The Syndicate (Timewaves Book 1) (51 page)

Shant. He’s alive. He’s going to blow this place up.

No adrenaline came. No fight. No will to live. I couldn’t have moved if a hundred lives depended on it. My final thought was whether I would live to feel the fiery explosion.

A bright light was suddenly shining directly into my eyes. The white light of the afterlife. Unfortunately, I was too dizzy to handle it. Would I be forgiven for vomiting on the pearly gates?

“Too fast,” I moaned. “Slower. Please...”

“Stassi? Stassi?” Saint Peter called. “Open your eyes. Bane, get Dr. Merriweather.
Now
.”

They died, too?
I thought with immense sadness.

With a touch as light as butterfly wings, fingers eased my eyelids open. Two impossibly green dots consumed my vision.

“I’m sorry, Peter,” I whispered. “I’m going to throw up on you.”

“Stassi?”

“Who’s Peter?” a voice asked from somewhere far away.

“I’m here, Stassi. I’m so sorry. Just lie still. Help is on the way.”

“Cyrus?” I asked, wondering if I was only dreaming his voice.

“It’s me. I’m right here, just stay with me.”

I licked my lips and tasted salty, coppery liquid.

“Cyrus?” I repeated, my voice a soft whisper.

I felt someone lean in over me. “Yes?”

“If I ask later, lie and say that was my blood I just tasted.”

And then, I passed out.

TIME PASSED IN
a blur of fog, shadows, and disorientation.

Two days later, I was still in my bed at the townhome, recuperating from the fight with Baylarian and sleeping off the effects of the drugs. In a fleeting moment of clarity, Merriweather told me that the champagne had been laced with a large dose of a strong muscle relaxer and habanero pepper oil. Fortunately, the concoction hadn’t caused any permanent damage. With rest and lots of ice cream, I was scheduled to make a full recovery.

The cut on my hand from the broken glass took twelve stitches to close. In time, I’d have a kickass battle scar to go along with the not-so-kickass story to tell my friends. The bruise on my cheek from Baylarian’s fist was already fading. It didn’t hurt too badly, and I was even eager to show Gaige that we now had matching black eyes.

But the purple and blue patches that encircled my throat like a tie-dyed scarf were not so easy to joke about. Every time I was shuffled to the bathroom and looked in the mirror, the tender, discolored skin reminded me of how close I’d come to dying. And every time Cyrus’s gaze landed on my neck, his jaw began to work back and forth. The one positive result of my injuries was that my boss had been waiting on me hand and foot. He was clearly burdened with misplaced guilt about the last-minute rescue.

“Baylarian knew we were watching you,” Cyrus told me, once I was finally able to stay awake. “The guy Wick spotted was a decoy. He led us right to a bomb as a distraction, so he could get you alone. I should have known better. I should’ve realized what was happening. I am so sorry, Stassi.” Cyrus paused, his expression heartbreaking. “The worst part is, the bomb he led us to was only one of
ten
we found in our sweep of the theater afterwards. He played us, and I almost lost you.”

I drank my milkshake through the pink twisty straw someone had procured upon my request. The cold, sweet deliciousness felt amazing on the blisters of my abused esophagus.

“I didn’t know you cared so much,” I joked, trying to lighten the mood.

Cyrus had been beating himself up since finding me on the balcony. Though his self-reproach did have some perks, I hated seeing him so sullen.

“Come on, Cyrus,” I said, when he didn’t so much as crack a smile. “You did the right thing. My life isn’t worth the lives of all those people in the theater. You had to take the chance.”

An unreadable emotion played across his expression. My boss took my uninjured hand in his.

“I am
so
sorry, Stassi,” he repeated, his voice wavering. “I never should have put you in that position.”

We fell silent. I slurped more of the milkshake, trying to think of something that would turn my boss’s frown upside down. More than anything, I wanted to put the events on that balcony behind me. Until everyone stopped treating me like an injured bird, that wasn’t going to happen. Ignoring it all might not have been the most emotionally healthy response, but that was how I’d coped my entire life.

My rescuers—Cyrus, Bane, and company—had not killed Baylarian. When they’d finally found us on the balcony, Cyrus had shot him with a tranquilizer dart. Dressed as medical staff, a team of alchemists had removed his unconscious body from the theater. They’d gone straight to customs, where Bane and his goon squad had jumped back to our time with the serial killer. When I asked what would happen next, Cyrus clammed up.

“The Founders will convene to decide how to handle the situation,” was all he would say.

Vague yet ominous, the statement left me oddly uncurious as to the possible outcomes and subsequent fate of the villain known as the Night Gentleman. The glint of grim determination in Cyrus’s piercing gaze told me all I needed to know: if Cyrus got his way—and he
always
did—Mitchell Baylarian would suffer greatly for his crimes.

Dealing with the situation within the syndicates, instead of handing him over to the Parisian authorities, left one very big problem. My partner was still in a jail cell.

“How’s Gaige doing? Any word on bail?” I asked Cyrus.

My boss smiled. “He’s fine. He’s worried about you, though. Damn near broke his cuffs when I told him what happened. We’re still working on bail. Hopefully, he’ll only be in the jail for another day or two.”

“Days?” I moaned. “Gaige is not a killer. We found the killer. It’s not okay that he is stuck in an ancient prison.”

“Once he’s out, he’ll need to jump back immediately,” Cyrus continued, patting my hand. He didn’t comment on the fairness of the situation.

I sat back, moping. Gaige and I had made a Herculean effort on this run. Ending it this way was woefully depressing. Cyrus had confirmed earlier that he didn’t find the final piece of
Blue’s Canyon
during his search of the Hemingway’s home. Bane’s men had managed to swap out the forgeries of the two sections Gaige and I found for the originals. Too bad “close” only counted in bocce and bison bombs.

“I’m sorry that you’re going to have to deal with the unhappy client,” I said. “I’m sorry we didn’t complete the run. We had it locked up before the serial killer came along. We were
this
close.”

“Don’t be,” Cyrus said, waving off my apology. “Besides, the Hemingways are still in Paris. Hadley was so worried about you, she insisted on delaying their trip. She’s called numerous times to check on you.” He paused and eyed me critically. “She isn’t the only one.”

A girly flutter went through my abdomen and I flushed.

Charles
.

I had a small stack of phone messages from him, a large bouquet of flowers—Charles had no idea how much the sight of a flower delivery had terrified me—and I was told he’d dropped by several times. Officially, I’d “taken ill” during the performance, supposedly suffering from a wicked case of food poisoning. The numerous witnesses who’d seen me wheeled out of the theater into a waiting ambulance supported this version of events, though it was alchemists, not paramedics, who’d taken me.

I wanted to see Charles. Cyrus had forbidden it. My bruises, stitches, and overall just-got-the-shite-beat-out-of-me appearance were not in line with food poisoning. Too many red flags. As a peace offering, Cyrus had at least given me the messages and flowers, but was firm on my lack of contact with the outside world.

“I still think it’s best if you return to the island as soon as possible,” my boss said, drawing me from my thoughts of Charles. “You can finish recovering in your own bed.”

This was an argument we’d had multiple times. Cyrus wanted to jump home with me immediately after the theater. Initially, Dr. Merriweather declared it wasn’t a good idea for me to travel through a vortex in my condition. Once I was conscious, my tenacious refusal to leave Paris while Gaige was still in prison delayed my departure.

I shook my head. “When Gaige is free, I will go. You can’t make me go before then.”

Cyrus sighed.

“
Please
don’t make me go before then?”

My boss eyed me for a long moment. I did my best to look as resolute as possible, hoping that my injuries would add to the tough façade.

“You’re a stubborn one, you know that?” Cyrus asked, a hint of a gleam in his eye.

I nodded.

“Against my better judgment, someone will be coming to stay with you,” he said. “I need to get back, and deal with the mess Baylarian has made. But I don’t want you to be alone.”

“No. No, no, no.
Please
don’t stick me with Ines,” I groaned.

The gleam grew into outright amusement on my boss’s face.

“I know she means well,” I continued my plea. “But, Cyrus…that woman drives me crazy.”

“I know the feeling,” Cyrus replied with a laugh. “I’m not sticking you with Ines. I think you’ll be happy with my decision.” My boss stood to leave. “For now, get some rest. Focus on getting better.”

Cyrus started for the door.

“Wait,” I called. “Aren’t you going to tell me who it is?”

“You’ll see,” he called back, without turning around.

At least toying with me has cheered him up
, I thought.

Curiosity battled my body’s need for sleep. Eventually, the need grew into a painful exhaustion, and I drifted off.

The next time I woke, big blue eyes were peering at me over the top of a glossy magazine.

“Hey there, sleepyhead!” Molly exclaimed, her cheery tone a sharp contrast to the worry lines creasing her forehead.

I blinked and rubbed sleep from my eyes.

“Am I home? Did Cyrus knock me out and drag me back to the island?” I asked groggily.

“That does sound like something he’d do. But no. He asked me to come to you.” She let the magazine fall to her lap and held her arms open wide. “So here I am.”

I sat up, tears welling in my eyes, as realization dawned.

“You’re my surprise!” I cried, the tears starting to fall. Having Molly with me was the absolute best-case scenario that I could imagine. I’d missed her so much over the past few weeks, and finally she was here with me. After everything that’d happened, the sight of her brought a rush of relief. Everything would be okay.

“Hey, hey, hey, none of that,” Molly declared. She hurried from her chair to perch on the edge of my bed. I scooted over to make room for her. My roommate wrapped me in her arms, holding me while I cried into her shoulder.

“I’m sorry, I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” I choked out between sobs. Molly rubbed my back and made strange comforting noises.

“You’ve been through a lot,” she murmured. “You should cry, Stassi. Get it all out. You’ll feel better.”

And I did. Then I did some more.

I cried big, fat ugly tears. I rambled long, nonsensical sentences, while my best friend simply listened. Most of what I said verged on incoherent, and yet Molly seemed to understand perfectly. She never asked for specifics or interrupted me with questions. Instead, Molly just made soothing comments when warranted.

Of course, that was only for the topics of Baylarian and
Blue’s Canyon
. Once the conversation veered towards Charles, my best friend had nothing but questions. I hadn’t meant to bring him up. I mean, what did he matter any longer? I would never see him again. Still, once I started talking about him, I couldn’t stop. I found myself telling Molly about our first dance, our first kiss, our trip to see Worchansky, and every other moment with him. When I recounted rolling down the street mid-make-out, she doubled over in laughter.

“I am so glad you’re here,” I told her.

The river of tears had long since run dry, but my overwhelming gratitude for her made the dam burst all over again.

“Are you kidding? Paris? 1925? Cyrus barely got the words out before I was in the vortex.” She winked playfully, but her tone was no longer light and carefree when she continued. “Anytime you need me, I will always be there. That’s how friendship works.”