Timeless (A Time Travel Romance)

by Jasmine Cresswell

  Jeffrey winced. “Don’t blame me if you have a heart attack before you’re thirty.” He stalked off, indifferent to the cholesterol temptations of the buffet.

  A man with exceptionally dark hair and rather attractive brown eyes grinned sympathetically at Noelle. “Here,” he said, holding out a silver bowl of béarnaise sauce. “If you’re going to die at thirty you may as well die happy.”

  His smile was irresistible, and Noelle smiled back. “I suppose I can eat nothing but oat bran all next week.”

  The man leaned toward her, eyes laughing. “My spies in the kitchen tell me there’s chocolate cheesecake for dessert.”

  “Uh-oh. Oat bran for a month, maybe?”

  A stunning redhead came up to the table and took the man’s arm possessively. “Ready, Andrew darling? We saved you a place by the fire.”

  “Coming.” The man turned to Noelle. “Would you like to join us? I’m Andrew Macdonald, by the way.”

  “Oh no, thank you. I’m sure my husband’s waiting for me.”

  Andrew gave her another easy smile. “Talk to you later, then. Enjoy your meal.”

  Noelle did just that, even though she wanted to hide her plate of dietary sins from Jeffrey. Fortunately, his attention wasn’t really on her. A relentlessly well-preserved couple engaged him in a passionate discussion of the benefits to be derived from walking five miles a day, eating seaweed, and drinking only distilled water. Noelle left them to the joys of their free-flowing arteries and returned to the buffet table to sneak some chocolate cheesecake. There was nothing like living with a health freak to make a person think that caffeine and cholesterol had lots to recommend them.

  Aunt Marilyn didn’t allow her guests to linger over dessert. She herded them into the library where Brian had been busy transforming the spacious room into a warm, intimate bower. The overhead lights were not switched on, and the corner lamps were dimmed. Chairs had been grouped in a comfortable semicircle around the mahogany reading table, leaving a space in front of the fireplace to serve as Brian’s stage. Despite his earlier protestations, Noelle decided the scene could have come straight out of a Victorian guide on how to plan a séance.

  Waiters circulated with cups of coffee and chocolate truffles. Sipping a fragrant espresso brew, Noelle seated herself as near the door as possible and decided she could probably endure twenty minutes of Brian’s efforts to contact the spirit world before she took refuge in the bathroom. The dark-haired man from the buffet table, Andrew Something-or-other, sat on one side of her. Jeffrey, armed with nothing more fortifying than a cup of mint tea, was sunk in silent gloom on the other.

  Oddly enough, once Brian started his spiel, Noelle found his show rather compelling. His smooth, rich voice seemed too powerful, too self-confident, to come out of such a weedy body. He projected his words easily to the far corners of the room, and the deep, resonant tones commanded attention even though he mouthed the typical mumbo jumbo of his trade.

  His sense of timing was too good for most of the audience to get bored. Brian’s glib tongue converted Einstein’s theory of the space-time continuum into a two-minute chat that seemed to suggest half the people in the library might well be their own grandmothers. Two more minutes followed on recent scientific experiments proving conclusively the continued existence of the soul after death. The National Enquirer would love Brian’s brand of proof, Noelle decided. Then, just when his audience started to wriggle, he gestured for silence.

  “But you people want to know what will happen here tonight. Am I going to be able to summon my alter ego, the Emperor Sargon of Akkad? Well, ladies and gentlemen, I certainly hope so. Sargon is an interesting man. The records show that he ruled over four thousand years ago, in the region known as Mesopotamia. The imperial dynasty he founded survived for two hundred years and included territories from the Mediterranean to the Black Sea. He is, as you might expect, a very forceful gentleman, not always in the best of tempers when we make contact.”

  Brian waited for the ripple of laughter to die down. “Ladies and gentlemen, I hope very much to communicate tonight with Sargon of Akkad. But my success depends upon you. I am simply the channel for your psychic energy, the energy that will put us in touch with the Beyond.”

  Jeffrey gave a snort of disgust and would have left the library there and then if his gaze hadn’t been caught by his aunt. She frowned, her chin lifting imperiously, and Jeffrey sank back into his chair.

  “Remember what it felt like the first time you fell in love?” Brian asked the audience, his voice low and intimate, reestablishing the link Jeffrey had broken. “Remember how intense you felt? How vivid the world seemed?” A few heads nodded, and Brian continued. “Do you remember holding hands with the person you loved? You felt relaxed, didn’t you? Tranquil, and yet more powerfully alive than you’d ever felt before.”

  His audience was captivated, struck by the memories he evoked. Noelle admired his technique, although she herself remained untouched by the man’s rhetoric. She glanced around the circle of faces. A few of Marilyn’s guests looked amused, or embarrassed, but most of them looked eager to be led into the spirit world.

  Brian smiled, and somehow his overlarge head and chubby cheeks no longer appeared quite so incongruous. Instead his eyes compelled attention, dark pools in the subdued glow of the light. His thin body hovered, a shadow obscuring the leaping flames in the fireplace. His voice grew quieter than before. Noelle found herself straining to listen.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, the psychic energy felt when you hold hands with your beloved represents no more than a tiny fraction of the psychic energy all of us have locked inside our souls. Tonight, we’re going to try and release some of that energy, harness it to our group purpose, and channel it through me.”

  His words were met with silence. He allowed the moment of silence to stretch out, an excellent theatrical effect. When the stillness had become profound, almost uncomfortable, he broke it.

  “Now, take the hands of the people sitting on either side of you. Are you all linked together? Good, that’s very good. Now close your eyes and concentrate all your thoughts on a mental picture of the night sky. Can you see the stars? It doesn’t matter if you can’t remember how the constellations are grouped. Invent your own pattern, your own personal galaxy. If you keep very quiet, if you screen all the everyday clutter out of your minds, you’ll see that the stars are growing brighter. They glitter like crystal in the velvet blackness of your universe. Can you find your special star, the one that shines most brightly in your sky? What color is it? The other stars are merely bright dots, but your star has depth and a unique brilliance. Is it pink? Blue? Green like an emerald? I know you’ve all found your personal stars, because I can feel the energy starting to vibrate around me. Focus your thoughts on your star. Concentrate. Let your energy flow towards the star. Good. Excellent. Marilyn and I are going to join hands and complete the circle of psychic energy now.”

  The hiss of Brian’s expelled breath seemed to provoke a communal sigh. “Yes,” he murmured softly. “The universe invites me into its vastness. Please don’t open your eyes until Sargon has joined us.”

  Noelle closed her eyes. It had been a tough day, and Brian’s version of channeling seemed like a less exhausting way to end the dinner party than chitchat over coffee. Maybe Aunt Marilyn would set a new fashion in political fundraisers. Brian didn’t seem to be dishing up any greater nonsense than the average campaign chairman. She opened her eyes and sneaked a look at Ernie Weaver. He appeared to be snoozing peacefully. A smart man, getting in practice for his Senate days. Andrew caught her gaze and winked, before closing his eyes and appearing to drift with the flow.

  Jeffrey didn’t share the general mood of relaxation. She could feel him squirming beside her, the touch of his hand exuding impatience rather than psychic energy. Noelle removed her fingers from his grasp, but kept her eyes closed, letting her thoughts wander. Lord, but she hadn’t realized just how tired she was. She hoped Brian started his impersona
tion of Sargon soon, or she might follow Ernie Weaver’s example and doze off before the show reached its high spot.

  Someone had put on a tape of baroque music. Weaving in with the sounds of lute and mandolin, she could hear the soft, sweet notes of the viola da gamba, a seventeenth-century ancestor of the cello.

  Sorry, Brian, you’ve got your epochs and your continents mixed up, Noelle thought in silent amusement. You need panpipes or maybe a primitive flute if you want this music to sound even halfway authentic.

  Abruptly, the music ceased as a deep, harsh voice filled the room. “Yea, I am here, the mighty Emperor Sargon, master of a hundred cities, lord of a thousand times a hundred people. Why have you called me at this most inconvenient hour?”

  As if poor old Sargon had been interrupted at breakfast, Noelle thought, but her skepticism felt a little forced. Her eyes flew open, and her gaze settled on Brian Defew. The fire had died down, and the outline of the channel’s body seemed blurred. She had thought earlier that Brian’s pleasant baritone sounded incongruously powerful, but that incongruity was nothing in comparison to the contrast between “Sargon’s” voice, and the channel’s scraggy body. It was almost impossible to believe that Sargon’s deep, throbbing bass could be produced by Brian’s narrow rib cage.

  Sargon, it seemed, had been indulging in a spot of sexual foreplay with one of his youngest and most favored wives. He was not amused at Brian’s untimely interruption. The audience, titillated by Sargon’s graphic descriptions, listened for the most part with rapt attention, although Noelle was relieved to see healthy signs of suspicion in several faces. Perhaps she wasn’t the only one of Marilyn’s guests to wonder why the four-thousand-year-old Sargon chose to reveal himself in the English idiom of a bad 1920s musical comedy.

  She turned out Sargon’s description of his playmate’s bosom and allowed her thoughts to drift. She was paying so little attention to the silly proceedings that she was startled when she realized Jeffrey had pushed back his chair, and was glaring angrily at the channel.

  “Look, this has gone far enough. The man’s not going to involve my wife in his silly performance. Hypnosis shouldn’t be used as a parlor game.”

  “Jeffrey, don’t shout!” Marilyn sounded genuinely horrified, even a little scared. “We mustn’t do anything to disturb Brian’s trance. I’m sure it could be dangerous for him.”

  Trance? Noelle blinked, shaking off the remnants of her own daydream. She looked at Brian, who was swaying to and fro, his face blank.

  “I wait the presence of the soul my friend seeks,” Sargon’s voice intoned. “Why does she not touch the void and join us?” His body stiff, ungainly, Brian swung around until he faced Noelle directly, although his eyes seemed to stare at her with unnerving sightlessness. “We await you, Princess. Why do you tarry?”

  “Why indeed?” Noelle joked, trying to regain her equilibrium. “I’ve always wanted to be a princess.”

  “You look just right for the part, honey.” Ernie Weaver had woken up, and he gave her an encouraging grin. Like her, he clearly didn’t take Brian’s performance seriously.

  Jeffrey, of course, was still determined to make a grand drama out of nothing, so she bent down and spoke quietly into his ear. “Don’t worry, Jeff. I’m the last person in the world Brian should have picked for this bit of nonsense.”

  She walked around the table and stood in front of the fire, between Brian and Marilyn. Up close, she could see that Brian’s face was deathly pale, and that sweat streamed in rivulets from his forehead. He certainly put his heart and soul into his performance, Noelle conceded.

  “I’ve never seen him like this,” Marilyn murmured, her hands clasping and unclasping with nervous tension. “Do you think we should wake him up?”

  “How can we? He looks pretty far gone to me. Noelle snapped her fingers beneath Brian’s nose. He glared at her, his gaze still oddly blind. “Sit yourself, woman. A humble princess does not intrude her presence thus lightly before the Emperor of Akkad. Do you forget that you are a mere woman? A virtuous woman understands her place. Do you lack virtue?”

  Noelle didn’t attempt to sit down. “Your ignorance is showing, Sargon, old chap. Your dialogue’s out of character. The Mesopotamians were pretty respectful toward their women. It was the Ancient Greeks who did the female sex in.”

  Some of Marilyn’s guests tittered, but to give Brian his due, Noelle’s remarks didn’t seem to worry him. “I do not argue with a woman,” he said, continuing to use Sargon’s voice. “You are a chattel, a vessel for my seed.” Brian’s face contorted in a painful grimace. “Except, that you are not of my time. I cannot use you as a woman should be used.”

  “That’s a relief.”

  Brian’s face once again seemed wiped clean of all expression, and it was Sargon’s voice that said, “I do not care that you are not of my time. You are not beautiful. I do not desire you.”

  “Terrific, then at least we’re agreed on one thing,” Noelle sat down to a little round of laughter. Hey, what do you know, she thought with a silent giggle, I’m playing second banana to an emperor. “Have I finished my part in your show, Sargon?”

  “Not at all. You must look at me, and enter my state of being, before you can contact the soul who seeks you. “

  Hypnotism, Noelle thought at once. Brian wants to hypnotize me. She grinned, silently wishing him luck. A couple of years earlier, she had undergone a series of experiments with a friend from the psychology department at the university. Noelle had proved an interesting subject, since she fell into the small percentage of human beings who seem totally immune to any form of hypnotism.

  “You won’t be able to put me into a trance,” she warned.

  Brian merely stared through her. “Look deep into my eyes,” Sargon’s voice commanded, and with a shrug, Noelle obliged. As she had noticed before, Brian had compelling, rather beautiful eyes. A useful feature for a would-be channel, she reflected.

  “Ah, that’s great. At last you’re looking at me with your mental shields down. This is wonderful. Your inner being finally flies free.” Surprisingly, Brian spoke in his own voice. Noelle knew she ought to ask why Sargon had decamped with such unseemly speed, but it didn’t seem worth making the effort to talk.

  The tape of baroque chamber music had started to play again. It was an outstanding recording, using authentic seventeenth-century instruments, and she didn’t want to spoil the beauty of it by pointing out to the guests how inappropriate Brian’s choice of music was. In fact, she decided, lounging back in her chair, there was no reason to contribute anything to Brian’s absurd little show. Noelle folded her hands neatly in her lap and stared into Brian’s eyes, saying nothing. Let him come up with his own line of patter, she thought.

  Brian spoke again, but she didn’t hear what he said because she was suddenly seized by the most acute stomach cramp. Dear God, she had never felt anything like this! The pain started in her spine, then surged through her pelvic muscles until it seized her lower abdomen in a vicious grip that made speech impossible.

  It must be food poisoning, Noelle decided. I thought the sour cream tasted a bit funny. Damn! Now Jeffrey will spend the entire journey home lecturing me because I didn’t stick to plain old veggies.

  The pain eased for a moment, and she leaned back in the chair, too exhausted to move even though she could see that some of Marilyn’s guests were looking worried. Poor Brian, he certainly hadn’t expected to have his show interrupted by something as unglamorous as an attack of food poisoning.

  Just as she worked up the energy to stand, the pain returned, a wave of agony building all too fast to its excruciating crescendo. Noelle felt sweat break out on her upper lip, and she moaned with the unbearable intensity of the pain. Why doesn’t anyone help me, she thought miserably. Can’t they see I need help?

  “Pray tell the musicians to cease their playing!” she groaned. “My head throbs with their noise.”

  The tape stopped, thank heaven. Brian was saying something
to her, but it seemed almost as if he spoke in a foreign language, and she couldn’t make out the meaning of his words. He suddenly abandoned his imperious Sargon pose and knelt beside her, clasping her hands. Jeffrey, not to be outdone, came storming up to the front of the room. She closed her eyes, too tired to speak to them, too tired to listen to anything they might have to say.

  As soon as she closed her eyes, darkness overwhelmed her, a blackness that invaded the very depths of her being. Despair swept through her, a bitter companion to the pain. The grief was more than she could bear, and it welled up, gushing out in a heartbroken cry. She cradled her abdomen. “Ah, dear sweet Jesu, not again. Holy Mother of God, please not again.”

  Noelle pressed her hands to her head. Not again? Why had she thought that? She had never in her life suffered from food poisoning as far as she could recall. The strange feeling of despair abruptly lifted, to be replaced by bewilderment. Noelle bit her lip, waiting for the next wave of pain, but nothing came. Tentatively, she pressed her stomach and felt not even a mild twinge of discomfort.

  “Noelle, my dear, what’s happened? My God, she’s whiter than a ghost.” Aunt Marilyn’s voice, Noelle thought. Why did she sound so terrified?

  Noelle forced her eyes to open. “I think I have a touch of food poisoning,” she said. She looked down and realized she was kneeling on the floor, facing the chair, her arms spread out as if in desperate supplication. Marilyn’s guests had all left their seats, and stood in worried groups clustered around her.

  Embarrassed, she sprang quickly to her feet. Good grief, she seemed to have made a total ass of herself. “I’m sorry to have ruined everyone’s fun. Something I ate tonight must have disagreed with me.” She turned to Brian. “I’m sorry, but I had an attack of the most dreadful stomach cramps.”

  Jeffrey put his arm around her waist and ushered her determinedly toward the library door. “I’ll take care of my wife.” He tossed his car keys onto the table. “Marilyn, send someone out to the car for my medical kit, will you?”