The Syndicate (Timewaves Book 1)

by Sophie Davis

  “Fifteen minutes,” Cyrus said to me.

  It was a command, not a request.

  “I’ll be there,” I repeated.

  Fourteen minutes later, the same black alchemist car that we’d borrowed earlier pulled to a stop at the rendezvous point, three blocks from Shakespeare and Company. I stepped out of the shadows, where I’d been waiting, as the backdoor of the car swung open. Ines, looking more disheveled than I’d ever seen her, beckoned me inside.

  Cyrus was behind the wheel, with Gaige sitting shotgun. My boss glanced over his shoulder, gave me a once over, and gunned the engine without a word. Picking up his impatience, I slammed the door shut as he pulled away. Gaige’s greeting was friendlier, though his tight smile told me something else was amiss.

  The telltale flick of Ines’s lighter sounded impossibly loud in the silent car. She inhaled deeply, then blew the plume of smoke towards the back of Cyrus’s head.

  “Ines,” he barked, his tone allowing no argument. “Not now.”

  With shaking hands, she pulled the cigarette from its holder and dropped it out the window.

  “You worried us, darling,” she declared, peering at me in the darkness as she ran her fingers through her hair. Dark strands stuck out at odd angles from her head, and she was wearing a set of silky pajamas.

  “I’m sorry,” I said simply, my apology directed towards Cyrus more than the woman sitting next to me.

  “Why didn’t you call earlier?” asked Gaige, sounding more baffled than accusatory. “I mean, if you were in a store all this time, you could have called sooner to let us know you were okay.”

  “It didn’t occur to me right away,” I said lamely.

  “Really?” he asked, turning to meet my gaze.

  “The phone was behind the counter in the front, and I was hiding in the backroom,” I explained, mostly for Cyrus’s benefit. “The cops were swarming the street, and I didn’t want to risk being seen through the window. I was trying to avoid being hauled down to the police station for the second time in twenty-four hours.”

  “What store were you in?” my partner asked, suspicion creeping into his eyes.

  “Enough,” Cyrus suddenly snapped. “It has been a long night, and we have other problems to deal with. Stassi is safe, we found part of the acquisition, and no one was arrested—that’s all that matters.”

  Several minutes passed in tense silence. Cyrus’s answer replayed in my head. When I couldn’t resist the urge any longer, I risked my boss’s wrath.

  “What other problems?” I asked tentatively, hoping he wouldn’t bite my head off.

  Gaige turned again to look at me, the worry in his eyes alarming. He opened his mouth to answer, but never got the chance.

  “You’ll see,” Cyrus said, shutting down further discussion.

  When we walked into the townhouse five minutes later, I immediately understood. Another large bouquet of roses sat on the coffee table. The sight left me frozen in the doorway. Cyrus, who’d been holding the door open for us, gave me a nudge from behind so he could enter.

  “Is that what I think it is?” I said, approaching the sitting area with slow, tentative steps.

  “Unfortunately, yes,” Cyrus answered.

  Gaige waited until I sank onto the sofa beside him, then handed me the small white envelope that had accompanied the blooms. The front had looping writing in black ink: For Miss Anastasia Prince.

  “Why is he addressing them to me?” I asked, not really expecting an answer.

  “I have no clue,” Gaige said.

  “But we will find out,” Cyrus insisted.

  “Did you open it?”

  “Well yes, we had a feeling that they weren’t from your new boyfriend,” Gaige replied.

  While all three of them watched, I pulled out the card.

  Roses are beautiful, violets are nice,

  One dose of poison might just work trice.

  Drink it down, you’ll pay the price,

  Will you find me and my grand device?

  All my best,

  Mitchell T. Baylarian

  AFTER ONLY THREE hours of restless sleep, I dragged my tired, achy body from bed. To my surprise, Gaige was not only awake, but already in the living room. His Qube was on the coffee table in front of him, set on projection mode. The pages of Rosenthal’s manuscript from Shakespeare and Company appeared before him as a hologram. Looking away for only a moment, my partner gave me a cursory wave as I descended the stairs, then resumed reading without a word.

  A French Press was sitting on the coffee table, with a clean china cup beside it.

  “Aw, thanks, honey,” I said as I sat down in the armchair, hoping to draw him out.

  I couldn’t tell if he was simply engrossed in Rosenthal’s words, or he was in a bad mood. Either way, Gaige didn’t take the bait. He seemed oblivious to the world around him.

  The rich aroma of strong, jumpstart-your-day coffee tickled my nose as I poured it into the cup, keeping an eye on my partner as I did. The first sip warmed my insides and chased away the hazy remnants of sleep.

  “Where’s Cyrus?” I asked.

  “Out,” Gaige said shortly.

  I waited for him to elaborate, or at least look at me, but another minute passed in strained silence.

  “Gaige? Everything cool?” I was unaccustomed to the attitude he was doling out. Every second that passed without his bubbly, sarcastic banter was making me more nervous.

  His dark eyes narrowed on me for a long moment, and then he turned his attention back to the novel without answering.

  Um, okay.

  Beginning to feel annoyed, I took another sip of my coffee.

  “Do we have a problem?” I asked. “Something you want to get off your chest? Or is Rosenthal’s book actually that good?”

  Gaige huffed as though my mere presence was irritating him. Apparently, we were playing the quiet game. I wasn’t going to lose; if he had something to say, he needed to just come out with it.

  I waited out the silence that ensued.

  “Where were you last night, Stassi?” my partner finally asked, his voice barely above a whisper. Had I not been sitting right next to him, the question would have been inaudible.

  “You want the truth?” I hedged.

  “Obviously,” Gaige said impatiently. “That’s why I asked. Do you have any idea how worried I was? It isn’t like you to miss a meet. And I get that the cops were chasing us, but you could’ve called sooner.”

  I opened my mouth to repeat the same lame excuse I’d used the night before.

  Gaige held up a hand to stop me. “And don’t even think about lying. I’m not buying that whole ‘Ohh, I didn’t think about a phone’ shtick. You’re not an idiot, and neither am I. Where did you go? I swear, if you were shacked up somewhere with that DuPree guy—”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” I snapped, my irritation rising to match his. “Jeez, Gaige. Do really believe I ditched you guys to go swap pillow-talk with some random guy?”

  Exasperated, Gaige threw his hands up in the air. “If the glass slipper fits.”

  “I was not with Charles!” I yelled, hoping the sheer volume of my words would penetrate my partner’s thick skull. “I went to Bonheur’s.”

  The hostility evaporated from Gaige’s features, replaced by concern.

  “The jewelry store? I should have guessed.” He ran a hand through his disheveled hair. “You never told me what happened when you went in there the other day. I mean, I didn’t want to bug you about it, or anything. I figured you’d tell me when you were ready.”

  “I’m sorry, Gaige. I didn’t mean to shut you out, there’s just been so much going on.” My hand reached automatically for the locket, as if drawn by a magnetic force. “I spoke with the current owner, Matthieu Bonheur. I showed him my necklace. It was weird. He was weird. He obviously recognized it. Or recognized something about it. But he pretended that didn’t. At least initially, anyhow. Then, after I basically shoved the locket under his
nose and pointed to his company logo, he backpedaled and admitted that his grandfather had crafted the piece.”

  Excitement danced in Gaige’s dark eyes, growing brighter as I rambled.

  Though my partner didn’t have the same personal stake in the locket that I did, he was just as invested in the search for its origins. The fact he cared so much reminded me how lucky I was to have a friend like Gaige.

  “Did the owner know who bought it?” he asked, practically bouncing in his seat.

  “Unfortunately, no,” I replied, feeling another rush of annoyance towards the storeowner. “He gave me some crap about not keeping records, which was obviously a lie. I mean, seriously—a store that doesn’t keep sales records?”

  “So that’s why you broke in to the store,” Gaige deduced. “Why didn’t you tell me? I would’ve gone with you.” He had a lost puppy look on his face, the same one he always wore when his feelings were hurt.

  “It’s not like I was planning the break-in last night, I swear,” I said hurriedly. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about my discussion with Matthieu, we just haven’t been alone for more than a second. Our entire trip here has ranged from crazy hectic to utterly insane, without any breaks. Last night, I just saw the door and seized the opportunity. You’d have done the same thing in my position.”

  My partner weighed my answer for a moment before shrugging.

  “You’re right. I’m not upset because you didn’t tell me right away. It’s just…I want you to know that you’re not in this alone. We’re a team, Stass. For better or worse, I’m with you. Always.”

  “’Til death do us part?” I teased. Despite my playful reply, Gaige’s sentiment was deeply touching.

  Feeling the sudden urge to hug my partner, I got up from the chair and plopped down beside him on the sofa. I leaned in to Gaige, and he wrapped both arms around me.

  “You’re a pain in my ass, but I’m here for you,” he continued, tightening his grip until it felt like a boa constrictor had hold of me.

  “I wish you’d been there last night,” I replied when he finally let go. “I really could’ve used your help.”

  “Of course you needed me. Everyone needs a little Gaige Koppelman in their lives,” he declared with a devilish grin, shifting to face me. “So, did you find out who bought your necklace?”

  My shoulders slumped. “Not exactly,” I admitted.

  His expression fell, mirroring my own.

  “That’s not a ‘no’,” he hedged. “Does that mean that you found something? You’re not usually so cryptic.”

  I glanced around the living room. “When is Cyrus coming back?” I asked. “And where’s Ines?”

  “Cyrus is doing another sweep of Lachlan’s hotel room. He left just before you came down, so I’m guessing he’ll be gone for a while,” Gaige replied. “Ines stopped by right after I woke up, and said we’d be on our own until after lunch. Why do you ask?”

  “Hang on,” I said, jumping up off the couch. “I’ll show you.”

  Taking the steps two-at-a-time, I ran back upstairs and beelined to my bedroom. Like all syndicate hideouts, the townhouse had a wall safe in each bedroom for valuables, techno gadgets, and anything else we brought from the future. After punching in the seven-digit code, I found the leather folder exactly where I’d left it, beneath my Qube.

  Gaige’s quizzical expression was still in place when I returned to the living room. I launched into an abbreviated explanation of my search of the filing cabinets, finding the portfolio in the safe, and my brief perusal of the documents it contained. Gaige listened with rapt attention, drinking in every scant detail I divulged.

  “Now, here’s where this gets interesting,” I concluded, laying the pages side-by-side on the coffee table.

  “You mean, the fact that Bonheur’s keeps super-old sales receipts in a hidden wall safe isn’t interesting enough?” Gaige quipped.

  “No—I mean, well, yes. I’m getting to that. Patience, my friend.” I pointed to the most recent order, where ‘J. Jacobson’ was printed in black ink. “It’s harder to read on the other two, but once you know what to look for, it’s obvious. All three commission orders all have the same customer name on them: J. Jacobson.”

  “So we have name? Let’s go track down this Jacobson person,” Gaige proclaimed, bouncing on the sofa cushion like an impatient toddler at snack time.

  “‘A’ for enthusiasm, buddy,” I decreed, laughing. “But I’m not sure it’s going to be that easy.” One by one, I pointed to another box on each order; this one listed the date of commission for each individual piece.

  After returning home and learning about the newest bouquet of terror from my apparent stalker, I’d been too exhausted and too consumed with dread to give the papers my full attention. But I had noticed the dates.

  Gingerly, Gaige picked up the document closest to him for a better look. He squinted, then moved it so close to his face that it nearly bumped his nose. Next, he held it at arm’s length, like an extremely far-sighted man who’d misplaced his reading spectacles. “Does that say June of 1795?” he asked, a note of disbelief coloring his words. “And what are these random characters? Hieroglyphs?”

  “Yes to the date. No clue about the characters. I thought maybe I’d run them past one of our cryptologists back on the island.”

  The syndicate had an expert for everything, and I planned on using as many of them as I needed to solve this mystery.

  Gaige whistled and set the commission order back on the coffee table. “No wonder the drawing is so faded. I can’t even tell what it’s of, can you?”

  “No. The coffee cup rings and water stains don’t help either.” I handed him another of the orders. On this one, too, the drawing was faded, the paper yellow and brittle. Even still, it was significantly less damaged than the first. “Look at the date on there, it’s even older.”

  “1493? Is that right? I can’t read the month—one of the ‘ember’ ones, maybe? You know, September, October, November, December,” he recited.

  “Yeah, that’s my guess, too,” I agreed.

  “Are those earrings?” he asked, indicating the drawing of two square objects.

  “That’s what I thought initially. Then, I realized the squares on there look a lot like the squares on here.” I found the repair order for M.L. Worchansky’s cufflinks, and swapped it for the 1493 commission order still in Gaige’s hands. “I’m like 99.9% positive they’re the same.”

  “Holy shant!” he exclaimed, excitedly jabbing at the drawing of the cufflinks with his index finger. “Stass, that frou-frou design stuff around the edges looks just like the frou-frou design stuff on your necklace!”

  “I know,” I replied, fighting the temptation to laugh. In fairness, I’d been nearly as excited when I first made the connection. I’d just been too tired and too uncertain of the significance to celebrate it. “And that ‘frou-frou design stuff’, as you call it, is also on this.”

  I showed him the third and most recent commission order, this one for a broach requisitioned in July of 1918. Being less than a decade old—practically brand new, compared to the other documents—both the drawing and the writing were easy to make out. Unfortunately, aside from being able to verify that the engraving on the metal was identical to that of my locket, the crisp lines of text and legible illustration gave me very little information.

  “Wait a second…. You mean to tell me that this J. Jacobson person commissioned three different pieces of jewelry over a span of four centuries? How is that even possible?” Gaige inquired.

  I watched as the light bulb inside of Gaige’s head switched on, and he was able to answer his own question.

  “J. Jacobson is a runner,” he declared, reaching the same assumption that I had.

  “That’s the logical conclusion, right? But to my knowledge, Bonheur’s has always been located in France. And France is Atlic territory. So, if J. Jacobson is a runner, he or she is one of Cyrus’s.”

  “Not in my lifeti
me,” Gaige said decisively.

  The coil of tension that had formed the instant I’d first thought up the J. Jacobson-is-an-Atlic-runner theory loosened. As much as that would have made my search so much easier, I didn’t want it to true. The idea that Cyrus had seen me wearing my locket for the past two years, yet never said a word about knowing its origins, sickened me.

  No, my boss didn’t know about my quest to find my parents. Or that the locket once belonged to my mother. But he did know I was an orphan. He had to think I was curious about where I’d come from. I just couldn’t believe that he’d withheld pertinent information from me on purpose.

  “You’re sure?” I pressed Gaige.

  “Positive. I did grow up on the island, Stass. It’s not a big place. We’re only the second generation of the syndicate, so I know the names of most everyone who has ever lived on Branson. Jacobson isn’t a last name I’ve ever heard. We should double-check with Molly when we get back, but I’m certain I don’t know anyone by that name.” His expression turned thoughtful. “Let me see that repair order again, though.”

  I handed him the repair order for the cufflinks. Gaige nodded, as though a suspicion of his had just been confirmed.

  “M.L. Worchansky. Him, I do know.”

  “Seriously? You have a buddy from the early twentieth century?” I asked doubtfully. “This repair was picked up in February. Unless he’s passed in the last two months, Worchansky is alive now.”

  “No, not a friend. I wish, though. M.L. Worchansky is famous, you haven’t heard of him?”

  “Famous for what?”

  “He was an adventurer, for lack of a better term. And a very rich dude. Like go-for-a-swim-in-his-vault-of-money rich,” Gaige explained. “He funded, and went on, a lot of explorations. The guy actually discovered an Amazonian tribe at one point. He also lived with a group of natives in what will one day be Alaska, and learned how to ice fish up there. And, if I’m remembering correctly, he had something to do with finding some pharaoh’s tomb. Worchansky is a legend. He’s been everywhere. Which is quite a feat for someone in this time.”