Desperate, Marcus whirled to the right. Could Abigail have gone in that direction, downtown toward the Timekeeper? He turned left. Maybe uptown, toward the record store or her home? Probable destinations too far apart. He paused. He had to choose one. It was a gamble and the wrong choice could cost him everything.

Confusion and despair bathed him in a cold sweat. He looked out at the ocean of souls. They laughed, argued, and daydreamed as they drifted about the avenues. Had any of them seen her? Marcus blew out a breath. Perhaps they had. But if so, by then, in this concrete labyrinth of streets, she could be anywhere. He closed his eyes. The beat of the surrounding world pulsed by, but with the sands of the hourglass at a dangerous low, Marcus stood perfectly still. The past had been exposed and, with it, his future determined. But then and there, lost in the starless black, Marcus stood still. Something had to give. It had to.

His lips barely moving, he anchored the last of his hopes onto one final prayer. One not of forgiveness or for mercy, no. Prostrated, his soul begged for the miracle that would speak clearly of pardon and of grace. Marcus implored for a second chance. He didn't think he deserved it, but regardless he prayed. Maybe, just maybe, a hundred years had granted him some favor in God's eyes. However little, it would have to be enough.

An eternal moment passed. He stood firm, his heart pounding. Panic blared for him to run somewhere, anywhere, in hopes of finding Abigail. Undoubtedly Margaret was preparing to go to the Timekeeper, ready to end her life and, in turn, his as well.

Nevertheless he waited. His answer would come. He was sure of it. How or when, he didn't know, but he could feel it coming the way Mrs. Kensington said.

A frigid breeze whipped past, carrying away all sound. Marcus fixated on the constant hush of nothingness and the memory of Abigail's breaths. For a while, there was nothing, except maybe desperation crumbling the edges of his sanity. If an answer did not come, he vowed that the Shadows would not have to come for him. No, all on his own, he would take his sanity and walk straight into the fiery pits of hell.

A small sound came then from somewhere in the outside world. It was faint, but unmistakable. Marcus's pulse quickened. He blinked his eyes open. Searching the crowds, sure that madness had finally come, he froze. A slight distance away, lost to a world of tuneless love songs, a vagabond swayed as his blackened fingers pressed onto the keyboard at his lap. Invisible to the eyes of most, Marcus saw the man for what he truly was—Forgiveness. And his awkward love song was the singular melody of answered prayer.

Was Marcus sure? No.

Was there time to doubt? No.

Was there anything left to lose? Everything.

Marcus clenched onto faith and ran. Carelessly, in the clear light of day, he willed himself unseen before the eyes of whoever saw. It didn't matter. It was now or never.

Streets smoked by. Sounds faded to the violent beatings of his surging pulse. Faster and faster, avenues and streets, soul after soul, fell to the dark tunnel at whose end was Abigail.

Marcus reached her building at an alarming speed, and took the stairs two by two. Without a breath, he misted through the door of apartment 1C. The chaos was the same, but the apartment empty. Marcus hastened up the stairs to Abigail's room. He tore through the door, desperate to reach her.

His heart panged to a stop. The world blurred to smears of colors behind his tears. There was anger, fear, and regret. And seeing the blond-haired stranger, the collector of Abigail's past there in her room, there was pain.

Marcus clutched the doorframe as he was thrust into a new nightmare, a new regret. Maybe if he had left Margaret sooner, or made up his mind quicker—if only he had run a little faster, maybe he would have made it on time.

But the collector was there, and he sat beside Abigail's bed, while she lay motionless. The sight of the collectors hand at her back tore Marcus in half. It couldn't be. It just couldn't.

The collector lifted his head slowly, his movements rusted with undeniable awareness of Marcus's presence. He turned and met Marcus's murderous gaze.

No one spoke at all.

Boring his eyes into the strangers clear blue ones, Marcus wanted to feel anger. Fists clenched tightly, he craved to give into rage and grant his burning hands the blood they hungered for. He would have, had he been able to move.

Entrenched, he stared at the contradiction there before him. In the gaze of this man, of this collector who was responsible for the taking of lives, were pools of infinite peace, a quiet stream of never ending calm. In his open stare, Marcus saw life.

The collector retracted his hand from Abigail's back and rose. He inclined his head with a smile. "Hello, Marcus. My name is Gabriel. We've been expecting you."

Still powerless to breathe, Marcus walked into the room, incapable of taking his gaze from Gabriel. Gabriel jerked his head over Marcus's shoulder with a smile. "We've."

Marcus regarded him for a moment longer and then turned. The sight nearly brought him to his knees. All words caught in his throat, along with his will to breathe, when he saw Abigail slide off the bed, soul and body intact. Her reddened gaze fixed solely on Marcus, telling him of something that he was too winded to understand. He doubted his eyes. How could she be alive when Gabriel had touched her? Yet she stood there, living and breathing before him. Surely, he was going mad. Loneliness had finally claimed the last of his sanity. Marcus shook his head. Yes, she was a figment of desire, of yearning, and lunacy.

Just then, a warm hand rose to his face and quelled all his doubts.

"Marcus?" Her words were so quiet that Marcus barely heard them though she stood right in front of him. He stumbled back, relief and disbelief swaying him. He looked down into the green eyes that over the past week had slowly become his reason to live. She was really there, staring back at him. Marcus's mouth moved, searching for the right words. It was her, alive. It was Abigail falling into his arms. It was Abigail that held him tightly as if scared to let him go for fear the world would fall apart.

"I thought you were—I saw him touch you and thought..." His voice faltered. Before he was able to frame the right words Gabriel stepped forward.

"Marcus, my touch cannot hurt her. While you and I are similar, we are not the same. I don't collect souls." He smiled kindly. "I transport them."

Abigail lifted her head from Marcus's chest and pulled away. With a weak smile that did nothing to the sadness in her eyes, she nodded. "Gabriel isn't here to collect my soul."

There was more to her words than what was spoken, but Marcus could not for the life of him understand. He cut his eyes to Gabriel with a blinding rage.

"Then why on earth are you here? You took her mother. You've been following her around this bloody city. What of your note? And visiting the Timekeeper? You're lying to her, but you can't fool me. Whatever your ploy, you will have to kill me, but I swear on my life you cannot have her. I will not let you collect her soul."

A moan stole from beside him. "Damn it, Marcus! Listen to him. Listen to me," she cried. "He isn't here to collect me. You are."

"That's impossible." Marcus shook his head. "He's lying. I didn't come here for you—well no, I did, but not for your soul. After a century I would know if I was here for you. When closing my eyes I would be blinded by your fire, but I see nothing but darkness Abigail, nothing! I would know because your name would be on—"

"The list?" Gabriel asked casually. He reached into his inner pocket and retrieved the all too familiar sheet of paper. He held it up for Marcus to see his name on the front. Then, unfolding the paper, held it out to Marcus. Clearly visible was one name...Abigail Archer. No other names were on the list.

The world seemed to fall apart and come together in a form Marcus did not understand.

Gabriel said, "You never came to retrieve your list this morning. I figured you might need it, so I thought to get it for you while visiting an old friend."

"To hell with you and your damned lies! The Timekeeper would never give you my list. And if that is my supposed list of charges, where are the rest of the names?"

Gabriel tilted his head to one side. "Why would there be any others? Abigail is the last one to collect before your service is complete."

Abigail grabbed onto his shirt and met Marcus's eyes. It was a moment he had expected, one that was bound to come. But whereas before he was helpless and could in no way fix the mess he had made, now he could finally reassure Abigail. Finally, he had something to offer.

He curled his hands at his sides and brushed away her tears with his lips. His eyes moved frantically across her face and, looking at her, he could not help the hope that surged within him. "The list no longer matters. Don't you see? This is Fate. Margaret is gone and my service to her is complete."

He turned to Gabriel and said through clenched teeth, "Your presence here is no longer needed. I am taking her to the Timekeeper this instant and I am going to make a new deal, my service in exchange for her life."

Abigail gripped him tighter. "Marcus—"

"You don't need to be scared, not ever again," he cut her off, his voice a desperate whisper. "Not of illness or of violence. Once I do this, we'll have time, all the time we need or could ever desire. Ask for as many years as you want and I will give them to you. God," Marcus groaned, desperately wanting to sweep her into his arms. Instead, he neared her lips. "What magic is this that you've wielded, for I cannot escape it? I'm yours, Abigail, for as long as you'll have me, I'm yours. Give me just a measure of your love and you have my word, I will give you the rest of my life."

Abigail's eyes closed as if what he had spoken hurt her beyond repair. Tears fell and Marcus couldn't understand.

"I'm sorry, but it can't work that way," Gabriel cut in from behind her.

"Why the hell not? Have I not spent the past hundred years caged to a life I detested for someone I never loved? Why would I not then spend a hundred more, a bloody eternity to be with the one who's given me life and purpose in mere days?"

"Because—" came Abigail's voice softly. "I won't let you."

The words hit Marcus like a slap in the face. All blood rushed to his feet. He met her eyes searchingly, seeing within them vortexes of certainty, of a truth that proved as acid to the wound her words had just caused. She meant what she said, and worse, there would be no changing her mind.

Silence spread between them for long moments.

Abigail spoke first. "You've paid for your guilt. You deserve to rest." She approached him, but Marcus flinched back.

"You don't know what you're saying. We will talk later, but first we must go to the Timekeeper." Ignoring her reasons, he made for the door.

Abigail did not follow. She shook her head, fingers twisting at her core. "I'm so sorry. Please understand. I can't let you do this. Whatever your reason for not taking me that night, the fact is that you didn't. You forced me to live and to face my guilt. You refused me death, and now because of you, I'm free.

"You gave Margaret the life you took from her and more. Whether she is satisfied or not, it was enough and now she too has found her peace. You have paid your penance. How could I possibly ask you to go on with this life and surrender your freedom, a freedom that you have suffered for? I could never live with myself knowing of the pain you feel with every soul you take, knowing that you'd do it all for me. Whether it is for another day or another hundred years, I would rather die and regret not having had more time with you, than to know that you're tied to suffering because of me. By giving me life, you gave me my freedom. Let my death give you yours."

Marcus was quiet for a long time.

"Say something, please," she asked of him, but he could only stare.

When words came, they were low and simple. "Do you care for me at all?" he asked. His jaw clenched, he fisted his hands tightly.

Abigail gathered her hands in prayer and begged, "Marcus, please understand—"

"Answer my question."

"Marcus—"

"Do you?" he exploded. Abigail winced at his roar. She opened her mouth to speak, but closed it again, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. The violent treble of his voice seemed to cut through her, but not worse than her lack of an answer hurt him. She pressed trembling fingers to her mouth and took a moment. The debate was clear in her eyes. In waiting for her answer, Marcus's bitter half throbbed, stabbing him deeper with broken understanding that she didn't want to stay with him.

When she failed to answer, he sighed bitterly. "Obviously, I was the fool. Pray, what was all of this then, this mockery between us? Was it all some sort of joke, an act?" He didn't let her respond. "No, no, of course not. It was revenge in all its blasted glory. Gabriel here abandoned you and so you made me pay? Well, a job well done. I played your fool. Bravo, Miss Archer, bravo." He applauded derisively. The clapping seemed to tear through her composure and she bristled further with each sharp smack. Focused on the tears that spilled from her eyes, he dropped his hands to his sides. "Who is the hypocrite and the liar now?"

She squeezed her eyes shut and turned to Gabriel. "Could Marcus and I please have a moment to talk, alone?"

Marcus scoffed. "Talk of what? It seems you've made up your mind all on your own. Go on Gabe, take her. Transport her."

Ignoring Marcus's anger, Gabriel nodded to Abigail. "You know where to find me." Without another word, he walked from the room.

Marcus refused to meet Abigail's gaze. There were endless words to be said, but in that space, he could not bring himself to look at her. Worse, he could not force himself to leave.

He sat on the edge of the bed and leaned forward on his elbows, defeated, his hands dangling between his knees. He stared at the floor, wanting to ignore Abigail, but it proved impossible when she took a slow step in his direction, and then another. With each of her steps, Marcus's heart ached with the most painful of realizations. With death a breath away, if she came any closer, he couldn't ever refuse her.

Hoping and needing desperately to stay her approach, he said, "You learned what kind of man I was, of what a bastard I could be, and now you want to free yourself from me. That is why you left me with Margaret," he accused. It wasn't true, but he needed to believe it. "Damn you, and curse the day I spared you."

Abigail neared him still, his reproach doing little. In fact, the pain in her eyes wavered, replaced by a desire that washed over Marcus's body.

Intently, he watched her, wishing for the strength to leave. Wanting to be away from her, he could only sit and tremble with the deadly need to have her closer, to touch her.

Resolve fled and he used his last breath of will to speak into the vanishing space between them. "You hate me, think me a monster, a fool—"

His throat went dry when Abigail raked a hand through his hair and tilted his head back. Forcing him to look at her, she said nothing. She didn't have to. Green eyes clouded with a sadness mirroring his, she lifted a steady hand to his face. Her skin was cool, a balm to the burn that bloomed within his palms and his heart.

She trailed her fingers along him, learning the contours of his face. She studied, absorbed, and admired. The pull of her touch ushered Marcus into the blackness of his eyes, his breathing, too, falling into a void. Wanting to submit, he gripped the edge of the bed tighter.

Abigail's fingers trickled to a slow stop at his lips. "Look at me, Marcus."

Like a child, he obeyed.

"You love me," she said. It wasn't a question.

Desire, anger, and raw passion reaching an allegretto, he nodded. She lowered her head and kissed him once, lightly, briefly—an invitation, a gift. She pulled back, her eyes riddled with yearning and purpose.

"Show me," she said against his mouth. "Please."

Confined by her stare and powerless over her dark magic, Marcus stood. Without a sound, lost wholly to the secret conversation of their eyes, he asked her if she was sure, if he was what she wanted. She stepped closer. Lifting steady fingers, she unfastened the first button of his shirt—a confirmation, an honor. Marcus could have cried.

As their symphony began, with each unclasped button, thoughts of Fate and consequence died to the strum of passion and heartfelt desire. He whispered secret lyrics meant only for Abigail's ears until soon, scattered like music sheets about the floor, were memories, fears, and regrets tousled between the damp garments of the night.

Time was at an end, as was life. But for the first time, beneath the shadow dancers in the heavens above them, Marcus gave himself wholly. Having experienced countless lovers in complete and utter darkness, he loved Abigail before the open windows, under the purest of lights, with all the care in the world.

Centuries of falling into misery came to an end, where beside the shadow of a tattered piano, in Abigail, Marcus found his wings.



Sunlight poured in through the arched windows, threading upon Abigail's bare back. In this peaceful privacy at the edge of life, to the rhythm of her breathing, Marcus was home. For a long while he lay watching her sleep, her red hair sprawled across his chest like red silk binding him to the bed. For even longer spaces of time, he wondered how he had ever lived without experiencing such a love as the one just gifted him.

Somewhere deep within, he was glad time was at an end. There was no way he could have ever gone on living another day knowing of this love, yet relegated to never experiencing it again. In realizing this, he uttered a silent apology to Margaret's memory. Somehow, unwittingly, in taking her body so many years ago, she had experienced what he felt then with Abigail. Although all he had given Margaret was carnal pleasure, she in turn had given him her soul. How she endured those years by his side, Marcus didn't know. But basking in the afterglow of Abigail's love, he admired Margaret, as he no longer saw sanity if not by Abigail's side, receiving her love and giving his in return.

A sleepy moan at his side brought him back to himself, to the burn flourishing in his palms. Abigail curled closer into him, and hauled in a deep breath as if he were all she needed to survive. There, in her blissful sleep, a tender smile curved the corners of her lips.

With her exhale and the euphoria of their love settled, Marcus was left alone with Truth. In that intimate space, listening to the song of her breathing, he understood that by refusing his offer of service in exchange for her life, Abigail answered his question even before he had asked it of her. In choosing death over life, she more than loved him.

Marcus unearthed a hand from under his head and unwound a fist. Overwhelming fear paralyzed his hands, and so unable to act out of love, he held onto selfishness. Though once a poison to his existence, it was now the only comfort left. His strength fleeing and free will gone, selfishness was his only ally. In giving Abigail her greatest desire, his, too, would be fulfilled—the feel of her skin beneath his fingertips. He fought to convince himself that he touched her for selfish reasons, solely to satisfy his own desire, and nothing more.

He held fast to this broken logic as his hand began its descent. He heaved in countless breaths, yet felt utterly breathless as the world blurred around him to specks of light and shadow behind his tears. Fire exploded through his fingers, the lure of life so very close. Marcus resisted the burn and lowered his shaking hand farther. Abigail gave herself to him—her body, soul, and love in its entirety. How could he possibly deny her this?

And so with her name on his lips, he surrendered.

Abigail's soul fastened readily onto his touch. Marcus jerked back, cringing as white flames shot through his veins, puncturing his heart. The feel of her was the sweetest of tortures and singed him from the inside out. He fought not to roar from the violent shock and braced himself, holding the agony steady. He could have broken through the links of her life swiftly, but he would endure all pain if it meant holding her for a second longer while life still possessed her.

Like the sun rising within him, Abigail's life exploded as pearly images in the darkness of his closed eyes. Marcus clenched his teeth, consuming the burn. He would endure anything to remember every detail of her life, even if the agony proved to be the very death of him.

Memories whisked past of her mother and of her smile and of those rainy days at the record store, sharing laughter and blissful quiet. There was Mr. Owens, his kindness and silent support. There were countless strangers, girlish fancies, and secret tears.

But threatening to dissolve his determination was the core of her memories. All other thoughts were gone with the broken chains of her life, but in this one last link tying Abigail to mortality, Marcus found himself. Her grandest memories and greatest regret was him. There was being abandoned by the docks, falling on him at the record store, and leaving him at the deli. There was crying into his chest upon Mr. Owens' death, shadow watching in their four walled sanctuary, and there was making love to him. And bursting with the last of the ties was her final regret—not having further time to love him more.

As the burn simmered and the world righted itself, a sleepy breath stole from Abigail's lips—her last.

Marcus opened his eyes and looked down at the blurred lifeless form in his hands. Her body vacant, Abigail's soul smiled blissfully, its eyes fluttering in infinite sleep.

Trembling with restrained agony, Marcus dug his fingers deeper into her flesh as if somehow it would forever hold her soul to this empty vessel and to him. He brought her closer as his insides twisted with the aftershocks of pain. It was that of having loved and lost, the consequence of duty. He bit his lip and rejected the soul-wrenching roar gathering in his chest. He simply watched her, held her, rocked her, and wept.

When she woke on her own, they would go to the Timekeeper together. But then and there, Marcus just held her tighter as the taste of copper mingled with that of his salty tears. He held her because with each note of breath, she reminded him what it was like to be human, what it was like to love. But her song was now over. All that remained were the muffled hymns of his broken heart.

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Thank you so much for reading. One more chapter to go and the epilogue, and the journey is over.

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