day wrong?” Petra twisted around. “I don’t know. It’s a pretty big forest.” A wolf howled and Petra reached for Emory’s hand. A smell of smoke wafted their way. Emory started to run, and Petra followed. Her furry boots clomped through the fallen leaves and bracken, her hat bounced on her head, and her coat felt like it weighed a hundred pounds, but she managed to keep up with Emory. They arrived at the clearing, both breathless. The bonfire smelled of gasoline and pine. The soldiers stood in a protective ring around what looked like a piano case, their guns drawn. Villagers armed with rifles and shovels stood in the mob, their faces drawn with hunger and desperation. Emory edged forward and Petra followed. “I don’t think you can just burn a body,” Petra said. Emory flashed her knowing smile. “And you should know about that,” he said, referring to when the witch examiners had tried to burn her at the stake. “You are right. According to the internet, they ultimately take his body to a boiler shop of the Saint Petersburg State Polytechnical University.” Petra shivered. “So we should see him, one way or another.” Emory squeezed her hand. “Stay here. I’ll see if I can get closer.” Petra stood in a cluster of trees and watched as Emory melded into the crowd. Her heart fluttered as he disappeared among the brown fur coats and hats. She

breathed a little easier when she spotted him beside the piano case. A soldier used the barrel of his gun to push Emory back into the crowd. Moments later, Emory disengaged from the mob and ran toward her. He shook his head when he caught her gaze. Taking her hand, he pulled her deeper into the woods. They followed a path to where the canopy of trees hung so low and so dark it appeared to be night, rather than mid-day. “It’s not him.” Emory’s voice came out in huffs laced with excitement. “He wore a medallion, but not the same one we saw earlier—not the one with markings we destroyed in the Chapel of the Caves.” “Are you sure?” “The corpse—its face was black, so it was hard to tell—but I swear it’s not him. It was made to look like him. That medallion had the names of his children etched on it—which is nice, but I doubt it carries the power of the other medallion.” Emory drew out the flagon. “Shall we go home?” Petra put her hand on his arm, stopping him. “We’re safe here. Cold, but safe. We should make plans.” Emory nodded. “Let’s talk to Rohan,” Petra urged. “He seems to know everything. Maybe he can tell us about what sort of life Rasputin has.” “But we have been spectacularly unsuccessful in finding Rohan.” “And that’s okay, right? Think about it, since we left 1810, Heaven hasn’t asked a thing of you. We haven’t even been able to find Rohan, and he certainly hasn’t made any effort to find you!” “But he will. He always does.” “So, sometimes Heaven’s around and sometimes it’s not?” “Something like that.”

“And that’s bad?” He gave her a lopsided grin. “As you most certainly know, it can be terribly inconvenient.” Emory laughed softly. “My Lady Petra, where shall we go?” “The cave. We’ll get the treasure, give it to the Siberian Orphanage, and then go home to our real lives.” “I love that you want to give the children the treasure.” Emory paused. “Tell me, how do you see ‘our real lives?’” Petra thought about that. “I guess the only life that matters is one where we’re together. Let’s find Rohan and ask him how we can make that happen.”

Home

CHAPTER 12

They landed on Rohan’s sofa. Looking around, Petra thought it was as if they had never left. Except for there was someone in the shower. Relief flooded through Petra. Finally, they had found Rohan. But as Emory had said, it seemed too easy. “Oh dear,” Petra whispered. “I hope he doesn’t come out naked.” She reached for Emory’s hand when she heard the shower shut off. “You should probably warn him, or something.” “Or something.” Emory nodded and went to knock on the bathroom door. “Rohan?” A grunt sounded from the other side. “I thought you would like to know Petra Baron and I are visiting.” A more enthusiastic grunt. Rohan opened the door and a wave of steam rolled out. He stood there with a giant towel wrapped around his enormous belly, and a beaming smile on his face. “Children!” He heaved out a sigh. Petra stood. She was so happy to see Rohan she wanted to cry. And she wanted to hug him, but he was wet...and almost naked...and fatter than she thought. Rohan used a towel to dry the few strands of gray hair still on his head. “It does my heart good to know you have come to clean up your mess! Heaven was afraid that you wouldn’t come, but I knew you could be depended upon.” Emory shot a questioning glance back at Petra.

She shrugged in response. “You don’t know about Rasputin?” Rohan’s towel paused over his head. “He’s trapped in the cave, right?” Petra asked. Rohan sent her a piercing glance. “Emory resurrected him.” “But I can’t...I didn’t! Besides, he was always alive!” Emory said. “We didn’t resurrect him! We destroyed the amulet!” “Hmm.” Rohan headed down the hall. “Excuse me, I must dress. Heaven is a stickler for modesty, you know. Besides, there is only so much you may want to see, and I want to share.” He closed his bedroom door with a click. “He’s angry,” Emory whispered as he made his way back to the sofa. “That’s angry?” Petra asked. “He seems happy to see us.” Emory flinched. “He may be happy to see us, but he is still very...as they say in 2010, royally pissed.” Petra shook her head. “I don’t think so.” Emory nodded. “Believe me—that is Rohan angry.” They sat in silence, waiting. Rohan’s door opened, and the big man padded out. No longer dressed in a monk’s frock or a professor’s cape, he wore a giant Hudson River Academy sweatshirt and a pair of matching sweatpants. He had combed his few strands of hair, but they were still wet and clung to the side of his head. Choosing a chair across from them, he sat. “Rasputin is here,” Rohan announced as if he were proclaiming the apocalypse had begun, “on campus and wooing the coeds.” “Wait—wooing coeds?” Petra asked. “How is that possible?” Rohan raised his eyebrows in question.

“I mean...” Petra stumbled to find a polite way to say that Rasputin was old and ugly. “He’s a very charming, charismatic man,” Rohan said. “Really? I don’t see it.” “Well, unfortunately, hundreds of young, unsuspecting girls do.” “And how am I responsible?” Emory held up his hand to stop Rohan’s lecture. “I am not saying I am not. I just want to know how.” Petra felt uncomfortable about the way Emory shouldered all the blame. She nudged him with her elbow. “I was there, too.” “You are not to blame,” Emory told her. “If anyone is to blame, it is me...I just want to know what I did and how I can undo it.” And just like that, Petra realized that Emory would always be in Heaven’s employ. She took his hand, because whatever he did, wherever he went, she wanted to be there with him. Rohan’s gaze landed on their clasped hands and a small smile flickered across his face. “Rasputin had been trapped in the Monastery of the Caves.” “When I saw him, it looked like he had all the power he needed to do whatever he wanted to do.” Rohan heaved a great sigh. “Rasputin is now in his prime...and extremely dangerous. He was powerful before, as you undoubtedly saw, but since his return, he is unstoppable. He has twice become the owner of the amulet and, as such, he is twice as powerful.” “But how did he get the amulet?” Petra asked. “We destroyed it.” “Oh no,” Emory breathed. “He must have been in the cauldron. That’s why it was so easy. We did exactly what he wanted.” “But why come here?” Petra asked.

Rohan shrugged. “I’m sure he has something to prove. He’s always had something to prove.” “What can we do?” Emory placed his elbows on his knees, as if excited, making Petra wonder if he hadn’t heard the word unstoppable. Maybe she needed to define that word for him. Rohan spared her a quick glance before he turned back to Emory. “You need to find his weakness and exploit it.” “His weakness?” Emory asked. “Rohan, I assume that you know him. Do you know his weakness?” “He has a great many. You will need to watch for an opportunity to exploit the most obvious.”

Rendezvous

CHAPTER 13

Afew hours later, Petra and Emory walked down the street, searching for Rasputin. A large moon hung in the sky and the streetlights cast silver puddles of light on the sidewalk. Petra still wore her fur-lined hat, boots, and coat, and a few people gave her strange looks, but she ignored them. She would rather look strange than be cold. But she was cold on the inside as well as on the outside. A crowd gathered around the opening of a coffee shop. “I wonder what’s going on?” Petra asked Emory. “There’s supposed to be a poetry reading,” a student dressed in all black said. “But one guy has had the mic all night.” Emory stood on his toes to peer in the window. “It’s him.” His gaze flicked over the room. “I think Annie is with him.” “I want to see,” Petra said, trying to move through the crush of students. Emory took her hand. “But we don’t want him to see us.” So Petra hung back. “What can we do?” “I don’t know. Talk to Annie?” Petra nodded. “But how?”

THEY DIDN’T HAVE TO find Annie, she found them. “I thought I saw you through the window,” Annie said breathlessly. She slipped her hand around Emory’s arm and drew him into a café across the street. Petra followed with dragging feet. Annie fell into a chair at an empty table. “I have to get back before he notices that I’m gone.” A cloud ed over her face. “I don’t know why he wants me there to watch. He has so many other women...” Her voice trailed away. Straightening, she gripped the table. “But I thought I should let you know that I suspect...I can’t be sure, but there’s something about his medallion. I think it gives him his powers.” Emory’s eyes met Petra’s before he slid into a chair. “Yes, we knew that.” Petra nodded and also sat. “If we can somehow steal and destroy the medallion,” Annie said, “then we will be free.” Petra thought about pointing out that she and Emory were a whole lot freer than Annie, but were they really? Annie tapped her fingers on the table, thinking. Finally, she shook her head. “I will get him drunk and seduce him. I will meet you at the graveyard tonight at midnight with the medallion.” She stood. “The graveyard. Midnight. Tonight.” Watching Annie go, Petra waited until she knew she couldn’t be overheard. “It’s a trap.” Emory slowly shook his head. “No, I don’t think so.” “Even if she’s being straight up, her plan isn’t going to work.” She fought back waves of hopelessness. “Annie just can’t take the medallion. It has to be given to her, right? Besides, where is Dane?” Emory gave a small shake of his head. “I do not know.” He paused for a long

moment. “I do not know what we will do.”

THE GRAVEYARD LOOKED darker than just a few nights ago. No lanterns. No orange glow. No zombies. Not even the moon or stars. Without moonlight, the tombstones couldn’t cast shadows, and the whole landscape looked oddly one-dimensional. Petra lowered her chin into her fur coat for warmth. Beside her, Emory rocked back and forth. Waiting. “This is crazy,” Petra whispered. “Why should we trust her?” A scream tore through the air before Emory could answer. He grabbed Petra’s hand and pulled her behind a family monument as footsteps ran past. “Emory!” Annie called. Petra wanted to hold him, to keep him safely hidden in the shadowless dark, but he broke free. “Be careful,” Petra whispered, knowing that he wouldn’t listen, even if he could hear her. Emory met Annie under the branches of a maple tree. She handed him something before she ran behind a building. Emory turned back to Petra. He held up the medallion in victory, but Petra knew something was wrong by the look on Emory’s face. “Ah, a party!” Rasputin clapped his hands. Petra whirled to see Rasputin standing behind her. His cape swirled in the breeze as he lifted his arms toward the moonless sky. “What fun!” Rasputin turned to Annie and Dane, who stood behind him, hands clasped together. “Are these friends of yours?” He motioned to Thaddeus, who hung in the dark shadows. “Not exactly,” Emory muttered. “What are you doing here?” “I have come for the treasure,” Rasputin said in a casual voice as if he expected

no challenges. “I’m hoping these fellows will lead me there.” “The hell you have,” Thaddeus growled. “Come, my boy,” Rasputin said. “What good has this treasure been to you all these years? It’s been in your care for what? Two centuries? And what good have you done?” Rasputin laughed at Thaddeus’s storm-cloud expression. “I could understand if you used it to purchase a little fun—a milkmaid, perhaps, or a courtesan, but you—” He waved his hand at Thaddeus. “You have done nothing for more than two hundred years!” Rasputin lifted his arm and Thaddeus rose in the air about a foot off the ground. Where Rasputin pointed, Thaddeus flew. The boy landed in a heap at the base of a tombstone. Dane stepped forward and Rasputin pointed his finger and made a slashing motion through the air. Dane’s head tumbled to the ground and his body soon followed. Blood gushed from the severed neck. Petra swallowed back bile and her knees buckled. She raised her hands to cover her ears, but she couldn’t shut out Annie’s screams. “There is immortal and then there is immortal,” Rasputin said. “There are some wounds that are impossible to heal.” He turned to Emory and whispered like a conspirator. “It’s good for you to know that.” Thaddeus scrambled to his feet and tried to run away, but Rasputin pointed his finger and lifted him off the ground so that his feet whirled mid-air. Dane’s death proved that even an immortal could die. Petra shivered, as unbidden memories of Dane surfaced: a kiss in the meadow, flying over New York City, the country dance in 1810. She tried to cast him back to the far corners of her mind, but couldn’t. “You’re a pretty thing. Amusing to have around.” Rasputin continued to point at Thaddeus, keeping him elevated, as he smiled at Annie and walked toward her. “Were you thinking of leaving as well?” He lifted one of her red curls with his pinky finger, while Annie trembled before him. Rasputin flung his hand, and as if Thaddeus was attached to an invisible string,

Rasputin sent the boy flying. Thaddeus landed in a crumpled heap beside a tombstone. His neck at an odd angle. Rasputin edged near Petra. Petra gasped as a blade pressed against her throat and a handheld her arm. “The medallion or the girl.” Rasputin’s oniony-breath fanned across Petra’s cheek. He motioned for the medallion. “Just set it down on that headstone.” “I should have killed you when I had the chance,” Emory said, but he did as Rasputin asked. The clouds shifted and a ray of moonlight caught the medallion. Petra inhaled in surprise as the medallion glimmered. She felt the hand on her arm relax and a small moan of satisfaction escaped Rasputin. But she couldn’t relax. The images of Rasputin, Dane, and Thad kept replaying in her mind like a broken record. She wished she could close her eyes and squeeze away the horror, but she found it impossible. At that moment, she thought of breaking free, wrenching her arm from his grip, running as hard as she could in the mountainous fur coat. But Rasputin must have sensed her thoughts, because he tightened his hold and slid the knife across her throat. The blade didn’t hurt nearly as much as the sting of disappointment. Petra’s hand fluttered to her neck and touched her own warm and sticky blood. Her energy waned as her heartbeats grew louder, slower, heavier. She fell. “No!” Emory cried, and he lunged for the medallion. He plucked it off the tombstone on his way to Petra’s aid. Rasputin laughed as he tossed Petra’s body to the ground. “Oh please. What do you want with that?” he asked. “I can see why you might desire her, although bundled in all that fur she does require imagination. But tell me, Ravenswood, why would you want the medallion?” Still clutching the medallion, Emory dropped to his knees beside Petra and gathered her in his arms. Rasputin stood over him, watching. “If she’s gone—what good is a long life to

you? You might as well her.” His laugh sounded like Satan’s. Emory bent over Petra, his tears raining to her face. He ripped off his shirt and used it to staunch the blood flow. But even before he could wrap it around her neck, he saw he was too late. Petra’s eyes froze in a forever goodbye. Emory did the only thing he knew how to do. He prayed.

PETRA FLOATED ABOVE her body, marveling that she could be in two places at once. She was still technically in the graveyard—her body lay on the ground, while she looked on. She wanted to comfort Emory. She wanted to go to him and tell him that she was alright, but she didn’t know how. And maybe all right to her wouldn’t seem so all right to him. After all, she was pretty sure she was dead. A memory surfaced and carried her to a meadow surrounded by wildflowers. White marshmallow clouds filled a periwinkle blue sky. Sitting on the ground, she drew her knees up to her chest and watched as a boy waded across the river. Almost a hundred people had crossed an hour or so ago. Petra wondered if he had been with them, and if so, why had he straggled behind? Usually, people crossed over on their own, but when they came in clusters, they tended to stick together. “Hello,” she called out to him because he looked more lost than most. He nodded at her, and she immediately liked him, despite his curt response. She took in his dark hair, matching expression, and the brave set of his shoulders. His charred and ragged clothing hung on him and he smelled of ash. She rose to her feet, never taking her gaze off his face. “Are you looking for the gates?” “I don’t know what I’m looking for,” he answered, his voice full of bitterness and tears. She cocked her head at him. “What’s your name?” “Emory Ravenswood.” She even liked his name. “Emory... that means eternal.” She smiled at him and he responded with a frown. Puzzled, she asked, “Eternal is nice, right?” “No!” His vehemence surprised her.

“Most people when they cross are usually happy to find that they are, in essence, still here.” She crossed her arms and leaned toward him. “Everyone wants to be eternal. No one wants to be forever dead.” He looked up at the sky. “Some do.” “Why would anyone want that?” “What happens now?” Emory grumbled. “When I go through that gate—what becomes of me?” “Hello, my dear.” Rohan’s voice made Petra swivel in his direction. The long-ago memory faded away. She no longer stood in a meadow, but floated above the graveyard, watching Emory cradle her spent body, his tears falling onto her hair. She could see her body and Emory, but she felt nothing. This made her sad and yet detached. “Rohan.” She was pleased to see him. It occurred to her that she should be surprised to see him floating beside her, but yet she wasn’t. “Am I dead?” Rohan nodded. Petra looked down at Emory, sorry to leave him, and yet strangely indifferent to her own future. “I just had the most amazing...I don’t know what it was...dream? Memory?” Rohan waited for her to explain. “I was in a meadow and Emory was there.” She took a deep breath. “I think I’ve loved him for a really long time, much longer than I ever knew.” She told him about it. “Is it true? Did I live before I was born? Did I know Emory before I came to Earth?” Rohan didn’t answer, but his gaze followed hers to Emory, still curled over her body, heaving with sobs. Rasputin and the medallion had disappeared. “What happens now?” Petra asked.

“That all depends on Emory,” Rohan told her. Petra closed her eyes and another vision surfaced.

“MOTHER,” PETRA TURNED to her mom. “This is Emory. He lived in the fifteenth century. Isn’t that wonderful?” Emory’s expression told her that he disagreed. “I can’t go to Earth until almost the twenty-first century,” Petra told him. “I have to wait forever.” “Not forever,” her mom said with a voice full of laughter. “Come along, Pet. I’m sure Emory is anxious to his family.” “But I just met Emory. And after he es through the gates, I don’t think I’ll get to see him again.” She paused. “I can’t, can I? Because I’ll be up here and he’ll be over there, then I’ll be on Earth...” Her mother smiled and tucked a loose strand of Petra’s hair back into her long braid. “Alright, you can stay for a short while, but just until Emory es.” Petra smiled at Emory and he blinked at her. She sank to the ground and curled her legs underneath her long white skirt. Reaching up, she pulled on his hand until he dropped down beside her. “I know it’s impossible, but I think that we are going to be very good friends.” Emory sat, his gaze fixed on the river he had just crossed. “And how is that?” Petra slowly shook her head, her gaze trying to follow his. She wondered what he had seen and experienced on Earth to make him so sad. She wanted to help him but didn’t know how. “I don’t know, but somehow...I’m pretty sure.” “You don’t want to be my friend.” Emory looked around. “I think there are rules here and we’re probably breaking more than one of them.” Petra thought about that. “No, I don’t think so.” “You mean you can just sit here doing nothing?” “Don’t be silly. I’m not doing nothing...no one can ever do nothing. Even if you think you’re doing nothing, you are still doing something.”

“And what are you doing?” “Talking to you, of course.” “But why?” “Why not?” “Don’t you have other things to do?” “Nothing more important.” Emory leaned back on his hands. “On Earth, there was always something that needed to be done.” “Really? Tell me what it was like.”

PETRA BLINKED. SHE no longer felt cold. Had the wind died? No, the trees still moved and danced, but she couldn’t feel the wind. She strained to hear Emory, but instead, she heard something else. Rasputin fell to the ground while Annie stood behind him, a rock dripping with blood in her hands. Emory slowly climbed to his feet. “He won’t stay dead, you know,” he told Annie. “Oh yes, he will.” Annie held up the medallion. “As long as I have this, he will.” She rushed to Emory’s side. “Oh Emory, I’m sorry.” He turned his worried eyes toward her. “You don’t believe me?” Annie asked. “Well, it’s true. I’m sorry for you, because I know you loved her.” Emory’s face crumpled in pain. “But she’s gone and together we can go anywhere.” She raised the medallion and it glistened in the moonlight. “With this, we are no longer bound by Heaven or Earth. We are free.” “No, Annie.” Emory’s gaze landed on Petra’s still form. “I will never be free.” And he picked Petra up. “I don’t even want to be.” The next thing Petra knew, she was back in the meadow where she had first met Emory, but he still held her in his arms. “Are you going to carry me through the gates?” she asked. Startled, he almost dropped her. “How do you know about the gates?” Laughing, she struggled until he was forced to put her down. “I’ve been having these...visions? Dreams? Memories? I don’t know what they are, but you are in every one of them.” He grinned and took her hand, and she swung it back and forth, matching his

smile with her own. “Are you finally ready to ?” she asked him. Worry flickered across his face. “I don’t know. Are you?” “I’ll get to see my mom.” “And I will face my family.” “I’m sure they’ve forgiven you by now. Six hundred years is a really long time to hold a grudge.” Emory shrugged and bit his lip. “Thank you for coming for me,” he said, squeezing her hand. “I think we were both there for each other.” “I’m glad,” he said, right before he drew her in for their first Heavenly kiss. All around them, cheering and applause sounded. Petra looked up as a crowd of people surged toward them. Emory grinned, watching their approach. “My family,” he said. “I guess they’ve forgiven me for burning down the village after all.” He picked up her hand and rubbed her inner wrist with his thumb. “Come, they will want to meet you.” Petra hung back. “No, you go first.” Emory gave her a questioning glance, so Petra nudged him forward. “Go on, they’ve been waiting a really long time.” He looked over his shoulder, before stepping into the outstretched arms of first a woman Petra thought might be his mother, and then a gentleman who was probably his father. She stood, watching, smiling, and wondering. Rohan appeared at her side. “It’s a happy day for him,” Petra said. “But for me, for my family...” her voice trailed away.

“Your family will be devastated,” Rohan said. Petra thought about her parents and Zoe. The last time she’d seen them, she had been at a restaurant. There had been a terrible accident. Maybe that had been the moment she’d been fated to die. An overwhelming loss enveloped her. “You must be pleased,” Rohan said. “You accomplished what you were sent to do.” “I did?” “Of course you did. Don’t you your commission? You were sent to save Emory’s soul.” Rohan motioned toward Emory and his happy reunion with his loved ones. “And so you have.” “And my turn on Earth is over.” Petra considered this. She thought of the life she had thought she would live, the children she thought she would raise, and the places she thought she would see. She thought about Earth with its mountains, oceans and wide-open spaces. She thought about the gritty cities and places of poverty. “There is so much I haven’t done. Things I thought I would do.” Rohan nodded. “And so you shall.” “Wait. What?” “Your time on Earth isn’t over, Petra.” “But you just said it was. You said I did what I was supposed to do!” “And you know that there is still more to do, right?” “But—Emory...he belongs here.” Panic gripped her. “I can’t leave him.” Rohan smiled at her, but sympathy crinkled around his eyes. “Have faith.” Petra sank to the ground as if her legs were no longer capable of bearing her weight. Rohan sat beside her. Neither of them spoke for a long time. “Annie and Rasputin—will they still be there?” “There will always be evil, but, my child, you will be oblivious to it.”

“I won’t them, you mean. Just like I didn’t the 1810 Emory and he didn’t the 2010 me.” She took a deep breath. “But Rasputin and Annie—they’ll me.” “Perhaps, but , you will be of little use to them.” “And Emory?” Rohan’s eyes twinkled. “He will have his own choices to make.” “Even though he’s here, he’s done...” Petra’s voice trailed away. “He could choose to follow you if he so desires.” Rohan paused. “But , the same rules will still apply.” “You mean, he could return earth?” She puzzled over this. “But why would he?” “He won’t you...and you won’t him.” “I don’t think I can do this.” Petra ed what Fester said. She had to let Emory go. Rohan gazed at her. “Have you ever had, I believe you call it, a déjà vu moment?” Petra nodded. “Yes.” “And have you ever had the experience when you learn something new and it sounds so right and so familiar that it’s as if you’re ing something that you had heard before...even though you know the concept is totally new to you?” Petra’s breath caught. “Yes.” “And have you ever met someone where you feel an immediate connection, even though you know you’ve never met before, and yet you know you know them.” “That’s exactly how I felt every time I met Emory. In the meadow, in the stables, he has always seemed like a familiar fixture in my world.” Petra looked up at the sky. “How can I walk away from him?” “Can you have faith that he will follow?”

“I have to go back, right?” “No. You have a choice. You can stay here with Emory.” “And by staying here, I’ll everything. All of our time together— everything.” Rohan nodded. A snippet of a conversation floated back to her. “Life is precious, Petra. More dear than you know.” Emory had said. “I just want my life to be with you.” “We are together now.” “Yeah, and that’s a miracle, isn’t it? It’s amazing that we even found each other. Not just now in New York City, although if you think about it, that was pretty remarkable, too—but ever. A girl from the twenty-first century and a guy from the Middle Ages—that never happens, right?” “Who can say what can or cannot ever happen?” Rohan said. “Do you—or Heaven—want me to go back?” “You are a good person, Petra, and good people are needed in the world. By just your being you, you can show the world a brighter, happier way to live.” “That’s not me, Rohan.” Petra’s thoughts cast back to all the mistakes she’d made. Rohan laughed as if he could read her mind. “You’re brave, and your heart is always in the right place.” He chuckled, making Petra wonder if he was ing the smoke bombs they lit under Hampton Court, or her playing a simpering sister in the asylum. “I have always been able to count on you. Heaven feels the same.” “And Emory?”

“We count on him, too.” Rohan paused. “If living and striving to make the world a brighter, happier place is a goal worthy of your sacrifice...” “I can’t sacrifice Emory.” She blinked back tears. “Then you must stay. But let me ask you, my dear, what would Emory want you to do?” Petra looked around with a weight of sadness. Although she had just arrived, she already loved it here. It was as Rohan had said, she felt at home in a place that she barely ed. Everything was peaceful, light, and sunny. If she went back to the world, there would be pain, loss, and fear. She would have frustrations with her little sister. She would, at times, disappoint her parents. There would be tests in school, and monotonous days, and people who lie, cheat, and cause intentional and sometimes unintentional harm. The world she knew could be gritty and grim, as well as challenging and wonderful. Petra stood. Her gaze landed on Emory. He stood, surrounded by his family, his beaming face mirroring the expressions of those around him. She sent him a silent prayer and hoped he could feel her love.

Heaven and Earth

CHAPTER 14

Flying things filled the air—glass, plates, utensils, food, serving trays. Petra stared at the car crashing through the dining room, overturning tables and crunching things beneath its tires. Through the cacophony, Petra thought she heard her dad calling to her, urging her to get down. Someone, probably Zoe, tugged on one of her hands. Petra couldn’t move. She knew she needed to. She knew that standing and staring in a dining room while a car careened toward her wasn’t exactly the smartest thing to do, but she couldn’t make her legs bend. Like a person under a hypnotic spell, she watched the car, the flying things, the people scattering and scrambling for safety, until a piece of wood, a falling beam from the ceiling, smashed on top of her head. Her knees buckled, and she sank to the floor, succumbing to thundering pain.

RED FLASHING LIGHTS, a siren, and firemen dressed in bright yellow clothes. Someone was speaking to her. She saw their lips move, but couldn’t hear a sound. Drizzle fell, coating the world in rain, muting the colors until they all ran together. All of the sounds melded into white noise where not one voice was distinguishable from another. Hands lifted her onto a gurney. She rolled away. Hours later, Petra woke in a hospital bed. White walls reflected a bright morning sun. She blinked against the glare. A woman dressed in blue scrubs stopped typing on a keyboard and turned her way. “Hello,” she said. “Hi,” Petra returned. “Where am I?” “New York General,” the nurse told her. “That must mean I’ve been hurt.” And as she spoke, awareness of the pain gripped her. The nurse smiled. “Let me get your doctor. Would you like me to call your family? They’ve been waiting to see you.” Petra nodded. “And someone named Emory?” The nurse cast a questioning glance at Petra’s barren ring finger. “Who?” Petra asked, rubbing her forehead. “Emory? You kept asking for him.” Petra shook her head, and it responded by thundering. “Look who woke up!” The voice sent a chill down Petra’s back and she turned her hammering head to watch a boy in green scrubs with a stethoscope around his neck come in the room.

“Are you the doctor?” Petra asked. He grinned. “Me? No. I’m just a volunteer. I’m a freshman at Columbia, premed,” he told her. His eyes warmed her. “I hang out here for fun.” “Some fun,” Petra said through tight lips. “I’m guessing you’re not having much fun,” he said. Petra shook her head and closed her eyes. When she opened them again, he was still standing by her bed, holding a clipboard. His name tag said Emory. “We must know each other,” Petra told him, although she was sure they had never met. She would have ed him. “The nurse told me I was calling your name.” He smiled at her and picked up her wrist, checking her pulse. It raced and skittered beneath his fingers. Tingles ran up and down her arm. “We’ve never met,” he assured her, echoing her thoughts. “I would have ed as well.” “You must see a lot of people in here,” Petra said. “Probably too many to .” “There are some people who are impossible to forget.” Emory smiled and placed her hand back on the bed. She wanted him to pick it up again because the tingling had stopped. He had to touch her again. She had to know if he, or nerve endings, had caused the tingling. Closing her eyes, Petra had stirrings of visions, each featuring Emory. She saw him on a horse, galloping through pastures, a star-studded sky hanging above him. Next, they were in New York City, sitting on the library steps. And then, Russia? Handing out gold coins to children in an orphanage? Her lips curved into a smile. She had always had a vivid imagination. Maybe that was why she loved history. Sometimes when she studied about different places and times, she felt almost as if she had been there before.

The next time she opened her eyes, she saw Emory staring at her. And she suddenly knew that all that mattered was right here, right now. This moment, in this time, with this person that she really didn’t even know, yet, was the beginning of her eternity.

A Note from the Author

Aspecial thanks to my husband and my children for all the love and laughter they bring into my life. I’m also indebted to all the friends in my writer’s world, my critique partners Melanie Jacobson and Brittany Larson, and my fellow Orange County Fictionaires. And I if I didn’t have the input and insights of Cynthia Strong and my amazing editor Jan Abney this novel would have been a mess. (Actually, it would never have seen the light of day, because I knew it was a mess.) And kudos to Rachelle Dapper my model and to my brilliant daughter and cover artist, Bethany Barnette. I’m so very grateful for all of my stories, but for this one especially. God is good. Thank you for reading the Beyond series. If you enjoyed it, I would appreciate it if you'd help other readers enjoy it too. Recommend the books. Please help other readers find this book by recommending it to friends, readers' groups, and discussion boards. Review the books. Please tell other readers why you liked this book by reviewing it on any of the ebook retailers, Goodreads or your blog.