The Curiosity Killers (26 page)

Wednesday, September 1, 2100, Avon, Vermont, NBE

Cob sat on the bed in Ben’s guest room as he waited for Violet to finish dressing and being briefed on the trip. He’d gone up here to rest, but no rest was available to him. His head pounded, and his vision grew dim around the edges.

It won’t be long. You’ve got to prepare yourself.

Rupert Cob was thirty years old. He’d seen centuries pass, learned the depths of long-buried secrets and mysteries, and now he was about to die.

He took a long, deep breath through his nose and released it through his mouth, willing the pain to subside.

I don’t care if I die, so long as it doesn’t hurt much more than this.

Pain was no stranger to him. Hangovers, sprains, and the effects of his trips…they clung to him now, like invisible scars. Pain was manageable, if he understood its source. Drink a bottle of whiskey, and the next day will be full of dehydration and nausea. Uncomfortable, but understandable, and he’d known the odds when he took the first sip of the night. But this, this incomprehensible pulsing from inside his brain, even if he let the neuroscientist explain it all to him again, it was still confusing and without direct, obvious source. Why should time travel do this to him? Was he already susceptible? Was he already at risk somehow, something to do with genetics? What if Violet went too many times, would this happen to her as well?

I’m not coming back alive. I’m going to die back there, five hundred years ago. My body is even now probably buried in North Carolina, among the fields on the island. I’m probably deep beneath a national park on Rénartian soil.

That last thought gripped him with sadness. It wasn’t the knowing he wasn’t coming back. It was that he wouldn’t be able to come back
here
, to Empire territory, to be laid to rest near family, however little they appeared to matter to him. It was his family’s money and legacy that let him live this life of adventure. Didn’t he owe it to them to end those adventures in the family plot, here in Vermont?

If the end starts to come, I won’t make Violet bring me back, but maybe I’ll make her leave me over there, with Phalène and her kind. Or, hell, who knows what should happen to me?

He smiled. The other side did seem a better place, a place of sunshine and imagination, where the Dares could bury him and he’d always be near the creatures who were the source of his last voluntary trip back in time. He’d paid Ben Jonson to let him find out whether Mothmen were real, and now he knew and could join them forever.

Cob winced as he rose from the bed, walking to the small writing desk on the other side of the room. The top of the desk was hinged, and he pulled it down to reveal several slots filled with different colors of stationery. Attached to one of the stationery compartments were two U-shaped iron fittings, carved with scrollwork, in which rested a fountain pen. He pulled a chair over and sat down, withdrawing a sheet of pale blue paper from its small shelf.

“I’m going to ask you to do something for me,” Cob’s pen scratched across the page. “I know, selfish to the very end, right? But, really, this is for you as much as it is for me.”

He continued to write, pausing each time the pain in his head became too much for him. Breathing deeply was a help, as was closing his eyes.

Dammit, I don’t want to be weak, not now.

They had to leave, and soon, while Cob was still strong enough. Above the writing desk was a window, overlooking the back garden and the roofs of the neighboring homes and businesses. Cob watched as a cardinal danced and fluttered on a branch, its bright red feathers standing out starkly against the pale blue of the midday sky.

A hundred birds, a thousand, a hundred thousand…they’ve all sat on that branch as the branch grew from a sapling to a tree to this ancient, centuries-old thing out there now. How many pairs of feet have walked the boards of these floors? Did the wood come from another tree, hacked down with an axe in the days of Poe and Polk, Waterhouse and Whitman?

Rupert Cob was shifting from life to history, and before the day was over, the transition would be complete.

He saw Thomas Warner’s young, drawn face before him, the man’s eyes shadowed, his cheeks hollowed, consumption or influenza raging through his gaunt frame. “The
late
Thomas Warner,” he’d joked. Now Cob thought of himself that way, the relic, the vestige, the man whose last duty was to sacrifice and die. Where time was concerned, he was already gone.

From downstairs, he heard voices, doors opening and closing, and urgent footsteps. One voice lilted high and sharp above some of the others; it sounded like Miss Moto was back in the building.

“This isn’t a time for strife,” he wrote, “or mourning, either.” He paused, resting the cap of the pen against his lips. He grinned and then continued to write. “God, that sounds trite,” he wrote. “When somebody reaches this point, they start to sound really damn pretentious. Please remember me as I was, not as this sentimental idiot.”

A gentle knock fell on the other side of the closed door. “Mister Cob? Are you awake?”

“Come in,” Cob said. He hastily scratched a few last lines, folded the letter, and put it in an envelope. He wrote Violet’s name on the front and turned around just as Vere opened the door. “Doc, can you hang onto something for me?”

~

Violet smoothed out her skirt, admiring the swaths of starched brown silk edged in crisp lace. “Where’d you get this?” she asked, turning to Ben.

He was looking at her face, not the outfit. The corner of his mouth formed a subtle half-smile.

His eyes are so brown.

She cleared her throat, her embarrassment immediate and distinct, as if she’d said the words aloud.

He can’t tell what I was thinking
.

But could she tell what he thought?

That smile was not the smile of someone content that all details of a business deal or an investigation were going well. That was the smile of a man gazing upon the object of his affection.

“Ben? The dress? Where’d it come from?” she tried again.

“Hmm?” He seemed to wake up from a trance or a dream. “Oh, well, you know, research. It’s what I do. I think that one Kris helped me piece together from thrift store finds and then anything that wasn’t perfect we made.”

Violet drew back. “You
made
parts of this?”

Ben shrugged. “Kris can knit lace. I…” He laughed and hung his head. “I sew.”

“
Wow
.” Violet’s laughter joined Ben’s. “Learning a lot about you today, Mister Jonson.”

And about myself.

She finished pinning her hair according to the woodcut in Ben’s book on the Roanoke colonists. The woman pictured had a sweet face, not quite round and not quite angular, with sad eyes and a gentle smile.

“Do you think she’ll find me familiar?” Violet asked. She laughed again. “That’s dumb, I know. I…well, did you ever meet someone who looked like they could be your relative, even though they weren’t? I wonder if she’d see me and think something like that, that’s all.”

“I don’t know,” Ben replied. He straightened his cravat and tugged at the neck of his shirt. “God, how did people wear this stuff? I feel like I’m choking.”

“Here, you’ve got the top button done wrong, I think.” Violet crossed the room and peered at Ben’s shirt. “You’ve got the second button in the top buttonhole. No wonder you’re choking. Can you—”

“What, like this?” Ben fumbled at the button beneath his cravat.

“Here, just—” Violet reached out and slid the top of the cravat from its position. Her hand brushed Ben’s, and a spark of electricity shocked them both. “Oh!” Startled, Violet stepped back again. “Sorry, it’s the carpet, I suppose,” she mumbled.

“No, those shoes have no rubber insulation,” Ben said, gesturing at her feet.

She pointed at his neck. “Just, I think you know what to do, right?”

Ben nodded. “You’d better find Eddy and get started. I’ll be along.”

Violet scurried from the wardrobe room to the lab down the hall.

Stupid, stupid, stupid. Focus. Besides, what about Cob?

“Hey there,” Cob greeted her as she entered. “You all set?”

He looked even more ill than he did earlier in the day, his skin pale except beneath his eyes and in the hollows of his cheeks, where it was bluish and ashy.

“Ben’s still finishing,” Violet said.

Vere emerged from the opposite door. “Benoy isn’t going,” he said. “We have to keep him healthy for a later trip in case there are complications.”

“But I think he believes he’s—”

“
No
.” Vere was firm. He and Cob exchanged a look. “Mister Cob can handle the barrier between the worlds, and you need to assist him. You haven’t traveled so much that you’re in any danger, and neither has Benoy.”

“So it’s repeated time travel that…” Violet gazed at Cob, her chest now aching. “I thought, I mean, I wasn’t sure, but…really? That’s what’s wrong with you?”

“We don’t know,” Cob said. His voice was rough. He looked away. “I’ll be fine, right, doc?”

“Son, I think it’s time to be completely honest with everyone,” Vere said. He put a hand on Violet’s shoulder. “There’s a chance Benoy or I may have to retrieve you alone.”

“What? No!” Violet squirmed away from Vere. “Cob, no, you’re going to be
fine
. Let’s do this. Ben.”

“No, no Ben,” Cob said. “Just you and me against the world, kid.” He took her hand in his. “Doc, can you give us like two seconds?”

“I have to get my backup battery regardless,” Vere said, shuffling back outside.

“Violet, I…I’m no good at this stuff,” Cob said. “But don’t pin any hopes on me, even though I think you know I—”

Violet took his face her in her hands and silenced him with a kiss.

Thursday, May 11, 1587, Roanoke Island, British colony

It didn’t look that different from places she was used to. Campgrounds, hiking trails, state parks…Violet took in the edges of the colony grounds and saw nothing remarkable, except for the knowledge that the woods ringing the walls and gates were, in her time, shopping centers and hotels. What she thought of as civilization was still unknown. And yet this was where and when she was born; this was where, if not for Claudio Florence’s plans, she would have died.

But as a baby? Or could I have grown up?

She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. The air held no scent of pollution, nothing chemical or artificial. She smelled the woods themselves, the mud and flowers and even a musky odor that suggested the presence of animals. There was a hint of wood smoke on the air, too, an autumnal smell that made her think of harvesting gourds and drying pumpkins. In her costume, she looked like a woman used to boiling root vegetables in a cauldron-like pot over an open flame.

Is that my imagination? Or a memory?

“Come on,” Cob urged. “We have to find Warner and then your folks.” He strode down the hill toward the front gate.

“Are we at the right time?” Violet asked as she followed.

“Yeah, I think so,” Cob replied. “When Ben and I came back too late, it looked abandoned.” He pointed to a plume of smoke rising from a chimney. “See that? There are still people here.”

“Oh, good.”

A young man stood at the gate. Cob’s grin widened the closer they got to him. “Hey, my
man
.”

“Beg pardon?” The young man narrowed his eyes and studied Cob and Violet. “Halt there, the both of you.”

Something caught Cob’s attention from the guard to a place a few feet into the woods. “Whoa. I haven’t seen that one before.” He wandered off. Violet couldn’t tell what drew him away.

“I, uh, I must apologize for my companion, goodman,” Violet said, trying to remember how she needed to speak in this time. “He is suffering from illness and we seek shelter.”

“Who are you?” the guard asked.

“That fellow is my husband. My name is Virginia Lessep, and we—”

“
Violet!
”

Violet turned at the sound of Cob’s voice. A giant winged creature stood in a clearing with him. Cob seemed ecstatic and waved his arms at her.

“By your leave, sir,” Violet said. She curtsied as best she could and ran to Cob and the creature.

“Do you see the gateway?” Cob asked once she reached them. He pointed behind the creature, but when Violet looked all she saw were trees and grass.

“No, but as long as
you
see it, that’s all that matters,” Violet replied. “I take it this is a Mothman.” She shrank back a bit from the thing, all mouse-colored fur and batwings.

Cob laughed. “You’re pretty sharp.”

“Yes, well, that kid back there probably doesn’t think so. Let me see if I can get inside,” Violet said. She nodded at the Mothman. “You and this one should probably stay here and guard the gateway in case it closes or something.” She frowned. “Do they close?”

“I think so,” Cob said. “I can’t really communicate with him on this side, only over there.” He looked up at the creature. “Can you understand me, man? Or lady? I can’t, sorry, I can’t really tell.”

The Mothman cooed, bird-like.

“Yeah, no, that’s not gonna work.” Cob shrugged. “Sorry, Violet. I’ll stick around here. You find your folks first, then we’ll get everybody else over.”

“This’ll require a lot of convincing, I’m sure,” Violet said. “Do you think there’s time?”

The Mothman cooed again and sat down, folding its long legs under itself. It gave a little shudder of wings before hunkering down deeper into the tall grass and closing its eyes. It was invisible to anyone not looking for it, its coat blending into the colors of the pasture.

“I think it wants a nap,” Cob said. “We’re probably good for a while.” He sat down beside it. “Don’t panic, but don’t dawdle, either,” he urged her.

“I’ll try.” Violet trudged back toward the gate, where the guard was now holding his musket out, the barrel pointing straight at her.

“Goody Lessep, you did not identify your original location,” the guard said. “Your husband behaves strangely. I must take you to speak to Governor Dare.”

Dare?

Violet’s heart sped up, but she fought to retain her composure. “Of course,” she said. “It would be an honor to make his acquaintance.”

~

“Sir, two unknown persons have breached the colony, and—”

Ananias heard no further words from the guard, though the young man kept speaking. Standing halfway across the room was a woman who could have been Eleanor’s twin. She was slender, with white-blond hair pinned up in small curls around a heart-shaped face. Even from this distance, he could see her eyes were sea blue, just like his wife’s.

But it was not Eleanor, for Eleanor was younger, her hair darker, her figure more buxom. Still, the resemblance was uncanny.

“You are a White, somehow,” Ananias said. “John only had one other child besides my wife, and it was a boy.”