Return Once More (9 page)

Sadly, it didn't do much for a girl drowning in nerves and excitement and the tiniest bit of guilt, so I'm sure much of its appeal slid right over my head.

The waves in the bay lapped gently at the shore. In the distance, across a narrow expanse of water, the royal palace glowed in the early morning sunshine. Caesarion was in there. His mother had just died and his life was falling apart, but he was there. My True.

The clean breeze buffered my overheated cheeks and I gulped air, pulling the freshness into my lungs. Oxygen was one of the best things about traveling to Earth Before. Real air. And nothing beat breathing it near the water.

All of the planets on Genesis had been terraformed with a manufactured oxygen mixture that was recycled, cleaned, and spewed back into the false atmosphere. The air tasted vaguely discarded, tinged with overuse and the sour flavor of other people's lungs. My grandfather likened it to breathing on an airplane.

I'd never noticed it until my first observation. Zeke took everyone their first time, and he'd herded Oz, Jess, Analeigh, Sarah, Levi, Peyton, and me atop a Mayan pyramid in 600 CE. They'd been in the midst of constructing a burial mound for their fresh dead, and we'd toiled alongside the workers for the better part of a morning.

We'd broken stone and rock, hauled it up and down barely formed steps, and sweated under the Central American sun. The heat was stifling, not unlike Egypt today, but the way the air tasted—untouched and virginal, like the purest form of anything—had mesmerized me. The morning had flown by and we'd landed back in the air lock too soon, suddenly disgusted by the metallic tinge of the oxygen that kept us alive.

I loved the taste of the ocean.

My glasses went invisible with a light tap. I could have left them at home since there was no way I was recording anything that happened today—no evidence—but their displays and information were invaluable if trouble did pop up.

I turned my back on the lighthouse and then headed toward the bridge that connected it to mainland Egypt, enjoying the squish of sand and seaweed under my soft sandals. The Temple of Isis lurched from the ground in front of me, a massive but not particularly pretty structure of brown-and-tan mud brick. Twin guardians flanked the entrance, each seated in front of an ornately carved panel. Multiple sets of stone staircases, bright tiled roofs, and what appeared to be some kind of guard tower decorated the interior grounds. I could have pulled a detailed map up in my mind through the bio-tat, but drinking it in with nothing but my own eyes satisfied me. What each building contained no longer mattered, and simply seeing it was new and perfect.

The temple to the goddess, set high in the center, rose up inside the plain and sturdy outer walls. Impressive columns ran down the sides and the detailed images carved into their tops, the golden sculptures peering at me from the safety of Isis's walls, distracted me to the point that I tripped. My dress tore and the pebbled ground ripped the skin from my knee, leaving it bloody.

“Damn,” I cursed under my breath.

It didn't come out that way. It came out in ancient Greek, one of the more common languages in Alexandria during this period. Most inhabitants of the city would also understand and speak Aramaic, Egyptian, and even Hebrew, depending on their interaction with the Jews. My people, I supposed, though none of us thought of ourselves as anything but citizens of Genesis.

I checked my knees, trying to clean them as best I could. Hopefully the injury wouldn't complicate the contamination check when I returned to Sanchi. Time would be tight, and a forced shower could be the tipping point. I brushed the dirt and stone dust off my palms and continued walking, taking more care as I crossed the
hepta-stadium
to the mainland.

The sight of the library—the most famous in human history, perhaps, and one of our most tragic losses until Georg Trout stumbled on the formula that made time travel possible—stopped me in my tracks. The histories and stories and scrolls that had been lost when nature dumped the coastline of Alexandria into the sea were now carefully catalogued with all of the other documents in the Archives on Sanchi. There was a backup of the entire system on Tanis, too. Our civilization took care with the information it had taken years to amass and store.

In this world, the scrolls remained safe and sound, at home in the library that rose five or six stories above the shore. Awe made my jaw drop to my chest like some kind of cartoon character. Multiple arches and rows of columns decorated the façade. A crop of palm trees—or maybe date trees—sprouted front and center, obscuring the primary entrance from the road. It looked exactly as a library should look: stately, sturdy, and sprawling, as though it had every intention of expanding along with the knowledge housed inside.

It pulled at me, begging me to go in, to spend hours among the scrolls, but I didn't have hours. If I wasn't back by Reflection class they would come looking for me. If I wanted to see my True's face, it needed to happen fast. Then things could go back to normal.

The sun climbed as I hiked toward the palace, my feet picking up the pace as sweat dripped down the side of my face. I brushed it away with the back of my hand, leaving a trace of rough sand on my wet skin. Once I reached the finger of land that supported the palace and its grounds, it became clear why it had not survived.

The enormous living quarters, gardens, temples, and various outbuildings perched precariously on an isthmus jutting out into the water. It had simply crumbled away, the same way erosion, combined with earthquakes, had stolen Southern California in 2210 and then half of Louisiana in 2440.

It was hard to believe all of this would one day rest at the bottom of the ocean.

I'd spent the walk scrolling through historical data in my mind, but hadn't yet figured out where Caesarion might be at this time of day. The official records lacked confirmed details about his movements, but I still had common sense and historical training to fall back on. Caesarion's mother had died earlier this morning. Even thinking about losing my mother twisted my heart, swelled panic into my throat.

If she died, I would seek peace. Time alone, before facing the expectations of the world.

I headed for the immense palace gardens without thinking too hard about the choice. They would hide him, give him privacy to express the severity of his loss. My state of dress should allow me access to the grounds. No one would suspect a lady in broad daylight, and I could easily pass for one of the hundreds of concubines who lived in the royal palace.

What if he was a royal jerk? What if I saw Caesarion and felt nothing and all, and this entire trip became nothing but a worthless risk?

No. Maybe those things would happen, but I wasn't turning around before I knew for sure.

I forced my feet the final steps to the gates. My heart pounded so loud it hurt my ears but the palace guards, dressed in animal-skin sarongs with weapons strapped to their bare chests and hips, barely spared me a glance as I entered.

Fifty years into life on Genesis, and as a girl, I still felt dismissed on occasion. It turned out the inclination to judge someone based on their anatomy ran deeper than any other prejudice in our species, and expunging gender discrimination had been the hardest task of the Genesis establishment team. But in Caesarion's world, my femaleness allowed me access to private grounds that would have been barred to me if I had a penis. Thank you, vagina.

I'd worried Caesarion would still be in his rooms, or already gone from the city. I wound through the lush gardens, dizzy from the cloying perfume on the sea breeze and the lack of sense in my brain, knowing I would never work up the nerve to try another time if I didn't find him this morning. My crushing disappointment lifted at the sight of a figure underneath a sagging date tree. It was a boy, seated on a stone bench in front of a burbling fountain. My heart slammed into my ribs, and my mouth went dry. What felt like a million tiny little magnets came alive under my skin, tugged me toward the still form, but walking with knees made of water proved impossible.

Something deep in the core of me recognized him, even without seeing his face.

Caesarion.

Nothing the geneticists or Sarah or anything ever written about Trues had prepared me for this experience. For this feeling of knowing someone else with a glance, for seeing my whole future open up in front of me. My body felt exposed, all of my nerves open and raw as I stared, rooted in place by a pleasant, buzzing terror.

A tunic of dark purple linen covered his slumped, shaking shoulders and his black hair was shaved close to his scalp. Sadness surrounded him like a cloak, diffusing into the air and burning in my throat. An innate desire to comfort him drew me forward even though I should have turned around the moment it became clear we were alone together.

He heard my footsteps and swiveled his head. Midnight-blue eyes flicked to me for the briefest of seconds, so fogged with grief I doubted they registered much of anything. Then he waved a dismissive hand in my general direction. “You're very pretty, but passing the morning with you won't fix anything. Leave me.”

The air between us felt charged, left me short of breath, as though someone had punched all of the oxygen from my body. I dug my fingernails into the rough bark of a date palm to try to anchor myself, but it didn't help. He'd noticed me. Spoken to me.
Shit.

I was in big, fat trouble.

Even though the brain stem tat insisted I leave, that Caesarion—Pharaoh—had dismissed me, moving required muscle control, which required oxygen, which required breathing, and basic motor function felt like the vaguest of concepts. I wasn't connected to my body, somehow.

Then the reason for his dismissal struggled through the haze, and it felt like an elephant kicked me in the stomach—he thought me a concubine, dispatched to ease his sorrow.

Heat flooded my cheeks. Tingles spread through my skin as I tried to back away from this boy who inhabited a world so impossibly different from mine. Apparently the wardrobe of a lady and a prostitute didn't differ all that much around these parts, but regardless, this wasn't going as planned. Starting with the fact that I was absolutely, positively not supposed to be talking to him.

I glanced up at the sky, waiting for things to start blowing up. For the future to start changing here and now because of what I've done.

Nothing happened. Yet.

Caesarion's long fingers curled into fists where they rested on his thighs. His rigid posture signaled his annoyance—perhaps at being glimpsed in his grief, perhaps because I still stood, rooted to the ground at his back. And despite his dismissive, superior air, when he said
leave me
, I heard
leave me alone
. I ached with the knowledge that his mother had just died, that the foundations of his world had been crumbling for the better part of his life, and they were about to wash completely away.

I didn't want to leave him. He didn't have to be alone.

My fear of breaking the no-contact rule, verbal or otherwise, asserted itself even though I badly wanted to correct his rather insulting—at least to me—assumption. Not interacting was the first and most often repeated regulation pounded into our apprentice heads, and offended or not, my tongue might as well have been sawdust.

Before I could obey the bio tat's commands to keep silent and turn tail, Caesarion stood on strong legs. I had a brief impression of shorter stature, a sinewy covering of tanned muscle, and an enticing air of power before he stepped over the stone bench separating us and grabbed me.

His fingers bit into the flesh of my upper arm. Terror looped around my heart in a tight coil, squeezing as pain spiked in the base of my skull. I squeaked as the bio tat's attempt to force me away from my True's touch almost dropped me to my knees. I gazed up into his face, trying to gauge his intent, or how to escape this situation gone suddenly, horribly wrong, and realized his eyes were closed. I stilled, mesmerized by the sight of his long, black lashes against his ruddy cheeks.

“Maybe it
could
help,” he muttered. Pain trickled over his face like a dozen rivers that connected in his eyes, spilling a lone tear down his cheek.

His mouth landed hard on mine before I could think to struggle.

The war between pain and pleasure, between panic and desire, tried to rip me in half. My blood came alive at the feeling of his lips against mine, racing and boiling, aching like it wanted to reach out and touch its likeness in Caesarion's veins. His lips were soft but demanding, devouring mine in a way that made the earth spin under my feet. The magnetism between us raised the hair over every inch of my skin.

But as he loosened his grip to slide his arms around my back, tugging me closer, the sudden, sharp stab of agony through my brain ripped a whimper from my throat. The pain cleared my mind. Indignation at being manhandled strengthened my stupid swoony muscles and I planted my palms on Caesarion's chest and shoved.

He stumbled back, dusky eyes open and really seeing me for the first time. They filled with a wild confusion that looked as intense and debilitating as mine.

“What's wrong?” he inquired in Greek.

His voice flowed like honey, thick and sweet with an unexpected undertone of kindness. I swallowed hard and pressed a hand to my chest, begging my heart to return to a healthy pace. The storm of lust and fear and guilt and wonder refused to be calmed, and the uncertainty on Caesarion's face shuffled toward concern.

“What's wrong?” he tried again, in Egyptian this time, then again in Aramaic when he received no response.

Tears flooded my eyes. The situation had spiraled so far out of control. I bit my lip, wanting to answer, knowing I shouldn't. Trying to decide what further harm talking could possibly do. Wondering whether I wanted to be paired with the kind of man who would have sex with a woman he'd never laid eyes on, the kind of man who assumed my body could be used for his pleasure.