Bound by Time: A Bound Novel

by A. D. Trosper

  The night wore on, and still she couldn’t sleep. Luckily, a marathon of one of her favorite shows was on. She lay on the couch beneath the quilt with every light on and stared at the screen as the characters tried to lead normal lives while being witches. Sometime near the end of the marathon sleep finally claimed her.

  The dreams returned.

  Damien, in clothes from another time and a sword at his hip, traced the line of her jaw with gentle fingers. A hamlet of small houses clustered in the distance, the grasses of the thatched roofs browned by the sun. They would be leaving soon. Leaving to do something important. Something that had been waiting to be done.

  It was near dark when soldiers burst in and dragged her from the house into the street. An angry mob of people screamed at her. She fought them as she screamed for Damien. He would hear.

  She was bound to the upright pole and then the men of the village were lighting the wood piled around her. Through the building flames she saw Damien, and another man with golden hair, fighting the soldiers, cutting them down and receiving several blows that should have been fatal in their efforts to reach her. Dark shapes moved among the men. Damien and his companion fought them too.

  Isobel screamed in pain as the smoke and flames overwhelmed her. And then Damien was there, standing in the fire. He ripped the ropes away and gently carried her from the heat. Pain pulsed and radiated through her body as her smoke-clogged lungs shut down. The other man held one of her hands, sorrow filling his tawny eyes. Their faces faded and Damien’s voice, aching with the pain of loss, whispered in her ear, “Usque ad proximum tempus. Meae deliciae.”

  Isobel woke with a scream in her throat and tears running down her face. She sobbed and curled into a ball. The dream had felt so real. Sorsha leapt off the couch, laid her ears back, and hissed as she darted from the room. The quiet thwack of the rubber flap on the cat door told her Sorsha had left the house.

  Isobel closed her eyes for a moment. When she opened them, the robed woman was sitting on the floor, a vial of blood in her hands.

  The woman gazed back. “Sanctum inveni virum.”

  Startled, Isobel froze. The woman faded and disappeared.

  Warm drops sprinkled across Isobel’s cheek. She wiped at it, and her hand came away red. Turning, she looked up at the ceiling. Damien’s body hung impaled by arrows, his face twisted in pain as blood dripped down on her. Screaming, she threw herself off the couch and scrambled across the floor on her hands and knees.

  “Isobel. You are mine,” the voice whispered throughout the house. She covered her ears and huddled against the wall as the blood continued to splatter the couch. “Isobel,” it taunted.

  Damien disappeared, and only the dripping arrows remained. Her name sprang up on the walls written in a bloody, jagged script over and over again. Isobel lunged for the coffee table and snatched the phone, her hands shaking like leaves in the wind. She hit the icon for her contact list. It was right there at the top. Isobel didn’t care what he thought—she needed to know he was alive.

  It seemed to ring forever. Just as her heart sank, thinking the worst, he answered. “Isobel?”

  “Damien?” Tears welled in her eyes and her voice quivered.

  “Isobel, what’s wrong?”

  “I—” The phone slipped from her hand and landed with a quiet thump on the carpet as the room around her dissolved, melting like wax on a candle.

  She struggled against the ropes that bound her wrists as she was forced up the wooden steps to a platform. A noose swayed back and forth. Isobel saw Damien fighting his way toward her, arrows sticking out from his body. An axe swung through the air severing his head. She wept uncontrollably when the noose was placed roughly around her neck, and a dark cloth was shoved over her head. Isobel barely heard the conviction of witchcraft when the floor dropped beneath her feet. The rope yanked against her neck cutting off her air. She thrashed and jerked, her mouth gaping as she tried desperately to breathe.

  Damien ran across the dew-dampened grass between the houses in his bare feet. He burst through the front door and shouted her name. No answer. The window thrummed with dark triumphant power. Damien ran up the stairs.

  Her room was empty. Damien charged back down the stairs. “Isobel!” Still no answer. She wasn’t in the kitchen either. Turning, he ran into the family room. His heart caught when his eyes found her lying on the floor, her lips turning blue.

  Isobel’s world faded as the rope stole her life away. “Isobel!” His hands shook her roughly, bringing her back to reality. Air exploded into her lungs, and she sucked in great gulps of it. The family room swam into view again. Something had her! Confused and disoriented she threw out her hands, trying to scramble away from whatever it was.

  Damien held her easily, her physical strength no match for his. “I’m here. You’re all right.” She continued to struggle. “Isobel, calm down.” Damien’s voice finally cut through the panic. With a sob she collapsed against him, shaking.

  He enfolded her in his arms and just held her. He’d almost lost her again. When she pushed away, he reluctantly let her go. Isobel scooted across the floor until she leaned against the wall again.

  Damien reached his hand out, hesitated, and pulled it back. “Isobel, talk to me.”

  “Why?” she cried. “What is happening to me? I dream things that actually happened. I dreamed of me in other times. I dreamed of you in other times. Who are you?”

  Damien sat on the carpet across from her and leaned against the side of the couch. “Tell me what you dreamed.”

  Isobel stared at him. Was he crazy? Was she? It was only then that she realized he was shirtless. The light shining in the windows gleamed off the water droplets clinging to his skin. The muscles in his chest rippled as he shifted. His wet, black hair clung to his neck, and the fresh scent of soap filled the air.

  “Isobel, please; tell me what you dreamed.”

  Without thinking Isobel told him all of her dreams, and what she had found on the Internet. Damien didn’t react. No emotions showed on his face.

  When she finished, he only nodded. “And what just happened now?”

  Might as well tell it all. Then he would run far away from her and think she was crazy. She told him everything anyway. The window that watched her, the reflection in the mirror, the whispers in the house, and what she’d seen when she experienced being hung.

  This time when she finished Isobel stared at the carpet, running her hand over the fibers while her stomach twisted into knots. She flinched when he stood up abruptly. He would leave now. Leave her alone with the window until people came to cart her away.

  His hand, warm and gentle, rested upon her arm. Isobel looked up as Damien sat down next to the wall facing her. He reached out and ran the back of his fingers down the side of her face. “You’re much stronger this time, and it’s all coming at you faster. So fast you don’t have time to adjust.”

  A tear slipped down her cheek at the gentle, almost loving tone in his voice. A tone that made her heart ache as if it remembered something she didn’t. “This time? What do you mean? Aren’t you afraid I’m crazy?”

  He shook his head and smiled, though it held a sad quality. “You are not crazy. You are the key; this has played out several times before.”

  Confusion made her thoughts chaotic. The key. Those were the words in her mother’s diary and what had been written on the door. “What are you talking about? I don’t understand any of this.”

  “No, not yet.” Damien looked at her with such longing that she had to look away as he continued. “You have spent your life pushing away your power. Pushing away what it was trying to tell you.”

  Startled, her eyes jerked back to his. “I don’t have…” her voice trailed away at the knowledge she saw in his eyes.

  He knew she would try to deny it. Knew the death of her mother kept her frightened of it. “It’s been trying to help you since your early teens. You’ve done your best to turn away from it, haven’t you? Now it’s break
ing through in waves, more intense than it would have been had you embraced it earlier.”

  Isobel drew her knees up and wrapped her arms around them. “What do you mean this has played out several times before? Are you…?” she couldn’t believe she was asking this. “Are you immortal?”

  That sad smile touched his lips again.

  Damien studied her, reading her expression. Finally she was ready to hear, and he could tell her the truth. “I guess you could say that. I have lived and died many times over the centuries.” He drew her hair through his fingers and savored the feel of it; the chance to sit with her like this again. “So have you.” His voice was so soft and low it was almost a whisper. “You are always Isobel. Always the same; only each time stronger.”

  Memories that were hers yet not hers tumbled through her mind. Memories of them together in the past. He looked a little different through the centuries, but the eyes were always the same, and she knew it was him. “And you—you’re always Damien.”

  He nodded. “Your memories return. Yes, I am always Damien.” Too many times to count. Too many lifetimes where he had to watch her die or died knowing he couldn’t save her. Damien looked at her grimly; soon she would know what she faced.

  The tortured look in his blue eyes stunned her when he said, “I have lost you in one way or another each time. I won’t fail to protect you again.”

  “Protect me from what?” she whispered.

  “Everything. Your life is so much more important than mine. It always has been.”

  Isobel saw him again, full of arrows lying in a field, saw him fighting through a crowd of soldiers in the south of France centuries ago, and again watched him take more wounds than any mere man could withstand trying to reach her. She saw again with a clarity she wished would fade as his head rolled across the grass of the field when she stood on the gallows.

  She stared at him for a long moment. “You fought for me. You died for me. Each time you were willing to give your life fighting to save me.”

  His eyes softened. “Vita mea pro tua, semper. Meae deliciae.”

  Isobel shook her head. “What does that mean?”

  “My life for yours, always. My love.”

  “If you can die, how are you immortal?”

  “Very few things can actually kill me. If I could have traded my life for yours in those times when I didn’t die, I would have. I can be injured, but I will heal. Only removing my head will actually kill me.” There was something else that could kill him as well but there was no sense in going into it right now. “I have a human life span, although longer than most. When this body gives out, I will go and wait to be born again.” He laughed though there was little humor in it. “Sometimes I envy those who get to die and rest forever if they wish. Etiam in morte, vivo.”

  Confused, she asked, “What?”

  Damien smiled sadly. “Even in death, I live.”

  Isobel stared at him for a long moment. He leaned forward, hesitated, and then pressed his lips gently against hers. More memories flooded her at the familiar feel of his kiss. She reached up and tangled her fingers in his damp hair, pulling him closer. She parted her lips, and he deepened the kiss. His tongue swept into her mouth, claiming her in this lifetime. The heat from his bare chest burned through her shirt, and her body responded. Her heart beat in a wild rhythm; deep inside her soul sang with recognition. So many memories flooded her mind as his hands slid around her, pulling her tight against him. He was here—they had found each other again.

  Tears slid down her face at the deep love that welled inside her. A love that had carried them through centuries together. That would carry them through many more. Her power rose up and thrummed in her veins bringing more memories.

  Damien groaned and eased back, breaking the connection. He didn’t want to, but there was so much more to discuss.

  Isobel gasped as she touched her lips, her power fading back behind her blocks. “How is it that you remember so much? That I remember so much? People usually have to be put under hypnosis in order to remember past lives. Until now, I wasn’t sure I really believed in past lives.”

  He slid his hand onto her neck, resting it on her shoulder as his thumb brushed along her jaw. “We are not like other people. Our purpose is different than theirs; we need the memories in order to complete what we are put here for.”

  She searched the remaining holes in her memory. “Why can’t I remember everything?”

  “Until you fully embrace your power your memories are locked behind the blocks you’ve created. Like your power, your memories are only breaking through in pieces.”

  “What are we here for?”

  Damien’s voice was flat and hard when he responded. “Xapar and others like him.”

  Xapar?” Saying the word brought a shiver to her that had nothing to do with Damien’s touch.

  Damien nodded. “How much have you read about Saint Januarius?”

  Isobel stood up then walked slowly to the kitchen. Damien followed her. “Only that he died in 305 A.D. as a martyr.” She poured a glass of water and took a small sip, gazing at the floor where she’d seen the body of a man several days before. “He was beheaded after supposedly being thrown into a furnace where he didn’t die and after wild beasts failed to attack him. And a woman named Eusebia collected his blood in vials, and they hold a celebration in Italy to honor the blood returning to liquid form.”

  Damien nodded. “Sounds like you’ve read as much as you will find in the history books. The rest is known only to those of us who were actually there.” He laughed softly. “I find it amusing that most sites refer to Eusebia as ‘a certain woman named Eusebia.’ I’m sure few today know who or what she really was. And even if they did, they wouldn’t admit it. Some things never change.” Bitter memories of losing Isobel to the witch hunts burned in his mind.

  “And what was Eusebia?” Isobel asked, taking another drink.

  Damien leaned down as Sorsha wound her way through his legs with a soft meow. He picked the soft, fluffy cat up and stroked her fur. “She was what you are.”

  Isobel set the glass down. “You’re saying Eusebia was me?”

  “No.” His shook his head. “Eusebia was herself. She was like you. Very powerful. Sadly, not powerful enough. That’s where you are different.”

  “What wasn’t she powerful enough to do?”

  “Banish Xapar back to the underworld. Nothing will keep him there forever; he’s a very powerful upper level demon. But it would have given the world some respite from him.”

  Fear crawled through her. “What did she do?”

  “She sealed him in a window. Your window,” he said, the grim tone back.

  Isobel sank into one of the chairs at the island. “How can that be? Eusebia lived in the fourth century. How could a window survive that long? How could it end up here?”

  Damien sat across from her. “I, and others like me, have tracked it through the centuries. On occasion, due to the chaos of the time, it became lost. But we always found it again. While it was still in the chapel in Naples, Xapar could do no harm. Once the earthquake took a good portion of the cathedral, he was able to reach out.”

  More memories floated through her mind; the knowledge of other lives, other times when she understood all of it and her purpose. Although Isobel knew all her past lives understood this, she still couldn’t bring all the threads together in this life. And if that didn’t sound confusing, she didn’t know what did.

  “In order to understand it all, we have to go back to Saint Januarius.” Damien ran his hand through his hair—his memories of that distant century as clear as those from this one. “In the early fourth century Timotheus, the governor of Campania, imprisoned Januarius who was the bishop of Beneventum then. As you noticed, there are a lot of tales surrounding his death.”

  Isobel nodded but otherwise sat perfectly still, needing to hear it all and afraid at the same time. “What you won’t find in any text anywhere is that Timotheus was possesse
d by the demon Xapar. He takes great pleasure in suffering. He feeds off it. Creating dissention and war where there should be none is something he loves.” Damien paused, remembering the rabid look on the governor’s face. “He literally drove Timotheus insane. Another thing you won’t find is that Januarius had powers such as yours.”

  Damien crossed his arms on the island top. “When he was brought before Timotheus, Januarius saw the demon within the man and knew the evil must be stopped; however, Xapar is an ancient demon and very powerful. Januarius didn’t have the strength to banish him. Not all blessed with the powers are blessed with the same amount. When it came time Januarius had already made his decision, and he faced the demon without fear, which is essential when dealing with Xapar. An upper level demon can and will use even the smallest shred of fear against you.”

  “What did Januarius do?” Isobel whispered.

  “As he died, he pulled Xapar from Timotheus and trapped the demon within his own body.”

  Isobel’s skin crawled at the thought.

  Damien continued, his eyes unfocused as he looked back into the past. “Though the demon was gone, Timotheus was still quite mad, and he continued on the path the demon had set him on. Eusebia watched the final blow befall Januarius and it was indeed she who gathered the vials of blood. Though she actually gathered five, not just the two recorded by history. There was a window she had made of stained glass a year or so before, perfectly round and subtly designed with a blending of symbols. It was one of the first windows made with stained glass, though history places the oldest stained glass windows in Germany. She gave it to the chapel of Naples at the time.

  “Eusebia knew she didn’t have the power to banish the demon. She also knew Saint Januarius’ body wouldn’t be able to hold the demon imprisoned long. Eusebia used one vial of the blood to pull the demon from Januarius and sealed him in the window. She buried another vial at the base of the chapel wall where the powerful blood of Januarius would keep Xapar from reaching out from his prison.”