Out of Time (34 page)

She pressed her face close to the glass and was startled by a knock at the door. She heard a key slip into the lock and quickly hobbled over to the bed. Sitting and bracing herself near the pillow, she took a deep breath.

The door opened and King stepped in. He grinned broadly, his handsome face contradicting the truth that lay behind the mask. “Ah, you’re awake. How are you feeling?” he asked, helping himself to one of the chairs by the table. “No worse for the wear, I hope.”

She balled her hand into a fist to keep from slipping it under the pillow and grabbing her makeshift knife. “I’ve been better.”

He took off his rain soaked fedora and shook the water from the brim. “Sorry about that, but you weren’t exactly cooperative. Or so I hear.”

“My first time being kidnapped. Didn’t know there was a protocol.”

King chuckled. He was almost giddy. “I assume you’ve found your quarters adequate. If there’s anything you desire, you need only ask.”

“Got an extra key?”

“Now, now. No reason to be difficult. We’re about to embark on a glorious journey together.”

“And where are we going?”

“I was speaking metaphorically, but business before pleasure. Just a quick trip up the coast tomorrow, if the weather clears. Then we’ll have all the time in the world to get to know each other.”

“Are you speaking metaphorically again?”

King leaned back and rested his palms on the arms of the chair. A monarch on his throne. “You needn’t be afraid of eternity, Elizabeth. Imagine the things we’ll see. Civilizations rise and fall in the blink of an eye. All of it ours to behold. For eternity. Together.”

Her heart was pounding now. She was sure he could smell the blood coursing through her veins. “And if I refuse?”

“You won’t.”

“You seem pretty sure of that.”

“I’m a man who gets what he wants. I wanted you. And here you are,” he said, gesturing expansively about the room.

“It’s fate,” he said and reached into his breast pocket. He pulled out Sebastian’s ring and set it on the table.

He tugged off one of his gloves and rested his hand on the table, an exact duplicate on his finger. “What else can explain this? A one of a kind, suddenly two. A rather blatant sign, don’t you think?”

Elizabeth shuddered at the implications. “Quite a coincidence,” she said, casually slipping her hand further under the pillow.

King smirked. “Fate. So, you see,” he said as he tucked Sebastian’s ring back into his breast pocket. “It’s destiny. You can’t fight it.”

“And the fact that I’m in love with another man?”

“A mistake. You are, after all, only human.”

“Love isn’t—”

The sudden crack of King’s hand slapping the table made her jump. The sharp edge of the mirror fragment cut into her fingers.

“Don’t lecture me on love!” he shouted, and stood up so quickly his chair fell back against the wall. His face began to change, arteries bulged from his neck. She could see him struggling to rein in the demon. He paused and with a great force of will, returned to humanity.

“The priest tried that this morning,” he said in a thinly controlled voice. “He shouldn’t have interfered.”

“You didn’t….” Dear God. Not Father Cavanaugh.

“He was a fool. Even until the very end, he spouted his endless drivel about love and redemption. Telling me what I can and cannot have. Nothing in this world is given freely. You have to take what you want, before the world takes it from you,” King said and then seemed to realize he’d said too much. He squared his shoulders and pulled his glove back on. “He was an obstacle between us. I simply removed him.”

She felt sick again, but would be damned if she’d show him weakness now. “So you killed him.”

“Regretfully.”

“Regretfully? Is that the demon or your soul talking? Or can you even tell the difference anymore?”

“Do not speak of things you don’t understand.”

“You’re right, I don’t understand. I don’t understand how someone with a soul could do the things you’ve done.”

“I did what was necessary,” he said, anxiously moving around the room, teetering on the edge of madness.

“Necessary for what?”

“For us to be together.”

Elizabeth steeled herself. It was a gamble, but, after all, she was a gambler’s daughter. When you’re dealt aces and eights, the only thing you can do is go down fighting. She played her last card. “We’ll never be together.”

“We are. We will be,” he said like a plaintive child. “Forever.”

“No, we won’t. You can take my body. You can kill me. You can turn me into a creature like you. But you will never get what you want.”

In one quick movement he crossed the room. His fingers dug into her shoulders, and he jerked her to her feet. His dark eyes flared. “I will!”

Elizabeth wanted to scream, to turn away in revulsion, but she’d made her final stand and wasn’t going to back down now.

“You can’t make someone love you,” she said and saw the uncertainty flicker across his face. “And if you really loved me, you’d let me go.”

His fingers dug painfully into her arms, as if he could control his demon by controlling her. “Let me go,” she repeated, her voice barely a whisper.

The strong line of his jaw clenched and unclenched. Finally, he lowered his gaze and released her arms. Hope flared in her chest. She held her breath, only aware of the pounding of her own heart and the incessant tapping of raindrops on the windows.

He stared down at the small bit of carpet between them. “You will love me,” he said quietly, then raised his eyes. “It’s fate.”

The rain was as unrelenting as the man. Simon prowled the streets of Manhattan hour after hour. Sometimes swept along in the crowd and at others shouldering against them, but always searching. Everywhere he went there was no answer. Every straw he grasped slipped between his fingers until he was raw with the effort. Every minute that passed hollowed him out that much more, until the hope he’d clung to was frayed to a single, gossamer strand.

Saturday night bled into Sunday morning. Hours slipped by as Simon scoured the city. Torrential rains pounded down from above. People scurried past, dashing from cover to cover, as Simon walked on. Block after block. Dead end after dead end. Exhausted, but unable to stop moving, Simon kept searching.

Sunday afternoon disappeared into night.

Oblivious to everything but finding Elizabeth, Simon ignored the chill that soaked through his clothes and the muscles in his legs that threatened to give way. His vision blurred and he leaned against a brick wall, pausing for a moment. Where in God’s name was she?

“Here,” came a woman’s voice in the distance.

His head snapped up, and he saw her through the driving rain. A slim figure in a green dress barely discernible through the striated landscape. She waved happily in his direction before turning to knock on a door. The wall opened and she stepped inside.

“Elizabeth.”

He ran down the almost desolate street and skidded to a halt, nearly falling on the slick pavement. It was only a wall. Brick and mortar.

He fought the urge to laugh. Was he going mad already? Footfalls echoed to his right and a man rapped smartly on an indistinct door.

The peephole slid open and the man muttered, “Bee’s knees.”

The mysterious door slid open and the man stepped inside.

He must have misjudged the distance. Elizabeth was inside that door. Simon pounded his fist against it until the slot opened and a pair of hooded eyes gazed back.

“Let me in,” Simon rasped.

“Password?”

He’d just heard it and already it was fading from his mind. He heard Elizabeth’s voice in his head, “Oh, Simon. Find something and grip it.”

“Bee’s knees,” he said and bounded into the dark, smoky room as soon as the door opened.

He wiped the rain from his face and scanned the room. She was at the bar, but even before she turned around, he knew it wasn’t her. Maybe he’d known all along. She didn’t look anything like Elizabeth. It was a frightening testament to his desperation, and he felt his grip on that single thread slip. He leaned against the bar and rested his head in his hands.

“You want somethin’?”

“What?”

The stocky bartender slammed a bottle of bourbon onto the bar and scowled. “I said, you want somethin’?”

“No.”

“This ain’t a flophouse. You drink or you get the hell out.”

The rich amber of the alcohol sloshed against the side of the bottle, inviting him into oblivion. He took out a dollar and laid it on the bar. The bartender grinned. He must have known he had a live one. He poured the first drink and shoved it to the edge.

The bourbon burned all the way down, but Simon scarcely felt it. He wondered if he’d ever feel anything again. He knew following that woman into the club was delusional at best. Glancing around the bar, the people were no more than shadows, vague images of life blurring around him.

He drank two more shots in quick succession, throwing them back without thought. Tired, hungry and soaked to the skin, the alcohol blind-sided him. His elbow slid off the bar and he barely caught his head before it smashed into the hard wood.

“Watch it buddy,” a man groused to his left.

Simon lifted his wobbly head and glared as best he could with double vision. “Piss off.”

The man shook his head and turned away.

“Hate this bloody city,” Simon growled. “Give you something then take it away. Poxy, sodding city. King Kashian…Bloody bastard!” Simon nearly knocked over his glass. “Thinks he can take her away. Thinks I won’t find him. Oh, but I’ll find him. King! King Kashian!” he called out, spinning away from the bar.

The crowd fell silent as he staggered forward, an instant pariah. People pulled away as he shouted, “King!”

Simon felt a hand clamp on his shoulder and tried to pull away. “Let go of me!”

“Vinny, show this palooka the door.”

Another hand gripped him. Before he could even begin to struggle, the pavement flew up to meet his face.

His head hit the concrete with a sharp crack, and the pain shot straight through to his neck. He touched his forehead and felt the lump already beginning to grow. He managed to push himself up and looked down the oddly tilting street. A few shuffling footsteps later he clung to the cold, wet side of a building.

He pushed himself along and heard the echo of footsteps trailing behind. They stopped when he stopped. Was he still being followed? Whirling around, he nearly lost his balance and a strong hand reached out to steady him.

“Careful there, son.”

Simon narrowed his eyes, blinking through the rain. The black night slowly encroached, shunting out what little light there was. Through the shrinking tunnel of consciousness he stared into the kindly face and choked back a sob. It couldn’t be.

“Grandfather?”

TEA—CHINESE GUNPOWDER. THE smell was unmistakable. Strong, slightly bitter and somehow the essence of peace. This must be a dream, Simon thought. A counterpoint to the nightmare images still dancing across his mind, a magic lantern show of the macabre.

He took a deep breath, and the insistent odor forced him back the last few paces to consciousness. Blinking against the bright pinpricks of light that stabbed his eyes, he rolled onto his side, and a new fragrance filled his senses. Elizabeth. Soft and fading, but one he’d know among thousands. Hope flared in his chest and then died a premature death. An empty bed and no Elizabeth. The last twenty-four hours fell back upon his shoulders with a crushing weight. He buried his head back into the pillow.

“Drink this,” came a voice from behind him.

Simon spun around on the bed with such force he thought his throbbing head would fly off his shoulders.

He was sure it had all been a dream, but there, not more than five feet away, in their little apartment, stood his grandfather, smiling and holding out a cup of tea. Simon blinked a few more times and rubbed his eyes. Was he still dreaming?

“Come on, lad. Drink your tea.”

Simon’s wits slogged through the mud of hazy memories. His hand took the offered cup, but his mind could barely manage to cobble a thought.

“How did you…?” he asked before trailing off, unable to cipher out just one question.

Sebastian Cross smiled patiently, his grey eyes crinkling at the edges. “Ah. How indeed?”

He retrieved his own cup and sat down at the small table. “As to the tea, Mrs. Larsen graciously offered her hotplate and tea service. Delightful woman. Lives in 304, I think. Second cousin to Amundsen. Good man, Amundsen. Brilliant explorer,” he said and took a sip from his cup. “And as to the tea itself. First rule of time travel, my boy, always bring your own tea.”

Simon stared at him blankly. “But you’re—” He couldn’t finish the sentence and shook his head.

He looked just as Simon remembered him. The herringbone suit, the knot in his tie off-center as it always was. White hair unruly as ever. Exactly as he was that last night thirty years ago. How many times had Simon wished to see him again? So many things left unsaid and not one of them would come to mind.

“Are you real?” Simon asked, sounding every inch the little boy he felt.

“Quite.”

Simon placed his cup on the end table and stood, but his legs weren’t up to the task and he faltered. As he had been so many times before, Sebastian was there to steady him.

“Take your time, son.”

Simon looked into the weathered face smiling back kindly and swallowed the lump in his throat. He held on to the older man’s arm, afraid to let go.

They stood together for a moment, the decades falling away. Years of longing settled in the dust. Simon gently squeezed his grandfather’s arm and when he found his voice, it was roughened with profound emotion. “It’s good to see you.”

Sebastian patted his cheek. “And you too, my boy,” he said softly before clearing his throat. “Now grab your cuppa and come have it at the table like a civilized person.”

Simon was torn in two. As much as he wanted to stay with his grandfather, Elizabeth was out there somewhere. He’d only found dead-ends, but he could not give up now.