“Phoenix!”

 

The call wakes me and I rub my arm across my face. Last time I woke up, I was drooling. I unfold myself from my seat, half-afraid my skeleton is going to be permanently fused into the shape of a bus seat. Eight buses, over three thousand miles, and four nights sleeping on the ground. Technically I could have slept in the stations, protected from the elements. Or even in a hotel—I have money and, well, a small fortune in gold coins, not to mention the ability to make more if I really had to. But all of those choices were bound to get me caught and, most likely, killed. So spiderwebbed bushes and wet, cold grass have been my hosts for the last few nights.

 

It’s been murder on my spine—not to mention my leg—and every muscle in my body is aching as I shamble toward the bus door. The last step proves to be a little too much and I stumble out into the sunshine and throw a hand over my eyes, like a bear cub emerging from hibernation.

 

And into a subtle feeling so unfamiliar it takes me a few seconds to recognize it.

 

Warmth. Beams of sunlight spreading soft heat through my body, warming my skin, heating the air that I breathe. I give myself a few moments to stand there, soaking in the revitalizing rays. I’m not sure I’ve been completely warm since the night I left Portsmouth. We’ve driven through snow, hail, even had to delay a drive due to a fluke tornado in Montana. People all around me were theorizing about global warming and solar flares, but I kept my mouth shut. I don’t yet understand the connection between the extreme weather and the virus—but Elizabeth said it was there, and I know now to believe her.

 

It takes a few minutes to orient myself, to get used to walking on a surface that doesn’t move and sway. Being still doesn’t feel normal anymore.

 

Jeez, I smell. The hasty washings I’ve managed to get in bathrooms on my way across the country haven’t been nearly enough. But better than being a Reduciata prisoner, I remind myself.

 

I hardly feel like myself anymore. No, that’s not quite right. I hardly feel like Tavia anymore. The last five days I’ve let the voices that came out when I was fighting Marie become part of me. I’ve filled half of a notebook with what I can remember of them. Shihon the warrior queen from before time had meaning, Embeth the faceless scullery maid with dreams she couldn’t understand, Kahonda, an Indian huntress who died young on a search for something she couldn’t put into words.

 

And Sonya. And Rebecca.

 

They are me now, and I am them.

 

And we all need one thing. To find him.

 

Because now that I’ve had a chance to read the secret part of Rebecca’s journal—twice—we all know just what we’re running from. I don’t know what kind of future I do or don’t have with Logan, but I have to find him and protect him from these people. It’s more than a little terrifying to realize how many disasters I’ve read about in history that can be attributed to Earthbounds—usually affiliated with the Reduciata, but not always. The Mongol invasion of China, the great Indian famine, the Deluge of Poland and Lithuania, and even—if the Curatoria are to be believed: the Black Plague—a practice run of the virus now devastating the world. It ravaged Europe seven hundred years ago, but apparently that wasn’t enough for the Reduciata. This virus is supposed to be ten times worse. Ten times as deadly.

 

That this is success in the Reduciata’s eyes sickens me.

 

It makes me wonder what they’ve been involved in since Rebecca’s account. The Great Depression? World wars? Even natural disasters like the huge tsunamis of the last decade could potentially be laid at their feet.

 

I push those thoughts away again. I have to focus on step one—finding Logan. Step two is too big to think about now.

 

Too impossible.

 

I look at the scrap of paper I copied Logan’s address onto, even though I have it memorized.

 

A cab. I need a cab.

 

I need to get to him—to make sure he’s still alive.

 

And if he is, then it’ll all be worth it.

 

No. Not worth it. But somehow justified. I need this Logan to be the right one. To be Quinn. Because I can’t save anyone without my partner, of that much I’m certain. And I need their deaths to mean something. Sammi, Mark, Elizabeth.

 

Benson, my mind says, but I shove that thought back. He’s not dead.

 

But I kind of wish he was.

 

Still, too many people have died for me, for us. And not just in this life.

 

I look around. I don’t know how to find a cab. I stand in the parking lot looking lost for several minutes before I realize the three neon-green cars on the far end of the parking lot are taxis. Neon green?

 

Whatever.

 

I walk over to one and hold out the torn piece of paper. “Can you take me here?” I ask.

 

The guy reaches for the paper, but I draw it back possessively. It’s proof of where I’m going—my own little paper trail. I’ve learned the value of paranoia.

 

He nods his understanding—he probably drives a lot of crazy people—and leans forward to study the address. “Easy,” he says, a heavy accent in his voice. “’Bout ten miles.”

 

I nod with a jerky motion as adrenaline surges through me. Ten miles. I could walk if I had to. My body tenses at the thought and I’m grateful I won’t need to.

 

“Bags?” the driver asks, gesturing to the bus.

 

I shake my head. I have nothing but my backpack, and I grip its straps even tighter when the driver offers to take it. The journals are in there—my journal and Quinn’s—the few pages of the files I managed to save, the gold, the money, the necklace. No one’s taking my connections to my past away from me—not for a second.

 

He opens the back door and I slide into the cool vehicle. He starts the car and more chilly air flows from vents on the ceiling, hitting my face like a slap that sends goose bumps across my skin. As he pulls out of the lot, the cold air chills the nervous sweat on my body, and I shiver.

 

The driver notices and turns down the AC—which I appreciate— but it doesn’t matter. It’s nerves.

 

Every minute, every moment that ticks by brings me closer to him. I’ve embraced the feelings I once fought against. Let the attraction— Rebecca’s love—come through. I don’t care anymore than it’s not my choice. Who can fight fate, really?

 

I was stupid to try. I wish I had listened to Elizabeth. About everything. Maybe she and Sammi and Mark would still be alive if I had.

 

But even without Elizabeth’s words, I should have known.

 

Humans and goddesses. That never ends well; I’ve read the stories. I belong with my own kind.

 

I belong with Logan. He needs me.

 

Maybe . . . maybe this is what I want.

 

I wish I didn’t have to work so hard to convince myself of that. It’s Benson and Quinn all over again—except that the lingering feelings I wish I didn’t have are for Benson this time.

 

Focus, focus on how much they all love Quinn.

 

Leaning forward as far my seat belt will allow, I study the meter. The driver glances at me from the corner of his eye. He sees how fixated I am on the ticking red numbers and probably thinks I’m worried about the fare; now he’s afraid I can’t pay.

 

He couldn’t be more wrong. I’m willing the red numbers to scroll up higher, faster. Wish the driver would speed a little more.

 

I hear a turn signal click and sit up straight, staring out the front windshield. The driver pulls off the main road and into a quiet neighborhood. Not fancy, but nice.

 

Unfortunately, it’s also the kind of neighborhood where a taxi will be noticed.

 

“Hey.” I lean forward. “Can you drop me off like a block from the address?”

 

“Of course,” he says, then adds in a grumble, “You’re the boss.”

 

He pulls over about ten seconds later in front of a two-story stucco and brick house, and as he circles the cab to come open my door, I’m frozen in terror. Terror? No, it’s not precisely that. It’s fear and nerves and giddiness all mixed together and it glues my feet to floor. Then the door is open and warm sunlight pours in, thawing my skin and somehow melting my paralysis. I move slowly, but at least I move.

 

The cabbie is looking at me with real worry in his eyes now. “That’s twenty-nine eighty,” he says, obviously assuming I can’t pay. I don’t blame him—I look like I can’t pay. But I peel two twenties from a small wad of bills in my pocket and hold it out to the driver, my eyes already traveling up the street toward my ultimate destination. He says something, but I don’t hear. I make a noncommittal sound and step away from the car.

 

The driver almost runs back to his seat—probably afraid I’ll ask for change—but I don’t have the energy to pay attention to him. I’m barely managing to breathe. I can feel my chest starting to convulse and have to make myself take a breath and hold it for three seconds to keep from hyperventilating.

 

Again.

 

Again.

 

My heart is still racing—my pulse deafening in my ears—but at least I’m not light-headed. My feet move, carrying me up the street.

 

I don’t have a plan. Four days of thinking about Logan and I still don’t have a plan.

 

It’s Saturday. He should be around. It’s still early afternoon—too early for dates and parties.

 

What if he has a girlfriend? My mouth dries up. I hadn’t even considered that.

 

A smile hovers at the corners of my mouth. Just one more hurdle. If there’s anything the last week has taught me, it’s that I can jump hurdles.

 

I’m here.

 

What now?

 

Ring the doorbell? That seems a little awkward. Hang around like a stalker? Probably not the best idea, but I have nowhere else to go.

 

I’m hesitating there in front of his house—probably looking like a moron—and as though he can sense me, the front door opens, then slams shut and a tall guy comes out of the house. My breath is ragged as my eyes drink him in, but his head is down and he’s peering at a cell phone. All I can see is his golden hair.

 

Quinn’s hair.

 

It’s got to be him.

 

My throat is too dry to make a sound even when I realize he doesn’t see me and is about to plow me over.

 

He’s almost on top of me before he lifts his head and jumps to the side. “Whoa!” a low, quiet voice says. “I’m so sorry. Texting—I’m a total jerk. You okay?”

 

His eyes meet mine and my lingering doubts flee.

 

It’s Quinn. My Quinn, with shorter hair, more muscle on his arms and shoulders, and a quick smile.

 

And in that moment I realize I can’t wait to discover this person, who he is now—what the last two hundred years have turned him into. Warmth steals through my body, and the reality that I’ve found him fills me up and overflows. My lips smile, and I can’t make them stop.

 

“Do . . . do you live here?” I ask, finally finding my voice.

 

“Here?” Logan says, jerking his thumb toward the blue house. “Yeah.”

 

“I—I—” I stumble for words, but then the plan snaps together. I shove my hand into the side pocket of my backpack. “I found this out on the sidewalk,” I say, forcing my fingers to open. “It’s looks like it might be valuable. Is it . . . your mom’s maybe?” I finish lamely.

 

My palm is sweaty and I know Rebecca’s charm will be slightly damp, but I’m not embarrassed. As soon as he touches the locket, none of that will matter.

 

He holds out his hand and I turn mine over, purposely brushing his skin with mine, almost gasping at the thrilling rush that courses through me. It’s better than all the dreams I had of him, the vivid memories the necklace gave me.

 

Because this time, it’s real.

 

Real in a way that Benson never was.

 

I kick that thought away and let go of the necklace.

 

It falls from my palm into his, pooling like a liquid.

 

He’s studying it.

 

He keeps staring at it.

 

I want to scream at him to look up at me, but perhaps this incarnation of him is shy.

 

That’s okay; I can wait.

 

For a second.

 

His shoulders shrug. “I can go ask her if you want,” he says casually, “but I’ve never seen her wear anything like this.”

 

My mouth drops. He’s toying with me. He must be. This isn’t the way it’s supposed to happen.

 

“Do you want me to come with you to ask my neighbors?” His green eyes turn up to me.

 

They’re blank.

 

My heart dies. I’m not sure my legs will support me.

 

It didn’t work. Not my touch, not the necklace. He’s still just Logan; he’s not my Quinn.

 

Not yet, Rebecca reminds me. And from somewhere deep inside—a reserve I didn’t know I had—I find new strength. New resolve.

 

Back when Quinn met me as Rebecca, I was the one who didn’t know him. Maybe it’s only fair that the tables are turned now.

 

The important thing is that I found him. He’ll remember, eventually. I have the old journals to help me—Logan’s sparse file that I’ve practically memorized. The answers are there somewhere, and I’ll find them.

 

Until I do, I’ll stay with Logan. I’m not simply his partner; I’m his protector too. The Reduciata are looking for me. For us. Eventually they’ll find us.

 

Again.

 

Hell, Benson’s probably already told them we’re in Phoenix.

 

And if I don’t wake Logan up before they kill me—or him—and do whatever it is that’s supposed to recharge us, then we’re done.

 

He needs me.

 

And the world needs us.

 

I hold out my hand for the necklace and shrug casually. “I don’t think that’s necessary. But if someone tells you they’ve lost it, will you let me know?” I dig into my backpack, trying to shield its contents from Logan’s eyes. I cringe as I rip a corner off the file Sammi gave me, but it’s the only paper I’ve got. The tip of my pen touches the page before I remember that Elizabeth’s phone is in a landfill in Pennsylvania. After she died, I didn’t chance it; I got rid of everything.

 

“Shoot, I totally spaced it,” I mutter, feeling my cheeks heat up. “I lost my phone and I’m not sure when I’ll be getting a new one. Can I get your number?” I ask as I peer up at him from beneath my lashes. “Uh, yeah, sure,” Logan says, and rattles off ten digits.

 

“How ’bout a name?” I ask, playing dumb.

 

“I’m Logan,” he says, shoving his phone into a pocket and holding out a hand to me.

 

I shake his hand, feel our warm skin meet, and euphoria tingles through me. He’s a little different—modern, I guess—but most parts of him are the same. The eyes, that lopsided tilt in his smile. I don’t know if I’ve ever managed to find him this young.

 

A lifetime. That’s what we have.

 

A twinge shoots through me at the memory of Benson saying those same words, but I push it away.

 

I don’t have time for regrets.

 

“Tavia,” I say, and cling to his hand just half a second longer than necessary. “Thanks for this,” I add, holding up the scrap of paper. “I’ll call you.”

 

“Sure,” Logan says.

 

I stride down the street, peeking once more over my shoulder at him. I don’t know where I’m going, don’t even have a place to stay tonight, but it doesn’t matter. We’re both here now, and somehow, it will work out.

 

It’s fate.

 

“Wait,” Logan calls out only a moment after I manage to tear my eyes from him.

 

I stop and he takes a few steps forward, looking almost sheepish. “Do I . . . I know this is going to sound weird, but do I know you?”

 

I grin, confidence bursting in my chest. “No,” I say playfully, “not yet.” I hitch my backpack higher and turn away, holding our eye contact as I look over my shoulder. “But you will.”

 

Acknowledgments Wow. This book has ended up being one of the scariest things I’ve ever done and I would probably be a crying, quivering mass curled up on the floor if it weren’t for the people who seriously forced this book into awesomeness.

 

To Jodi Reamer, my agent, thank you for giving me courage when I didn’t have any. Ben Schrank, my publisher, for taking a chance on me even when it looked like things weren’t going to work. Gillian Levinson, my editor, for having the guts to ask the one thing you should never ask a romance writer! That, more than anything else, is what made this book shine.

 

To my amazing cover designer, Emily Osborne. Seriously, I. Owe. You. One.

 

To Scott and Ashley, for letting me steal so many aspects of Scott’s injuries and for letting me share in this journey with you. Writing it is so much easier than living it, but watching the two of you work through this together has brought a realism and life to this book that could never have existed any other way. Just remember, Tavia had a brain injury before Scott did! I promise!

 

Kenny, for letting me leap. It may have been even scarier for you than for me, but you let me do it anyway. Thank you for believing in what I knew I had to do.

 

To Audrey, Brennan, Gideon, and Gwendolyn, who are more important to me than my books. Thank you for dealing with all the eccentricities of your “Writer Mom.”

 

And lastly, thank you again, Kenny. Because you deserve two mentions. Nah, you deserve ten. But two will have to do.