Out of Time: A Time Travel Mystery

by Martin, Monique

  He turned back to face her, his eyes glinting in the cold moonlight. “You don’t know what you’re asking.”

  “Because you won’t tell me.” She knew her rising anger was unreasonable, but he was pushing her away again. With every passing second, he pulled further inside himself. If he wouldn’t be drawn out, then she’d get behind him and shove. “Don’t shut me out.”

  “I’m not. I just...”

  “Just what? You open up only when it’s convenient?”

  “That’s not fair.”

  “And neither is this.”

  “You don’t understand.”

  “Then explain it to me.”

  He moved toward her, but stopped in the middle of the room. He started to say something, but clamped his jaw shut and shook his head. His hands, always so still and sure, hovered nervously in front of him. Finally, they dropped to his side, and his expression moved from frustration to loss. His eyes, which had been looking everywhere but at her, fell on her face. When he spoke, his voice was barely a whisper. “You die.”

  The hairs on her arms stood up. It wasn’t just the words, although “You die” would have been enough. It was the way he said them. Like a confession.

  “But it’s only a dream,” she said, trying to comfort him, or was it herself?

  He moved back the chair and slumped into it. Relieved or defeated, she couldn’t tell. She ran her hands over her arms trying to smooth out the gooseflesh.

  When he began, his voice was a crumbling whisper. “Thirty years ago, when I was barely ten years old...” he began, his eyes flicked to hers, sensing her confusion. “Everything begins before we think it does.”

  She could feel him ebbing away like the tide, but after a brief pause, he continued, “I was spending the summer at my grandfather’s home in Sussex. He told me stories of amazing, impossible things well into the night. Just the two of us,” he added with a brief, wistful smile. “I’d had nightmares all that week, but they were vague. That night, he had an appointment, or so he told me. I went to bed, but I knew something was wrong.” He closed his eyes and replayed the scene in his mind. “I finally managed to fall asleep and then the nightmare came. Formless, forbidding images, punctuated with one final horror. I remember waking suddenly, my heart bursting through my chest. One thing, and only one thing was clear to me. My grandfather was going to die.”

  He paused and she could see his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed and tried to control himself.

  “This wasn’t like any other dream, it was a vision, a moment in time that would play out, no matter what I did, it would come to pass. I knew that as surely as I knew anything.”

  She could picture young Simon, as he’d been in the photograph on his mantle, full of the fear and helplessness of being so young and afraid.

  He sighed heavily and ran a shaking hand through his hair. “That’s when I heard a sound coming from downstairs, like someone falling. I tried to convince myself it was one of the servants, but I knew it wasn’t. I knew it was him. There was no reason, no logic in it. And I ran. Stumbled down the stairs and... there he was.” His voice began to quiver and the words came out in a rush. “Just like in my dream. I saw him, lying on the floor.”

  Elizabeth shuddered at the image. What a terrible thing for a child to see. No wonder he had nightmares.

  “I’d never seen death before,” Simon continued, “but I knew it was there in the house that night. I think I knew it before I went to bed, but I didn’t do anything. Didn’t do a damn thing. I just stood there. His face was... blood gushed out of his mouth, spilling down his neck over a jagged gash. The front of his shirt was soaked in it. And the smell.”

  Elizabeth felt a chill. Was this what his nightmares about her were like?

  “Everything about him was just as it had been in my mind. That final, horrible image of him lying there, dying. He looked at me with such urgency I wanted to bolt for the door. He was lying there in a pool of his own blood, reaching out to me, and I wanted to run.”

  Simon wiped a hand across his face, briefly pausing to massage his temples. “He tried to say something, but there was too much blood. His lips were moving, but I couldn’t hear him. I don’t remember doing it, but I must have knelt down next to him. He whispered to me, in a voice I couldn’t forget in a thousand lifetimes. ‘We’re running out of time,’ he said, and then his eyes cleared and he... he smiled at me. The tension faded away. ‘You made a fine man,’ he said. A fine man.” Simon shook his head and groaned in self-derision.

  She wanted so much to go to him, to wrap her arms around and him tell him he was a fine man, that everything would be all right. He wouldn’t welcome it. He was hanging on by a thread. If he needed space, no matter how much she wanted to hold him, she’d give him that.

  His breath caught and he shook his head, struggling for control. “And then he was gone. Just like that, this man, who meant everything to me...”

  He flexed his hands and cleared his throat. “It wasn’t until the servants came in that I even noticed his hands. The watch, our watch, was in one.”

  “And the scarab ring was in the other,” Elizabeth said suddenly, remembering Simon’s reaction when he’d seen the ring for the first time.

  He didn’t look at her, but nodded slowly. “And a scrap of black cloth,” he added, and then pulled himself from the memory. He wiped his palms on his pant legs. “Of course, the family did their best to keep it quiet. Announced his death as a tragic accident, a senile, old man falling down the stairs. Falling down the stairs? It wasn’t any accident and they couldn’t have cared less,” Simon said, his voice rising in anger.

  No wonder he never spoke about his family. How could they have been so callous?

  He pushed out a quick breath and continued, “They took the watch and the ring. Locked them away with everything else he owned. Everything he was, just swept away and covered with lies.”

  “So, you hadn’t seen the watch until we opened the boxes in your house that night,” Elizabeth said.

  Simon leaned back in his chair. “The nightmares started the night I received the crates.”

  “That’s natural. Seeing his things, triggering old memories.”

  “They weren’t about my grandfather.”

  “Oh,” she said softly. “You mean you dreamt about me before we got here. Before we even—”

  “Yes. The night his things arrived. I’ll admit I’d had dreams about you before that,” he said with an almost shy smile that faded quickly. “But not...”

  “With me dying.”

  He glared at her so fiercely, she thought he might try to grab the words out of the air and cram them back down her throat. She drew her knees up to her chest and watched him stride back to the window. He pressed his fist against the glass.

  “It’s happening all over again. Inch by inch, night by night, I’m drawn closer to it.”

  “Tell me about them,” she said, knowing even the worst had to be better than the helplessness she felt.

  His back tensed, and he gripped the window sill. “No.”

  She eased off the bed and laid a hand on his back. He jerked forward, but she wouldn’t relent. “Simon.”

  He turned around, and she’d never forget the haunted look in his eyes as they bore into her, beseeching and desperate. “Don’t make me relive them.”

  “I don’t think you need my help for that. You’re doing that right now aren’t you? You close your eyes and they’re there, aren’t they?”

  He let out a shuddering breath. “Yes.”

  “Then if I have a starring role in them, shouldn’t I—”

  “Don’t make light of this,” he bit out and stepped around her. He stalked back over to the chair and sat down heavily. “Not this.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to. But nightmares are normal. They—”

  “This isn’t some subconscious manifestation of my fears. They’re real, Elizabeth. The things I see in them,” he said in low rasping voice. “They wil
l happen.”

  She’d never heard him so desolate. The agony in his voice, the defeat was sweltering. Her hands trembled, but she couldn’t believe it, wouldn’t believe it. She walked over and knelt before him, taking his hand in hers and waiting.

  He sat perfectly still for a moment, warring with his fears before turning her trembling hand over. “So small,” he marveled. His fingers traced slowly over her hand, gently caressing the skin. His touch soothed her, even as his words sent cold shivers up her spine. “A boat,” he said softly, “sometimes fire, sometimes smoke. Each dream is different, but they all end the same way.”

  She squeezed his hand and forced him to look at her. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  “I don’t think I could bear it, if...”

  She gripped his hand more firmly. He pulled her hand to his lips and kissed her palm. His eyes shut tightly against the overwhelming emotions.

  Elizabeth slipped into his lap. His arms tightened around her, and he let out a long breath before opening his eyes. He tried to smile, but faltered and it fell away. She kissed the corner of his mouth and felt his mouth open to hers. His kiss was quietly desperate. Without words, he eased his hand under her bare legs and carried her to the bed.

  He made love to her with surprising slowness. The dark intensity in his eyes drilled into her, but he moved gently, trying to prolong each touch. Instead of ravishing her, he worshipped her.

  Each moment was a study in contrasts. Desperate for release and fearing just that, burying himself inside her and enveloping her at the same time. The heat of his breath on her neck mingled with the cool sheen of perspiration that coated her skin. Long fingers dug into her shoulders, only to ease, and then grip again.

  Elizabeth savored every touch, every motion. Her skin was burned by the roughness of his unshaven cheek, then soothed with supple kisses. His body, long and hard, moved over hers with gentle pressure. Strong hands stroked her with barely restrained passion. Every brush of his fingers, every facet in his eyes called out to her. It was amazing to be loved so much, to be needed with such consuming desire.

  She could feel the riptide of his need, pulling her under. She went willingly into the depths with him. Each thrust was a deep breath, filling her. But nothing lasts forever, and the moment he’d tried to stave off came like a wave crashing over them. His body tensed in a silent cry as he spent himself inside her.

  The moment was gone and the oneness slipped away.

  Dawn’s bright light sliced through the window and heralded a new day. All the things they’d run from, the solace they’d found in each other’s touch, were gone. She’d tried to rationalize his dreams about her, but he’d sounded so certain about them. He was so sure they’d come to pass. The one thing he seemed to believe in was the one thing she refused to. Simon was a man with issues. Big, fat issues. No wonder they came out in his dreams. So what if the dream about his grandfather had come true? That didn’t mean these dreams were portents. Did it?

  Eventually, exhaustion took hold of her body and she snuggled closer to Simon. She could feel him watching her. And she knew, when she awoke again, he would be watching her still. Watching and waiting.

  Chapter Twenty

  The next night at the bar, Simon’s mood was black even before King appeared. Sleeplessness and worry had conspired to shorten his fuse. The smug, far too gratified smile that curled King’s lips as he took his drink from Elizabeth made Simon’s stomach churn. It wasn’t enough that he hadn’t been there to protect Elizabeth, but to have this creature be the one who came to her rescue gnawed at him. Being beholden to anyone was uncomfortable enough, but to owe her life to King was impossible.

  Simon jabbed at the piano keys, indifferent to the romantic melody. The set seemed to drag on endlessly, as he waited for the moment he’d been dreading. The thought of thanking that bastard forced the bile to rise in his throat. But if there were a chance to draw attention away from her, he’d take it. If he could make it a duty owed to him and not to her, he’d swallow his pride gladly. It was undoubtedly a deal with the devil, but better him than Elizabeth. If there were even a vestige of honor in King, surely he’d accept the debt as Simon’s alone.

  Once he was sure Elizabeth was well occupied with other customers, Simon made his way to King’s table. “I’d like to speak with you about last night,” Simon said struggling to keep his voice even.

  Pulling his attention away from Elizabeth, King arched an eyebrow in mildly amused interest and gestured for Simon to take the empty chair.

  The arrogance of the man was infuriating, but Simon stilled the barbs that stood at the ready on his tongue. He ignored the offered chair and enjoyed the feeling of looking down on King. “I don’t believe we’ve been properly introduced.”

  King lit a cigarette and leaned back in his chair. “No, we haven’t.”

  “But it seems you know my wife.”

  King’s lips curled in a self-satisfied grin. “Yes,” he said, as his eyes unerringly sought her out in the crowded room.

  “My wife,” Simon said sharply and with unmistakable emphasis, “tells me I owe you a debt.”

  Simon clenched his jaw as King watched Elizabeth. Everything about the man was an affront. Even the most casual glance at her was prurient.

  King looked back across at Simon. “It was my pleasure. Elizabeth is an exceptional woman.”

  Simon’s voice dripped with venom as he said, “More than you’ll ever know.”

  King gave a short laugh, and Simon kept himself from taking a small step forward. How he hated this man. He almost wished King were a vampire so he could drive a stake through his cold heart.

  King smiled casually, unruffled by the hatred Simon knew was clear in his eyes. They understood each other all too well.

  “I’m in your debt,” Simon said, with a final incline of his head. At least for now, King’s focus was on him and not Elizabeth.

  Simon walked away from King and took his place back at the piano. A sense of satisfaction coursing through his veins. He’d never been proprietary before and was pleasantly surprised at the feeling.

  King soon turned his attention back to Elizabeth, and Simon wondered if his coup hadn’t been more of colossal blunder. The gangster invited her to sit with him. Even though he knew she couldn’t really refuse the request, Simon felt a flare of jealousy and anxiety as she took the chair.

  He tossed the sheet music aside and moved to interfere when he saw Elizabeth shake her head and give him a worried glance. Simon paused, then started toward the table when Charlie grabbed his arm.

  “Don’t go makin’ a scene now, Professor,” Charlie warned as he deftly slipped between Simon and King’s table. “‘Sides, I could use a hand in the back.”

  Simon let Charlie guide him past the table, but it took all of his control not to wipe the grin off King’s face with his fist. In the back room, they moved a series of crates digging out some Panther whiskey. The physical labor did little to quell the anxiety Simon felt, but thankfully, King was gone when they returned. Simon instinctively sought out Elizabeth.

  She was setting up cups on her tray when Simon noticed her hands were shaking. A teacup clattered out of her grip and the liquor spilled.

  “I’m sorry,” she said and took the rag Dix offered.

  “No problem, kid,” Dix said. “But ya better wipe it up before it eats through the bar.”

  Elizabeth laughed nervously and dabbed at the spill.

  Simon came up behind her. “Are you all right?”

  She jumped and nearly knocked another cup over.

  “Elizabeth?”

  “I’m fine,” she said, but wouldn’t meet his eyes. “Just clumsy.”

  She handed the rag back to Dix, gathered her tray and gave Simon a forced smile.

  He touched her arm gently and she looked at him with an odd expression. Whatever it was that crossed her face faded, and she gave him a genuine smile. “I’m okay. Really.”

  He let her go and watched as sh
e served a table. He knew she was lying; she was far from all right. As the evening wore on, Simon kept a close eye on her. Slowly, her body language eased, and she engaged the customers with her usual charm. The strange way she’d looked at him earlier kept tugging at his mind. He wasn’t sure if it was only his dour nature or there really was something looming on the horizon. But as work ended that night, he had the feeling that their journey had taken a sharp left into the unknown.

  * * *

  Two hours later, Elizabeth sat on the bed and aimlessly picked at the coverlet. She knew she should have told him right away. The longer she waited, the harder it was to get the words out, and the worse his reaction was going to be. He’d known something was wrong straight off and tried to ease it out of her. When that failed, he poked and prodded, until her silence rubbed off on him, and he withdrew to the isolation of his chair by the window—his fortress of solitude.

  What a hypocrite she was. Last night she’d badgered him into telling her his worst fears. Now, given an easier task, she was taking the chicken exit. She knew what he was going to say, the argument they would have. Just for a few more hours she wanted the closeness they’d found to stay. For all the good it had done her. He’d withdrawn his questions and himself. Anything would be better than the chilling silence. The cold, gray light of predawn glowed outside the window. Time to own up.

  He sat stiffly in his chair, his back ramrod straight, glaring out the window.

  Rock, meet Hard Place. Hard Place, this is Rock.

  “King invited me to dinner.”

  Whatever he’d been expecting her to say, that wasn’t it. He turned to her and looked almost relieved. “Did he?”

  “I know I should have told you right away, but I was afraid of how you’d react.”

  “Is that all this is about?”

  “Well, yeah.” Where was the anger? The possessive, ‘Bess, you is my woman now’?