Page 166 of Nightshade

“A sigil. Mine, to be exact.”

“Yours? What does that mean?”

“The book you’ve been reading,” he went on, the deep rich sound of his voice a distraction to my thoughts. “You’ve mentioned similarities to your own life.”

“Yes. Oddly enough.”

Clasping his hands behind his back, he paced at the end of the bed. “Do you remember me telling you about the es’ra?”

“Things here that echo those from my life?”

“Yes.” He came to a stop, gaze on mine. “The similarities you’re experiencing are echoes of past life.”

“Oh, yeah? What are you, a fortune teller in your spare time?”

His face remained humorless. Annoyingly unreadable. “What does an educated person like yourself think of reincarnation?”

An ungracious snort escaped me. “Considering I jumped off a building and landed in an alternate realm, I guess I’d have to be pretty open to anything.”

With an agreeable nod, he resumed his pacing. “And so, what if I told you that the reason you bear a striking resemblance to Lustina is because you are Lustina.”

He didn’t smile.

Didn’t flinch, or choke on his own words, as I would’ve expected. Absolutely no indication that he was joking.

In the lingering dead silence between us, I shifted on the bed. “So … when I said that I was open to anything, I didn’t actually mean anything. I meant impossibly possible.”

At his unyielding stare, I cleared my throat.

“You’re trying to tell me that I’m some centuries old girl trapped in a twenty-something body?”

“Reborn.”

“Uh-huh. And you know this … because …?”

“You asked me why your memories haven’t faded here. A human’s memory only fades when their earthly life is over. Yours isn’t over.”

Mouth slack, I sat quiet.

“Come with me.” He rounded the bed, and reached out a hand for me.

Hesitant, I allowed him to help me off the bed, and when he took my hand in his, that warm vibration heated beneath my skin, just as it had the night before.

Through the hallways, he led me down an open corridor, with arched windows whose upper halves were stained glass, their lower halves open to the cool air that breezed through my gown. The Cloisters, if my memory was correct, predominantly from an earlier century, where monks would go for meditation and exercise.

The path ended at a door, which he opened with a key retrieved from his pocket. From a nearby bracket, he grabbed one of the lamps hanging there, and pressed a thumb latch to open its glass chimney. Dangling from a notch in the stone was some kind of antique brass flint striker that sent a spark across the wick, as he lit it.

So common a practice, and yet, an oddly romantic gesture. The lantern lit up the stone walls, as he held it up in front of him, the keys clanking against the bail. The stairwell curved into darkness above and below, where we stood on a landing. He took my hand once more, guiding me downward, to the bottom, where there stood a second arched, wooden door.

Keys still in hand, he unlocked it, but paused, as if hesitating to open it.

“What is it?” I asked, curious of his sudden apprehension.

“I’ve not been inside the room in a very long time. No one has.”

“What’s inside?”

The tired, old wood creaked as he pushed the door open, and when he lifted the lantern, I stared, wide-eyed, into the small circular room within.