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Then she saw.
A woman running through the passages. She was frightened, and Bliss felt her fear. It was vibrating all around her.
Bliss stared at her.
The woman stared back.
It was Allegra, and not Allegra.
She looked different. This was her mother in a different cycle.
But it was her immortal spirit that Bliss recognized.
Gabrielle.
“Run!” Gabrielle said. “Run!” She ran toward the fissure, toward the darkness.
Bliss gasped and stumbled, and Lawson caught her.
“What’s wrong?”
“We have to help her!” Bliss said.
“There’s nothing we can do from here,” Lawson said. “All we can do is watch and try to understand what happened.”
“I don’t want to understand! I want to make it stop before whoever that is gets her.”
“Why, what’s wrong?”
“I know who’s chasing her. I know why she’s running away, and he’s coming closer now. It’s…it’s my father.”
FORTY-SIX
Schuyler
hat was more surprising than finding herself suddenly in Hell was who had taken her there. How had she not recognized his voice? How had she not recognized him from the very beginning? He had disguised himself—an illusion, she saw now—and she hadn’t even noticed; hadn’t given a second glance to the black-suited chauffeur holding the sign.
The illusion was gone, and now she could see him clearly. His shining blond hair and glass-green eyes. She could feel his body against hers, and his breath on her cheek. He was alive—her heart leapt at that—Jack was alive! She had tried so hard to suppress her feelings, to stop herself from worrying—but to see him in front of her made her realize how truly she had believed he was dead. But her happiness was hers alone. He did not share it and she did not understand why. She stared at his face: why was he scrowling like that? And why was he so cold? His skin was like ice to the touch—as if he were made of marble. He was like a statue.
This was not the joyful reunion Schuyler had been dreaming about. There was something wrong with Jack. He was not himself. What had happened to her love?
“Jack—what’s going on?” she breathed, turning to him even as he held her like a prisoner.
His gaze was cool and distant. There was no spark in his eyes, no warmth there. He was Jack, but somehow not her Jack. Schuyler began to feel very afraid for the two of them.
“I don’t understand,” she said. “Why are we here? What’s going on? Jack—what’s happened to you?”
He did not answer, and Schuyler realized what she had been loath to admit to herself. That the presence she’d felt—those eyes on her—it had been him all along. She had sensed it, and had tried to reach out to him, but there had been no response, and so she’d tried to forget about it, had tried to convince herself that she felt nothing. That she was seeing phantoms; that she was kidding herself.
But of course she knew. She knew he was in London; she knew he had been watching her. She had been waiting for him to come to her, to show himself, and now he had. Had he seen everything that had happened to her? Was he there when she met her grandmother? When she visited her father’s grave?
She looked deep into his eyes, and found him staring back at her blankly. It was as if the Jack she knew had been completely erased. She felt her stomach clench, and tears come to her eyes. Even if she could not put her arms around him, since he held them at her sides, they were so close that she could turn her face and press her cheek against his cold one.
“Where are you taking me?” she asked, even though she suspected she already knew. “You’re working for Lucifer again, aren’t you?”
He did not deny it.
“But why? Why now? What happened to Mimi? Did you kill her?” Schuyler sucked in her breath. Was that what happened? Was that why he was so changed? Because he had killed her?
