Cheating Death

by April White

  I narrowed my eyes at him. “You’re looking for the cure. Well, Shaw didn’t make one on the wrong time stream, because Archer wasn’t there to give him blood.”

  Tom studied me for a long moment. “Why should I believe you?”

  I threw up my hands. “Oh my God! Tom, if you still have any Sight left at all, use it. You don’t See things, you know things. Look at the future and know that I’m telling you the truth.”

  Tom got very still and quiet. “How do you know that?”

  I huffed a sigh. “How do I know what?”

  “How my Sight works. How do you know I don’t See, I know? I’ve never told anyone that before, not even Adam.”

  “You told me – on the other time stream.” I didn’t tell him what I’d had to share to get that information, and I definitely didn’t tell him how very different he was then.

  Tom sat in silence for a long time. “There’s no cure in that future?”

  I shook my head. “No Archer, no cure.”

  “Shaw could have—”

  “He didn’t.”

  Tom’s gaze finally left mine, and he went very still. “You’re sure there’s a cure in our time?”

  “Yes.” I willed him to meet my eyes. “I’m sure there’s a serum Shaw hopes is a cure. I’m not sure it works. Mr. Shaw and Connor wanted to test it on Archer, and I don’t know if they have yet. I’ve been gone a long—” my voice broke and I cleared it. “I’ve been gone a long time. For all I know he could already be cured.”

  Tom scoffed, and then turned away to walk to the window. He stood there with his forehead against the window frame for long enough that I got up to clear the dishes.

  When Tom finally turned around he spoke quietly, and his tone of voice was low and controlled, as if it cost him something to speak. “I need your help.”

  I searched his face. He met my eyes for a second and then looked away, while barely controlled anger thinned his lips. There were so many things I wanted to know, but I settled for the most pressing question.

  “With what?”

  He exhaled softly and met my eyes for slightly longer this time before looking away again. “I need to steal the Monger ring.”

  Had he completely lost his mind? “No.”

  He glared. “It’s your fault they even still have it. You wouldn’t let him steal it,” he tossed his head at Ringo, who was drying his hands, “and now Walters has Adam and a whole bunch of mixed-bloods on the run.”

  “No,” I said again, “you’re not laying that on me. And I’m definitely not going to be guilted into helping you get something you could use exactly the way Walters does.”

  Tom’s laugh was an ugly sound. “You think I want it for myself? I don’t want anything to do with it, but I’d cut Walters’ hand off to get it away from him. Unfortunately, I can’t get close enough to him anymore, not after I went for his throat.”

  My eyes narrowed. “When?”

  “When I was just there.”

  “That was dumb,” I said.

  Tom glared. “Why?”

  “What if you’d turned him instead of killing him? That’s all the world needs, another Wilder, only worse.”

  The jerk actually rolled his eyes at me, as if I was the one making him tired. “I have to get the ring away from the Mongers so I can get Shaw’s cure.”

  “We’ve seen the Mongers without their ring,” said Ringo, “on the other time stream. Surprisingly, it’s not good.”

  Tom turned on him. “You haven’t seen Walters controlling everyday Londoners with that ring. It truly turns them into mindless zombies who do whatever he says.” His eyes returned to mine. “He told them I was a terrorist. So long as Walters has the ring, I can’t go back there.”

  “Forward there, not back. And you can’t go there now anyway because it’s all changed,” I said under my breath. I sat back on my heels and considered Tom’s words.

  Ringo didn’t like what he saw in my face, apparently. “Saira,” he said in a warning tone.

  I ignored him, just for a minute, I told myself. “What do you need my help with?” I asked Tom.

  “Clock me somewhere back in time, before any of the Walters ever get their hands on the ring, and I’ll steal it.”

  “And do what with it? You certainly don’t get to keep it, and as far as I know, the fires of Mordor already have their ring.”

  Tom shrugged. “Send it between, or give it to the other time stream, I don’t care. It just can’t be on Seth Walters’ hand.”

  “Saira,” Ringo began again, but I cut him off.

  “It doesn’t belong to them,” I said to Ringo.

  “But it’s not up to ye to take it.”

  “What do you mean, it doesn’t belong to them? Them, who?” Tom cut in.

  I stood up and faced him. “On the other time stream, Duncan told the Council that the ring was never the Monger artifact. The Mongers apparently used to have something else – something strategic.”

  “Duncan?” Tom looked confused.

  “War.”

  He looked appropriately stunned. “You met War? What did he say about the ring?”

  “Enough to know that the Mongers don’t have their artifact on either time stream, and I got the sense it was lost a long time ago.”

  “How did he look? Was he like a regular guy, or did he have, I don’t know, superpowers?” Tom sounded like I’d had a celebrity sighting, and I barely contained an eye-roll.

  “His superpower was being a jerk, okay?”

  Ringo’s quiet words cut in. “Does nobody wonder whose ring it actually is? I mean, if it really does ‘ave the power to compel, whose power is it?”

  The words sank into the silence of the room, until I finally broke it. “The Immortals know who the ring belongs to. According to Duncan, the Mongers stole it … so maybe we should steal it back.”

  Tom interrupted whatever protest Ringo had been about to make. “You don’t even have to be there – just Clock me to a time when I can steal the ring, and leave before I do. That way, if something goes wrong, you’d be able to go back and fix it.”

  “That’s a terrible idea,” snarled Ringo.

  I looked at Tom, and then at Ringo. “No, it’s not. It’s actually brilliant.” I paced around the room while the wheels spun in my head. I grabbed a climbing rope and monkeyed up it, just to free up the direction my thoughts were taking. I sat on one of the cross beams that held up the roof and let my legs dangle.

  “Saira, stay there. I’m comin’ up,” Ringo commanded from below. I was too busy in my head to do more than nod, and a few moments later he was next to me on the beam. His back was to the upright pillar so he could face me, and the concern on his face dragged me out of my thoughts.

  “He’s not wrong,” I said quietly. It was quite likely Tom could hear us from below, but he had returned to his spot by the window.

  “I know what ye’re thinkin’,” Ringo matched my quiet tone, but his was full of concern. “Ye’re thinkin’ about 1944.” That was exactly what I’d been thinking about, and the fact that he guessed it was a little unnerving. He continued, “There was a gap of about twelve seconds from the time we sent Tom through the spiral until the bomb exploded.”

  I nodded. “Tom can go back to the moment right after he left. He can stop George Walters from shooting the V-1 and activating it.” I was a little breathless at the possibility.

  “And ‘ow’s ‘e goin’ to do that?” Ringo asked. “George Walters used the distraction of Tom Clocking out as ‘is excuse to start shootin’. ‘E shot Archer first, then just kept goin’. Maybe the fifth or sixth bullet was the one that hit the bomb, and twelve seconds later, time split.”

  “It could work,” I said stubbornly. “All he has to do is drag Walters and Archer off the platform with us when we go. The bomb could still explode, but if we’re all safe, then so is the time stream.”

  Ringo shook his head. “Ye don’t get it, Saira. The only way Tom can change things is if ‘e puts
‘imself squarely in the way of a ‘ailstorm of bullets. ‘E wants to live. It’s why ‘e wants the ring – so ‘e can keep Seth Walters from gettin’ in the way of ‘is cure. ‘E’s not goin’ to risk ‘is life for anyone, and definitely not for a Walters.”

  “I’ll make you a deal,” Tom called up to us. He didn’t even pretend he hadn’t been listening. Ringo grit his teeth as his eyes met mine.

  I spoke to Ringo. “It’s a way to get back to Archer.” Ringo held my gaze a moment longer, then sighed, leaned his head back against the post, and shut his eyes. I’d been dismissed.

  I stood up on the beam and then jumped to the rope and swung myself down. I landed like my Cat would, with a light, sure foot, then dropped into a chair to face Tom. “It’s rude to eavesdrop.”

  “It’s rude to talk about someone behind his back.”

  “Over his head, actually. What’s the deal?”

  “You help me steal the ring, and I’ll go back for your Sucker.”

  I studied him in silence, and I felt Ringo tense above us. “Deal or no deal, Saira?” Tom’s voice was hard and cold.

  “You have to save Archer and Walters.” I didn’t know why Walters was so important, but my instinct screamed that he was.

  “No! Walters made his bed. He dies. It’s the Sucker alone or no deal.” There was barely-contained fury coiled through Tom, and it was about to ignite.

  “Then no deal.”

  Tom’s foot lashed out, and he kicked one of the chairs away from the table. It flew across the room, broke against the iron radiator, and knocked the steam valve off. Steam burst into the room with a fierce whistle, and Ringo swung down on the rope like Tarzan. Tom was already crossing the room to the radiator, but Ringo snarled at him, “Get the bloody ‘ell out of my ‘ouse!”

  Tom stepped back, clearly shocked at the rage that contorted Ringo’s face. He turned toward me with his mouth open to say something, then shut it slowly and left.

  Ringo wrestled with the valve and burned his hands on the blasting steam. I threw him tea towels and then filled a bucket with cold water. A few minutes and several muttered curses later, he had gotten the valve screwed back on and closed. He finally dunked his burned hands into the cold water and sat back, exhausted.

  I dropped to my knees beside Ringo on the floor. My throat was closing again with tears, but I made Ringo look at me. “I think it could work. I think he could fix the split.”

  “Why’d ye say no then?” he asked.

  “Because he’s only willing to save Archer. I don’t know why I’m so sure, but I believe George is the key to the split. And unless Tom is willing to save the man he split time to kill, it’s no deal.”

  The Debate

  Ringo dried his hands carefully. “You need green medicine.” He nodded, wincing slightly. I got up to retrieve a tin of the salve and Ringo held his hands out for me to apply it. He rarely ever let me take care of him, and I tried to put myself in his place while I did.

  “You don’t trust Tom,” I said.

  Ringo’s gaze met mine. “‘E ‘ates ye.”

  “Hates? That’s kind of extreme, don’t you think?” I was startled. I knew he was angry as a general state of being, but I hadn’t thought it was directed any place specific except maybe at himself.

  “‘E carries too much pain to bear it alone, and ‘e won’t let anyone love ‘im to share the burden of it. Blamin’ ye, that’s an easy way to make someone else responsible.”

  “I think we need him though,” I said. “To change things in 1944, we need him.”

  Ringo flexed his fingers carefully. The skin was red, but didn’t look like it would blister too badly. He studied his hands for a moment, then finally nodded and looked at me. “I’ll be at yer back.”

  I hadn’t realized it was even a question for Ringo, and it shook me to think he could have chosen otherwise. But we were in his native time, and he could step off my ride whenever he wanted to.

  This was Ringo’s native time.

  I looked at him more closely. “You’ve aged since we’ve been here.”

  He grimaced. “Fightin’ with ye will do that to a man.”

  “No, I mean, you’ve actually gotten older, all at once. I think you’re affected by being outside your native time the same way Clockers are.” I studied the beginnings of scruff on his face. Whiskers that I hadn’t seen before dotted his jaw, and he was taller than he’d been the last time I noticed his height.

  My scrutiny seemed to make him uncomfortable, because he scratched his face and turned a little pink. “What’re ye goin’ to do about young Tom?”

  I grimaced. “Go find him I guess.” I looked out the window at the dark night sky. “Will you come with me?”

  Ringo rolled his eyes. “As if I’d let ye go out in my town without me.”

  I kissed Ringo quickly on the cheek. He blushed pink again and I laughed, then made a show of rubbing the kiss off. He batted my hand away and scowled, but I felt lighter with relief that he wasn’t still angry. That Ringo had gotten angry at all was remarkable enough, and the fact that his anger had bothered me so much shouldn’t have been a surprise. But I was shaken by both, and I realized I wanted to get out of this time. It felt like we were treading water here, and I was ready to jump in the deep end – to do whatever we had to do to get back to Archer.

  “Where should we look for him?” I asked as we headed out.

  “I doubt we’ll need to,” said Ringo.

  “Huh? Why?”

  “Because we are the only plan ‘e ‘as.” We stepped out into the dark alley behind the building and someone moved forward from the shadows. I was startled, but Ringo nodded at him and spoke as though he’d been expecting nothing less. “Tom,” he said in careful greeting.

  “I apologize for my outburst, and for damaging the radiator. I will replace or repair anything I need to,” Tom said.

  “It’s fixed,” Ringo answered. I was impressed that he managed to keep his tone neutral.

  “Are you up for a run?” I asked Tom.

  “I’m not really a freerunner, Saira,” he answered cautiously.

  “I know, but you’re stronger now, right?”

  “Evidently.”

  I turned to Ringo. “Show us something new.”

  Ringo thought for a moment, then nodded. “Right. Keep up if ye can. The neighbor’ood’s not the best, but it’s worth it.”

  He took off down the alley and turned left, which took us away from the river. Ringo was holding back just enough to make sure Tom stayed with us, but not so much that it was obvious. He kept the showy flips to a minimum too, more like a straight parkour run. Tom’s expression was one of grim determination. This wasn’t fun for him, but he didn’t complain, even as we passed Holborn. We were heading straight back into the jewelry district, except all the shops were closed for business. Ringo finally stopped outside an ornate gothic church, which was only visible from the street when we were standing right in front of it.

  He smiled at the confusion on both our faces. “Not goin’ to burn up inside, are ye?” he said to Tom. Surprisingly, Tom smirked back.

  “Haven’t yet.”

  “There’s still time,” Ringo answered with enough snark in his tone to get a raised eyebrow from me. The big front door was unlocked, and Ringo slipped inside. I went next, and Tom closed the door quietly behind us.

  “What is this place?” I whispered to Ringo.

  “St. Etheldreda’s Church.”

  We were in a long hallway that ran the length of the building that seemed fairly small for a church, but had the cold stone smell of someplace very old. A man was speaking in the room next to the hall. We couldn’t see him, but his speech was cultured and educated, and his accent was slightly Irish.

  “Father Lock’art usually ‘as writers or poets readin’ their work ‘ere until midnight. I’ve ‘eard some very interestin’ stories inside these walls, let me tell ye.”

  I stared at Ringo. “Do you come here often?”


  “Well, not anymore, obviously. But yeah, a few times a week. It’s a Catholic church, one of the oldest in England, but all kinds ‘ave worshipped ‘ere.” We walked down the long hallway, lit only by a lantern at the far end of the room. Laughter came from the other room, and it sounded like there were maybe twenty people listening to the writer read his work. “And all kinds ‘ave read ‘ere, too.”

  We had reached the door to the other room, but I was hesitant to enter. It was lit by several shielded candles, and the light flickered as warmly as the voice that filled the room. I just wanted to linger by the door and listen without a picture of the speaker to influence the way his words landed in my ears. Ringo stepped inside the room and leaned against the back wall. After a moment of hesitation, Tom entered the room too. I had the sense that Ringo’s company was preferred over mine.

  The speaker’s voice was melodic and deep, and I closed my eyes as he began another passage.

  “Life is a question of nerves, and fibres, and slowly built-up cells in which thought hides itself and passion has its dreams. You may fancy yourself safe and think yourself strong. But a chance tone of colour in a room or a morning sky, a particular perfume that you had once loved and that brings subtle memories with it, a line from a forgotten poem that you had come across again, a cadence from a piece of music that you had ceased to play … I tell you, that it is on things like these that our lives depend.”

  I recognized the words. Whoever this author was, I’d read his work, and I stepped into the room next to Ringo and Tom. The assembled group was mostly standing, although there were some people sitting on wooden pews nearest the speaker. He faced the group to the right of the door, so I only caught him in profile, but I could see he was tall and well-dressed, and probably somewhere in his mid-thirties. There was a spectacular stained-glass window behind him, and the candlelight glinting on the colored glass gave the odd impression that the man was standing inside a kaleidoscope.

  “Well, my dears, that is all I shall read for tonight. The story isn’t finished, though it soon will be, and you’ll be able to purchase your own copy to see how it all turns out for poor Dorian. Until then, thank you to Father Lockhart for looking the other way. I hope to prevail upon his good-natured oblivion another time.” The audience laughed as the man finished his speech. “I wish you all a good night, and I leave you with the words of my Dorian: The only way to get rid of temptation is to yield to it.”