Bound by Time: A Bound Novel

by A. D. Trosper

  Isobel stared at him, fear coursing through her as he approached. The rain plastered his hair down and soaked his shirt. Concern filled his eyes. “Isobel, there is nothing in your kitchen. No blood, no dead man.”

  Isobel shook her head. She knew what she saw, what she felt. “I stepped in the blood. It was warm and…” She twisted to look at her foot. There was no blood on it. It could have washed away in the rain, but she didn’t think so.

  “What’s happening to me?”

  Damien took her hands and gently pulled her to her feet. He clicked on the flashlight for her benefit, shining it ahead of them. “You’re soaked. Let’s get you inside, and you can tell me about it.”

  Isobel’s heart fluttered like a bird trying to escape a cage. She didn’t want to go back inside. Terror tried to suffocate her as she slowly followed him back to the house. The closer they came to the kitchen, the tighter her chest grew.

  Damien glanced at her, alarm filling him. She was so pale and her pupils nearly drowned out the green of her eyes. “Breathe, Isobel. I promise there is nothing in your kitchen.”

  Isobel took a deep, shuddering breath, trying to find reassurance in his words as they reached the doorway. The beam of light illuminated the kitchen floor and there was…nothing. No dead man. No blood. No severed head.

  “What…” She frowned and examined the floor again.

  Damien smiled gently. “Shouldn’t you be happy there isn’t a dead man on your floor?”

  “I…of course. But then…why did I see it?”

  “Do you see a lot of things like that?” Damien frowned. How far had Xapar’s strength reached? How many times had he gotten into her mind?

  Isobel shook her head, refusing to tell him about the whispers, her face melting in the mirror, or the icy fingers that touched her. And she definitely wasn’t going to tell him she dreamed of the same man losing his head every night. He would think she was crazy.

  He shined the light around the living room behind them. “Why don’t you change out of those wet clothes while I hunt down a flashlight for you?”

  Isobel suppressed a shudder. “I can’t.”

  “Why not?” A furrow appeared between his brows as he looked down from the height he had on her.

  “I can’t go upstairs.” Great. So much for not sounding as crazy as a loon.

  Damien studied her for a long moment. “You’re afraid.” There was no hint of mockery in the soft statement.

  When Isobel nodded, a tear slid down her cheek. His thumb gently brushed it away. A strange sense of déjà vu fell over her as she stared up at him in the murky light. His eyes comforted her although she had no idea why.

  Damien’s heart broke at the sight of the tears and the knowledge of her fear. He gave a quick nod of his head. “I’ll come with you then.”

  “What?” Isobel backed up a step. “You can’t do that.”

  Damien sighed. What did she think he had planned? “Not into your room. I’ll stand right outside the door.”

  “You’ll come with me?” She wouldn’t have to face it alone. But what could he possibly do to protect her from a creepy window?

  “Si haec voluntas est tu.”

  Isobel raised an eyebrow. Now he was speaking another language? Why did the words sound familiar? “What did you say?”

  “If it is your wish.” He smiled and her heart melted.

  “What language was that?”

  “Latin.”

  She eyed him for a long moment. Isobel had never met anyone that spoke the way he did. If it is your wish. Who said things like that anymore? And in Latin, no less.

  “Well?” His smile faded as he gazed at her with intense blue eyes. “Do you trust me to come with you?”

  Isobel nodded. She didn’t know why she trusted Damien, but she did. “Yes. I don’t want to be alone right now, but I don’t think you’ll like it up there.”

  Damien raised an eyebrow. “Why not?” He couldn’t tell her he knew exactly why. Not yet.

  “I…” Isobel stared at the carpet. “I think this house is haunted…or something.”

  “Or something?” Damien nodded. “Well, I’ve seen a few ghosts in my lives. Let’s go have a look at yours. Then you can change into something dry.”

  Isobel started to follow him then stopped. “Wait, what do you mean lives?”

  He glanced over his shoulder at her. “What?”

  “You said you’ve seen a few ghosts in your lives.”

  “I must have misspoke.” Damien looked at her, his face unreadable in the storm-darkened house. “Are you ready to change your clothes?”

  What was she insinuating? Just because he seemed to appear suddenly when she was in need didn’t mean anything. She had to quit reading so many paranormal romances. “Yeah, I guess.”

  She followed him up the stairs. Her skin tightened when they reached the landing, but the familiar sense of being watched was absent. Isobel glanced at Damien out of the corner of her eye as they walked toward her bedroom. His face and eyes were hard, and he moved with eerie silence. Who was this man who volunteered to walk into a house where there might be a dead body in the kitchen? Who spoke in Latin, and used words like “misspoke?” Who wasn’t afraid the house might be haunted? And why did his bracelet have so many religious symbols on it?

  Damien handed her the flashlight and watched her shut the bedroom door quietly. He turned toward the window. The evil shrank away from him as he neared. He raised his hand barely touching the colored glass with his fingertips. Ignoring the searing pain that flashed through his hands, he began to chant quietly as he reinforced the seal. It wouldn’t last—his powers weren’t Eusebia’s—but it would help for a few days at least.

  Isobel peeled off her wet clothes; her skin cold and clammy. Rummaging through her drawers with one hand while the other held the flashlight, she managed to grab a pair of lightweight sweats and a T-shirt.

  How could he stand out there in the dark with that window? She pressed her ear to the door and heard quiet murmuring in another language. Latin again?

  Isobel started toward the bathroom and stopped. Dread filled her, and she shifted from one foot to the other. A part of her wanted to run; the stubborn side refused. She shined the flashlight through the open bathroom door.

  Everything appeared normal, including the bathroom mirror. Swallowing her fear, she grabbed a towel and dried her hair quickly. She snatched the brush and worked it through the damp strands without looking at the mirror.

  When she emerged from the bedroom, Damien stood with his arms crossed, leaning casually against the wall. The watcher remained absent as they crossed in front of the window and descended the stairs.

  They went back to the kitchen where she rummaged around in the drawers and found a flashlight, candles, and a box of matches. Isobel watched him set up several candles before her gaze drifted back to the floor. She wasn’t ready for Damien to leave. “Are you hungry?” she asked as the glow of the candles filled the room.

  “You don’t have to fix me anything,” he replied, moving from one taper to the next in the dining room with a match.

  “I didn’t ask if you thought I should fix you something. I asked if you were hungry.” She glanced at her watch in the dim light of the small flames. “It’s dinnertime, and I haven’t eaten anything since breakfast. I hate to eat in front of other people unless they’re eating too.”

  “I could leave if it will make you more comfortable.”

  “No!” Isobel’s heart lurched at the thought of being alone in the house again—and him leaving. That was silly since he couldn’t stay forever. “I mean, I really don’t want to be alone right now.”

  His mouth twitched into a half smile. “Afraid of the dark?”

  Isobel shook her head. “No. Yes.” She sighed in irritation. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

  Her admission tugged at his heart. “What are we having then?” he asked, pleased she wanted his company. It was a start.

  Damien’s intens
e blue eyes captured Isobel’s across the candlelight. For a moment she was at a loss for words. His thick, black hair hung damp around his face and new stubble made a light shadow on his jaw. Her eyes dropped to the wet shirt that clung to him, defining the muscles of his chest and stomach, and wandered to the faded blue jeans that hugged his lean hips. Isobel gave herself a mental shake. “All I can make are sandwiches right now.”

  He smiled; she was so beautiful, as always. Her hair was a deep, rich mahogany this time, and she was shorter and curvier. Though slim, there was a softness about her. But those sea-green eyes were the same. Always the same. “Sandwiches it is.”

  She glanced at the bracelet, reflecting the light of the candles. “What’s with all the religious symbols? Having trouble deciding what to believe?”

  “No.”

  The assurance and sincerity in his voice surprised and confused her. “Then why?”

  He shook his head. “There are some secrets that are mine to keep.”

  Isobel blushed. Was it really any of her business? “Do you want me to get a dry shirt for you? You must be freezing. Your shoulders are probably too broad for my dad’s shirts and you’re much taller, but I might be able to find something.”

  “It’s no big deal. I’ll dry.” Damien shrugged. There was no way he was taking his shirt off. There would be too many questions, and she wasn’t ready to hear the answers.

  Isobel threw together two sandwiches and put them on plates with a few chips. She grabbed a couple of cans of soda from the fridge and handed them to him as they sat down at the island to eat. After one bite Damien paused to inspect the food. He had never tasted a stranger combination of flavors. “What kind of sandwich is this?”

  “I don’t know. I wasn’t really paying attention,” Isobel blurted out.

  Damien took another bite and chewed. After he swallowed, he raised an eyebrow. “Interesting.” He had eaten worse.

  Isobel took a bite. What had she put on these? It tasted like roast beef, tuna fish, and mustard. She was too hungry to care. Lightning continued to flash beyond the windows accompanied by growls of thunder.

  When they finished eating, Damien gazed at her, a hint of a smile on his face. “So what now?”

  The kitchen light flickered and came on. The refrigerator hummed to life as reality crashed into the strange events of the day. Isobel looked around, disappointed for some unfathomable reason. Shouldn’t she be happy the power was back on?

  Damien stood up, regret filling him. “Well, I guess that is my cue to leave.”

  “Oh.” Isobel stared at the floor, feeling like an idiot for wanting him to stay.

  “I can stay longer if you like.”

  Isobel looked up. He stood with his arms crossed waiting for her answer. She nodded. “I’d like that.”

  He glanced toward the other room. “TV?”

  Isobel smiled with relief. “What do you like to watch?”

  He shrugged and followed her into the family room. “I don’t have any particular preference.”

  “Do you like vampires?” She peeked at him out of the corner of her eye.

  “I like the legends created about them.” Damien flashed her a smile.

  What kind of answer was that? She dropped her favorite vampire DVD in and hit the power button on the TV.

  He joined her on the couch when she sat down. As the opening music started, Damien leaned back. “I love this one. The makers of the movie had it all wrong, but it was still entertaining.”

  Isobel smiled, feeling a rush of happiness at finding someone who enjoyed the same kind of movies.

  Damien watched from the corner of his eye as Isobel fell asleep near the end of the movie. The smudges under her eyes were darker than they had been a couple of weeks ago. She wasn’t sleeping well. When he sensed she was solidly in the grip of deep slumber, he gathered Isobel into his arms and carried her easily up the stairs; her weight nothing to him. She deserved at least one night of rest. Damien glared at the window as he crossed the landing. He would make sure she got it.

  Isobel woke sometime during the night and found herself in her bed. The thunderstorm still raged on. She rolled over in a sleepy haze. Her bedroom door was open, and she thought she saw the shadow of immense wings in the flickering light cast by the lightning through the stained glass window on the landing. Before she could make sense of it, sleep dragged her under again.

  Three days passed before dreams invaded Isobel’s sleep again.

  Rihanna called to her from across a great distance. Isobel strained to hear the words. “Januarius…find the saint…you are the key.”

  It shifted, and she was a young woman dressed in clothing from the distant past. The earth rocked underfoot as Damien ran toward her shouting. The stone building she stood beside collapsed and the world went dark.

  It shifted again. Isobel was dressed in clothes from yet another time in an old, foreign city. Damien smiled at her, and she felt a rush of love and a determination to do what needed to be done, what had to be done. Her world darkened, and she was bound to a pole atop a pile of wood as people shouted and threw things at her. Isobel screamed as the wood was set on fire. Through the flames she saw Damien fighting both men and shadowy shapes to reach her. He was too late. She would die, and her task would remain for another time.

  It shifted again and a woman in a long, draping style of dress collected blood into vials. The woman looked up and stared directly into Isobel’s eyes. “Sanctum inveni virum.”

  Isobel jerked awake. Tears streamed down her face. Her skin felt hot, and her body flushed. She choked back a sob as the remnants of emotions crashed through her. And then she felt it. The energy in her room swarmed around her making her feel lighter than air. There was so much of it just waiting for her to reach out for it, to embrace it.

  Isobel tried to will it away. It had killed Rihanna. Fear wormed its way through her heart. What if it never left her alone? What if she had no choice? Her father had said Rihanna had done great things. Could she risk it to do the same thing?

  “Find the saint.” Rihanna’s words echoed through her mind and Isobel mumbled, Januarius. She pushed herself up and stumbled through her morning routine as quickly as possible. When she crossed the landing the watcher was back, but not as strong. In the kitchen she toasted a bagel and spread it with cream cheese, then carried it with her to the family room where her laptop rested on the coffee table.

  She sat cross-legged on the couch, took a quick bite and then opened the computer. When the home page came up, she typed “saints” into the search bar. The first few links were for football stuff. Isobel stopped scrolling when she spotted a link about Roman Catholic saints. She clicked it, and an alphabetical list appeared. She clicked on the letter “J” and scanned the list.

  There it was. Saint Januarius. She clicked the link and read through the short passage on him, her eyes widening as she read faster and faster. He had died a martyr in 305 A.D. by beheading. Shaking, she copied his name, brought up a new window and pasted it into the search bar. A myriad of links came up.

  As she read the information, a cold sweat broke over her body. A woman named Eusebia had collected his blood in vials at the time of his beheading, and a festival in Naples was held every year in his honor—where they brought out his blood for all to witness its mysterious properties.

  How could she dream about things she had no knowledge of? Why did she dream of a past with Damien failing to keep her from dying?

  It was too much. Her stomach churned. She stood and walked to the family room window leaving the rest of her bagel untouched. The air thickened around her. “Isobel.” The voice whispered through the house, and cold air prickled over her skin.

  Isobel raised her chin and turned. With determination, she stalked through the house and up the stairs, passing by the window on the way to her room. She rummaged through the boxes she brought home from college until she found what she was looking for. Isobel strode onto the landing until she stood in th
e middle of it, directly in front of the window. Its brilliant colors, lit by the sun, fell across the carpet and walls.

  With trembling fingers she lit the sage in her hand and waved it to waft the smoke. She set it gently in a large, stone bowl where it could burn without danger. She pulled out a pouch containing a mixture of salt and sage leaves. Isobel sprinkled it heavily around the window while she focused on visualizing the banishment of the negative energy that was attached to the window. She made a large half circle from one wall to the next, always keeping a safe distance. Instinct screamed at her to stay at least an arm’s length away.

  Isobel stepped back, tentatively feeling the energy in the air, waiting to see if it worked. Dark, menacing laughter whispered through the house. As she stared the blur of colors separated into distinct patterns and crawled toward her, writhing and twisting around each other as they reached out. Black lines of shadow oozed from around the edge of the window and spread like diseased veins across the wall.

  Isobel’s heart skipped a beat, and her blood pounded in her ears. What the hell was this window? What did it have to do with a saint that died centuries ago? Isobel backed away as the colors slithered closer, and her breath came in pants as panic gripped her heart in a tight fist.

  The veins of shadow webbed across the walls, their darkness dimming the sunlight as the air thickened until Isobel could barely get any air. Frozen fingers trailed along her arms. She looked down at the shadow veins and watched as they burrowed under the skin.

  Isobel moved without thinking; her only thought to get out of the house. She turned to reach for the top step and bumped into something solid. Isobel looked up. A body dressed in old clothing swung side-to-side. The face was blackened from the tight rope around its neck. Her neck.