Downtime

by Tamara Allen

  I showered, dressed, then grabbed breakfast on my way back to the museum. The day passed with excruciating slowness as I tortured every spirit within earshot with a rambling monologue, appealing to Sully, Ezra, my father, and anyone else with even the smallest influence.

  It all got me approximately nowhere. I’d heard the old saw about God sometimes answering prayers with a firm no. But if this was a no, He was going to have to speak up a little. In fact He was going to have to slam me down hard, because I wasn’t giving up. When the museum opened the next day, I was the first one through the door, ready to plead, beg, grovel, and bribe, if necessary. By late afternoon, it was sinking in that this might be some sort of object lesson intended to impress upon me the error of my ways. Someone up there wanted me to learn what a dumb jerk I could be. Okay, I’d learned it. I didn’t like to think I’d have to spend the rest of my life paying for it.

  But maybe that was the case. Another day gone and I was no closer to finding my way back. I went to bed earlier, though after dozing off and on in the storage room I wasn’t particularly tired. I wanted to fall back into the dreams I’d had lately, to spend some time with him—the only time I’d ever have with him again, it was beginning to seem. But the dream that came was more a nightmare as I walked down a snowy road in the middle of nowhere, Ezra far ahead of me and oblivious to my presence. Wrapped in his coat, he carried a book under his arm, and despite my calls, never turned once to look in my direction. I woke in the dark and buried my face in the pillow, refusing to consider that someone was once again trying to send me a message.

  On my way back to the museum, I stopped at the library to get my hands on photocopies of half a dozen newspapers surrounding the date of the next murder. I didn’t expect to find anything helpful in them, but I figured I might as well have something to read while I waited.

  Back in the dusty storage room that had become the center of my universe, I tried to think about anything other than that dream. It wouldn’t leave me alone. Perhaps I was viewing it in my present single-minded context of wanting to get back to him, but the dream had seemed so real and—deliberate. Why had he been walking away so determinedly? Was he trying to tell me he didn’t want me back? Was Sully trying to tell me I simply couldn’t go back, no matter how much I wanted it?

  “Man, the guys with the nets are going to be coming for me any minute.” I slumped down and stared at the dust motes floating in the light under the door. It was a light intermittently broken as museum visitors walked past, none of them in the slightest aware that a lunatic was sitting in their midst. “I’m not leaving, Sully. I’m not going anywhere unless it’s back to him. Got me?”

  Whether Sully got me or not was left to my imagination. I wondered if I had any chance of finding my way back on my own. The book was probably still out there somewhere, a little more torn and faded, but still waiting on the shelf for anyone who wanted a little jaunt through the ages. There was bound to be some sort of local witches association who’d do the casting if the price was right. Only problem was, I had a pretty strong sense that if the higher-ups didn’t want a bit of hocus-pocus to work, it wouldn’t. Whatever had moved me back a century was something more than a circle of warm bodies and a few words in Latin.

  The fact of the matter was, if they were going to let me go back, they’d have done it by now. I’d blown it. Worse still, I’d hurt Ezra in the bargain. Hurt him in a way I hadn’t wanted to think about. I thought about it now—thought until I knew I had to get out of the museum before the cops found me in a sobbing heap and threw me out.

  I wandered into the museum proper, trying to adjust to the noise and flow of the real world—my real world. But I didn’t leave the museum. Instead I made my way back to the books, with a slim hope of finding one in particular. I’d given Ezra a lot of shit for not knowing the title, but I couldn’t remember it myself, now. It was a needle in one immense haystack.

  Browsing on the chance it would turn up, I came across a familiar name. Montague, James Francis. My curiosity got the better of me and I started searching for information on the people I’d met, compelled to know if any of them had found some sort of happily ever after.

  Jem hadn’t. Succumbing to mental illness, he had filled his pockets with stones and walked into the Thames. Though I hadn’t predicted a happy end for him, the reality shocked me. He had seemed a complex, intelligent man still in search of himself. A century later, he might have survived his demons.

  Speaking of demons…. Another familiar name cropped up after a short search: Blanchard. George himself was mentioned by name, with no other personal information. Then my eye caught the name of Charlotte Eleanor Blanchard Weatherley, Mrs….

  She had married and, judging by the photograph, not long after splitting with Ez. Plump and smiling, her curling dark hair still untouched by gray, she stood beside a bearded fellow with warm eyes and the faintest hint of a smile on his own lips. Around them sat a litter of five kids, all bright, mischievous-looking pups. I wished I could tell Ezra. He would have been happy and relieved to know she hadn’t suffered their broken engagement very long.

  As for Sid, anything of him might be contained in one of the newspapers around November ninth—the date of the Ripper’s next murder—if I’d even affected history that much. The November tenth paper reported on Mary Kelly’s murder in stark detail, concluding with a report that an attempt to track the Ripper with dogs had failed. About to move ahead to the next issue for any indication of Sid’s recapture, I noticed an article with the headline, “Death in Bloomsbury House Fire”. It took me a long minute to force my gaze from the headline to the article itself, three tiny paragraphs which took all of ten seconds to read. The house had burned to the ground but only one resident was home at the time, a Mr. Ezra Glacenbie, the only son of Sir William and Lady Edith—

  I could see him walking away from me in the dream, never turning, just moving steadily onward, farther and farther beyond reach. Now I knew. He was going to die when morning came. I stared at the words on the page while the inescapable fact of his death taunted me—shredded me to pieces with the knowledge that I was helpless to stop it. A voice from faraway announced that the museum was closing, and the sick fear in my gut burst into all-encompassing panic. This was my last chance. I couldn’t leave—

  I wouldn’t. Forcing myself to breathe, I got to my feet and reeled blindly back to the storage room. It was the closest I could get to him and it was so goddamned far away. I shut myself in and dropped into the darkest corner, to let come whatever was welling up like a tidal wave inside me. The gasp that echoed in the gloom made me clamp my mouth shut. My throat might be too tight for breath, but the pain surging up from my gut had no problem erupting from my lips in wordless grief. Every minute that took me from November eighth to November ninth took Ezra to his last morning on earth. I had walked away from the life I wanted, the love I needed, and I was paying the price. But I wasn’t paying alone. “Sully, are you here? Listen to me. I’ve got to tell you something. You’ve got to listen.”

  I had to believe he could hear. I had to know someone could. “I’ve fucked it all up. And I don’t expect you guys to fix it. Not now. I’m still here so—I get the message, all right? But listen. Why the hell are you pulling him out of the game so soon? Don’t you think he deserves better? Don’t you think Kathleen and Derry deserve better?” This would kill them. I couldn’t think about it, not now. “Whatever I’ve asked you for in the past, Sully, it’s all been minor shit compared to this. And I’m not going to ask for anything ever again, I swear to God—not anything—if you’ll just take care of this one thing for me. It’s all I want.”

  Was he listening? Could he help, even if he was? “Sully, just one thing, all right? Let him live.”

  Silence again, a steady companion of mine for the past three days. Of course I was so damned dense that Sully could have been standing in front of me, yelling in my face, and I’d have never known it. “Just give him the chance to find some happines
s, and I won’t ask for anything else, if I live to be a hundred.” Not that I was planning to. Not without Ezra.

  I knew in the morning I would check the newspapers and whatever I found there would be the final decree on Ezra’s fate. As soon as the museum closed, I intended to look for the book. Chances were I couldn’t go back even if I found it; but in the handful of hours left, I could do nothing else. I couldn’t sleep. I didn’t think I could ever sleep again, in terror of dreams that might for a few brief seconds make me believe he was alive and well.

  I felt so sick, I couldn’t sit up, let alone stand. I leaned over my knees and drew in a few deep breaths, which only seemed to make the dizziness worse. It was my last memory before the sound of concerned voices roused me back to consciousness.

  “He’s coming ’round, I think.”

  “We should fetch a doctor.”

  “No, no, he’s all right. Give him a minute.”

  How they had found me—when I knew I hadn’t left the storage room—I couldn’t guess. I must have made some noise when I’d passed out. And by the sound of things, I would be on my way to the hospital in a few minutes. A warm hand rested on my forehead, a feminine hand, and I caught the scent of violets. “Morgan?”

  I knew that voice. I was unconscious. I was dreaming. I knew that voice….

  “I told you this was a bad idea. Here, let me have a go.”

  And that voice, I realized, as another hand patted my cheek insistently. I struggled toward full consciousness, emerging from a deep pool toward a surface that glittered with light. It exhausted me to open my eyes—but the effort was worth it when I saw the anxious faces hovering over me. The worried, beautiful lot of them in the gentle glow of a lantern, they weren’t ghosts, they were real and they were here. I seemed all at once to reach the surface, to bask in the light and breathe in air that warmed my blood.

  “Hey.” It was not much of a greeting, in a voice too weak to be reassuring, but they seemed to find reassurance anyway. “Scared you guys, huh?”

  Derry brushed his sleeve across his face, wiping away tears to make room for a fresh batch. “Thought you’d hopped the twig, old man.” His voice wasn’t much better than mine. Cradling my head in his hands, he leaned down and kissed my cheek, then hugged me. I could see over his shoulder that the others weren’t having much better success keeping the tears in check. Henry contrived to look annoyed despite a moist gaze, and Kathleen’s face crumpled as our eyes met.

  “You’re purely a trial, Morgan Nash. The Lord has put it upon me to inform you of that. Purely a trial.” She smoothed a damp handkerchief and pressed it to her mouth as she tried to compose herself. Hannah, practically falling across Kathleen’s lap, managed to finally get to me and wrap her arms tightly around my neck. I felt warm tears on my skin and I put my arms around her.

  “Sorry, Hannah. I’m so sorry.”

  She tried to help me sit and, when it was clear I wasn’t capable of it even with Hannah’s help, Derry got behind me to assist with a pair of strong arms. I looked around for the missing member of the party….

  And a memory that hung just off the edge of my rattled thoughts pushed itself forward. Something was wrong. “It’s morning?”

  They nodded, and I tried to grasp that my trip back through time had taken hours instead of minutes. Necessary, maybe, to keep me from ending up in the hospital again….

  “Ezra is back at the house.” Kathleen had caught the look on my face. “He doesn’t know we’re here, nor that we’ve come for days to try to bring you back. I can hardly dare believe it’s worked.”

  She looked to Derry, anxiety still bright in her eyes, and he laughed aloud and clapped my shoulder. “Kath, we’ve done nothing wrong. It’s just as we agreed, that it would happen if the Lord willed it. You couldn’t bear another day of the poor boy’s grief, any more than I. It was the only thing to save him.”

  Save him. Oh goddamn. The hideous memory sucked the heart out of me. “The fire. Jesus. I forgot—the fire.”

  “Fire?” Kathleen whispered, as the rest stared at me in burgeoning horror.

  I climbed to my feet a little too fast—and clenched my jaw as the room tilted and spun. Between Derry and Henry, I stayed on unsteady legs and got the story out even more succinctly than the damned newspaper had.

  Derry turned a white face to Henry. “The steamers. Quick. We’ll catch up as fast as we can.”

  Henry pounded out the door, the thud of his boots echoing down the corridor. Derry looked me up and down, trying, I assumed, to determine if I could keep up with them. I wasn’t about to be left behind. Fortunately we were able to flag down a cab before I collapsed on the steps of the museum. Derry got Kathleen and Hannah into it, then hailed another cab for the two of us. The combination of cold fear in my gut and a sharp wind in my face kept me holding on as the cab lurched through the foggy morning, following faint paths between the ghostly glow of street lamps.

  Past the benign yellow beacons, I saw a hellish red flickering, and black smoke billowing through the fog. We turned into the street, where people on their way to work had gathered to stare at the burning building, and our cab halted yards from the house, leaving us no option but to run the rest of the way. I heard a bell ringing somewhere down the street and wondered as I ran if that was the only way to summon help. No matter, because they’d never arrive in time. Fire shone behind closed windows with a nightmarish light, consuming everything within. If he was alive in that…

  He had to be, because I wasn’t coming out of the house without him.

  Derry grabbed my arm and held on. He was in too much agony for words. I pushed him away and ran up the steps and into the house. A wave of heat and smoke met me on the threshold. Choking on it, I went into a room so thick with smoke I could barely see. I knew he might be somewhere else in the house, but I had to check upstairs first, while there was still an upstairs to check.

  Halfway to the first landing I crashed into a cloaked and top-hatted figure storming his way down. He staggered against the stair rail, hat tumbling over the side, and recognition flooded his face. “You,” he said hoarsely. “Not gone to America after all, then.”

  At the flash of metal, I seized his wrist and forced back the hand holding the gun, the same peashooter he had pulled on me before. I got a handful of his cloak and leaned into him to trap him against the rail. “You’re going to take me where you left Ezra and if he’s dead, so are you.”

  The cold refusal in his eyes I expected; the knife was another matter. As it scraped across my knuckles, I let go of his wrist. He pressed his advantage by slamming me against the wall. “You’re both dead,” he rasped as the knife rose toward my throat. “And no one will notice or care.”

  I twisted his gun hand down to keep him from putting a bullet into me, then went for his other wrist with my injured hand. He grunted in pain but resisted, trying to get the knife near enough to draw blood. He was one determined son of a bitch. The thought of what he might have done to Ezra made me an even more determined one. I forced him back against the stair rail and he swore with what sounded like his last breath and tried to push me down the stairs.

  The gun went off—and in the same instant I realized I wasn’t hit, I knew he was. His astonished expression glazed over as he sank into the smoke. I felt a stab of regret, but only for Charlotte’s sake. Leaving him on the stairs, I ran through a black cloud to Ezra’s door. Smoke poured from the doorway, scorching heat beating me back into the corridor, and I tripped and fell—on top of Ezra. He’d tried to escape—and he’d nearly made it.

  My lungs burning, I dragged Ezra over my shoulder and hung on tightly to both him and the stair rail as I stumbled blindly down to the door. The morning air cooled my stinging eyes and I knew we were out. Out and safe, and I couldn’t even reassure Ezra of that fact, not while he hung unmoving against my back. Not when Derry draped a coat on the ground and helped me ease Ezra onto it. Not when I saw Ezra’s face, blackened from the smoke and as still as if the man i
nside had long gone.

  Derry and I both felt for a pulse. Kathleen, Hannah, Henry, and several neighbors gathered in close, too close, watching our faces as we searched for some sign of life. Derry’s face said it all. Kathleen, on her knees beside him, moaned and put her arms around him as he leaned into her for support. Henry stared at Ezra in disbelief. Hannah clung to Kathleen and wept. They had all reached the same conclusion. We were too late.

  Ezra was dead.

  Chapter 26

  Death was a relative term, depending on the century from which you viewed it. Ezra may have died in the history before, but I wasn’t letting him go so easily. Slipping a hand under his neck, I tilted his head back, pinched his nose shut, and covered his mouth with mine. One breath, two, and he was unresponsive.

  Ignoring the whispering going on all around me, I started chest compressions, counting aloud to make sure my racing thoughts didn’t throw me off track. A fit of coughing hit me and I knew I wasn’t going to be able to keep this up alone. When I could speak, I instructed Derry on mouth-to-mouth and told him to get to it at my signal. Kathleen stared at me with grief-stricken eyes. “Can you bring a soul back from the dead, Morgan Nash?”