Out of Time Series Omnibus (Out of Time: A Paranormal Romance & When the Walls Fell)

by Martin, Monique

  “There’s nothing of use here,” he said. “Are you ready to move on?”

  Lost in thought, she stared at him blankly for a minute.

  “Elizabeth,” he said, and held out his hand.

  “I’m ready,” she said and took his hand. After all, miracles did happen.

  * * *

  The sun had finally set, but instead of providing relief from the stifling heat, it merely cloaked it in darkness. The sharp spires of old St. Patrick’s rose in the distance like a fist full of daggers. Gothic architecture had never bothered her before, but now it seemed too jagged, too oppressive. The dark gray façade loomed over the small street, and a cold shiver ran down her back.

  As they walked up the steps of the cathedral, Elizabeth saw a familiar face. “Dix!”

  Happy to have any distraction from her increasingly uneasy thoughts, she walked over to the other woman. “What’re you doing here?”

  “Just sayin’ hello to the father,” Dix said, nodding her head in the direction of the large double doors where Father Cavanaugh stood talking to a young family. “Not that I’m religious or anything. Just droppin’ in, ya know?”

  Elizabeth recognized protesting too much when she saw it, but wasn’t about to pry. “We were doing the same,” Elizabeth said. “He offered some help a while back. We wanted to let him know we were doing okay.”

  Dix nodded, and her eyes darted to Simon and then back to Elizabeth. “Glad to hear it,” she said with a smile.

  Elizabeth could see the sadness tugging a bit too much at the corners of her mouth. Oh, Dix was happy for them, but her eyes had the look of a woman who wanted the happiness she saw and didn’t think she’d ever find it. Unrequited love was an albatross Elizabeth knew too well.

  They stood awkwardly for a moment, having run out of small talk and neither wanting to discuss why they were really there.

  “Well,” Simon said, breaking the stalemate. “We should say hello to the father before it gets too late.”

  “Yeah. I gotta be goin’ too.”

  “See you tomorrow, Dix,” Elizabeth said, as Simon led her away. She was about to say something to Simon about Dix when he called out to the priest.

  Father Cavanaugh said his goodbyes to the young family and waved them over. “Ah, good to see you two again. Elizabeth was it?”

  “Simon and Elizabeth Cross,” Simon said.

  A girl could get used to that.

  “Of course,” the father said with a broad grin. “What can I do for you?”

  “I was hoping to ask you about yesterday. I understand,” Simon continued, “you found the body in the butcher shop.”

  “Oh, yes. Terrible, terrible business.”

  “Did you get a good look at the body by any chance?”

  Father Cavanaugh was surprised at the question, but he hid it quickly. Curiosity and a tinge of concern colored his face. “And why would you be wantin’ to know about such things?”

  Not accustomed to having to explain himself, Simon stumbled for a reason.

  “He thinks he’s Sherlock Holmes,” Elizabeth added. “Trust me, it’s better to humor him.”

  “Ah, likes to play detective, does he?” the Father said with a wink.

  Elizabeth thought of all sorts of replies to that, but managed to merely smile.

  Simon ignored the byplay. “Can you describe the body? The markings on the neck seemed rather unusual.”

  Elizabeth could have sworn a flash of fear passed over the priest’s placid face.

  “I’m afraid people are always findin’ new ways to do each other harm,” he said noncommittally.

  “Yes,” Simon persisted, “but the wounds, were they slits or small and round like a snake bite?”

  There it was again, a brief glimmer of alarm. His eyes shifted from side to side, trying surreptitiously to make sure they weren’t being overheard. “A bite? Surely you don’t think a giant serpent is loose on the streets of New York City. Now that would be news,” he said with a laugh. “No, it was as the paper said; a sad example of the darkness some men find themselves driven to these days.”

  “Yes,” Simon said. “But the draining of the blood seems almost ritualistic.”

  “I’m afraid the newspaper man overstated that.”

  “But the photographs...”

  “To sell papers. I’m afraid they paint a more gruesome picture for effect.”

  “Really?” Simon said.

  If Father Cavanaugh noticed the skepticism in Simon’s voice he chose to ignore it. “We live in different times. Newspapers aren’t what they once were. Hearst and Pulitzer have seen to that,” he said, then offered them an embarrassed smile. “That was bitter, wasn’t it? Before the seminary I tried my hand at reporting. Fresh to America from Ireland and my first assignment was the Spanish-American war. Somewhat of a birth by fire.”

  “You were a reporter?” Elizabeth asked, trying to get her mind around a young Father Cavanaugh.

  “Ancient history.”

  “That is fascinating,” Simon said dryly, obviously recognizing a diversionary tactic when he saw one.

  Father Cavanaugh smiled genially again and checked his pocket watch. “Well, I’ve talked your ear off, haven’t I? I really should be going. I’m sorry I couldn’t be more help, but it’s probably best to leave the evils of our society to the professionals, eh?”

  “Thank you, Father,” Elizabeth said with a quick glance at Simon, hoping he wouldn’t press the issue.

  “Good night to you,” the priest said with a nod, and hurriedly disappeared into the crowd.

  “Well,” Simon said, his eyes narrowing and following the priest as he disappeared behind the heavy wooden doors to the church. “That was... interesting.”

  “Yeah.” Interesting was one way to put it. Terribly unnerving was another.

  “He obviously knows more than he’s saying,” Simon said.

  “Maybe he can’t say more. Father-client privilege, or whatever it’s called.”

  “It could point to someone in the parish being involved.”

  “But what are we going to do? Pretend we’re census workers? Make sure you check the creature of the night box, should it apply.”

  “The library.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Have you forgotten everything I taught you?” he said, and then got that gleam in his eyes. The wheels in his head were spinning in overdrive. “If this is the work of a vampire, it would need to feed. Which means more victims. Just the sort of thing a sensationalistic paper would print, don’t you think?”

  They poured over newspapers at the library until it closed. Three similar cases were reported in the last few years. That would have seemed like a decent lead if it weren’t for the fact that there had been six murders with ice picks and four beheadings. Maybe the butcher shop murder was nothing more than a gangland signature killing.

  Simon wanted to talk to the reporter, but Elizabeth calmly pointed out the downside. Imagine the headline: Future Couple Seeks Vampires in Gotham.

  Their initial foray as vampire hunters had turned up bupkis. Elizabeth wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or frustrated.

  As the days passed, and the incident drifted further away, she fell into an easy routine. Simon took a bit longer to let go, but eventually he stopped asking questions. Stopped asking them out loud at any rate.

  * * *

  The limited avenues for research frustrated Simon. At least twice, he’d reached for a phone that wasn’t there to call contacts who weren’t born yet. Even if there were documents that might give him clues to the existence of vampires in the city, he couldn’t afford to find them. Aside from not having the credentials in this time to gain access to them, he couldn’t risk the inevitable questions that would follow. His logical mind told him to give up the ghost, but his instincts wouldn’t be silenced. There was more to the murder than a gangland killing, but without any more paths to follow, he was at a loss. Being so close to what he’d been searching for w
ould have sent him into a tailspin if it hadn’t been for Elizabeth. He’d always thought that finding proof of the occult was the most important thing in his life. It had been the only thing in his life, until recently.

  She gave him things he didn’t know he needed. Now that he had them, he was sure he couldn’t live without them, without her. The days spent in their small apartment were a revelation to him, discovering her likes and dislikes. Her passion for American football confused him almost as much as her nearly pathological hatred of the innocent lima bean. His confession of a fondness for mushy peas made her face squish up in the most adorable way. Each discovery, from the ridiculous to the sublime, left him wanting more. She could make him laugh with a freedom he’d nearly forgotten, and melt his heart with a few gently whispered words.

  He could spend a lifetime trying to understand her and never tire of the challenge. Stories of her threadbare childhood left him wanting to give her the world. Not that she complained about it, to the contrary really, she had the gift to see what she had and not focus on the things she didn’t. He could envision her as a small child sitting in some poxy hotel room making jewelry out of gum wrappers. She’d faced the cards life had dealt her with the equanimity only a gambler’s child could. Even so, he could see the hollow spaces inside her, the missing pieces of her life he’d never been aware of before. But, as she said, Swiss cheese wouldn’t be any fun without the holes. He, on the other hand, had clung to the injustices and wore them like a protective cloak.

  It was overly dramatic to say he’d been reborn, but the truth of it was, that’s exactly how he felt. Like he’d stepped into the sunshine for the first time after a life spent underground.

  He found himself speaking freely of things he hadn’t thought of in years. Memories secreted away now spilled out. The summers spent at his grandfather’s knee where he listened to fantastic tales of faraway places. He’d visited them in his imagination, escaping from the cold rigidity of boarding school and the arch pragmatism of his parents. He hadn’t realized it at the time, but he would spend the rest of his life searching for those fantastic places, even if he didn’t quite believe they were real.

  He told her how after his grandfather died, the chasm had grown between his parents and him; and again, when he told them he wasn’t going to be a barrister. One black sheep was one too many, and Simon didn’t have the excuse of being a doddering, old fool. They never let him forget their disappointment. He’d always considered Grandfather Sebastian his only real family, and once he was gone, Simon turned inward. His years at Oxford were empty and lonely. It all sounded so clichéd. Poor little rich boy. But Elizabeth listened intently, without judgment. All these were things he’d never shared, and now, not only was it painless to do so, it was oddly comforting. He wasn’t sure what was more surprising, the ease with which he revealed himself or how much it pleased him that she wanted him to.

  Loving someone and being loved in return was a shock to his system. Like any muscle that hasn’t been used, his heart didn’t always run smoothly. In the quiet of their room, life was bliss, but add in a few outside factors and the mixture became volatile. Fleeting moments of insecurity passed quickly enough, but the next Saturday night at the club, something else came to the fore. Unprovoked jealousy spiked to the surface.

  King Kashian was back.

  Simon did his best not to watch the man watch Elizabeth, but it was a losing battle. He tried busying himself with some new sheet music Charlie had bought recently, when a little man sidled up to the piano.

  He looked to be in his late fifties, but the years hadn’t been kind to him. His legs were bowed and spindley; it looked as if it took a great effort just to cross the room. But it was his face that most struck Simon, etched with deep lines only grief can carve.

  “You’re British, right?” the man slurred.

  “Yes,” Simon said. Why was it Americans felt the need to ask him what was obviously apparent?

  “Good,” the man said with a lop-sided smile. He reached into the breast pocket of his wrinkled coat and took out several pieces of folded paper. “That’s real good. Right and proper.”

  He leaned heavily on the piano and unfolded a few pages of sheet music, methodically smoothing the creases.

  Charlie came up behind him, his usual genial demeanor tempered with a melancholy smile. He laid a hand on the small man’s shoulder. “That time again already, Frank?”

  Frank nodded and continued to lovingly smooth out the papers. “Woulda been thirty today.”

  Charlie gave his shoulder a comforting squeeze. “Frank’s son was killed in the war,” he explained. “Comes in every year on his birthday, and the player sings this song.”

  Simon felt distinctly uncomfortable. The last time he’d sung, well, to be honest, he couldn’t remember. “I’m afraid I’m not much of a singer.”

  “You in the war?” Frank asked suddenly, his hand jerking with a phantom spasm.

  Simon wracked his brain. This was 1929; he would have been in his late twenties during the war years. As an able bodied Englishman, he would surely have served. “Yes, I was.”

  Frank’s eyes brightened with something more than the bourbon. “Maybe you knew my son? Where’d you see action?”

  Simon knew he should have seen that question coming. He blurted out the first thing that came to mind. “The battle of the Marne.”

  The cyclorama at Coney Island had given him a superficial understanding of the battle at best, but it was, he thought sadly, the only specific battle of World War One he could remember. Shameful.

  “Marne,” Frank said softly. The name a curse and prayer at the same time. “First or second?”

  “Second.”

  Frank’s smile faltered as he rubbed the faded sheet music. “Jimmy was there.” He looked at Simon, a glimmer of life, of hope, in his eyes. “Don’t suppose you ever met? Thin as a reed, all arms and legs and hair like wheat?”

  Simon shook his head and felt sick at his deception, but there was no turning back from it now. “I’m sorry.”

  Frank clapped Simon on the shoulder. “S’ok.” He turned unsteadily to Charlie and said, “I’d like to buy this man a drink. Served with my son.”

  “Sure thing, Frank,” Charlie said and held up two fingers to Dix. “But it’s on the house.”

  Frank nodded solemnly. “I thank you.” He looked down at the sheet music, his kindly eyes growing moist with unshed tears. “Mother doesn’t come out anymore. But I do. Honor his memory and all. And I’m pleased to share a drink with you.”

  “Thank you,” Simon said as he took the glass from Dix.

  “But first we sing!” Frank said too loudly. He poked at the sheet music with a gnarled finger and slid it across the top of the piano to Simon.

  Simon wanted to protest, but how in good conscience could he possibly disappoint this man? He looked at the music and realized he was actually familiar with it. “Keep the Home-Fires Burning” was a stirring ballad from early in the war. Vague memories of his grandmother’s voice came back to him. She’d died when he was very small, and he’d all but forgotten her. As he read the words on the page, a latent feeling of loss welled inside him. Like the light of a dying star, the grief reached him years after the fact.

  Simon cleared his throat and set the papers on the music stand. As he played the first few bars, a reverent silence fell over the room.

  He sang the first lines, unsure and nervous, but his voice steadied by the second verse. The poetic recounting of a time when sacrifice was the norm, when men left their lives when called, brought a hush to the crowd. Until the chorus came, when an amazing thing happened. Each man, each woman, joined their voices in the song.

  “Keep the home-fires burning, while your hearts are yearning, though your lads are far away, they dream of home.”

  What had been only a page in a history book was suddenly brought to life. Even ten years removed from the horrors of the war, the scars were still fresh.

  The wave of e
motion was palpable as they came to the last chorus. Thoughtful voices raised together, “There’s a silver lining, through the dark clouds shining, turn the dark clouds inside-out, till the boys come home.”

  Simon played the final note, and the room was completely silent. Each man and woman raised their glass. Frank wiped a tear from his eye and raised his glass. “Thank you.”

  Charlie put an arm around the little man and took the sheet music from the piano. He led him to an empty chair and smiled his thanks to Simon.

  The conversation in the bar slowly started to pick up again, but the feeling of loss still hovered in the room. Simon had never been one to seek comfort; if anything, he’d avoided it. Of course, he’d never trusted anyone enough not to use the moment of weakness against him. Now, his eyes unerringly searched out Elizabeth and found her at the bar placing an order. He caught her eye, and she seemed to know exactly what he was feeling. She smiled gently and he nodded toward the back. She told Dix she was going to take five. He passed by King Kashian, intent on ignoring him, opened the door to the storeroom and followed Elizabeth inside.

  Wooden crates lined the walls, leaving a gap only for the door to the alley. Simon leaned back against a shabby old desk cluttered with papers and sighed. Without needing to ask, Elizabeth moved into his embrace. His arms wound around her and he held her to his chest. The feel of her was the palliative he needed.

  He dropped a kiss on the top of her head. “Thank you.”

  “What for?”

  He paused for a moment and then shook his head. “Everything.”

  She blushed and played with the lapels of his jacket. “That was beautiful, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes,” he said, but she could hear the reservation in his voice.

  “But?”

  “Remind me to tell you about my grandmother some time.”

  “Sebastian’s wife?”

  Simon nodded and tucked a stray hair behind her ear.