Out of Time (13 page)

“Tomorrow? Surely you’re not thinking of going back there?”

“Surely I am.”

“Elizabeth—”

“Simon,” she said and stopped walking. “We’ve already had this conversation, and I’m too tired for a repeat performance. I know you don’t like me having this job, but I have it. We need it. And besides, Charlie already paid me for the week. And I ain’t no welsher,” she added with a grin.

Simon frowned, intent on not being swayed by her smile. “You are the most stubborn, pig-headed, obdurate woman I have ever met.”

“You forgot bull-headed.”

Simon shook his head. There was no use arguing with her tonight. She yawned, and he noticed for the first time how tired she looked. Her eyes were beginning to glass over, and her slim shoulders curled forward weighted with fatigue. She’d taken on all of the responsibility, and he’d done nothing but berate her for it.

“I realize I haven’t been exactly supportive of your decisions the last few days, but I do…I wanted to…thank you.”

Elizabeth smiled and touched his arm tentatively before pulling away. “You’re very welcome.” She stifled another yawn. “We better get me to bed before I turn into a pumpkin.”

“To bed,” he agreed and then realized how that might have sounded. “Right. Well then.” He gestured nervously down the street, and they walked home in companionable silence.

Exhausted, Elizabeth took a quick bath and then fell asleep almost before her head hit the pillow. Simon watched the gentle rise and fall of her chest. The corners of her mouth were turned up in a quiet smile. She looked so peaceful, so beautiful. Only in the dim predawn light would he allow himself such thoughts. Well, that wasn’t quite true really.

He remembered the way she looked at the club. Every curve of her figure leading his eyes to the next. He’d drunk them in greedily. He couldn’t help himself. Unassumingly seductive, she had no idea what she did to him. How his body reacted to her nearness. How when she’d moved so close, he could have closed his eyes and still felt her presence. Still felt the desire. He almost wished he had kissed her. Maybe if he could taste her once, he could get her out of his system. Be free from the endless thoughts of what might be. It was folly, of course. He knew there wouldn’t be just one kiss. Not that it mattered. She deserved a better man than he could ever be. He was carved from an old stone. Rough hewn edges and a cold, hard center.

Elizabeth’s gentle snoring interrupted his thoughts. She rolled onto her side, moving closer to him. Her arm snaked out from under the covers and fell onto his chest. His breath caught at the intimate touch, but that wasn’t the worst of it. She wiggled closer still, and snuggled her head into the crick of his shoulder, her warm breath fluttering against his neck.

Even a stone can feel heat.

He could smell the clean fragrance of her soap and feel the silk of her hair as it brushed against his neck. She felt so wonderful against him, the gentle pressure of her along his side. It was far too tempting to slip his arm around her, to give himself over to the feeling of her in his arms. But it was a pleasure that wasn’t his to take. If his performance at the club were any indication, he desperately needed to keep her at a distance. He couldn’t afford to let his guard down. His brain was muddled enough as it was. His heart couldn’t take one more blow. And he knew it would happen. He could never forget that. Time was his enemy, slowly inching toward the inevitable, the culmination of his nightmares. A week? A month? A year? The end would come.

Elizabeth shifted again in her sleep. He rolled away from her onto his side and closed his eyes.

Tennyson was wrong. Sometimes, it would be better never to have loved at all.

BARELY A RIPPLE DISTURBED the surface of the water. The sun shone brightly and soft puffs of clouds drifted lazily across a cerulean sky. Simon sat alone in a small rowboat. Only thirty feet away, Elizabeth drifted in her own. She smiled gently and waved to him. He loved the ease of the day, the mild rolling motion of his boat as it bobbed slowly in the water. Elizabeth leaned back and raised her face to the warm sun. She looked like an art deco goddess, her lithe figure in a pose of supplication to the sky above. He wanted to be with her, by her side, and started to row his boat closer. His boat cut easily through the water. The small wake it created pushed gentle swells toward the distant shore.

A billowing cloud slipped in front of the sun and cast a dark shadow over the water. Simon felt the beginnings of a cold wind sweep across the bow of his boat. It sent chills across his skin. His desire to be with her blossomed into need. He dug his oars into the water and watched as they sliced into the murky depths.

The wind grew colder, stronger. He looked for Elizabeth, but she was further away, not nearer. Her boat had turned away from his, as if pulled on an invisible string toward the horizon. He should have been getting closer, but with each moment that passed, she was further and further away.

The icy wind bit into his cheeks. He gripped the oars more tightly and deepened his stroke, plunging them into the water. The harder he struggled, the rougher the water became. Another cloud, larger than the last, darkened the sky. Whitecaps broke over the growing swells like angry mouths searching for something to sink into.

Simon fought against the roiling sea and called out to Elizabeth. But the wind was fierce and threw the sound back at him. Her tiny boat rocked back and forth, drifting further and further away. She gripped the gunwales as a large wave nearly capsized her. Simon called out again as he struggled to reach her. She must have heard him this time, because she turned and cried out, but any sound was lost in the wind.

Rowing desperately, Simon’s muscles burned. The cold wind sliced into his face, and his fingers ached with the effort. But none of it mattered; he had to reach her. She called out again and held up her hand, urging him to stop. But it was too late. He looked down into the water and saw the small wave he’d created growing larger and larger until it became a huge wave, heading straight for her boat.

The cresting water was too powerful and crashed into her, flipping the boat over. Simon called out again and strained to see her. His boat was finally making progress. He rowed with all his heart and when he saw a glimpse of color his heart soared. But as he drew closer, the color grew brighter. A scarlet red, blossoming like a stain.

Blood.

Her body bobbed to the surface. A wave rolled her onto her back. Her bloody, lifeless face stared back at him.

“No!” he cried and lunged forward. The covers fell off his body, as he sat up with a start.

“Wha? What? Simon?” Elizabeth said breathlessly.

He panted furiously and twisted around to see Elizabeth awake and alive by his side. He gripped her tightly by the shoulders.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, trying to blink herself awake.

He searched her face, desperate to reassure himself she was all right. The horrible gash and lifeless eyes he envisioned in his dream overlaid her worried face. For a moment, the two images existed together in grotesque harmony. He clamped his eyes shut and when he opened them again, the nightmare was gone.

“Nothing,” he said. “Just a nightmare.” He released his iron grip on her and tried to calm his thundering heart.

“Mmmm,” she said, rubbing her eyes. “What happened?”

Simon looked down at his shaking hands and wound them into the sheet. “I don’t remember,” he lied. In fact, he remembered every horrifying detail. That unnerved him more than anything else. All his other nightmares had been vague at best, disturbing images that faded quickly. This dream was still vivid in his mind. Too vivid. “I’m sorry I woke you. Go back to sleep.”

“You’re okay?”

“Fine. Go back to sleep.”

Elizabeth yawned and lay back down. “Just think good thoughts. You’re in a field of wildflowers,” she mumbled into her pillow. “Lots of…”

He glanced over at her, still amazed at her ability to fall asleep so effortlessly. He watched her burrow under the covers and curl up on her side of the bed.

Letting out a long breath, he lay back. The damn nightmares were getting worse. At first, he’d tried to write them off as nothing more than subconscious manifestations of his inner turmoil. But the frequency and power of them foretold something much more sinister. He’d studied the occult far too long to overlook the significance. Portents and harbingers of death were part of his stock and trade. But objective, intellectual discovery and personal experience were far different things. And it wasn’t as if this were the first time either. His grandfather had died days after his first night terror. He’d been too young and traumatized to see the correlation. And now, he felt like that frightened boy he had been thirty years ago. He simply couldn’t bear that sort of loss again. Elizabeth was alive, but the nightmares still came. Try as he might to rationalize and deny it, there was a truth in the dreams he couldn’t escape.

He fought against sleep and the horrors it brought. Eventually, he lost the struggle and fell once again into the world of nightmares.

King Kashian leaned back in his chair and stared at the ancient Egyptian relief of the goddess Isis that adorned the far wall. On the other side of the desk, one of his men droned on in his daily report, but King’s mind was elsewhere.

He’d been searching for his own Isis for the last eight years, someone who could rule at his side, someone who could breathe life into him again. But New York was dull and filled with the same women it had been before. Small people with small lives. Insignificant and thoroughly uninteresting.

Although, he thought, remembering the girl he’d seen at the club, there was one who showed promise. She
was
different. He couldn’t put his finger on what exactly what it was about her, but something about her called to him. At the very least, she might provide an amusing diversion from the tediousness of day to day existence.

“…And the Taglianis are plannin’ somethin’, boss,” his man said, bringing his focus back.

King’s eyes shifted to him. Victor was a lump of human clay—gray and indistinct. As banal on the inside as he was on the outside. He was, however, the perfect soldier, having virtually no mind of his own and a penchant for unspeakable violence.

“I’m tellin’ ya,” Victor continued, “they’re tryin’ to edge in. You gotta cut ’em off. Let ’em know what’s what.”

King smiled thinly. Did this idiot think him as thick as he was, as uninspired as his rivals were? “Is that what I’ve gotta do?” King said slowly.

Victor had at least enough good sense to trip over himself as he backtracked. “I didn’t mean nuttin’. You know what’s best, boss. I-I’m just sayin’—”

King waved his hand and Victor obediently fell silent.

The man might have been a dullard, but he was right in one thing. If King allowed the Tagliani family to think they could encroach on his territory, it would be a sign of weakness and the other families would test his borders as well.

King sat forward. “Find one of them. I don’t care who it is. And bring him to me. I’ll take care of this, personally.”

Victor’s face broke into a broad grin. “You got it, boss.”

Just as Victor rose to do his bidding there was a knock at the door.

“Yes?” King said.

The door opened to reveal another of King’s men and a delivery man with a hand truck and a crate.

“He tried to leave it at the desk,” his man said.

King put his hands flat on his desk. “Did he?”

The delivery man shook his head. “I was just—”

King motioned for him to be silent and for them to come into the office. He looked at the delivery man with narrowed eyes. “You thought you’d just leave it, did you?”

The man started to say yes, but thought better of it. Sweat was already breaking out on his upper lip.

King stood and moved around to lean against the front of his desk. He gestured for his man to open the crate. “You see we’ve had a bit of problem with deliveries lately. Things missing, broken. You can understand my…frustration.”

The man inched nervously to the side and King’s men pried off the crate’s lid. One of them pushed aside the wood shavings, pulled out a small box and handed it to King.

He’d been expecting a delivery of artifacts, but it had been delayed. Again. This had better be it, he thought as he opened the box. Nestled inside was a small scarab. The back was cracked as he’d expected, but it was exquisite. He turned it over in his hand and immediately recognized the cartouche—Isis.

It had taken him years to find, but it was finally his. He held the scarab in the palm of his hand. It was smaller than he’d imagined, but would make a perfect ring. A perfect ring for her.

One of his men continued to dig into the crate. “Uh-oh.”

King looked up to see him pull out a broken piece of alabaster and then its mate. He handed them to King, who frowned down at what had once been a precious vessel.

The delivery man let out a quick puff of air and then stepped forward quickly. “That must’ve been like that.”

King stood slowly. “Do you think I’d spend a thousand dollars on this?” he said as he held up the broken pieces. “Do you think I’m a fool?”

“I didn’t mean anything. I—”

“No, of course, not,” King said, handing the pieces to one of his men. “You just thought you could leave these for me and I’d be none the wiser. Is that it?”

“No, I didn’t—”

King held up one gloved finger and the man fell silent. The perspiration was beading on the man’s forehead now, the smell of fear thick in the air. Keeping his eyes fixed on the delivery man King asked for the room.

Obediently, quietly, his men left and closed the door behind them. The little delivery man squirmed in place like a worm on the end of a hook.

“I didn’t know. I would never…” he said, his words spilling out like blood from a gaping wound.

“And you never will,” King said as he slowly advanced on him.

The man’s blubbering stopped and his eyes went wide with fear.

“Oh, God,” he whispered.

“No,” King said. “Just me.”