Chapter 1

The first time I said goodbye, I was nine years old.

It was the day my mother died. While my older brother and my father held her pale, fragile hands and cried over her limp body, I watched from the shadows in the corner of the room, holding an orange in my trembling hands as my mother’s breath grew more and more ragged before it eventually stopped. I listened while my father wailed, and memorized the tears that streaked down my brother’s face.

Only when they swept out of the room to fetch the doctor did I say goodbye to my mother. I did it without touching her—I was afraid death was contagious—whispering how much I loved her. I told her I would miss her voice in the morning and her bare feet dancing across the wooden floors of the only home I’d ever known.

When my brother and father returned, my brother pulled me out of the way and held me against his chest so I wouldn’t see the doctor take our mother away—as if I hadn’t already seen life leave her body. I understood he was trying to protect me, but it was too late. My soul was already marred by my first goodbye.

That was two hundred years ago.

My parents were long dead, as was almost everyone I’d ever known. Two centuries was a long time to live; it meant a lot of broken hearts and goodbyes.

My mother died in 1845.

My father died in 1858, the year before me and my brother.

In 1888, the elderly woman I’d been living with—who had become my constant companion and truest friend—passed away in her sleep.

In 1900, I became best friends with a mother of four. Six months later, she drowned and left her children to their absent father.

In 1908, the woman I was in love with left me to marry a man. I never saw her again, though she died sixty years later.

In 1926, I loved a man in Richmond, Virginia. When I said goodbye to him, burning what was left of my heart in the process, I left a trail of death in my wake.

1938. 1957. 1959. 1983. 1999. 2001. 2008. 2010. 2019. 2023.

Over and over again, I left people behind or watched them die. Their absences ripped gaping wounds in my heart and left them to bleed for eternity. I knew how to say goodbye better than I knew how to say hello; I couldn’t look into someone’s eyes for the first time without wondering about the last time. Throughout the centuries, I moved from city to city, country to country, and I always knew my fate: ending up alone.

The only constant in my life was the thrum of hoofbeats, hay in my hair, the smell of dirt on my boots, and the feeling of flying as my horse soared over rails. I was home in the saddle of a horse; it was the only place I never had to say goodbye.

My horse’s front hooves hit the ground with a cloud of dust, and a wide smile spread across my face at the sound of my friends cheering from the edge of the arena. Beneath me, my seventeen-hand Dutch Warmblood, Ghost, huffed in approval and slowed from a canter to a trot. I leaned forward to pat his neck and whisper praise in his ear.

Ghost was the best of the best, a dapple gray Grand Prix show jumper with enough blue ribbons to cover a wall. He took his first breaths in my arms, and the rest was history. In our eight years together, we’d been around the world in varying levels of competition: London, Miami, Rome, and now Paris.

I reined Ghost to a walk, beaming as I guided him to where Willa and Addie waited. Willa stood on the second rail, her eyes wide with delight as she tossed her arms in the air. Willa grew up on a ranch in Texas and was a trained barrel racer and Western pleasure rider. Moving to Paris and becoming a vampire meant she had to give up so much of her life, horses included, and the longing in her eyes when she watched me with Ghost made my heart ache.

Unbuckling my helmet when I stopped Ghost, I tossed it to her and watched my roommate’s smile brighten.

“You sure you don’t want to try, Addie?” Willa squeaked as she strapped on the helmet and moved the mounting block to Ghost’s side for me to dismount.

Addie remained on the other side of the fence, two feet planted firmly on the ground. Addie was the quietest—and the only human—of our friend group. She shook her head. “The only time I’ve ever ridden a horse was the pony at the Arizona State Fair, which I feel guilty about to this day—even if it was twenty years ago.”

Willa and I laughed. I held Ghost’s reins while Willa pulled herself into my saddle, shifting uncomfortably. Backing away, I boosted myself to sit on the fence while Willa walked Ghost forward over some trot poles.

I moved to Paris four months ago, in late November. My brother, Holland, asked me to come since it had been decades since we’d spent time together. And, even though he begged me not to say anything to them, he thought Willa and Addie could use another friend. For their sake, I pretended moving to Paris was the best option for me and Ghost.

In reality, I was running from another goodbye.

I’d been living on the outskirts of Rome for five years in a quaint cottage. I kept flowers on the windowsill and had a view of the surrounding neighborhood. One of my neighbors was an elderly Black woman who grew herbs and always left them at my door when she had extra. She played the piano, spent years telling me about her family, and taught me how to cook pasta and pizza like a true Italian.

On the other side was Pierre.

Pierre, the gardener. Pierre, the chef. Pierre, the painter. Pierre, the man who warmed my bed every night for three years.

Pierre, who had begun to notice the woman he loved never got sick, never got injured, and would never grow old.

Pierre, who fell asleep one night next to her, and woke the next morning to find every trace of her gone—like she was never there.

I shook away the memory of what I’d done, opening my mouth to call out to Willa. “Straighten your back, Willa. Do you ride your boyfriend with that posture?”

Willa tilted her head back in a cackle, but did as I commanded. At my side, Addie snickered and covered her mouth. I winked at her.

I was happy in Paris, I reminded myself. I had Willa as a roommate and best friend, and Addie, too. My brother, Holland, who had been the only other constant in my life for two centuries, was close-by. I lived in a beautiful—albeit haunted—city in a gorgeous apartment. Ghost was in an incredible stable, with facilities for us to train for upcoming shows.

The only human I spent time with was Addie, which meant the probability of saying goodbye to the people here was slim. Willa would live forever, and inevitably, Addie would choose to join us if she wanted to be with Holland.

And yet, I remained on guard, terrified that one wrong move would send all this crumbling down around me.

“Hey,” Addie murmured beside me. “You alright?”

“Yeah,” I bluffed, straightening. “Just tired.”

Addie held up two thermoses with a devious grin. “Blood or water?”

I laughed and took the one full of water, gulping it down to ease the heat in my muscles.

“Can I try a jump?” Willa quipped.

“No,” Addie and I said at the same time.

“Why?” Willa asked. “It’s not like I’ll die.”

I snorted. “No, but you could injure my horse, and then I’d kill you. Do the trot poles twice more, and I’ll think about letting you do the lowest jump in the place.”

Willa waved her hand dismissively, shifting her weight and correcting her posture before continuing. While I watched my friend ride my horse, I could almost forget the ache in my eternally bleeding heart.