“So it’s true?” Haven asked. “You know her?”
“The woman’s name is Phoebe,” Iain said. “It never even occurred to me that you might want to meet her. She works for the Ouroboros Society. They call her the Pythia.”
“But she could help me see the life I had in Florence?”
“She might be able to,” Iain admitted reluctantly.
Haven stood up and grabbed the handle of her largest suitcase. “Let’s get to the airport. We can’t waste any more time in Italy if the woman I need to see is in New York.”
Iain took the suitcase from her and set it back on the floor. “Hold on, Haven. This isn’t as simple as you think.”
“Really? It seems pretty simple to me,” Haven said.
“It’s not. No one knows how much of what the Pythia says is true. She only works with the high-ranking members of the OS. She claims she helps them remember more of their previous lives. But there are a lot of people in the Society who recall being famous or royal—and not that many who remember being peasants or chambermaids. It’s just not realistic. We’ve all been peasants. The Pythia has to be making a lot of stuff up.”
“But if we told her it was a matter of life and death, she wouldn’t lie, would she?”
“There’s no way to be sure,” Iain said. “And there’s something else you should know.”
“What?”
“The Pythia is one of the people who know about Adam. She speaks to him on a regular basis.”
He waited for Haven to respond, but for once she kept her lips sealed. When her mother had called to say that Beau was missing, Haven had made a secret deal with the gods. She’d promised them any sacrifice if Beau Decker’s life were spared. But now Haven’s resolve was being put to the test. How far was she really prepared to go?
“If you visit the Pythia, you’ll be putting yourself in danger. We both know we’ll have to deal with Adam and the OS someday. But we came to Italy to get away from him for a few years. Then we left Rome because you thought he had followed us there. Now you want to go to New York and run right back into his arms?”
“His arms?” After Haven’s conversation with his mother, Iain’s words felt like a slap in the face. “When was I ever in Adam Rosier’s arms? Is there something you want to tell me?”
“He’s obsessed, Haven. . . .”
“What does that have to do with me? Women throw themselves at you every day, Iain. I trust you.”
“I trust you, Haven. It’s just—”
“I have to go, Iain. It’s Beau. Do you know how many times I’ve let him down?” The panic surged, and her voice squeaked. “I won’t do it again.”
“You don’t need Phoebe’s help. We’ll find another way to rescue Beau. I can’t let you take this kind of risk, Haven. It’s not what Beau would have wanted. We managed to fool Adam once, but I doubt we’ll be able to fool him again. And this time I may not be able to rescue you.”
“Rescue me?” Haven’s temper flared. “As I recall, the last time we were in trouble, I rescued you. I’m not some damned damsel in distress. You can come with me or stay here. I’m leaving for New York tonight.”
At last Iain seemed to realize that Haven’s mind was made up. “Fine,” he announced. “We’ll go back together. On one condition.”
“What is it?”
“I’ll tell you where to find the Pythia. You’ll gather whatever clues she can offer you and take them straight to the police. And then we leave New York. Immediately. Do we have a deal?”
“Deal,” Haven agreed. Her anger was fading, and the need to embrace him was growing in its place. She knew just how much she was asking. But Iain had barely put up a fight. In return, Haven took a second silent oath. She would sacrifice anything for Beau. But she wouldn’t let the quest to save her friend lead her away from the person she loved.
“I’m sorry, Haven,” Iain said. “I should have remembered the Pythia. I want to do everything possible to find Beau. I’ll fly halfway around the world to look for him. I’ll spend every dime we have left. I’ll search New York City by foot if I have to. But I won’t risk losing you. I’m sorry if that sounds selfish.”
Haven couldn’t hold herself back any longer.
CHAPTER TEN
Haven opened her eyes when she felt the plane being pulled back to earth. The cabin lights were out, and most of her fellow passengers were dozing in their seats. Over the hum of the engines, she could hear machine-gun fire and angry voices. The little boy to her left had been playing the same war game since they took off from Florence. She wondered how many enemy soldiers he’d managed to dispatch during their eight-hour flight.
Iain didn’t wake when she tucked a blanket around him, but he grumbled in his sleep as she reached over to slide open the window shade. As she got closer, Haven couldn’t resist the urge to kiss him. Her lips lingered on Iain’s cheek, and she prayed he wasn’t worrying about all the wrong things. Adam Rosier was dangerous. They were putting their lives in jeopardy, no doubt. But Haven wondered if that was what bothered Iain most. In the heat of the moment, he’d accused Haven of running back into Adam’s arms. What exactly had he meant? Had his mother been telling the truth after all? Did he really see Adam Rosier as a rival? Didn’t Iain know that there was nothing on earth that could ever tempt Haven to stray?
As usual, Beau Decker took any opportunity to make a cameo appearance inside Haven’s head. “I suppose all that jealousy was just his conscience talking. Like my grandpa used to say, a guilty dog always barks the loudest.”
It was a snippet of a conversation now months in the past, and Beau hadn’t been referring to Iain. He’d been talking about Stephen, the boy who’d broken his heart. He’d been flattered when Stephen hadn’t wanted to share him with anyone else. Amused when the boy imagined every male on campus was a rival for Beau’s affections. And horrified to discover that the first person to whom he’d given his heart had been sharing his body with half of Nashville.
The plane sank again, dipping low over Manhattan as it prepared to land on the other side of the river in Queens. Haven looked up from Iain and out the window. Not far below, the roofs of the skyscrapers that rose out of midtown seemed so close that Haven briefly wondered if the pilot planned to fly through the streets. An entire avenue turned a bright, blaring red as drivers hit their brakes for a traffic light.
Her best friend in the world was down there somewhere. Haven could feel it. But the city was vast—even from the air it didn’t seem to end. Poor Beau, Haven thought. He came all this way to find his Iain.
“Can I see?” asked a voice. The ten-year-old boy seated on the aisle had dropped his video game and was kneeling on his seat cushion for a better look.
“Sure.” Haven sat back in her chair and let him lean over her.
“Just like I remembered,” the boy said solemnly.
“Have you been to New York before?” Haven asked.
“Mmm-hmm. A long time ago.”
“He has not,” the boy’s mother chimed in from across the aisle. Haven hadn’t realized she was awake. “He just has an overactive imagination. How many times have I told you not to lie, Jordan?”
“I’m not lying,” the boy insisted. “I flew here in a giant balloon.”
“See what I mean?” the woman told Haven, her eyes searching for sympathy. “I don’t know where he gets it.”
“What kind of giant balloon?” Haven asked the boy quietly once his mother was no longer listening. “Do you mean a blimp? Did you fly here in a blimp?”
“Forget it,” Jordan said, sulking.
The boy was still out of sorts thirty minutes later when she and Iain found themselves trapped behind his family in the taxi line at the airport. The icy wind rushed around them all, sneaking up Haven’s sleeves and worming its way through the buttonholes in her coat.
“Have you ever been this cold?” she asked, trying to make small talk with the miserable little kid. He snorted once with contempt before pulling out his vid
eo game and ignoring her all together.
“Jordan!” his mother admonished him. “Don’t be rude!”
“Leave me alone,” he demanded.
“It’s okay,” Iain assured the boy’s mother. “It’s late and we’re all exhausted.”
Once they’d been ushered into a cab, Haven huddled next to Iain and tried to fight the dread that was gnawing away at her. As their taxi raced toward Manhattan, she watched the buildings across the East River grow until they loomed over the car, each a monstrous shadow bedecked in glittering lights. The city was beautiful, but it wasn’t safe. Haven felt as if eyes were following them as they cut across town. Riding through wild, wintry Central Park, she began to imagine an ambush. An obstacle would appear in the road. The cabdriver would hit the brakes, and dark figures would emerge from behind the snow-covered trees. She gripped Iain’s hand and pressed her face into his cashmere-clad shoulder. But the ambush never came to pass. They arrived safely at their destination on the west side of Central Park—an enormous building with towers that resembled a pair of horns. She and Iain hurried into the lobby of the Andorra apartments, Haven with the collar of her coat turned up, and Iain with a baseball cap pulled down to hide his face. On the seventeenth floor, they knocked at a door.
“Come in, come in!” Frances Whitman beamed at the pair of them. The chipper, thirty-something blonde had answered the door of her opulent apartment in tattered flannel pajamas. She looked like a peasant who’d inherited a palace. “I’m so thrilled you’re here! It gets lonely in this big old place with no one around.”
“Iain, I’d like you to meet Frances, my . . .” Haven paused. “What would you say we are, Frances?”
“Third cousins, one lifetime removed.” Frances winked at Iain. She and Haven had met for the first time eighteen months earlier, when Haven had been researching her previous existence as Constance Whitman. Haven was surprised to learn that Constance had one distant relation left in Manhattan—and shocked to discover that Frances had inherited the apartment where Constance’s parents had once lived. The last time Haven had spoken to Frances was outside Iain’s Manhattan funeral, but when Haven had phoned her out of the blue, Frances treated Haven like nothing less than a long-lost relative.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Iain said as he took off his hat.
“Oooh, he’s so handsome!” Frances informed Haven in a stage whisper. “No wonder you keep searching for him in every life. I wouldn’t let that get away either.” She turned back to Iain and offered him her hand. “I can’t tell you how happy I was to find out that you didn’t die in the fire. It would be a shame if the rest of us couldn’t enjoy that face while you have it.”
“Why thank you, Ms. Whitman,” Iain said, planting a kiss on her knuckles. The woman’s eyes widened with surprise. She hadn’t expected him to play along.
“So charming!” she mouthed at Haven. “But please, Iain, call me Frances. Haven told me what happened. It’s like something out of some tawdry romance novel. And I mean that in the very best way, of course. I hope you guys won’t mind if I live vicariously for a little while.”
Iain laughed. “Not at all,” he said.
“Thanks so much for giving us a place to stay,” Haven added. “You’re the only person in New York that I know we can trust.”
“And I imagine it’s hard to rent a hotel room in a city where one of you is supposed to have died,” Frances observed.
“It’s even harder when you’re both broke,” Haven added.
“Pssh,” Frances dismissed all talk of money with a wave of her hand. “You have no idea what I’d give to be young and poor and in love. The only things my money seems to buy are lawyers and gold diggers. You should enjoy your poverty while you can.”
“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell Haven all along,” Iain said.
“Then I guess you’ve learned a thing or three over your past hundred lives,” Frances fired back flirtatiously.
Iain peered down at Haven. What exactly have you told her? his eyes seemed to ask.
The message in Haven’s smile was clear. Not everything, it said. Haven had given Frances all the romance she’d been craving—nothing more.
A clock chimed and Frances jumped. “What am I thinking?!” she exclaimed. “It must be two o’clock in the morning your time. Come on. I’ll show you to your room. We can catch up over breakfast.”
Haven and Iain followed Frances as she shuffled down the hall in her slippers. The corridor’s walls were lined with art purchased by generations of Whitman family collectors, and Haven recognized most of the works. Her eyes had just passed over a small watercolor that Constance Whitman’s mother had bought on their trip to Rome in 1924 when Haven suddenly heard shouting in a nearby room. At first she wondered if a television had switched on. But the three voices were familiar. Constance and her parents were at war once more, and the subject of their argument appeared to be a young man named Ethan. Haven gripped Iain’s hand, and the noises began to fade away. The past and the present were not mixing well.
“Here we go. This is where you’ll both be staying.” Frances opened a door and stepped to the side, thrilled to prove her coolness by allowing two young people to share the same bed. “I just had it completely redone.”
“This is Constance’s room,” Haven gasped. Though the furnishings were different, she recognized the view. She remembered standing in front of that very same window, wishing she were somewhere—anywhere—else.
“Oh dear. I thought you’d be pleased. Is it going to be a problem?” Frances said, clearly horrified that she’d committed such a terrible faux pas. “Do you want me to put you up somewhere else? It won’t take a minute to get another room ready.”
“No, no, this is fine,” Haven insisted, feeling a little bit queasy.
BUT IT WASN’T fine. Even with Iain’s warm body beside her, she tossed and turned all night until she was trapped somewhere between exhaustion and delirium. Her eyes opened, and she found herself in a restaurant, wearing an uncomfortable white dress composed of layers and layers of ruffles. She was Constance again, and it was her sixteenth birthday. It would be years before she would meet the love of her life. She was having lunch with her mother, who had temporarily abandoned Constance to go gossip with a friend on the other side of the room. Constance waited, idly plucking petals off the roses in the middle of the table. A waitress arrived and placed an enormous sundae in front of her. It wasn’t the same woman who had taken their order.
“I didn’t ask for this,” Constance said. She might have accepted it, but she could see her mother watching from across the restaurant. Having been plump as a girl, Elizabeth Whitman kept a close eye on her daughter’s figure.
“No?” said the waitress with a smile that was a little too familiar. She was not much older than Constance—perhaps eighteen or nineteen. “I’ll take it away then.”
The waitress picked up the sundae and placed it back on her tray. Left behind on the table was an envelope with Constance Whitman inscribed on the front. Constance looked up, but the waitress had disappeared through the door to the kitchen. She slid the envelope down into her lap and opened it as stealthily as she could.
SHE WOKE DISORIENTED. When she finally remembered who and where she was, Haven snuck out of bed and left Iain sleeping. She found Frances sitting on the sofa in the living room. Behind her, a large window framed the sky. Haven felt like she was floating.
“Sit, sit,” Frances said, her eyes lingering on the morning headlines for a moment. Then she folded the newspaper and made room for Haven on the couch. “Do you want coffee and toast?”
“I’d love some,” Haven said, her voice still raspy.
“Is Iain asleep?” Frances asked. She clearly had something on her mind.
“He is,” Haven confirmed.
“In that case, do you want to tell me what you’re doing back in New York?” Frances asked as she poured Haven a cup of coffee. “You were rather enigmatic when you phoned.”
>
“My friend Beau has disappeared.”
“The big, handsome kid you were with at Iain’s funeral?”
“That’s him. He came to New York a few days ago to meet a guy who claimed to be his soul mate. No one has heard from him since.”
“I’m so sorry,” Frances said.
“No need to be sorry.” Haven took a bite of toast and washed it down with black coffee. She felt more confident now that she was finally in the same city as Beau. “He’s alive, and I’m going to find him.”
Frances watched Haven. She seemed to sense that there was more to the story.
“You’re going to find him?”
“I have to.”
“And not the police?”
“They’re looking too. But they won’t be looking as hard as I will.”
“And I suppose I shouldn’t remind you that you’re still just a kid?”
Haven almost laughed. She’d never been just a kid. “Go right ahead. It won’t do any good.”
Frances crossed her arms, and for the first time since Haven had met her, the petite blonde could have passed for a real adult. “Well, you’re certainly risking a lot coming back to New York. If anyone here catches sight of your boyfriend, the whole jig will be up. Is he ready to explain to the world why he’s been playing dead for over a year?”
“We’re hoping no one will find out he’s alive,” Haven said.
“I hope so too. Weren’t the police looking for Iain before he supposedly died in the fire? Wasn’t he the main suspect in the death of that musician? What was the guy’s name? Jeremy . . .”
“Johns. Iain had nothing to do with it.”
“I believe you. But the police might not.”
Haven wished Frances would find another dead horse to beat. She was well aware of the risks she and Iain were taking. Now that they were in New York, there wasn’t much point in rehashing the list. “You’re right, Frances. I should have come back by myself, but Iain never would have let me. Still, I don’t know what he expects to do while he’s in New York. He’ll probably end up spending most of his time with you. It’s too dangerous for him to tag along with me.”
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