He clicked the lamp on, and I gasped. His entire eye was purple and black. “What happened to you?” I cried, reaching for his eye.
“Logan said good-bye,” He winced as I touched his face. “It’ll heal.”
“Did you hurt him?” I asked, too quickly.
“No. I couldn’t. His anger had nothing to do with this prophecy- or our lives. It was just a guy pissed at another guy for sleeping with his girlfriend. I deserved it.”
I didn’t argue. “I deserved the terrible things he said to me, too.”
We sat in silence for a few moments. Finally, he stood up, looking at the clock. “The fountains open at eleven. I want to wait for a significant crowd before we go- so we blend.”
“You think that no one will notice if we just disappear after dipping our arms into the fountain?”
“I don’t know.”
I curled on the bed and thought about Logan, unable to stop the self-loathing from taking over. I must have slept; West was waking me an hour later. In a short time we were showered and dressed, ready to leave. He suggested I wear jeans and the peasant top, both items of clothing the most appropriate for the time. His own jeans and a long-sleeved, white dress shirt would also work- for now, he added.
“We’re leaving our luggage here. I’ve made some calls, if it comes down to it, I can have the fountains bombed. But- that is a last resort. Only if Troy follows us.”
“Bombed?” Horrific images of war crossed my mind. “What about the innocent people- tourists? Children?”
“It will have to be when the grounds are empty.”
“You what, just called in some criminal friends? Why would they do that for you?” I was almost afraid to ask.
“I’ve helped them in the past.”
“Oh.”
“It won’t be easy- or cheap. And though Logan’s idea of taking the material from the past was clever, it requires too much gray area.”
“This is all gray area,” I mumbled, zipping my suitcase. “Well… let’s go.”
By the time we ate and took another taxi to the fountain, it was well past noon. Our conversation was minimal, besides the question-answer session I subjected him to about our life in 1977.
The Peterhof Fountains emerged before us in a majestic spread of water and bronze, the sunlight playing off of both in magnanimous style. “It call the Russian Ver-size,” the taxi driver offered in broken English, gesturing out the window with a sweeping hand. I smiled and thanked him, but West ignored him. His eyes narrowed as he looked out the dirty windows, his fingers reaching for mine involuntarily.
“Let us out back here,” he ordered the driver. We were blocks from the entrance, but the driver obliged, probably glad to rid himself of his irritable passenger.
As we stepped out to the sidewalk that led to the entrance, he turned to me. “Do everything I say. Without question,” he reminded. Already, the bruise around his eye was lighter. An immortal will heal… faster than a human, I realized.
“Okay.” I agreed, my nerves clamoring in fear.
“We’re going right in. Do not let go of my hand.” He gripped my fingers tightly, and I nodded, following him.
The buildings were breathtaking, all in white, yellow and bronze gothic designs with tall, arched windows and ornate fixtures. West navigated the crowd easily, blending in and moving with them as we made our way closer to the palace.
Once inside the grounds, I gasped at the view; glimmering bronze statues of the Gods led down into the glorious fountains, and far beyond the landscape the water flowed to the Marine Canal. The Grand Cascade was a series of step-like stones that created a waterfall from the palace down to the lower fountains. Flowing into a semi-circular pool, the water burst from Samson and the Lion, a mesmerizing display as his radiant arms tore open the mouth of the lion.
“Russia’s victory over Sweden,” I murmured, awestruck by the authority that the grand display commanded.
“What, baby?” The crowd created a low hum, and I spoke louder so he could hear me.
“Samson and the Lion- it represents Russia’s victory over Sweden.”
“And the lion is a part of Sweden’s coat of arms, so symbolism is a large part of this display.”
When he sounded like a teacher, I couldn’t help but smirk. “Interesting. I didn’t know that.”
“Come on… we need to go to a fountain we can access. The Roman Fountain.”
I had to follow him quickly or lose him. In minutes we were at the Roman Fountain, a great two-tiered marble sculpture surrounded by a round pool shallow enough to wade in. Several children, with the help of their parents, dipped their feet and hands into the water. “It’s too big… all of this. It would take several bombs to destroy…,”
“Shh,” he pinched my fingers softly. “Don’t talk about it.”
I nodded again; I knew I was right. The grounds, the security, the scale of it all were too enormous to consider a single bomb. I had no idea what connections he had, or how large of an attack he had waiting, but a single bomb would not touch the grounds. The destruction of such a historical and beautiful element of Russian culture sickened me. There was no way we could allow such a thing.
“We can’t do it,” I pleaded softly. “Plan B. We can’t. It’s too beautiful. Please, West.”
“I’ll do whatever it takes to keep you safe.”
He clasped his left hand with mine, across my body as if we were shaking hands. His eyes met mine over the water.
“Just do it,” I ordered bravely.
He thrust our arms, fingers still intertwined, into the basin. I watched the cool water cover the last of the numbers on my arm.
And we were gone.
Chapter Twenty-Five
As Logan had described, we were standing in a small fountain in the middle of a city park. West was pulling me out of the water as I gaped at my surroundings. “We’re in Central City Park… it’s Woodruff Park now,” he said, urgently pulling my arm. “Come on, hurry, before we’re noticed.”
“Isn’t there a bigger fountain here?” I looked around as I slipped, falling against him. He caught me and set me to my feet in the grass.
“Not until 1996. A peace fountain for the Civil Rights movement. This is just… ‘Random Fountain,’” struggling to keep up with his pace, I yanked on his arm.
“West, I need a second…,”
“We have to get out of the open area, where he could be watching.”
I broke into a run. Tall buildings flanked each direction, and people dressed in suits, ties, and dresses marched on the surrounding sidewalks holding umbrellas and briefcases or purses. The sky threatened to pour any moment. The bottoms of my jeans were soaked from the fountain, giving my Old Navy flip-flops no air to dry. I shivered.
As I looked down at my feet, blond hair fell over my shoulders. I grabbed a lock, holding it up in front of my face. “I’m- I’m…,”
“Hang in there,” he ordered, gesturing up ahead to a row of yellow and black-and-white checkered taxi cabs lining the city street. “We have to get a cab.”
“Do I look different? Am I her?” I glanced in the store window reflection as we hurried to a cab, eyes widening. I am Julie… I am that woman in the photograph. How can this be happening?
“Yes,” he managed, ushering me into the backseat of the cab. He spoke to the driver. “Byway Motel.”
The driver chortled. “That’ll costya, friend.” His thick, southern accent dripped with forced hospitality.
“No problem.” West pushed me back against the seat. The driver shrugged and pressed buttons on the dash.
I held my hands up and splayed my fingers, palms facing my eyes. “I don’t even recognize my hands- they are different,” I touched each of my fingers, admiring the long nail beds but cringing at the unfamiliar lines. I resisted the urge to touch my breasts, now twice as large and creating actual cleavage.
“She high?” the driver demanded, thumbing the back seat accusingly. West took my hands in hi
s, shaking his head.
“No,” he answered, squeezing my hands. “Please put on the radio?”
Obviously conscious of his tip, he obliged. ABBA’s Dancing Queen filled the cab, one of my dad’s favorites. West relaxed his grip on my hands.
I looked at him with apologetic eyes. He gazed at me for a long moment before looking out the window. As we took a sudden exit, my stomach turned. I fought a wave of nausea.
“I think I’m car sick,” I whispered, covering my middle with my hand. My fingertips met a slight, hardened mound beneath my shirt, and I sucked in my breath, dizzy with realization. “I’m pregnant,” I comprehended out loud, and he nodded, pulling me closer.
“I know. Everything that I told you about happened later tonight. We’re already ahead, since I’m sober and I know you have no intention of aborting the baby.” His whispered words were barely audible over the music.
“Of course not,” I covered my lips with my hand. “Talk to me- I’m going to throw up,” I felt my mouth begin to water in that horribly acrid way, and sweat beaded on my forehead.
“Don’t hurl in my cab, bunny,” the driver’s nervous glances in the rear-view mirror sent me flushing.
“Did he just call me a bunny?”
“Pull over,” West ordered. He did, just in time. I made it to a tin trashcan in the middle of the street, voiding my stomach of everything I’d eaten for breakfast at the little Russian café. From somewhere near the cab, I heard West turning on the charm. “My poor wife. She’s been sick from day one, seems like.” I gagged, dry-heaving into the can again. Where did he get that southern accent? What an actor.
“Eh, it’ll pass. My wife was sick for months with our boy.” The driver pronounced “wife” like “wyuf” as he sat in the car. West talked through the window to him. “I’ll shut the meter off for ya till she’s ready.”
“Appreciate that, sir,” he replied, offering me a tissue that must have been provided by the driver. Wiping my mouth, I climbed back into the cab. The rest of the ride was quiet as we listened to the top hits of Thursday, April 14th, 1977. Rain finally began to dot the windshield, and I watched the wipers scrape back and forth rhythmically.
West’s tip was generous. He had prepared that morning at the hotel in Russia, gathering hundreds of American dollars all dated before 1977 from his bag. He had an entire wallet with fabricated driver’s licenses for both of us- and Logan. The preparation work that he’d put into the entire situation impressed me. I need to be helping him more, not crying, fainting, or vomiting constantly and slowing him down.
“What can I do to help?” I asked as we walked to the front office of the seamy motel. The word BYWAY flickered in orange neon, threatened to go out, and then lit brightly in a continuous pattern. He stopped mid-stride, looking deeply into my eyes. After a thorough search, he pulled me close and lowered his lips to mine. “What was that about?” I asked, breathless.
“Just checking to see my little Roam is still in there,” he whispered against my lips. “Offering to help was so out of character for Julie. It reminded me that it’s still you.”
“I’m sure I’ll cry or faint any moment, rest assured,” I couldn’t help but glance down again at my chest. My chest will never get this big, not without plastic surgery.
“Stop it. You’re being too hard on yourself. So many things have happened to you in just a few short weeks, baby. Give yourself a break.”
I shrugged. “Well, now what?”
“Now, I get our key from the office, and we go to our room. And we… think.”
The motel manager must have recognized us; he seemed nonplussed when West asked for another key. “Y’all better find the other one!” he warned, handing over an actual key, not a card that slid into the door.
Once we were inside the motel room, horrifying scenes of West’s attack flooded my memory. The bed was still rumpled where we had obviously slept the night before; our clothes were strewn about the motel room. He felt my hand tense in his and pulled me against him, kissing my forehead. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
I was sure he was apologizing not only to me, but to Julie- the Julie of the past.
“I forgive you. It wasn’t you, West, just like it wasn’t me. Let the past lie.”
He nodded his chin against my hair.
We stood in the middle of the room, silent, his arms wrapped around me. After a few minutes, he whispered against my ear. “Roam, please don’t ever forget me. Everything I’ve done- and everything I’m going to do- is for you. I love you, and will always love you.”
His words, so poignant, chilled me. “I love you, too,” I said, folding as his lips met mine. I gripped his shoulders, holding the material of his shirt as if holding on for life. His lips parted over my mouth, crushing, and I cried out softly.
Three pounding knocks on the door startled us both. I felt the blood drain from my head. West pushed me behind him, throwing the door open.
Troy shoved forward as a blonde girl about my age, viciously held by her hair, struggled in his grasp. She kicked and fought, and he gave her golden curls a hard yank as he pushed her into the room.
“Surprise,” Troy sneered, matching West in height and stature. He winked at me, and that’s when I saw the gun shoved into the girl’s side. “Hey there, Jules. Or Roam, back from the dead. This is the first time I’ve ever had to kill you twice. Maybe I’m making up for my missed opportunity with Julie, right, West?”
“You sonofabitch,” West seethed, his eyes darting to the girl. “Where did you find her?”
He laughed that cruel, dizzying laugh that sent me into hysterics. I panted, trying to breathe evenly and not pass out. Troy smacked the back of the girl’s head with the gun, causing her to fall to her knees before him. He caught her with her hair again, and she screamed in agony.
“Stop!” I cried, longing to help the poor girl. Tears streaked down her face, her blue eyes blazing with pain and fury. She was dressed in clothing I recognized; a cardigan, ruffled cami, and jeans. She is from our time… she’s from 2012.
“So you just came here to wait for me. So confident.” Troy gestured with his head to a beat-up Buick parked behind him. “Come on, you know where we’re going.”
“Stay behind me,” West ordered, then turned back to Troy, his face flaming with anger.
“What? No! We can’t go with him!”
“Without question,” he breathed, gripping my wrist. I choked back a sob, nodding and following him- and Troy- to the car.
Chapter Twenty-Six
“You knew he’d come there, to the motel,” I whispered in the backseat. West nodded once. “And you didn’t tell me because you thought I’d run.”
“Of course you’d run. You’re terrified of him.”
“You didn’t trust me.”
“Stop whispering or I blow her head off.”
Troy’s voice turned my bones to lead; I curled against West, trying not to cry. The girl in the front seat had a gun pointed at her head, and West obviously cared about her more than he would an innocent bystander. Her blonde curls dipped below her shoulder blades, and her eyes… something about the color of her eyes…
I gasped, finally realizing. It’s Violet. It’s his daughter.
“I don’t know what the hell is going on, but I know that I have nothing to do with this so just please, let me go…,”
“Shut up,” Troy pressed the gun into her temple, and West moved to attack. I did the only thing I could think of; distract. “Violet! You’re Violet!” I screamed, and West sat back again as Troy moved the barrel away from her skin.
“How do you know my name? Who are you?” She hit the window as he flew around a curve. I looked outside as the rainy evening turned to dusk. We’re driving back the way that we came. Back to the fountain.
“Here’s what’s going to happen. We’re going to the fountain, and we’re going to make an exchange.” Troy pointed the handgun at me, and I moaned in fear, shaking my head. “West here is going to
escort young Violet back to 2012. And Roam, you and I are going to stay back and have some fun.”
I gripped West’s hand, my mouth going dry. He is going to make him choose. Me or his daughter. My mind went through the scale- who was worth more to him? He said he loved me, but he had loved Laurel, too. He loved his infant daughter, and was trying to save the world for her. If he left me to Troy, I was surely dead, and that would mean the end of the world anyway, wouldn’t it? Failure, prophecy over, no savior for the world.
“Now why would I do that, letting the world end?” West voiced my logic.
“You really know nothing, do you? A world ends- the world that you know. The world that I know, my world, prevails. We cease to exist in this reality, and we exist in my reality- the one where I am king again, and the two of you are nothing.”
“Wait a minute,” I pressed my hand to my hardened stomach, fear or insanity- or both- taking over my words. “Are you trying to say that there are two universes, two worlds, and in one you’re a king?” I laughed, hysterical, as West tried to silence me with a glare. “This is what we’re fighting over? And my child, my unborn child, will save this world. You couldn’t possibly be a king. You’re serving someone higher than yourself.”
“Sarcasm? That’s new, you little bitch,” Troy swerved, sending me flying against the window. I smacked my head against the glass, pain radiating through my eye. “You think this is funny?”
“Why would West give me up? When the child in my belly will save our world?” I gripped my head, rubbing away the pain.
“Because Laurel is alive.”
I opened my mouth, unable to form words.
“That shut you up, didn’t it? Yes, Laurel is alive. And she is in my world. Just as there are fountains- doors- in this world, there are doors to my world.”
West tensed beside me. “There was no body,” he said, the rage in his voice uncontrolled. “You took her.”
“You were weak. You left her unguarded. Not smart.”
Roam (Roam Series, Book One) Page 19
