Time's Echo: A CHRONOS Files Novella

∞
Table of Contents
∞

Copyright

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

This is a
work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, and events are the
product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance
to actual locations, events, or people, living or dead, is coincidental.

Copyright ©
2014 by Rysa Walker

All rights reserved. No portion of this
book may be used or reproduced by any means without written permission of the
author, except in the case of brief quotations included in critical articles
and reviews.

For
information:

http://www.rysa.com

First
edition: April 2014

Visit The CHRONOS Files online at
http://www.chronosfiles.com.

In
memory of

Harold and Mildred Sparks

 
∞1∞

Boston

July 11, 1905

Kate's breath is soft against my shoulder when the chirping
sound finally wakes me. I fumble in the semidarkness for the alarm, but the
cell phone has fallen off the tobacco crate I use as a nightstand. Kate rolls
toward the wall, pulling her pillow over her head, just as I locate the phone
under the bed and turn it off.

It's a bit after noon now, and this is probably the most
sleep Kate's had all week. While there aren't many benefits to a room facing
the alley, at least the sun doesn't jolt you awake at the crack of dawn after a
rough night.

I’d much rather stay here and enjoy a few more hours of
shut-eye myself, but I need to get this job.

It's not the money. I placed a bet on Marvin Hart for the
1905 heavyweight boxing title a few weeks back. Although the odds against Hart
were high, when you have the advantage of seeing the newspaper a day in
advance, like I do, a long shot becomes a sure thing. That investment brought
in eighty-five bucks, more than enough money for me to hide out in this dump
for a year.

I don't want the job for the fame, such as it is. That just
makes it more likely that the Cyrists will decide I'm enough of an annoyance to
hunt me down. And if I'm bored during the times Kate is away, I can always find
something that needs doing around Jess's store.

No, landing the job at
Norumbega
Park is just the one thing I can do to help Kate without traveling too far out
of my own timeline. I'm sick of watching her take all the risks.

I drag myself to the door and down the hallway to the
shower. Luckily, there's no line this late in the day. Most of the neighbors
are off before sunrise. We're four stories up and the water barely trickles
from the spigot, so I have to use an old tin cup in the corner of the stall to
collect enough water to rinse the soap off. Kate doesn't shower here, and I
don't blame her. I'd opt for hot water and a massaging shower head, too, given
the choice.

One of the Blake kids, maybe five years old, is in the
hallway when I come out. She gives me a grin, her fingers tugging at a tangled
lock of hair.

“Got any candy today, mister?”

I could have predicted the question the second I saw her.
Helping at Jess’s store means I usually have a few sticks of peppermint,
butterscotch or
hoarhound
stashed in my pockets—the
only payment I take these days. Kate says I just like playing Willy
Wonka
. I'm not entirely sure that's a compliment. Judging
from the book she gave me,
Wonka
was a bit of an ass.
I do, however, remember being a kid with parents who could never spare a penny
for sweets.

 I smile and tweak her freckled nose. “And where would
I be hiding your candy dressed only in a towel, missy? Check back when I'm
wearing britches.”

The Blake girl giggles and skips down to the end of the
hallway, where her brother and sister are crouched in their usual spot at the
top of the landing, ready to bounce their rubber ball down the stairs at the
first sound of footsteps. I’ve caught that bloody ball smack in the head twice
and threatened to tell their mum, but they probably know I never would. She’d
take it away and God knows they don’t have much else to occupy their time in
the summer.

When I get back to the room, Kate is sprawled out in her
usual way on the bed, snoring gently. I won't be mentioning that to her,
however, since I'm sure I’d get a solid punch in the arm if I did. Reaching
under the bed, I pry loose the wooden plank and feel around in the space under
the floorboards until I find another bandage and the small portable shaver Kate
brought back after watching me use a straight razor one afternoon. I still use
the blade when she’s not here, but I must admit this little gadget is less
likely to slice an ear off when the light is dim.

After shaving, I remove the puckered bandage from my thigh
and use a fresh square of adhesive to tack the glowing green disc to my leg.
Then I pull on my drawers, a garment that Kate finds funny because they come
most of the way to my knees. She jokes that I should “go commando” or else let
her bring me some boxer briefs. But these are what I’m used to and they also
provide another layer to shield the light of the spare key, should I happen to
run into anyone else with the CHRONOS gene. The medallion that I keep in my
pocket, attached to my belt by a watch chain, is Cyrist-approved. The back-up
key strapped to my leg is not.

I draw back the red curtain Kate tacked up in one corner of
the room and take the new suit from its hook. In this heat, the shirt will be
limp and sweaty by the time I get to Newton. Hopefully, the coat and tie will
make me presentable enough for the audition. I fold the jacket carefully and
stash it in the drawstring bag that already holds my gear for the small tricks,
along with three sets of handcuffs, a pair of leg cuffs, a ring of keys to
those cuffs, and one spanking new collapsible top hat.

I put a second set of keys on the nightstand. Then I watch
Kate sleep for a moment, glad she's found a place where guilt and anger aren’t
making her crazy, at least for a while. Even though she has a bigger and much
more comfortable bed back at Katherine's, she's happier here, and I've grown
accustomed to having her next to me. In the four months since I moved out of
Jess’s storeroom, she's spent every night here and most days as well. I
travelled to her time a few months back to watch some movie she wanted me to
see, but mostly, we stay here. Long-distance jumps drain me.

Not Kate. She pops back to Katherine’s house in Chicago for
a few days, tracks down a CHRONOS key in Texas or London or wherever, attends
classes at the University, and anything else she has to do in that life. And
then she pulls up this room on her key and is back in my arms five minutes
after she left. For me, it's like she only stepped out to the bathroom. I’m
twenty-one, two years Kate’s senior, but another year of this double life for
her and I could easily be the younger one.

I push the dark curls aside and kiss her shoulder, running
my hand under her pale pink camisole and tracing the curve of her spine with my
thumb. After a moment, she turns toward me and pulls me down next to her.

“Come back to bed,” she mumbles.
“Lonely
without you.”

“Can’t.
I'll miss the trolley.”

She sniffs in protest and drapes her leg over mine. I give
in, for now, and pull her closer, resting my head next to hers on the pillow.

In the dim light of the oil lamp, I can just make out the
edges of the dozens of glow-in-the-dark stars she pasted on the ceiling a few
months back. Even turned up to full flame, the lantern would never make them
glow, so I didn’t see the point in the stars until Kate reached into her pocket
and produced this tiny device that shines with an odd, purplish light.

I can still see her standing tiptoe on the bed, holding that
light to the ceiling and, one by one, lighting the stars in our own private
sky.

Later, after the glow stars faded, I stashed the flashlight
in the hole under the bed, along with the shaver, her diary filled with rants
about Katherine, and other odds and ends that don’t belong in 1905. Only Kate’s
stars remain in the open. I know I should pull them down. It wouldn't be hard.
Every day or two the humidity takes its toll on the cheap adhesive and another
star falls onto the bed or the floor. But I leave them up. The odds of anyone
seeing them are slim, and I think maybe this is the only place Kate feels free.
This room, tiny as it is, has become her home as much as mine.

“What time is the audition?” she asks, tucking her head
downward as she speaks. I fight back a chuckle, knowing she’s trying to shield
me from the “baby dragon breath” she says she has in the mornings. I’ve told
her more than once that I’d kiss her even if she hadn’t brushed her teeth in a
week, but she doesn’t believe me.

“I go on at four-thirty, but it takes a while to get out
there and I need time to set up.  The manager said there are some stage
props from the guy who left, and I need to check it all out. Make sure there’s
something I can use for the finale.”

She laughs. “You don’t need a trick cabinet. You have the
medallion.”

“True," I admit, "but it might draw some unwanted
attention if I'm too obvious with it. And I have to make it credible, right?
There needs to be some hint of stage trickery if I'm going to sell it to the
manager and my assistants.”

I feel her body stiffen and then she leans up on one elbow,
giving me the evil eye.

"Assistants?
The kind in skimpy costumes?"

“
Norumbega
is a family park. No
drinking and nothing even slightly risqué. I’m guessing these assistants will
be covered from head to toe. Or at least head to knee. They’ll certainly be
wearing more than you are right now.” I pull the elastic strap of her camisole
a tiny bit away from her shoulder and let it snap back against her skin.

“
Hmph
.
I'll be popping in to check out these
assistants
. Just so you know.”

“Any time, love.
Except maybe not during
the audition.
And don’t 'pop in' suddenly, right in the middle of an
audience,
else you’ll steal my thunder.”

“No worries. I only want to see what goes on backstage.”

“You don’t trust me?”

“Oh, I trust
you
,” she says, snuggling closer. “I
just don’t trust assistants in skimpy costumes.”

This is a side of her I seldom see. The only time I’ve ever
known Kate to act jealous is when I mention Prudence.
Her
aunt.
My former lover.
The enemy, in more ways
than one, so I can't really fault her on that account. Even if I’m not
consorting with Pru now, I have in the past and if the shoe were on the other
foot, I'm sure I'd feel the same.

“Tell you what,” I say, kissing the side of her neck. “You
can check out the assistants at my first performance. Assuming I get the job,
that is.”

“You’ll get the job. You have sterling recommendations.” Her
voice is a wee bit smug, and I can’t help grinning.

“I have forged recommendations. Skillfully done, but forged
nonetheless.”

She shrugs, reaching over me to grab a peppermint from the
nightstand. “Houdini is in Scotland.
At the Gaiety Theater in
Leith
.
Won’t be back until
next month.”
She pops the mint into her mouth. “That should give you a
bit of time to start building up a reputation as the Amazing
Boudini
. From everything I've read, he'll take the bait and
confront you.”

“Or he'll sue me."

"
Either way, you'll have his attention
and
then
we
can confront
him
. It would have been a lot
easier if Houdini had fallen for the photograph. Apparently, I'm not his type,
since one of his bodyguards showed up at my hotel instead."

 I remember that photo and how little she was wearing
in it. I'm not exactly happy about it being passed around by a bunch of hired
thugs. "You didn't tell me anyone came to your hotel."

Another shrug.
"I slammed the
door in his face when I saw it wasn't Houdini."

"And you’re sure he's using a CHRONOS key?”

“I know what I saw, Kiernan. There was a bright blue
glow—exactly the shade of light I see from the key—coming from behind the
curtain when I saw him in New York and again in London. He has a
medallion."

"And as you noted, he also has bodyguards. I don't
think he's going to cheerfully hand over the medallion just because we ask
nicely.
It's
how he makes his living."

"We'll think of something," Kate says. "He
doesn't like people who trick others using fake religion, so I doubt he'll
approve of the Cyrists. Right now, you just need to focus on getting the job.
The flyer I left with his booking agent in New York will get his attention.”

"You left the flyer? I haven't even auditioned
yet!"

She nudges my face toward hers. “You'll
get
the job,
Kier. You're good. I don’t mean the disappearing. That’s just the CHRONOS key.
But the other stuff—you've been doing those tricks for ages. You’re really good
with your hands.”

When she catches my expression, she kicks me, not exactly
gently, on the shin.

“I didn’t mean
that
kind of good.”

That she can still blush this far into our relationship
strikes me as incredibly sexy. If I don't pull my thoughts back into line,
however, I'll never get to the trolley on time. I walk my fingers down the side
of her leg like a spider. “How about I give you a personal demonstration of
that
kind of good when I'm done? You’ll be here, right?”

I immediately wish I hadn’t asked that, because her smile
fades. I've reminded her of where else she should be.
Of
where she doesn't want to be.
And why.

“I’ll be here,” she says, her eyes narrowing. “But I’m going
to go and have this out with Katherine while you’re gone.
While
I’m still really, really angry.”

"You're tired, love. Why don't you get some more sleep
first? Katherine will still be there, and I'm certain you'll still be really,
really angry six or seven hours from now."

Kate cried for ages last night, before collapsing,
exhausted, into bed. I’m glad she didn’t go directly
home,
because I'd give solid odds that she'd have slugged her own grandmother. That’s
frowned upon in 1905, so I’m guessing it's doubly true in her time, when people
don’t even smack misbehaving kids on the bottom. And Kate would have regretted
it later, even if she doesn’t believe that right now. What happened in 1938
wasn’t Katherine’s fault. Not really.