I’m dying,I realized.
This was what people always described in their near-death experiences: being in a tunnel, filled with light. Strangely, I didn’t feel any fear. Only a grim resignation. That was part of it, too, wasn’t it? Feeling a perfect and complete state of peace?
“Death isn’t the end,” one of the voices told me, coming from all around, as though the tunnel itself was speaking. It said the words in Greek, but I understood them perfectly. It was my voice, after all—or it had been, once. The voice added, “It’s nothing to fear. It’s simply a chance to start over.”
“It’s like putting on new clothes,” another of the voices agreed, this one speaking in Dutch.
I realized I was no longer falling. Instead, I found myself suspended in the tunnel, surrounded by other versions of myself. And I felt no fear, no panic at all. Only a deep peace.
Vivid, bright blue eyes whipped across my memory.
“Nicolas,” I whispered. For the first time in what could have been moments or a thousand years, I remembered who I was. I remembered where I was supposed to be—and who I was supposed to come home to.
“Yes,” one of the other voices agreed, speaking in French. He sounded very sad. “Our Nicolas will be alone again. He has been alone for a very long time.”
“No,” I whispered, feeling a ripple of unease roll through me.
Then, abruptly, the tunnel vanished around me.
I wasn’t surrounded by voices and images of other versions of myself anymore. I was lying on my back on a hard, cold floor. And strong arms were wrapped around me.
“Eli,” Nicolas whispered, his voice thick and raw with anguish. “Come back to me. Please don’t leave me. Please, I’m begging.”
I blinked, jolted by the sound of his voice.
The disorientation was sudden and total.
Having a body again felt… heavy.
Cumbersome.
But it was real. It was every bit as real as the tunnel had been. Those voices had been my voice. Those faces had been my face. That was real, too.
I drew in a deep, gasping breath and sat up.
Nicolas let out a sharp, relieved gasp. “Eli?”
I winced, steeling myself against the agonizing pain. I had been shot in the stomach, and I’d probably lost a lot of blood. I shouldn’t have moved. Stupid of me.
I froze an instant later.
Because there was no pain. And my body wasn’t trembling of its own accord anymore. I no longer felt too weak to move. My vision wasn’t gray. In fact, I didn’t feel wounded at all.
Instead, I was sitting in a pool of blood. My torso was cold and sticky, my clothing plastered to my body. And my mouth tasted sweet and metallic. Eric’s body was lying on the ground a few feet away from us. His eyes were sightless and wide, with the ghost of a triumphant smile still on his lips.
He had wanted to watch me die, I realized. He hadn’t wanted me back at all. Instead, he had seen my happiness and tried to destroy me rather than let me experience joy without him. Even after five years. The realization turned my stomach.
And then Nicolas had killed him.
My gaze landed on him—this man I loved.
Nicolas’s eyes were red-rimmed, and his cheeks were wet. He had been crying, I realized. And his lips were stained red. There was a smear of blood on his hand as well. But otherwise, he didn’t look as though he had been injured. Then again, he had moved too quickly for Eric to stop him.
“You’re alive,” Nicolas said, sounding stunned and disbelieving.
“Yeah,” I agreed softly. “I’m still alive. I haven’t gone anywhere.”
His eyes went wide, and his lips parted in surprise. I realized, an instant later, that I had replied to him in perfect French.
