Intuition

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The best part about being Akhet is that you remember everything. The worst part is that you forget nothing.

Every day I remember more about the other lives I’ve lived—as a lady in England in the sixteenth century and as an Italian cellist in the nineteenth—but there’s nowhere I’d rather be than right here, sitting on the back of Griffon’s motorcycle, my arms around his waist, holding him so close I can feel his muscles shift as he kicks the bike into gear. I press myself into the back of his worn leather jacket as we cut through the wind over the blur of asphalt on the Great Highway, the sun glinting off the waves to our right, the dunes leading into Golden Gate Park on our left.

Peering around his shoulder, I catch a glimpse of Griffon’s eyes in the rearview mirror, and I can tell he’s smiling even though the rest of his face is hidden by the helmet. As he turns his head, I can see the very edge of the scar on his cheek, and it sends a shiver of regret through me. The mark is finally fading, but even if it disappears completely, I’ll always know what happened and how close I came to losing all of this.

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