The leader held Simon’s gaze with smooth confidence, content to wait for him to falter first. But Simon held fast and the tension grew between them. Adrenaline coursed through Simon’s veins. When the man’s mouth creased into a small smile, Simon gripped the gun more tightly. His finger gently took up the slack in the trigger.
The penultimate moment dangled on the precipice until finally the leader broke eye contact. Prepared for a veiled signal to the men, Simon held the gun steady.
As if Simon weren’t even there, the leader turned his attention to someone behind him. Simon dared a quick glance back and saw an injured man just rousing to consciousness. The leader spoke to the man in Chinese, and while the words were foreign the intent was a promise that whatever Simon had interrupted wasn’t over. With one last look to Simon and a brief nod ceding this round, the leader ordered his men to leave.
Simon kept his gun trained on them as they filtered into the crowd and disappeared down the street. It was only after he was sure they’d gone he let out the breath he’d been holding. One crisis down and who knew how many to go. His palm was slick with sweat and he wiped it on his trouser leg and then slipped the gun back into his pocket. The crowd continued to stream down the street seemingly oblivious to the drama. Each person kept to their own business, averting their eyes and hurrying on their way.
It was just as well. The sooner he got off this street the sooner he could get the hell out of China. Damn watch. Like a fool, he looked down at his hand—one gun and no watch. The realization was like cold water thrown in his face.
It has been knocked out of his hand when he’d been struck. Desperately, he scanned the street gathering his hat along the way, and found the watch nestled between two crates of squawking, pungent chickens. He picked it up and prayed it hadn’t been damaged. Aside from a fresh scratch along the case, it appeared to be intact. Of course, he couldn’t be certain until he used it again, and God only knew when the next eclipse was.
His jaw ached and his head was still swimming.
Forcing his hat into some semblance of its previous shape, he started down the street when he heard the injured man groan. Simon stopped, but didn’t turn. It wasn’t any of his affair. He had his own problems to deal with. As he took a step away, a niggling voice in his head stopped him. The niggling voice that sounded remarkably like Elizabeth’s had become the point to his counterpoint. Even in the confines of his own mind, he was no match for her. It seemed that despite his best efforts her damnable altruistic nature had infected him. Heaving a defeated sigh he turned back to the man.
It was the first time he’d given him a good look and Simon realized how truly incongruous he was. He was undoubtedly Chinese, but his clothes were Western. He was probably in his early thirties. His black, three-button suit wasn’t well-tailored, but still a good quality and definitely Western. Blood trickled from his split lip and stained the white of his collar.
“Can you stand?” Simon said as he held out his hand. The man looked at him in confusion. “Stand?” Simon repeated in the time-honored tradition of English speakers everywhere that any words enunciated clearly and loudly enough would be understood.
The man eyed him warily but accepted Simon’s help and managed to get to his feet. He stood for a moment on unsteady legs then stumbled forward and gripped the wall for balance. Simon reached out to steady him.
The man gestured that he could stand on his own and stared intently at Simon. His voice was quiet, but words hit Simon like a cartoon anvil. “Thank you.”
Simon’s hand tightened around the man’s arm. “You…you speak English?”
“Is it so surprising?” he said, reaching into his pocket for a white handkerchief and dabbing at the blood on his chin.
“Bloody hell. Of course it is.”
“Not every Chinese immigrant is content to be a Coolie,” he said in perfect English as he refolded his handkerchief and pushed it back into his pocket. He seemed to mistake Simon’s stunned expression for disapproval and quickly amended, “And that was ungracious. Forgive me.”
Simon ignored the insult and the apology. “Immigrant? Where are we?”
The man arched an eyebrow. “San Francisco.” He looked Simon up and down. “Perhaps I should be the one helping you?”
“Chinatown,” Simon said. Any embarrassment he felt over his misconception was lost in the realization that Elizabeth couldn’t be far away. “Thank God. Which direction is downtown?”
“This way,” the man said as he stepped out into the street.
Simon hesitated. He had no reason to trust him, and, Elizabeth’s voice whispered in his mind, no reason not to.
“We should leave this place. Ling Tan and his men will be back soon and I’m afraid they won’t be unarmed this time. Unless you have a Gatling gun hidden in your trousers, I suggest we leave here as soon as possible. The tong is not forgiving.”
Simon didn’t know much about San Francisco history, but he knew enough about Chinese gangs to know they needed to leave. Now. “Agreed.”
They made their way up the narrow alley until they emerged onto a larger thoroughfare. The cramped confines of Chinatown gave way to the broad elegance of the city.
A cable car bumped its way up the street, the wheels grinding out a shrill symphony on the metal tracks. It paused and people clambered onto the crowded fringe.
“This is our car,” the man said, climbing on board.
Simon stepped onto the small platform and reached for his money, but the man had already paid their fare. “It’s the least I can do.”
Simon nodded his thanks and didn’t argue the point.
***
“More sherry, dear?” Mrs. Eldridge asked Elizabeth as she took the crystal top from the decanter on the coffee table.
Elizabeth shook her head declining politely and shifted uncomfortably on the settee. Even though Mrs. Eldridge had done everything she could to make her feel at home, as Elizabeth looked around the salon, she felt anything but that.
The room was tastefully posh, although, between the wallpaper, the wainscoting, the rugs and the upholstery there were enough patterns to make her feel slightly nauseous. Other than that, it was the very image of elegant wealth. A little gilt here, a little velvet there, a little bit of lots of money everywhere.
“You’re sure?” Mrs. Eldridge asked holding up the decanter. A large bay window let in the last rays of the setting sun and they danced in the facets of the crystal.
“No, thank you.” Aside from the fact that her corset had gone all anaconda on her once she’d sat down, the sherry was making her head spin. No wonder women swooned so much. They couldn’t get any blood to their heads.
“My husband always found it to be rather restorative after his travels.”
“Your husband was a--he traveled too?”
Mrs. Eldridge set down the decanter and smiled wistfully. “For nearly forty years.”
“Wow.”
Mrs. Eldridge laughed softly and settled herself back into the plush divan. “You are new to this aren’t you?”
“Does it show that much?”
“Only around the edges. Don’t worry, dear. You’ll do fine.”
Elizabeth took a sip of sherry and suddenly wished it were something stronger. “I suppose you get used to it after a while.”
“No. Never that. And if it does, you’ve gone one too many times. But I don’t think you have to worry about that for some time. You’ve got enough on your plate as is. Another tea cake?” she added with a grin.
“Thank you, no. I…are you…?”
The older woman shook her head. “’They also serve, those who stand and wait.’ Sometimes I think being the one left behind is the more difficult task.”
Elizabeth felt a fresh wave of guilt wash over her. Simon. She’d been so angry, so caught up in trying not to think about how mad she was at him, she’d nearly forgotten how much she missed him. Not that it wasn’t his own damn fault, but still.
“I don’
t understand,” Elizabeth said. “If things work the same here as they do for me…”
“Waiting comes in many ways, dear. I used to think waiting for him to leave was the worst part.”
The rest was left unsaid, but Elizabeth knew what the worst part must have been. The day he didn’t return. “I’m sorry.”
Mrs. Eldridge sighed and glanced at the portrait over the mantle in the parlor. The man in the portrait was a nice looking man in his sixties with silver hair and a kindly face. Mrs. Eldridge seemed lost in the murky haze of memories for a moment before smiling and regaining herself. “Another tenet of time travel--always live in the present, wherever and whenever that may be. And your present looks to be quite interesting.”
Interesting was one way to put, Elizabeth thought as she nibbled on a biscuit. She wondered if Mr. Eldridge could be affected if she failed. He was part of the Council. Wait. Something didn’t make sense. How could Mrs. Eldridge’s husband have been a Council member if the Council hadn’t even been created in 1906. Unless…
“When was Mr. Eldridge from?”
“1982, I think. We met in Chicago. He was on an assignment.” Her smile was wistful. “And decided to stay. Of course, he did go back on occasion. Temporal commuting, he called it. He continued to work for the Council, but he always came home to me.”
“I’m surprised the Council was okay with that.”
“Evan could be quite persuasive.” Mrs. Eldridge smiled kindly and continued. “Now, how can I help you?”
“You have anything stronger than sherry?”
Mrs. Eldridge laughed. “Perhaps later. I’m sure Gerald has something hidden away.”
“I’m not sure where to start. I missed the time travel extension course.”
“Well, typically, Council members don’t discuss any details of their assignments, but in your case, perhaps we could bend that rule just a tad. Extenuating circumstances and all.”
“Oh, they’re extenuating all over the place.”
“Why don’t you start at the beginning, dear?”
Chapter Seven
The small puddles of light cast by the street lamps glowed on the sidewalk in front of them, illusive beacons of warmth in the growing chill. Simon wrapped his overcoat more tightly about him and tried not to think about Elizabeth.
He’d been so caught in the minutiae of each moment, planning his arrival and surviving same, he’d barely considered the breadth of the task at hand. With each block they walked, it seemed as big as the city itself. Not to mention given what he’d already experienced, there was no telling what she faced. He could only hope Travers had done his job well and God help him if he hadn’t.
“Here we are,” the Chinese man said, pulling him back to the matter at hand.
Simon stopped walking and surveyed the street. Black horse drawn carriages hurried past. While the buildings had grown larger and the stench of chickens seemed left far behind, he still had no idea where he was. “And where might that be?”
“Downtown. I believe you said that was your destination.”
“Right,” Simon said and peered down the dark streets. “Thank you.”
Each building looked much the same as the next. He could wander aimlessly for hours trying to find a suitable place to stay. Then he remembered that he’d stayed at the Palace Hotel on his last trip to San Francisco. That time, he’d come hoping to purchase a rare Aubin Codex, but like so many other trips he’d left frustrated and empty handed. This would not be one of those times.
“The Palace Hotel?”
The man nodded and after a few long blocks, he motioned toward a broad archway leading to the entrance of a large upscale hotel.
If the lobby was anything to judge by, the Palace Hotel was truly turn of the century opulence at its best. Heavy mahogany tables, red leather chairs, and ten-foot palms filled the spacious floor that easily spanned fifty by one hundred feet. It was a welcome taste of civilization.
“Is there anything else I can do?”
Simon mentally ran through the details he knew of Elizabeth’s assignment. They were pathetically scant. He couldn’t even remember the name of the man who was supposedly killed. At the time, he hadn’t thought any of it mattered. Idiot.
“No,” Simon said, extending his hand. “Thank you.”
The man shook his head and bowed. “Thank you.” With that he left Simon alone in the hotel.
The lobby was a hub of activity. Dozens of people milled about; some coming, some going, none of them knowing the devastation that was to come. And out there, somewhere, was Elizabeth. His Elizabeth.
He walked up to the front desk. He’d made it this far. That was something, at least. Now, all he had to do was find her. One woman in a city of half a million.
***
She was beautiful.
As he removed the pins from her hair, each tendril that fell and caressed her bare shoulder was a prelude to his touch. He’d planned to travel slowly, but the sloping curve of the nape of her neck was too much of a temptation. As he placed a gentle kiss on her shoulder, her sharp intake of breath broke the last vestiges of his restraint. He tightened his hands around her arms and he turned her to face him. Wrapping his arms around her, he pulled her half-dressed body flush against his. Lost in the midst of passion, he whispered her name. “Elizabeth.”
The sound of his own voice woke him from the dream.
Simon opened his eyes and in an instant the warmth in his chest cooled. Long before he summoned the courage to turn his head, he knew she wouldn’t be there. Even knowing the truth, he couldn’t stop himself from looking.
Closing his eyes he fought the discontinuity, trying to find some foothold on a dream lost in the morning sun. Nightmares had haunted him for years, but in the end, dreams were proving to be far crueler.
Ignoring the unease he felt at the unfamiliar room, Simon tossed the sheet aside. Dreams and nightmares might taunt him at night, but in the day, reality was his to shape.
Simon headed for the bathroom and prayed there was a shower. He would settle for a bath if need be, but they always reminded him of being a child. Very few of his childhood memories were pleasant.
He opened the heavy paneled door from his bedroom suite and turned up the flame on the gas lamp. The concierge had assured him that the Palace had every amenity and he hadn’t exaggerated. The bath was as well-appointed as the rest of his suite, although, he could do without the bidet. Leave it to the French.
Dark mahogany-paneled wainscoting covered the walls from trellised light wood ceiling to the mosaic tile floor. A brass framework of pipes that looked more like some medieval torture device than a shower wrapped itself around the inside of the standing shower enclosure. His grandfather’s estate in Sussex had a similar contraption and as a boy he used to pretend it was the exposed ribcage of a vanquished giant. Of course, that was when monsters had no life outside of books and stories, when turning the page had kept him safe.
How time changes things, Simon thought as he carefully turned on the taps. Cool water sprang out in thin arching streams from a series of holes in each of the pipes. After some adjustment, the temperature was tolerable and he stepped inside.
After his shower, Simon wrapped a large bath towel about his waist. At least now, he felt marginally prepared to meet the day. He wiped the steam off the mirror and ran a hand over his stubbled chin. Hardly an appropriate look for entering society, but he hadn’t brought his shaving kit, or a change of underwear for that matter. His mood soured distinctly.
Rubbing a towel over his damp hair, Simon walked back into his bedroom. Glaring down at his day olds, he heard a muffled knock coming from the front door. Hoping it was the tea he’d arranged for the night before, he headed for the main parlor.
The bedroom suite gave way to a long hall connecting to the parlor. Knuckles rapped smartly on the front door again. Simon draped the towel around his neck, quickly put on the hotel’s complimentary dressing gown and yanked open the door.
&nbs
p; A young steward swallowed so hard his Adam’s apple nearly jumped out of his throat.
Simon waited, but nothing but a squeak emerged from the young man. “My tea?”
“I’m sorry sir. I’ll see about the tea, but the tailor you requested is here.”
The young man nervously stepped aside and an obsequious little man popped into view. Adjusting the tape measurer draped around his neck and pushing his black spectacles back onto the bridge of his nose, he smiled too broadly. “Anton Brandise, at your service Sir Simon,” he said with a bow, as his eyes took in Simon in an appreciative sweep.
Simon gripped the edges of the towel around his neck and glared at the little man. When their eyes met, a blush stole over Mr. Brandise’s face and he quickly averted his eyes.
Mr. Brandise cleared his throat then clapped his hands. “My trunk, boy.”
The steward wheeled a large trunk to the door, but Simon blocked his path. “Sir?”
For a moment, Simon considered turning them away, but the unpleasant prospect of having his inseam measured by Mr. Brandise was ultimately outweighed by necessity. Simon stepped out of the way and the steward wheeled the heavy trunk into the room, setting it down with a thud.
“Be careful with that, boy!” Mr. Brandise barked then turned to Simon, his eyes drifting over Simon’s chest again. “So hard to find good help these days, isn’t it?”
Simon stared down at the tailor in disapproval and a not so subtle reminder of who was working for whom. “Isn’t it?”
The steward beat a hasty retreat and closed the door behind him.
Mr. Brandise opened his trunk to reveal a full compliment of clothing and accessories. “I’m sure you’ll find Brandise and Merchant has the best gentlemen’s wares in the city. Perhaps something in the way of hounds-tooth?”
Out of Time Series Omnibus (Out of Time: A Paranormal Romance & When the Walls Fell) Page 35
