“You’ve never even slept with anyone, but technically you’re already married,” Eshan says from the back seat.

He’s been talking nonstop since we got back in the car.

I explained everything I knew throughout the day yesterday. He drank bag after bag of blood to sate his thirst, even though he said it tasted like it had dirt mixed into it compared to the fresh stuff.

And then once we got into the car to continue driving, Eshan peppered Rath with question after question about his real identity.

He sips on a bag of blood in the back seat. I can feel his eyes on the back of my head.

Rath got more blood from somewhere. I wasn’t going to ask where. But Eshan isn’t trying to kill Rath so long as he keeps sucking down the donor blood.

“Technically, I don’t know how to answer that question,” I say, tightening my grip on the steering wheel. “Sevan and Cyrus got married a really, really, really long time ago. I never walked down the aisle with this face. Hell, I’ve never even kissed the man with these lips.”

“That is more than enough detail,” he says, barely reigning in a gag. “You might be this…Sevan, and Antoinette, and Edith, and La’ei, but you’re also still my sister. My sister who pooped her pants once in the fifth grade and tried to say she sat in chocolate.”

“I was sick, you little asshole!” I yell, glaring at him in the rearview mirror. “I didn’t mean for…that, to happen! Why’d you have to go and bring that up!”

Rath chuckles in the passenger seat, but turns his face and looks out the window.

“Because all of a sudden I find out my sister is the Queen of all vampires!” Eshan continues, relishing in this. “I had to take you down a few pegs! It’s my duty as a little brother to keep you humble!”

“Jerk,” I say. But a smile is pulling at my lips as I shake my head.

We drive through the night. Texas is huge. So huge. It takes forever and ever to cross, and we only make it to Dallas before the sun starts showing signs of rising, and Eshan starts freaking out about how his eyes are burning already.

We pull off the freeway and head to the first hotel we can find. I check in, getting two rooms once more.

“I think the two of you could use a little bonding time,” I say as I haul my bag to one of the rooms. I open it, stepping half inside. “And I need a little break from the forced humility.”

With a tight little-lipped smile at my brother, and a quick glance at Eli, I hope that if Eshan loses control, Rath will be quick enough to knock him out with one of the darts.

Some quiet at last, I sigh as I close the door behind me.

I drop my bag on the bed and head straight for the shower. Turning it on burning hot, I step in and start scrubbing myself clean.

It’s incredible, such a simple thing. Running water inside a building. Water that is instantly heated. Water that cascades from above and then runs out a drain in the ground.

I think back, once more trying to piece together a timeframe. I can’t recall ever having running water in any of my past lives. As Logan, I try to think back through history class, to remember how long running water has been a thing in homes.

Maybe the 1800’s?

So it’s been since before then that I last died.

Cyrus said it’s been 286 years.

Once more that hint of a forgotten life, the seventh life I’ve lived, the eight death, floats in the recesses of my mind.

But I just can’t quite grasp it.

When I finish washing my hair, I step out of the shower, wrapping a towel around my body. I brush my hair and then braid it. Digging through my bag, I pull on some underwear and a tank top.

I can sense it out there, the sun. I stand behind the blackout curtains, imagining the sunrise outside. Imagining how it could warm my skin.

My relationship with it will never be the same. Yes, I’ve seen Cyrus go out in the middle of the day with the aid of sunshades. Yes, I’ve used them. But from now on—for the rest of my life, I’ll have to think about it before I just go outside.

But in the same breath, this is just natural. I’ve lived hundreds of years in the dark. Night is natural. Day is the enemy.

So, with that reminder, I turn and climb into the bed. My eyes feel heavy. My brain a little sluggish. It’s been five days since I Resurrected, and I haven’t slept at all since then.

I slip under the covers, close my eyes, and finally sleep.

---

I stood in the hall leading to the grand ballroom. I wore one of the most elegant gowns I’d ever seen. The fabric was a deep, royal purple. Golden stitching made intricate patterns all over the surface. The back of it laced up, cinching me in tight. And atop my head sat my crown. Simple and gold. The one I’d worn for so long.

I could hear them all inside the ballroom. The orchestra playing a complicated melody. The hundreds of bodies dancing. Voices speaking of politics and families and love.

I stood out in the hall by myself. Just staring at the great wooden doors.

It was a party. The House in France recently passed leadership to a daughter. She was loved. Respected. Those from the area were exceedingly glad to be rid of her father and have her take his place.

Cyrus had invited them here, to Roter Himmel as his guests. He wanted to get to know this woman. He wanted to understand her so he would know how to control her if the need arose.

In truth, it really was just another party.

But I stood there, staring at the great wooden doors.

I was dressed for the part. I was ready to step into that ballroom, have all those eyes fall on me. Hundreds would bow to me in respect.

But I just…

I couldn’t. Not today.

I turned, ready to go back to my rooms. But the doors swung open, just enough to allow one person to slide through.

I met Cyrus’ eyes, and everything in me stilled.

His eyes were the first part of him that I fell in love with. So penetrating, like he could read my very soul like it was a book. I loved their intensity, even if it sometimes frightened me just a little.

He used that look as he slowly walked toward me.

I took in a breath as he reached me. Time. Mountains. Sandalwood.

I even loved the way Cyrus smelled.

“What is it, my love?” he asked as he took my hands in his. He pressed my palms flat to his chest, holding his hands over mine. “What is the matter?”

I looked away from him, over his shoulder, to those huge wooden doors. “I just can’t today, im yndmisht srtov,” I said as I shook my head. “All the games. The posturing. The politics. I just can’t today.”

Emotion pricked my eyes and my chest felt tight.

So long. We’d been alive for so long. Done all of this for such a long time.

“Do you ever get tired of it?” I breathed. “Do you ever wish it would all just disappear?”

My eyes slid back to his. He didn’t answer right away. He gazed at me, and I could see him thinking, considering all I just asked.

And I understood. Because when I thought about it, all that Cyrus had accomplished, it’s incredible. There isn’t a word big enough for it.

“When I look at you in the mornings, standing at the window, looking over the land, with the weight of the world on your shoulders, weighing you down, I wish it would all disappear,” he said. His voice was low, intimate. The words just between the two of us. “When I see you sitting on your throne, alone in a room full of subjects, a look of distance in your eyes, I wish it would all disappear.” He drew me closer. He touched his forehead to mine, and we breathed the same air. The heat of his body warmed me. “When we lie in bed, and someone walks in with complications that must be dealt with, and I see the disappointment in your eyes, I wish it would all disappear.”

My eyes slid closed as his words wrapped around me in a warm, soft embrace. I leaned into him, resting my forehead in the crook of his shoulder and neck. He took my right hand in his left, cradling it gently against his chest. His other wrapped around my waist.

Slowly, he began swaying us to the music. Gentle, tiny movements. I clung to him, relishing in his strength and solid presence. I breathed in his air, letting it fill me.

Together.

As one.

We swayed gently back and forth.

He softly hummed. They weren’t the exact notes that the orchestra played in the ballroom, but they matched the melody. It was a love song. One about all the pain we’d endured together. But also all the nights in each other’s arms. The kisses shared in passageways. The acts of kindness and patience. The shared tears over grief that would never go away, no matter how long we lived, over a child lost long before his death.

Softly, Cyrus hummed the song of us.

“I want to go somewhere,” I said quietly against my husband’s skin. “Just you and I. For a long while. Just as husband and wife.”

I looked up, to stare into his beautiful face. And I loved all the devotion I saw in his eyes, and I felt it in myself; this man had made some bad choices. Made lifetimes of mistakes. But I would do anything for him. I would never, ever love another as I loved him.

“Anything, im yndmisht srtov,” he promised. And slowly, he leaned forward, and took my lips as his. Forever.

---

My hands immediately cling to my chest. The hollow ache in it makes it nearly impossible to breathe. Tears immediately spring into my eyes. I can’t stop them. They silently cascade down my face, saturating my pillow.

I sob. I reach across the bed, searching for a warm body, or even just a warm space beside me, but the sheets are cool and empty.

A bone-rattling breath sucks into my chest and I curl into a ball on my side.

Cyrus may have created his own curse that he shared with so many others, but this is my own: to love a man who did such a horrible thing to me. To ache for him in the same breath that I hate him. To crave his touch and nearness, even as I have to piece the puzzle of my identity together, over and over.

But no matter what, I always end up at the same place. I want him with me.

Even if right now, it’s the last thing I need.

Rolling over, I search for my phone on the nightstand. The screen blinds me momentarily when I wake it. I don’t even have any choice in it when my fingers scroll through the names and click the one.

It rings only twice before it connects.

“Im yndmisht srtov,” Cyrus breathes over the line.

“Cyrus,” I whisper. And the moment his name crosses my lips, emotion splits my chest. More tears force their way down my face. I cover my mouth with my hand to hold in the sob that wants to rip from me.

“What’s wrong?” he breathes. “Tell me where you are and I will be right there.” And I do hear him moving. I hear others in the background, jumping to fulfill his needs, speaking in German.

“No,” I whisper. “I’m fine. You don’t…” But I don’t know what to tell him. I don’t know how to vocalize what is going on inside of me. “Can you just… Can you just lie here with me?”

He’s quiet for a long moment. The only thing I hear is the sound of his breathing, but just barely.

And then he pulls the phone away from him as he sends those around him away. Once more I hear him walking. And I just listen to him. I absorb the familiar sounds of his breathing.

Through this little electronic device, I can feel him. Can nearly touch his presence. Cyrus is that strong. That commanding. That tangible.

The soft sound of a door clicking shut comes through, and then rustling.

I can picture it. Him crossing our room. The enormous canopy bed. Him climbing into it.

“I’m here, my love,” he finally says to me.

His voice.

Oh, his voice.

I clutch the fabric at my chest, as if I can hold my own heart and keep it from splintering into a million little shards.

My throat is tight.

“Talk to me, im yndmisht srtov,” he requests. His voice is nervous. Hesitant.

“I don’t know if I have anything to say,” I whisper. “I just… I needed to hear your voice.”

“I cannot express how grateful I am to hear yours,” he says. “The past four days have felt like four years.”

The words I’m sorry are right there at the end of my tongue, but I hold them in. Because I am, but I’m not. “They have been long for me, too.”

There’s another long pause, as both of us search for words to express this moment.

“I’ve told no one here at Court,” he says. “Mina and Fredrick have sworn silence. The time and manner is yours, whenever you choose.”

I nod, even though he can’t see it. Tears of gratitude cascade down my face. “Thank you,” I say quietly.

Once more, we’re both quiet.

But right now I’m imagining him lying there in the bed. One of his arms is hooked behind his head. He stares up at the black crystal chandelier that hangs high above it. The stones of the ceiling are familiar. But he’s not really seeing any of that. He’s seeing us, slowly dancing alone out in the hall. Alone, just the two of us.

“We never took that trip,” I say. My voice is little more than a whisper. “With just you and I. Together. Just husband and wife again.”

I hear just the smallest of breaths catch in his throat. I know what my remembering the little details of our past together means to him.

I know what it means to me.

“Do you remember what we planned?” he asks gently.

More tears push out of my eyes as I squeeze them closed. I shake my head. “No,” I admit. “Will you tell me?”

“That very night we began to plan it,” he tells our story, reminding me. “We were to depart in three weeks. You had always heard incredible things about India. We were going to go to the jungle and then the beach. No timeframe. Just however long we needed, just you and I.”

His words thicken. And he stops speaking for a long while.

Cyrus is a harsh and cold man to everyone who knows him, even to those who don’t.

But I know the emotion he’s capable of.

He fights to gain control over it now.

“Why did we never go?” I ask when he does not continue. Through the ransacked cavern of my memories, I search. I try to find the reason. Surely it must be there, somewhere.

“Because you got sick just four days after we planned it,” Cyrus says. His words come out sharp and filled with emotion. “Four days later, you drained not one, but two of the feeders. Five days later you felt too tired to get out of bed. Seven days later, you went through a dozen feeders, and it was never enough.”

His voice cracks and he suddenly goes quiet.

More tears roll down my face, but not for myself.

I can picture his face. How it is crumpled in emotion. How his skin grows red. How his lips quiver. How he holds a hand over his eyes, trying to rub out the emotions.

A small sob slips between my lips. Once more I cover my mouth with my hand, trying to hold myself together.

“Twelve days after we planned that trip, I held you in my arms as you looked up at me. You were too weak to move. But tears trailed down your cheeks as you looked up at me.” Cyrus’ voice trembles as he tells me the story.

And I realize, I don’t remember any of them. Not a single one of my deaths.

And for that I am grateful.

“I whispered that I loved you and that I would search for you again, until I found you,” Cyrus says. His voice sounds tired.

I purse my lips together for a moment, gathering myself. I wipe the tears from my skin. “Which death was that?” I ask. I don’t really want to know. But I do need to piece myself together.

“The sixth,” he tells me. “When you wore Edith’s face.”

Edith. I nod. The recollection of what he says, of being that woman with the blonde hair comes floating through my memory, but only as tangible as fog.

“You never asked me to call you any of their names before,” Cyrus says, bringing focus back to me. “Why did you ask me with this one?”

And despite how complicated that answer should be, the answer comes to me, crystal clear, in a single instant.

“Because she, I, wanted you to love her, as just her,” I answer honestly. “And because I think, that in some small measure, you did.”

He does not say anything. I can feel his turmoil, the struggle inside of himself.

Cyrus’ devotion to Sevan is unlike anything this world has ever seen before.

I understand that he cannot admit it. Even to himself. Even to me. Even to Logan. Especially to Sevan.

“I don’t know who I am more, Sevan or Logan,” I say, finding calm in my voice. “I don’t even know who I want to be called. I think it changes moment to moment. I suppose I’m both, and will be until I die again, however soon or far away that might be.”

“Don’t,” Cyrus says, life sparking into his voice again. “Don’t say that.”

“It’s okay,” I say hollowly, because I don’t really mean it. “I’m only trying to tell you that I want you to think about it. About your heart. About your truth. Because I’m trying to accept myself, as more than one person. I hope you’re one day able to be okay with loving all of the people I am and have been.”

“Logan,” he says, and a small smile forms on my lips, because he knows exactly who he’s talking to in this moment. “I…”

“I just needed to hear your voice,” I say, cutting him off. “And I wanted you to know that I do miss you.”

The words don’t express how badly I do.

“Please,” he says, his voice sounding defeated. “Come home.”

I shake my head. “It isn’t time yet,” I tell him. “I’m not ready. And there are still some things I need to take care of.”

He’s quiet for a moment. I know the struggle this must be for him. He’s a man who tells people what to do. He does not have to wait for them.

But he will wait for me.

“Alright,” he accepts. “I will continue to try to understand. But Logan?”

My heart skips a beat at hearing him call me that.

“Yes?” I breathe.

“May I please call you?” he asks. “Just from time to time? It’s a relief just to hear your voice.”

I smile. “Yes, that would be alright.”

I can feel it. Clear across the world. Continents apart. His smile.

“I’ll talk to you later, Cyrus,” I say.

“Goodnight, Logan,” he says. And I smile, too.

“Goodnight.”