The Temple of Indra’s Jewel:

by Rachael Stapleton

  “What? Aeval, you mean?” he said in his raspy Irish lilt. “It means that you are my dark-haired goddess of love.” His erection had slowed, and it seemed he was content just to hold me as he traced large lazy circles on my arm and back.

  “Aeval was a prominent goddess in Ireland known as the Lady of Sexuality. Responsible for making the men of the area slaves to their wives’ sexual wishes.”

  “You’re making that up,” I accused.

  “No, really. The boys always talked of her when I was a wee lad. From the drawings, you could say we had a bit of a crush.”

  “Awe, that’s sweet. I bet that line lured the ladies in when you were younger.”

  “What do you mean when I was younger?” Cullen laughed.

  Pretending to be appropriately offended, I grabbed his sensitive area and pinched. He jumped and grabbed me. “Oh, like that, is it?” He tickled my sides until I could only gasp for air.

  “You want it rough? I’ll show you who’s rough.” I slid my hand down his stomach, grabbing hold of him and moving my hand back and forth gently. He groaned and pushed me back flat on my back.

  “No,” I squealed. He stared down at me and then flipped me over onto my stomach. Rubbing and caressing my back, his touch sent tingles up and down my spine and into my thighs. I felt like a thousand warm marbles were rolling over my skin. He rolled me onto my back and slipped a finger inside, tracing his thumb over the outside like a windshield wiper. Hardly able to breath, I walked my hand down his torso. The first droplet of wetness moistened my hand. I slid down and teased my tongue over the tip, pushing him into my mouth. He moaned in pleasure, and I used my free hand to fondle the remainder of him like little silver stress balls, ensuring constant contact with the palm of my hand. He dared to string words together, and I increased the rotation speed.

  “That’s it.” He leaned toward the nightstand, removing himself from my mouth, and pulling out a small silver packet. I smiled, knowing he was teased beyond the brink of all control. Carefully tearing the edge, he pulled the condom out and rolled it down the fullness of his shaft. Then he pulled me on top of him with the utmost care.

  “Aw, darlin’ . . .” he half-grunted, half-moaned. We started to move together, our bodies perspiring with effort. Obviously finding my slow moves unsatisfactory, he rolled me over so he could thrust into me. That did me in, and waves of pure ecstasy washed through me as he flexed and throbbed with orgasmic fire.

  He closed his eyes. A pained, pleasurable expression came over him. I felt an unstoppable happiness as I arched my back to him and dug my fingers in, pulling him down into me.

  A moment passed while we caught our breath. Cullen huffed as he rolled out of bed. “Okay, now I really have to go.”

  “Fine.” I squinted my eyes at him. “I’ve got a plane to catch.”

  “Oh, do you now, Ms. Bigshot. Well, maybe I won’t let you catch it.” He reached to tickle me again.

  An hour later Cullen and I finally dragged our butts out of bed and off to the airport. My flight was leaving a half an hour before his, so he sat with me at my gate until I could no longer put off boarding. We stood perfectly still for a second before I awkwardly leaned in and gave him a hug. I thought of asking him about his brother and his mother and what Bert at the bar had said but decided against it. I’d soon be gone, and it was really none of my business.

  “Thank you for another amazing time. I look forward to coming back.”

  “I’d like that,” he answered, squeezing my hand.

  There was a roller coaster in my tummy. “And you can always come visit me?” I said, smiling.

  “Don’t tempt me. Work’s no fun as it is. I’d much rather hang with you.”

  I smiled, hoping that was the truth.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  I studied the clock on my shelf. Early. The dreams were coming fast and feverish lately, almost as though they were trying to tell me something, but they were out of sequence and too jumbled for me to figure out. No point in trying to go back to sleep. Not that I could if I tried. And it wasn’t worth the effort, with only 45 minutes until Leslie picked me up. It was Saturday. I’d been home a week, and true to Leslie’s word, she was helping me research.

  We began with the kingdom of Sardinia and all their royal players.

  “I can’t believe these people are real,” Leslie said.

  “I told you. Now do you believe me?”

  “Sophia, it’s a start, but it’s hardly stone-cold evidence. I mean, you’re a librarian. You live in these books, just like I do. You help tons of students every day with papers, and you could have come across these people before and just forgot.”

  “Whatever,” I mumbled, tired of her doubting me.

  “Let’s move onto the Graf.” Leslie echoed my own thoughts. “What were the basic facts on him?”

  I cleared my throat and read the notes I had jotted down. “Viktor Wilhelm Alexander Ferdinand of Württemberg, born to Graf Wilhelm and Baroness Wilhelmina. In 1857 Viktor married Princess Sapphira Alexandrie de Monaco.”

  “That’s strange!”

  “What’s strange?” I asked, glancing up from my notes.

  “Well, everything I’ve read lists them both as dead in 1857. Nothing mentions that they married before they died.”

  I glanced at the stack of books to the right of the table that were ready to be reshelved. We’d gone through a lot of information in the past three hours.

  “You’re right,” I agreed.

  “Where are you reading that?”

  “It’s an excerpt from Letters of Württemberg, written by one of the guards at Schloss Lichtenstein.

  “Maybe they were married in secret at Viktor’s castle. Or maybe he kidnapped her and forced her into marriage, and when she wouldn’t cooperate, he strangled her before offing himself in some sort of murder-suicide.”

  “Are you kidding me? Viktor wouldn’t do that.”

  Leslie gave me her “you’re crazy” look.

  “Show me where it says that,” I said, leaning in closer to the computer screen.

  Leslie sat back, flushed with excitement at teasing me. “Well, I did read there was speculation around her death.”

  “Regardless, it makes no sense. She was a princess—if she were married, it would have been published. And why are their deaths such a mystery? I can’t find any details.”

  “Sophia, if you’re completely sane and this all happened—which I’m not saying I believe—but if it did, do you think perhaps the past has not yet been written and that the outcome depends on you?”

  Panic gripped me as the weight of responsibility fell upon my shoulders. I sipped my bottled water in an attempt to conceal my worry.

  “Or is it simply a misprint?” Leslie started on again. She was trying to make me feel better. “Like you said, someone else’s story, a case of mistaken identity. Surely things like that happened back then?”

  I nodded, as if wishful thinking would make it true. “What motive would Viktor have to kill Sapphira?”

  “Who knows? Why does anyone kill? Times were different back then, right? Politics were everything. Weren’t there some countries where you could beat and kill your wife for any reason? Hell, don’t some still exist today?”

  “Yes, but Viktor wouldn’t have. There’s no way he could be a murderer. Sure, he was a little serious, but he was charming and handsome and chivalrous.”

  “Sounds like somebody’s got a crush. Besides, do you really think you have the best taste in men?”

  “I’d like to think it’s getting better.”

  “Right. I’m assuming you’re talking about that sweet piece of ass you stayed with. I googled him by the way, and I stalked his Facebook page.”

  “You’re too funny. Yes, he’s not hard to look at, and he’s sweet.”

  “Well, just remember
—once upon a time Nick was sweet too. And didn’t he drop you off a cliff?”

  “Yes. You’ve got a point there.”

  “Just don’t be so trusting. And be careful if you do go back in time; things may not be what they seem.” Leslie smiled. “I don’t want Viktor hurting you.” She chuckled, oblivious to the ominous feeling her words created in me.

  We continued where we had left off, eventually discussing Sapphira’s mother, Maria.

  “It says the Princess Dowager of Monaco was dealing with a tough economy because of their new position as a territory in the kingdom of…”

  “Sardinia. Yeah, I also noted that. Her constitutions were rejected, and she wasn’t well liked. To be honest, I can see why. I also had the misfortune of meeting her. Let’s just say we weren’t overly pleased with one another.”

  Leslie gave me a peculiar look, clearly still getting used to the idea of time travel.

  “Sorry, I’m freaking you out.” I laughed.

  “It’s okay. It’s just so hard to believe. And, to be honest, I’m a little jealous. This is like a dream come true for people like us. Still, I’m not saying I’m a believer yet. I’m just keeping an open mind. So why weren’t you a fan of the Princess’s mother?”

  “Well, to begin with, she was whiny, and she basically brushed me onto her entourage when she couldn’t deal with my questions.”

  “Well, in all fairness to her, she is a genuine royal, and you, my dear, probably weren’t playing by the rules she’s used to.”

  “That’s for sure.”

  “It also says she relied very heavily on her half-brother. Someone named Nico; he was her political advisor,” Leslie added.

  “Uncle Nico, yes. I heard him mentioned. I thought they were talking about Nick at first. It’s how they got me to cooperate the first day. I expected to see Nick at dinner. This Nico character wasn’t there either.”

  “This is crazy,” Leslie said, rubbing her eyes. They were as hollow and bloodshot as mine felt. I looked out the window. The sky was growing darker, and I was growing hungry. “Let’s hurry up and finish sharing our notes so we can get a drink and something to eat.”

  “For sure!” Leslie squeaked in delight. “My brain is overworked.” She looked back down at her notes. “So when Maria realized her efforts were doomed, she basically handed power, along with the mess, to her son Charles to clean up, is that right?”

  “Yep. Taking the power out of Nico’s hands.”

  “Mmm hmm.” Leslie nodded. “As a matter of fact, I can’t find anything on him after that. It’s like he vanished when Sapphira was murdered. Maybe Viktor killed Nico and Sapphira.”

  I frowned at Leslie and rubbed my eyes, thinking back to my days at the castle. “I think your imagination is running away with you.”

  “Okay, but I’m not the one who just got sucked into a book.”

  “Fair enough,” I admitted.

  Looking at the dates, I realized I had shown up at the palace six months after Sapphira’s father died and right before her disappearance.

  “I found something else! You know that alchemist Rochus you mentioned earlier?”

  “Yes,” I said, perking up. “The one who pulled me into the book.”

  “Right,” Leslie said, rolling her eyes. “Well, evidently he was questioned in Sapphira’s murder and later tried for witchcraft. There was some suspicion surrounding him because of his close friendship with the Princess.”

  My tired eyes travelled from my page to her face.

  “Witchcraft? Was he convicted and killed?”

  “I don’t know. It doesn’t say. I’d suppose.”

  “Looks like there are a lot of possibilities. I think I better watch my back if I do find a way to return. Let’s go back to my place.”

  “Sure, but can we grab take-out? I’m starving.”

  “Sounds good. You pick the place, my treat,” I said, packing up.

  The first thing we did after leaving the library was head down the street in search of Chinese food. I was relieved to be outside. The empty library was getting eerie near the end. Too many ghosts in a place with that much history, or maybe it was thinking of everyone I met as potential killers.

  “Do you know where you’re going?” I lurched after Leslie, not wanting to linger.

  “Of course,” Leslie responded. “Oh, you know what else I just remembered? Some of the family heirlooms disappeared—actually, around the same time as…”

  “What?” The hairs on my neck prickled as we paced the city streets, passing darkened window panes and shady people all lit up under neon lights.

  “Around the same time that Nico disappeared. I wonder if someone killed him to get to the jewel? Here it is. I knew it wasn’t far. Sophia, what are you doing?”

  “I don’t know,” I responded, my feet firmly planted to the sidewalk.

  Leslie backtracked, returning to my side. “A psychic?” she asked, examining the sign that had caught my attention. “You wanna go in or something?”

  I stared at the heavy purple drapes flanking the large glass window.

  “No, but for some reason I feel like I should.”

  Leslie opened the door for me, and a little bell chimed. I led the way in. An older woman stood near a table; striking a match. She lit three white candles before looking up. The wicks sparked to life, and she gazed into my face.

  “I’ve been expecting you.”

  “Me? I think you’re mistaken. I was just walking by.”

  “I’m never mistaken. There’s a malignant spirit attached to you,” she said. She pulled a chair out and motioned for me to sit. I raised my eyebrows in surprise but took a seat. Her hair was silky-white blonde, and she had deep turquoise eyes and thin pink lips.

  She reached for my hand. “May I?”

  “O-kay,” I stuttered, looking nervously back at Leslie.

  Firmly clasping my hands, she shut her eyes and began to recite a poem.

  I heard Leslie snort and looked back to see her rolling her eyes.

  The woman looked up, still hanging on to me. “The spirit appears to always be born into a male role. You’ve been experiencing dreams, and they’re connected to your past, but you already know this, don’t you?” Her bluish-green eyes pierced mine, and I wondered briefly if she saw right into my soul.

  I rolled my shoulders, more or less conceding. “I came across a document on spirits and the life cycle, and I thought maybe—”

  “Where?” she said, releasing my hands and jumping to her feet.

  Her enthusiasm sent chills down my spine. I second-guessed whether I should tell her of Rochus’s magical book of spells.

  “In a book, a very old one.”

  “Did it bear this design?” she said, quickly pulling up an image on her phone.

  I stood to look, immediately recognizing the logo.

  “Yes, that’s it.”

  She clapped her hands. Gripping me tight by the shoulders, she demanded, “Oh my God! It still exists. You’ve seen it? Where?”

  As she touched me, a spinning oval appeared before me. Rochus and the room exploded into a whirling funnel being sucked inside the oval. I watched myself swim through a swirling vortex in the sea.

  I stood inside a magical mirror. My senses refused the conjecture because it was impossible, but my gut instinct had no problem accepting it. In fact, part of me knew I was in the Lérins Islands off the coast of Cannes, not in the store.

  I could hear Rochus’s voice in my ear. “Just like before. You must come back! You must trap him in the stone.”

  The wind blew around me, and I could smell the saltwater. Panic and fear ensued. I would die. This was a suicide mission. I had fallen into it before, and it hurt.

  Trapped inside the magical bubble, my thoughts raced but kept coming back to the fact that I had no cont
rol over the magic.

  I drew in a deep breath. The air around me began to swirl. A castle rose, and I saw the Princess struggling on her balcony with a shadowy figure as he tried to throw her over.

  I shook my shoulders free, stepping away from her.

  “I’ve got to go.”

  “No, please wait. I can help you,” she said, coming after me, but Leslie stepped between us, and I bolted out the door.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  After cleaning up our dinner dishes—which consisted of take-out boxes and chopsticks—I poured us each another glass of wine before I lit some candles and reached for the beat-up brown cardboard box I’d inherited. With all the recent excitement I’d forgot about it ’til now.

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s my great-grandfather’s, from the secret cubby.” I pulled the album stuffed on top out first and took a seat by the hearth. Leslie bent down and grabbed a stack of papers and then moved back to her spot on the couch.

  “Hey, Les, I forgot to ask earlier: Did you see any pictures of a ring with a snake on it?”

  “No, sorry. I was really just scanning text today. Why?”

  “It’s probably nothing. Just… Sapphira was always calling him the snake, and Cullen mentioned that he dreamed of a man who wanted to hurt me wearing a viper ring.”

  “Whoa, so Cullen knows of your trip through time now too?”

  “No, I haven’t worked up the courage to tell him yet. I overheard him telling his brother about the dream.”

  I looked down at the album. The first snapshot made me smile. It was an old Polaroid of my mother lying in a field of wildflowers. My mother’s dark brown hair was permed and surrounded her face in a halo of soft curls. Her penetrating blue eyes and petite, curvy figure were almost identical to mine. I shuffled to the next picture; she was smiling, on the verge of laughing, with me on her hip.

  Leslie picked up a paper and then turned it toward me pensively.

  “This is you!”

  “Very funny.”

  It was a nineteenth-century portrait ripped from a history book.