The Assassin: (Mortal Beloved Time Travel Romance, #2)

by Pamela DuMond

He smiled. “You’re welcome.”

  “So what do I do now?” I asked. “I’m not sure I want to be a Messenger. Frankly, I’m not all that keen on traveling considering how many times folks have tried to kill me, let alone the unsanitary conditions of the places I land in. And have you seen my stupid leg?” I thrust my casted leg out into the aisle and nearly tripped a busboy. “Oops, sorry!”

  “Your leg is getting better,” Ryan said.

  “Have you seen this?” I swept the hair off my forehead with one hand and pointed to my scar with the other.

  “All Messengers have a mark,” Ryan said. “Otherwise how would other Messengers recognize them?” He rolled up his sleeve and held out his forearm. A pale, jagged scar snaked from the inside of his wrist to the outside of his elbow.

  “Ouch!” Aaron said as Chaka cringed.

  “My first journey as a Messenger was to the year 370 BC. I was supposed to send word to Alexander III, King of Macedonia.”

  Aaron coughed. “Alexander the Great?”

  “Yeah—like, no pressure, right?” Ryan smiled. “A Hunter tried to slit my throat in my sleep, but I turned at the last second and he sliced my arm. A Healer woman saved me.”

  “Jesus,” Aaron mumbled and grabbed another garlic roll from the breadbasket.

  “Look, I get that you’re heroic and fierce and love being a Messenger,” I said. “But maybe I’m more suited for spending hours at the library and going to college in a few years. Maybe someday I’ll forget Samuel and meet a nice enough guy. And we’ll get married, or not, and have a kid, or not, but we’ll definitely have a dog. Because I’ve always wanted a dog. And then when we’ve been together for sixty years, and this nice enough guy has a slight case of dementia, I can tell him about my wild youth and how for this brief sparkly moment, I was a time traveler who delivered messages to people and hopefully helped them. But then I gave it all up. I turned it down for a normal life.” I jabbed a huge spiral of fettuccine, stuck it in my mouth, and chewed vigorously.

  “That’s your final decision?” Ryan asked.

  I wiped my mouth with a napkin. “Yes.”

  “That’s too bad.” Ryan signed the check, pushed back his chair, and stood up. “Because there’s a possibility that you could be with Samuel in this life. There’s a way that could help him remember you. But, no worries, you’re not interested.” He stood up and grabbed his coat. “I wish you a safe and bland life with your nice enough guy.” He headed toward the door.

  “Wait a minute!” I jumped up and grabbed my coat and purse. “Come back here!”

  “Sorry. There’s people waiting,” he said. “They need the table.” He left the restaurant and a chilly wind gusted into the restaurant behind him.

  I raced after him, Chaka and Aaron on my heels.

  ~ ~ ~

  I sat in the passenger seat of Ryan’s Jeep as he maneuvered around traffic going south on Lake Shore Drive. The skies had opened and were giving Chicago its first decent snowfall. Fat, wet flakes landed on the windshield as the rubbery swipes of the wipers pushed them to the sides.

  “Time isn’t linear, Madeline. It never has been,” Ryan said. “That’s simply a readily accepted illusion to keep people feeling a bit safer about their lives. Kind of like believing in Santa Claus when you were a child.”

  “Who said I still don’t believe in Santa Claus?” I asked.

  We cracked smiles.

  “Seriously, how is it possible we are able to time travel?” I asked.

  “Messengers and Hunters have a gift for finding the thinly woven patches in time’s fabric and seizing those opportunities to slip through a gap, a crevice into a different moment or year.”

  “You make it sound easy,” I said. “If it’s so easy, why doesn’t everyone do it?”

  “Some people can crunch numbers and figure out the odds; they’re mathematically inclined. Others know chords and melodies and can put them together to create a song. They have an ear for music. Time traveling really isn’t all that different; just not as common. Hunters and Messengers are born with that raw aptitude and come into their gift when they turn sixteen; whether they can control that skill is another story.”

  “We can discuss more details later,” I said. “Let’s talk about the important stuff. You’re saying that the more places I travel to in time, the more frequently I run into Samuel, that his soul could build a memory of that in his future lives. His soul could build a memory of me.”

  “Yes.” Ryan looked at me fondly.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted a car hydroplaning on the freshly fallen snow headed straight toward us and I screamed.

  Ryan swerved and avoided the oncoming vehicle by a few hairs.

  I heard a screech, then a crunch, and my shoulders jolted toward my ears as my heart started pounding and my breathing sped up.

  “Relax, it’s not you this time,” he said and gripped the wheel tighter.

  “What do you mean it’s not me… wait a minute…you know,” I said. “You know about the accident—”

  “—That you and your mama were in. Yes,” he said. “A lot of people are familiar with the story. Word got around in the circles we frequent.”

  “Oh,” I said, not knowing what to think, not knowing what to feel. I swiveled and looked at the two cars that limped to the side of the Drive. “They got lucky. Just a fender bender.”

  “That’s the majority of damage that happens to us when we travel,” he said. “It’s not always life and death. It’s not always a scar on the arm, or forehead, or your mother being forced to abandon you.”

  “I miss her,” I said. “It’s been over ten years and I still miss her.”

  “There is no statute of limitations on missing someone,” Ryan said. “Besides, I’m sure she misses you, too. And yes, the more you travel, the more Samuel can remember your encounters. To the point that one day in this life, he could remember you.” He pulled up across the street from my house and put the Jeep in park. “And you could be together.”

  “Sign me up,” I said. “You talked about mentoring me. What do I need to do?”

  “Simple training exercises,” Ryan said.

  My dad stepped outside the house, his arms crossed. He glared at Ryan’s jeep and started walking toward us.

  “You don’t know my dad,” I said. “He’s not going to let me,” I air quoted, “‘train’ with some stranger. And no, he’s not in on the whole time traveling thing. So I have no idea how we’ll pull this off.”

  “Madeline,” dad said. “I was starting to worry about you. Get out of the car and introduce me to your new friend.”

  I stepped out carefully; I didn’t want to slip on the fresh snow. “I’m home early tonight, dad. It’s only eight-thirty. You must be happy, yes?”

  “Completely thrilled considering you’ve been gone since nine this morning. You didn’t return my texts, my emails, and my calls. What—am I invisible?”

  “No, dad, totally not invisible. I was busy with Chaka and Aaron and then we all went to dinner at Mí Cucina and talked with Ryan and he gave me a ride home.”

  “Ryan.” Dad approached him and held out his hand. “I’m Madeline’s father, Raymond Blackford. How do you know my daughter and her friends?”

  Ryan shook my father’s hand. “Ryan Preston, sir. I’m the new guidance councilor at Preston Academy. Walt Summerstone is out on emergency medical leave and I got the call to be his replacement.”

  “Seriously?” Dad asked.

  Ryan nodded. “I’d much prefer to stick to my duties as an archaeologist excavating ruins but family comes first. I’m here for at least a semester. Your daughter’s very bright. Have you thought about internships or after school activities that might increase her chances of getting a scholarship at one of the more prestigious universities?”

  ~ four ~

  Ryan Preston really was the new guidance councilor at Preston Academy. He was also related to my high school’s founder as well as my obnoxious history teach
er, Stanley Preston.

  Aaron and I were lucky enough to catch their first encounter in a school hallway between classes. Stanley squinted at Ryan completely perplexed. “I heard you were working on the ruins at Ercolano, Italy before you came here. Still digging through all that hardened lava? Sounds like a dreadful job.”

  “Actually when Mt. Vesuvius erupted in 79 AD, Pompeii was covered in lava and ash. Ercolano, on the other hand, was five miles away on the Mediterranean. The residents were killed by the toxic volcanic fumes first and then hot mud. We just dug up another batch of beautifully preserved pottery as well as some mosaics.”

  “I see.” Mr. Preston rubbed his chin with one hand, holding his donut box with the other. “I could swear you look exactly like my great great grandfather’s brother. His name was Sir Ó Riain Preston. Might I offer you a donut?” He held the white box out.

  “It’s funny how family resemblances pop up over the generations,” Ryan said. “Thanks for your kind offer but I’ve sworn off fried foods for a month. Must watch my waistline!” He patted his six-pack abs.

  Later that day I got a text from Ryan with an address, a date, and a time. “Lesson. Confirm, please.”

  I texted back “Yes.”

  “You’re really going?” Aaron asked.

  I rolled my eyes. “Would you?”

  “Hell yes.”

  “Question answered,” I said.

  ~ ~ ~

  I stepped off the number 157 bus and peered at the dilapidated storefronts on the street in front of me until I found the address that was on my phone. The numbers above the entrance to the one story brick building were faded but I could still make out “Joe’s Gym” inscribed over a paint-flaked image of a half-naked, muscle-bound boxer in a fighting stance. I punched my fists together, pushed open the door, and walked inside.

  ~ ~ ~

  “Stop poking me like a five-year-old kid,” Ryan said, “and punch me like you mean it.” He wore sweats, stood on the mat inside the boxing ring, and held his gloved hands in front of his face. “Bring it!”

  “I don’t want to hurt you.” Sweat trickled down my forehead escaping the protective headgear I wore that made me look like a chipmunk.

  “I’m not going to let you hurt me.” He beckoned to me in the small, grungy, Chicago gym that smelled like old sweat and Irish Spring deodorant soap. “Stop slacking. I need to teach you some basic fighting skills.”

  “Can I do the “wax on, wax off” stuff like Ralph Macchio did in The Karate Kid movie?” I threw a jab at him, which he easily avoided. “I know it’s an old movie, and it might look boring, but he learned so much.” I half-heartedly karate kicked him but he caught my good foot and my healing ankle twisted as I attempted to stay upright. “Ouch!”

  “Sorry, but it’s time you use that leg for more than sitting and walking. I don’t know this ‘Karate Kid’ and trust me if he kicked or punched like that, he’d never have a movie named after him. Pick up your footwork and punch me like I showed you. Jab. Jab. Uppercut.”

  So I did.

  “Better,” he said. “Again.”

  I jabbed, jabbed, and uppercut for nearly forty minutes until my fingers felt like sausages whose casings were just a little too tight. “Enough!” I pulled off my gloves, tossed them on the floor, then my headgear, and unwrapped my wrists. “History test, tomorrow,” I said. “Something about the Renaissance. This Messenger training session has been oh-so-much-fun. But I’ve got to study or Stanley Preston will happily flunk me.”

  Ryan handed me a bottle of water and a threadbare towel. “I sent you a list of books and chapter numbers to study.”

  “I don’t cheat.” I sniffed.

  “Neither do I,” he said. “This isn’t about your history test. It is about callings and mystical journeys. I sent you books about Joan of Arc, Martin Luther, Martin Luther King, Jr., and the prophet Moses, to name a few. I included a few fun reads by Rumi and Paolo Coelho. Study from the best. How are you getting home?”

  “The bus.” I wiped the sweat off my forehead.

  He frowned. “Do you think that’s safe? This isn’t the best neighborhood. I should know. I live around here.”

  “I traveled across hundreds of years, survived a war between the colonists and the Natives, and attacks by the Hunters who tried to kill me.” I cracked a smile. “Maybe you should have thought of that before you asked me to come here. I’ll get home just fine.”

  ~ ~ ~

  As luck would have it, I got an A minus on my History test. I was absorbed in my eReader when I received another cryptic text from Ryan with a date, a time, and an address. “Lesson. Confirm, please.”

  I texted back, “Yes.”

  We were at the recording studio doing homework and half-heartedly watched Chaka’s mom lay down some new tracks for a single her dad was producing. “I’m bored,” Chaka said. “Ask him if I can come along.”

  “I don’t know. Ryan might have seemed all sweet and nice when you met him but he’s turning out to be a bit of a taskmaster.” I closed my eReader. “I must admit, however, that I am madly in love with Rumi’s poetry.”

  “Come on, just ask!”

  I texted him and asked, “Can I bring Chaka?”

  “Yes. But she can’t walk out on a whim. She has to stay until we’re through with the lesson,” he replied.

  “Ooh, mysterious,” Chaka said. “Even better.”

  Aaron rounded the corner carrying a jumbo-sized pizza box. “Wait a minute. You’re doing something mysterious and not including me?”

  “You’re included,” I said. “But I’m not texting Ryan again for approval and you can’t leave—”

  “—On a whim,” Chaka said.

  “Bossy cute mentor-figure. Hello, Mr. Grey!” Aaron plopped the pizza box on the coffee table.

  I grabbed the clear plastic package of Parmesan cheese taped to the front of the box and stabbed him on the arm. “I will stab you for real if you ever make that reference again,” I said. “There is nothing romantic between us and certainly not of that nature.”

  “Help!” Aaron cried. “Assault with deadly cheese!”

  ~ ~ ~

  We took the train on Saturday afternoon to Wilmette, a prestigious, pretty northern suburb, and grabbed an Uber ride from the station to the address on my phone. We now stood outside a heavily wooded fence in front of security gates and shivered in the frosty, early winter air.

  A small sign next to the fence read, “Suri Nanda Meditation Shrine. Open from nine to five on Tuesdays through Saturday. Closed Sundays and Monday. Please ring for admittance.”

  Aaron rubbed his hands together. “I should have worn gloves. Ring, please.”

  I did.

  “Namaste,” a woman said on the tinny intercom. “Do you have reservations?”

  “Yes, of course,” I said.

  “Name?”

  “Madeline Blackford. Party of three.”

  “I have Madeline Blackford listed as party of two,” the woman said.

  “We expanded,” I said. “The universe has a way of doing that and we’re big fans of going with universal truths.”

  “Hold for just one moment,” she said.

  I tapped my foot on the ground that was turning rigid from the cold weather.

  “Maybe you should have texted Ryan and asked him if you could have brought a third wheel.” Aaron shivered.

  “Baloney,” I said. “You two are my best friends and if he can’t see fit to include you, then I won’t bother with his silly lessons. Well, actually, I still will. Sorry.”

  When the gates to the property creaked, slowly opening, we startled.

  “Madeline,” Ryan’s voice emanated through the speakers.

  I leaned in next to the box. “Yes, Ryan?”

  “Your friends are always included in any of our silly lessons. There’s a barn at the back of the property. Say hi to the horses. You’ll be seeing them again soon. Next to the stable is a domed sanctuary. I’ll join you there. Please r
emove your shoes at the entrance.”

  ~ ~ ~

  A tiny, wrinkled man with long silver hair wearing white robes and prayer beads sat barefoot on a simple rug at the front of a small, ornate sanctuary. His eyes were closed and he chanted words that sounded like Sanskrit, words that Angeni, the Medicine Woman, had taught me in 1675.

  Incense burned from holders positioned throughout the room. Arched passages were cut into the walls. Gilded murals of Eastern Indian gods and goddesses painted over them led upward to the domed ceiling where gold-flecked ethereal clouds skimmed across a blue sky on a summer day.

  The four of us sat in lotus position on rugs yards away from the robed man.

  “This is Yogi Maharaja. He’s retired from active service but he agreed to meet with us today,” Ryan whispered.

  “I heard some yogis believe we can levitate,” Chaka whispered. “Is that Madeline’s lesson?”

  “I heard some yogis believe we can leave our bodies and travel to different dimensions,” Aaron whispered.

  “Perhaps one of these yogis would be kind enough to write The Idiot’s Guide to Time Traveling and gift me a copy before my next major journey,” I whispered.

  Aaron coughed and covered a smile. “Allergies! Sorry!”

  Yogi Maharaja opened his eyes and smiled at us. He put his hands in prayer position at his heart and bowed to us. “Namaste.”

  “Namaste.” We bowed.

  “Levitation?” Yogi Maharaja asked.

  Chaka gulped. “Yes!”

  “First you must learn meditation,” he said. “Clear the mind. It helps to put your thumbs and forefingers together like this.” He demonstrated.

  “Meditation is good practice to focus. Grow your inside mind stronger—like lifting weights for your soul,” Yogi Maharaja said. “Later, you levitate. Let’s practice, yes? Repeat after me.” He closed his eyes and sang, “Om. Shanti. Om.”

  “Om. Shanti. Om,” we chanted.

  “Loka. Samasta. Sukino. Avantu,” Yogi Maharaja chanted.

  “Loka. Samasta. Sukino. Avantu,” we responded.

  I thought an hour had gone by but I snuck a glance at my phone and it was only fifteen minutes. I squirmed and peeked out of one eye. Ryan appeared peaceful. Aaron looked so earnest I silently vowed to protect him from possible recruitment by cults. Chaka’s phone buzzed and she reached for it. I discretely flicked her with my thumb and forefinger. “Not now,” I hissed.