by Mia Downing
Marek gestured to the stone in front of us, placed along the back fence. “So, what do you think of M.S. Storm’s stone? I assume that’s in your paper.”
I didn’t want to like this man, but he had to bring up another of my favorite subjects. “It’s one of my favorites.”
He nodded, and I caught a whiff of his scent, something masculine yet light and mixed with sweet tobacco. Unlike Todd’s cologne, this scent I liked. Maybe too much, since an odd warmth stirred again, skating across my skin to replace the anxiety.
Gesturing to the stone, he said, “I would assume your thesis would feature it, given the oddities surrounding this stone.”
“Yes.” God, I sounded stupid at best.
“So what draws you to that particular stone instead of others?”
I drew in a deep breath and thought about an answer. “The epitaph is poignant, and the error in the date of death date is unique. I mean, they had access to printed calendars, so why would someone make a mistake like February thirtieth? And the fact that the stone has initials and not a full, given name is odd. It’s a fascinating puzzle.”
Marek nodded again, his alluring scent wafting my way again. Conflicted, I wanted him to nod more, but I also wanted him to stop. “Well stated. Anything else?”
I drew my toe along a tree root as I contemplated what to say. “Well. It’s not constructed with the usual marble of this era. This was made from an excellent quality and thick slab of slate, and the etching looks like it was created yesterday. The quarries in this area didn’t produce this quality of slate.”
“Which means?”
“It was imported or treated somehow.”
He cocked his head, and the ghost of a smile formed on the gray slash of his lips. “I’m impressed. This should be quite the paper.”
My cheeks warmed with his praise, and I took a step closer. “I found another stone sort of like it, in a different cemetery in a neighboring town. Same epitaph, but different dates of course. But the quality of the stone is the same. I’m thinking they could be family or somehow related.”
He sat a little taller on Ike’s bench. “You did? Do you recall where?”
“Yes, on the road that goes down to the point. The cemetery is on the left, up on the hill.”
“I’ll have to check that out. Thank you.” He rose from the bench. I caught another whiff of faint male and spice as he bent in front of me to pick up something. He held out a white piece of plastic. “Is this yours?”
I took my ear bud from his long fingers, trying not to touch him. I wanted to, though, which was odd. I never wanted to touch anyone. “Yes, thank you.”
He took an easy step away, then turned. “I have a book that might be of use. It contains a survey of different graves from the area. If you want to borrow it, I could drop it off at the store.”
“I’d love that. Thank you, Mr. Young.”
“Call me Marek.”
I pursed my lips. “You’re a customer.”
“Well, maybe we can be friends.” He chuckled. “Besides, I’m only twenty-nine. Mr. Young is my father.”
I wasn’t sure about the “friends” part. His age surprised me, though. He had an air about him of someone older, more experienced, though he looked about that age.
He waited expectantly, so I bobbed my head awkwardly. “Okay then. Marek.”
“Good night, Skye.” He smiled and turned, heading through the split in the fence near M.S. Storm’s grave. Though few took that path, his house was that way, the famed Young Manor that overlooked the cove.
I frowned as he shuffled through the leaves and whistled, a total three-sixty from his soundless approach.
I forced the frown from my lips as his whistled notes faded. Though that encounter had been odd, it had gone better than I had expected. I’d gotten a book I needed out of it. I also liked him, but I shoved that aside. I had no need for men at this point in my life. Except for research materials. I could justify that.
Maybe Marek’s appearance in my life would be a turn for the better.
Marek
I spoke to her.
I couldn’t keep the joy out of my step as I headed down the dirt path toward the manor. I knew the way in the dark, and I had nothing to fear from anyone lurking. I had training and a knife attached to my belt. And now, I had hope for my future.
Her voice… She’d picked up the accent from this time, so different from her British accent, but it suited her. She was as cautious as ever, but I’d drawn her out with the mention of a few of her favorite things. We both hated the boring, October sky and loved anything to do with history and mysteries. I had the book she wanted, but I wasn’t going to drop it off at the shop. I wasn’t sure what I’d do next, but I’d solve that part of the plan later.
For now, it had been enough to be close to her, to catch a trace of her scent—a mix of lavender and vanilla. I’d wanted to touch her, to hold her, but she probably would have drawn her knife and slit my throat. This Skye would be just as ruthless when threatened. I loved that about her.
Maybe she didn’t remember me, but she remembered the essence of us, contained in that gravestone hidden in the back of the cemetery. She didn’t remember picking out that slab, helping me choose a font to engrave on the tablet with our name. To the Association of the Gifted in the future, we were M.S. Storm, the two of us creating a team entity as we time traveled. The vines that wove up the sides of the slab of slate matched the stained-glass border in the library at the manor. The bogus dates…well, those did not bode well for our current situation.
I paused at the intersection where the path split. The other path led to the point. This branch led to the manor house and was protected by a wrought iron gate with an old lock. I fumbled with the key and eventually went through the gate, choosing to withdraw a flashlight for the last bit of this journey. In this section, the woods thickened with undergrowth, and I preferred not to trip on a tree root.
I had a lot of planning ahead, which I relished. With limited time and energy, I had to make the most of possible ways to worm back into her heart and her memories, all while dodging her prickly suspicions. I saw this as a challenge, too.
Challenge accepted, Skye.
Skye
At work the next day, I took a break from the front desk to check email and to follow up a lead on a book that Marek had wanted me to find for him last week. Now that my mysterious customer had a face and a voice, the emails felt…different.
I spent a moment looking back through them. I had always thought him to be older, balding with a white beard and wrinkles around his eyes from years of squinting at small print. Not my almost my age and…well, eye-candy. I hated admitting that Grace was right, but our quick conversation in the cemetery had tipped the scales. He had a brain, and I liked that more than rock-hard abs or a nice ass.
Nothing in his emails seemed unusual. He requested books. I found them and responded with the pertinent information. Well…the requests were unusual, because the guy didn’t want what everyone else wanted. Buyers of old books liked first editions in pristine condition, hopefully signed by the author.
Not this guy. He had me search for the most obscure books with notes in the margins. They weren’t first edition, and they definitely weren’t pristine. And he was looking for notes on certain pages, too. He’d have me email the seller with a list of information. If the book had it, he’d often pay double what they wanted for it. And if the book had been owned by a certain individual—M.S. Storm from the 1880s and early 1890s—he was even more excited.
I had found it odd at first that a gravestone I knew well was connected to the mysterious Marek Young. But from looking at the books I had secured for him, I gleaned that M.S. Storm had also been researching our resident pirate, Lofty Blue. So, the two had that in common.
As I finished up a dead-end lead on the latest book Mr. Young—Marek—wanted, an email came in from him. I opened it and sat back in shock.
It read: Have dinner with me
. Tomorrow at seven at the diner. I have the book I promised and something to discuss. That was it. No greeting, no salutation.
My heart pounded as I looked to make sure it had come from Mr. Young’s email and not a spam account. It had.
Every anxious nerve inside me screamed, “No.” But the curious side yearned to say yes, to find out more about who this man was, why he wanted to have dinner with me, and what on Earth could he want to discuss with me of all people.
Hastily, I did what I always did when faced with such decisions. I made a list of pros and cons. There were a lot more pros, which irked the anxious side of me. It was a public place. He was a client. Mr. Dexter would be angry if I turned down a liaison with such an important client. He was eye- and brain-candy. I could have Grace on speed dial in case things went awry.
The cons list was pitiful and centered around my anxiety. What if he was a modern-day Jack the Ripper? Granted, I wasn’t a prostitute, and this wasn’t Victorian England, but lesser meetings had led to dire endings. What if I said something to piss him off and that ended our business relationship? Mr. Dexter would have something to say about that.
Another email from Marek hit my in-box.
It read: Pros to having dinner with me: Free meal. Mr. Dexter will be pleased with the fostering of a good business/client relationship. I have the book I promised. I have something else to discuss that you’d be interested in. I am not a murderer.
Cons to having dinner with me: There are none.
My throat went dry. My heart hammered double time as I looked over my shoulder to see if anyone was looking, but the hallway was vacant. How the hell would he know I was making a pros/cons list?
Another email hit my in-box, and my fingers trembled as I opened it.
Pro: I’ll tell you how I know you make lists. Join me, Skye. There’s nothing to lose.
“Grace?” I called.
“Yeah?” She came into the backroom with a frown. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. Everything. I don’t know.”
“Well, you sound like everything is wrong.”
I pointed to the computer screen, scrolling it so she could see the first and second emails from Marek.
She bent for a better look and whistled low.
“Creepy, right?” I prompted.
“Maybe…but he could have a valid way of knowing you make lists. I mean, it’s your thing. Just like hanging out in the cemetery.”
It was my thing. I made lists for everything. And I’d filled Grace in about our discussion last night, so she was up to speed.
“But how would he know about the lists?” Grace’s thought about the cemetery was he had eaten at the diner and cut through the path on the way home, since it was shorter to go that way. He walked a lot around town, and he’d mentioned that fact to her at some point in the past. That made sense, though I was still skeptical.
“He said he’d tell you, so that’s not creepy.” She tapped the screen. “More importantly, you scored a date with Mr. Sexy.”
“He’s not sexy.” I did find him attractive. I wasn’t sure how attractive, though. Sex hadn’t always been a successful entity for me. Many times bitten, very shy.
“Not in a Mr. Darcy sort of way?”
I sighed. “You know I was never fond of Mr. Darcy. I don’t think Elizabeth should have married him. He was prideful and arrogant.”
“But she did. If she had remembered that not everything is as it appears, she would have seen he wasn’t truly a dick and would have married him the first time he proposed.”
“Maybe.” I blinked as I looked at the screen. “Wait. Is that aimed at me? Maybe he’s not a creepy dick, and I should give him a chance?”
“There you go.” She straightened. “Look, you may not know him well, but I’ve spent a lot of time talking to him over the past year. He’s bookish and smart in a nice way that’s right up your alley. He’s not interested in me, or I’d climb that man like a tree. So all I can do is hope you two hit it off in your own weird, nerdy way.”
“Should I thank you for that blessing?”
“Yes.” The bell over the front door rang, and Grace headed out to wait on the customers.
I stared at the computer screen again and hit the reply button. The cursor blinked larger than life on the white background, tempting me to say yes.
Okay, I had nothing to lose if I said yes. I’d gain a book I needed. He had some information to discuss. Maybe it was just about books he wanted to buy, or better yet, an explanation as to why he bought the bottom-of-the barrel editions that few people wanted.
I slowly typed: I’ll see you at 7:15. The store closes at seven.
Stupid, Skye. He knew that. That’s probably why he’d said seven. I just had to cross the street on the other side of the bookstore, and I’d be there.
I backspaced and then typed: I’ll see you then.
There. Simple, succinct. Not too eager or interested but accepting. It was probably rude, but I’d learned that those who really wanted to get to know me would see past my occasional prickliness. Grace had done that.
I hit send.
Chapter three
Marek
This was it. Dinner. An actual date with the woman I was married to in a different time.
But I wasn’t married to Skye here, in this time. Here, I was just a creepy stranger who had to cover his tracks on why I knew so much about her.
I settled into the red, faux-leather booth to wait, the light from the red, neon Open sign splashing onto the stainless-steel interior. I was alone in the diner except for Molly, the waitress, who rubbed her rag over the stainless-steel prep area in time to the soft music playing in the background. Tonight, everyone from the village ate at Carleton’s down by the cove, partaking in their “Fresh Catch Thursday” feast. I could have taken Skye there, but this was quiet and less threatening.
And filled with potential memories since the place hadn’t changed really since the fifties. Same interior, though they’d replaced the appliances with new ones, and the booths had been reupholstered with fake leather. Heck, Molly had probably worked here then as a teen. We had eaten here often during our layovers, sitting in this very booth together. The food now lacked that fresh, farm taste, but it would be okay.
“You want coffee?” Molly asked as she continued her task, her rag never missing a swirl.
“Not yet. I’m waiting for someone.”
“Suit yourself.” She turned and whisked through a swinging door to the back, calling something as the door soundlessly flapped behind her.
I fiddled with my watch, the cuff of the leather strap wide yet comfortable against my wrist. I’d always had a nervous habit of adjusting it, of checking to ensure it was still a part of me. Would she recognize it for what it was, or would it only be a Steampunk accessory to her?
The rest of my outfit was unmemorable—a striped linen shirt, tailored pants, and a jacket. It was a little fancy for this era, but I didn’t want to go too casual on a “date.” I also wore a pocket watch to keep the real time. The watch on my wrist only marked where I had been in the past or future.
The clock over the jukebox marked seven exactly. I glanced out the window just as the lights in the bookstore went dark. She’d be arriving soon. I didn’t think she’d stand me up. I was a client, so manners trumped her fears. And when she got over her trepidation, she’d be curious about what I wanted to discuss, about my knowledge of her lists…oh, yes.
The bell over the door rang, and a blast of October chill preceded Skye. Her coppery hair was pulled back from her face, her paleness accentuated by the high-necked, black sweater she wore under a black jacket and over black pants. She rubbed her hands together as if to warm them, and her gaze immediately found mine, locking with that instant, steely assessment that would wither a lesser man. Her hands froze in mid-rub.
I sat taller, though, my heart pounding in my throat as I fought to keep my wits together. This meeting would make or break the next few weeks. I
couldn’t be weak, though I wanted nothing more than to sink to my knees at her feet and beg her forgiveness.
Those were my sins, though. I needed to bear them and forge on.
Instead, I gave her the faintest hint of a smile and rose, indicating the booth seat across from me with the flick of my wrist. Her chin rose, and she took off her jacket as she walked the ten steps down the black-and-white tile floor.
“Skye. Thank you for coming,” I said, my voice strong yet low with not a single wobble in tone. Oh, my knees trembled, but I could do this.
She placed a small, beaded bag and her coat far into the booth and slid in after them. She sat ramrod straight, her hands folded on the Formica table. “Thank you for inviting me.”
Still standing, I retrieved a piece of paper from my jacket pocket and slid it across the table to her. “Let’s start here, to ease the tension.”
She cocked a brow as she stared at it.
I lowered into my seat and shoved the paper closer. “It’s how I know you make lists. To prove I’m not a creepy murderer.”
Her hands unlaced deliberately as if contemplating whether or not to take it. I held my breath until her trembling fingers took the paper, unfolding it with an eagerness I had missed so dreadfully.
“You left that in one of the books you had purchased for me,” I explained. “I had assumed it was yours as it’s the same handwriting as the bills and other notes you’d left for me on purpose.”
The sheet held a list of pros and cons for buying her car. The cons section worried that the car seller was a murderer, mentioning a popular crime show. I cleared my throat. “I saw that episode where the killer used the selling of his car as a means to collect his victims. To be honest, it scared the hell out of me.”
Her light-blue eyes lifted from the page to meet mine, and her expression softened a little as the tension seeped from her shoulders. “I have an active imagination. Or so I’m told.”
“You have every right to be worried for your safety. Did you buy the car?” I asked, although I knew the answer.
