Time's Divide (The Chronos Files Book 3) (20 page)

“It was my grandmother’s. I don’t want to stay in this city—there’s no work for me here—but I can’t return home without the pendant. My grandfather will be furious, and . . . he isn’t a kind man.”

There’s a bit of truth in the mix, but Victoria isn’t buying it. “Demosthenes says the medallion isn’t even yours.”

I have no idea who this Demosthenes person is, but she’s talking like I should know him. “Then Demosthenes is lying.”

Victoria draws back like I’ve just slapped her. “The spirits cannot lie! I know exactly why you want the pendant, but something like that belongs in the hands of someone capable of communing with the spirits. And I no longer have it, anyway. I couldn’t figure out how to work . . . the clasp. So I sold it.”

“To whom?”

“An acquaintance who deals in such items. I thought he might be able to make it work, and he was willing to give me six bits.”

Seventy-five cents? She didn’t even hold out for a dollar. “Would you give me his name and address? I’ll gladly pay him double that—”

The mention of cash jolts Colonel Blood awake. “Since when do you have money? Last I heard you were sleeping on a rooftop outside Molly’s place. Can’t see why she wouldn’t let you have one of the beds.”

Victoria and Blood both laugh. I don’t get the joke until I remember the jerk outside their office—one of his friends said something about “Molly’s girls.”

“That’s not funny,” Tennie snaps. I’m not sure why she’s taking my side, but it’s clear their little joke didn’t sit well with her. “Is that the job you recommended her for? A brothel?”

Victoria glances at the marshal and gives her sister a cautionary look. “Of course not, Tennie. Molly needed another girl to work in her kitchen. The job only paid room and board, however.” She gives my bag another pointed look.

“My mother sent me money to come home,” I say through clenched teeth. “Not much. Just enough for a ticket and maybe some food. I’ll walk home if I have to, but I can’t go back without the medallion.”

“I’m sorry. I can’t help you, Miss Pierce.”

Tennie looks at her reproachfully, then goes back to staring out the carriage window. We’ve just turned onto Broadway, clomping slowly past the shoeshine stand, where the group of boys is still gathered.

The trees along the edge of City Hall Park have just come into view when Tennie says, “The man is Ira Davenport. Or possibly his brother, William. Ira was in Boston for the meeting of the American Spiritualist Association back in September.”

“Tennessee Claflin! How dare you!” Victoria whacks her sister’s knee with her handbag.

“Oh, be still, Vicky. You’re being petty. I told you I didn’t detect anything connected to spirits when I held the stupid thing. It couldn’t possibly transport anyone to the spirit realm.”

The connection my mind was trying to make earlier finally snaps into place—Houdini’s interest in spiritualism. And while it could be wishful thinking, I’m fairly certain I saw the name Davenport in the books about Houdini.

“Thank you,” I say. Tennie nods, but doesn’t look my way.

The carriage draws to a stop outside the courthouse. Word of the arrest seems to have spread quickly. The sidewalks are packed, with people spilling over into the park. Comstock stands on the steps, waiting to take credit for his latest effort to protect the city’s virtue.

“I doubt the information will do you any good,” Victoria says, straightening the blue tie at her neck. “The Davenports are currently on tour. And even if I decide to ask our attorney to represent you—and I’m not at all certain that I shall—there’s still the matter of bail. Did your mother send enough for that?” She smiles, moving toward the door. “I suspect you’ll be here a lot longer than we will.”

And you’d be dead wrong,
I think.

Colonel Blood holds out his hand to help Vicky out of the carriage. Tennie follows, and while her skirts are blocking the door, I pull out my key and vanish.

∞13∞

E
ASTBOURNE
, G
REAT
B
RITAIN

April 26, 1905, 9:27 p.m.

Kiernan’s exactly where I left him when I jump back into the alley near the Hippodrome.

“How long were you gone?” he asks, his voice tinged with suspicion.

“Long enough to get the information I need.”

“Where did you get that?” He’s looking at the 1905 dress I’m wearing.

I don’t answer because he knows perfectly well where I got it—from the guest room closet at his cabin in Georgia. Prudence is off somewhere in time with the mutilated remains of the dress he bought, and the clothing options at Katherine’s are nearly depleted, so I didn’t have much choice.

“You should have asked.”

“Why? From what you’ve told me, it’s my dress.”

Kiernan’s jaw tightens, and for a moment it looks like he’s going to disagree. “Perhaps. But when last I checked, it was inside
my
house.”

He has a point. Our relationship has changed a lot since he said the room was mine whenever I needed it. No big shock, I guess, when it’s been six years for him. And I’m glad that he’s moved past the point of building a cabin in the woods for a girl who’ll never live there.

But I miss his friendship. Maybe he never really thought of me that way—as a friend, even if we couldn’t be more than that—but it was nice to feel I wasn’t entirely alone in all of this.

“Fine, Kiernan. I’ll keep
my
dress in
my
closet from now on. Would you like to erase your cottage’s stable point from my key while we’re establishing boundaries?”

I try to keep the snarky tone to a minimum, but it’s definitely still in the mix.

He stomps off down the sidewalk without responding. I follow at my own speed, making no special effort to keep up with his longer stride. I can just as easily not talk to him from ten paces behind.

It’s a clear night, and the reflection of the moon and stars on the ocean’s surface reminds me of the lights from the boardwalk on the Thames when I was with Trey. Was it really last night? It seems longer. I’m not certain how many hours it’s been since I slept.

The breeze carries the same damp chill as it will in London a century in the future, except I don’t have Trey’s arm around me to ward off the shivers. His flight has probably landed and he’s back in DC by now . . . or is the correct term
by then
? I just wish he was here and now.

Kiernan is waiting by the entrance when I arrive at the Queen’s Hotel. “I’ll be in the lobby. The bar is over there, through the double doors. Houdini should be here soon. If you need me—”

“I won’t.”

That’s not true, unfortunately. Less than a minute later, I discover that I need him in order to even get a table.

The maître d’ informs me that unescorted women are not allowed in the bar. In fact, he says with an imperious look, unescorted women aren’t even allowed in the restaurant.

“You can’t be serious!” I stand on tiptoe and look around to see if Houdini has, by some chance, arrived ahead of me, but there are no familiar faces among the mostly male diners. “How are female travelers expected to eat?”

The guy draws himself up to full height, which really isn’t necessarily since he’s easily a foot taller than me, and shoves a menu into my hands. “Please lower your voice, miss. Choose something from the menu and I will have the plate delivered to your room.”

“No. Someone is meeting me here.” His face is a closed door, so I adopt a tone I’ve heard Mom use. “I’d like to speak with your manager, please.”

“The manager is busy, and our policy is absolute. No respectable establishment—” The man breaks off in midsentence about the time I feel a hand on my elbow.

Kiernan leans in and plants a quick kiss on my cheek. “So sorry to leave you stranded, dearest. You were right—my notecase was lying on the bed, right where I left it. Don’t they have a table?”

The maître d’ lets out a relieved sigh. “My apologies, sir. Your . . . wife . . . failed to tell me you would be joining her. Please follow me.”

“I do hope she wasn’t battering you with the whole women’s rights routine. If so, you have my sympathies. I hear it day in and day out.”

Two middle-aged men at the table we’re walking past seem to find Kiernan’s comment amusing. One barks out a cloud of foul-smelling smoke as he laughs.

There’s this scene in an old martial arts film I watched with Charlayne once upon a time in that faraway reality where the Cyrists and CHRONOS were of no concern. Jackie Chan, or maybe it was Bruce Lee, single-handedly took out every man in the restaurant. While I’m under no illusions that I could actually do that, the feminist inside me would dearly love to try right now.

I wave smoke out of my face and follow Kiernan. Our less-than-gracious host is now explaining why it would be best if we were seated in the restaurant rather than the bar.

“Very well,” Kiernan says with a touch of annoyance. “But we’re waiting for a business associate who expects to meet us at the bar. So when Mr. Houdini arrives, please show him to our table.”

If the maître d’ recognizes the name, he doesn’t show it. He just gives a deep nod that borders on a bow. “By all means, sir.”

Kiernan reaches to pull out my chair, but I beat him to it and then nudge the chair across from me out about six inches with my foot.

He pulls it out the rest of the way and says, “Thank you, dearest,” in a droll tone before retreating behind the menu.

I scan the menu simply for something to do while we wait. I’m really not hungry. Connor and I finished off some leftover pizza after I got back from 1872. I think we both needed comfort food. Neither of us is sure I did the right thing by giving Prudence my spare key, and we’re both worried about Katherine. Connor says headaches like the one that hit her in the library earlier are becoming fiercer and more frequent.

Kiernan still has his nose in the menu. It’s mostly in French, and it’s a single handwritten sheet, so I suspect he’s using it to avoid talking to me.

“Do you know what you want?” he says as the waiter approaches.

“Yes. To get the key and get the hell out of here.”

“I meant to eat.”

“I know what you meant. I’m not hungry.”

“Fine. I’ll order for you.”

I give him a scathing look and glance back at the menu.

“I’ll have the salmon with potatoes and haricots verts. A pint of bitter. The lady will have the same.”

“No.” I hand the waiter my menu. “The lady will have the cherry . . . tart?”

He nods, so my layman’s interpretation of
tartes cherise chantilly
must be correct.

“And to drink, madam?”

“Tea. Earl Grey. Hot.”

Yes, it’s stupid, but it gives me a perverse pleasure to see that the joke is lost on both of them.

“Of course,
hot
,” Kiernan says under his breath as the waiter heads back to the kitchen. “The British don’t serve tea over ice, even in your time.”

“I actually know that. Why don’t you just go back into silent mode?” I think about that for a moment. “No, on second thought, who knows when Houdini will arrive, if he arrives at all. I have questions. Answer them or I walk out, because I think I can get this key on my own now. It doesn’t have to be here. My first question is what in hell happened in the past six years to make you hate me?”

“I don’t
hate
you, Kate. Although I can’t say I’m particularly fond of your tendency toward adolescent drama.”

“Okay, I’ll rephrase. What happened in the past six years to turn you into a total ass? It can’t be anything I’ve done, since I’ve lived . . . oh, let’s see . . . maybe seventy-two hours in that time, and no more than three of those in your presence.”

He doesn’t answer, so I latch onto his wrist and flip his arm over. A tiny sliver of the scar shows beneath the cuff. “Then let’s start here. What happened to your arm? I don’t think it’s a coincidence that this scar is in the same spot as Prudence’s extra key.”

And I really
don’t
think it’s a coincidence, even though the similarity didn’t dawn on me until I looked down at his arm.

“It’s not,” he admits. “I went along when Pru had the upgrade. A black market operation in a hotel room in Philly.”

“When?”

“Fall of 2152,” he says in a whisper. “Or about four years ago, if you’re asking about my own personal calendar. But this isn’t the time or place to—”

“You had the chance to answer my questions in private. So here and now works fine for me.” I nod at his arm. “Why?”

“Wasn’t my idea. I woke up one morning with the bloody thing grafted onto my arm. Pru’s idea of a gift. She said we were twinsies now.” His sneer, both physical and vocal, makes it clear what he thinks of that term.

“How did it get . . . out . . . of your arm?”

“Got infected. It was a long jump for me. Pru left the day after the operation—she wouldn’t stay put long enough to wait for my batteries to recharge. Said the doctor would check back in on me, but he didn’t. I spent about a week with a raging fever in a flea-bitten hotel room. When the owner finally called the cops, the temporary visa Prudence gave me didn’t hold up to closer scrutiny. They moved me to a detention center for illegals. One of the more zealous guards decided to remove the key on his own.”

The waiter chooses that exact moment to appear with our food. He slides the plate in front of me—blood-red cherries inside a flesh-colored crust—and my stomach churns. I wait until he leaves and push the tart away.

“I’m sorry, Kiernan.” The words seem insufficient, and the scar along my right jaw tingles for a moment. If not for Kiernan’s help in Chicago, I’d be even more visibly scarred than he is.

He shrugs, cutting into the salmon with the side of his fork. “It was a long time ago. Pru finally remembered to come looking for me. She paid a hefty bribe to a guard at the detention center to return my key. And she hasn’t let me forget it since.”

“Couldn’t she have just jumped back and stopped them from apprehending you?”

“Could’ve,” he says, taking another bite. “But didn’t. Said it would teach me to be more careful in the future.” He flashes a brief, chilly smile and pops a forkful of green beans into his mouth.

I know this is the older Pru, not the one I just left in New York. But given that someone—me—helped her avoid jail in the past, it would’ve been nice if she’d had the decency to pay it forward.

“How long were you stranded?”

“A while.” Something about the way he says it makes me shiver.

“And they couldn’t fix it? I mean, they have doctors at the Farm, don’t they?”

Kiernan doesn’t answer, just takes another bite. He seems intent on polishing off his dinner in record time.

I’m about to repeat the question when he says, “By the time I got back, it had scarred over. June said she could cut away the scar tissue and stitch it up proper, but I didn’t see the point in getting cut up again.”

“Do you still have the stable point in your key?” My voice is hesitant. I know what he’ll say, but I can’t
not
offer. “I could go back . . . or forward, I guess . . . and get you out of there.”

He doesn’t look at me, but his expression softens. It’s only for a moment, however, and then the mask is back up.

“No, Kate. You couldn’t. So . . . is that it? I’d like to finish my dinner so I can move to the bar before Houdini arrives. I still think it’s best if he doesn’t see us together.”

“I think you’re lying.”

“About what?”

“About why you’re wolfing down your food and retreating to the bar. Houdini will be annoyed either way. It won’t matter whether he knows you’re behind this or thinks I’m in it alone. And both of us together would have a better chance of convincing him. I think you just don’t want to spend any more time with me than absolutely necessary.”

He raises an eyebrow. “And you always said I was the one with the ego.”

I ignore him and continue. “What I don’t know is why. Julia would say it’s because you’ve been with Saul and Simon all along. She thinks you were involved with the death of her son—”

“Anthony.” Kiernan’s mouth twitches downward. “What? You think I killed him?”

“No.” And I really don’t. Whatever else is going on, I still have a hard time buying Kiernan, even this older, harsher version, as a cold-blooded killer. “But the way you’re acting isn’t really helping your case.”

“Anthony was stupid.” While Kiernan’s words are more callous, it’s pretty much the same thing Delia said in the video. “Why he thought it would be safe to let Saul know he could use the key is beyond me. He’d just split up with his wife—she moved out and took the kid. Maybe he thought he had something to prove. Or nothing to lose. All I know is that he got hold of a key and showed up at Estero in 2028 thinking Saul and Simon would welcome him into the club. And they do—shake his hand, slap him on the back, and say it’s great to have him on board.”

He takes a long drink from his beer. “Two days later, Anthony’s walking out of a convenience store back in 1997. Car zips around the corner, and he catches a bullet in the head. Next time I see Abel—he’s nearly a hundred by then, using one of those metal walkers—anyway, he starts waving his fist at me, screaming I killed his grandson. Simon’s right there next to me, and I can promise you that if Simon didn’t shoot the man, he paid for the bullets. But Abel doesn’t say a damn thing to him. Just me.”

Kiernan stabs a potato with a bit more force than necessary. “And I still had to talk Simon down, tell him Abel was old and senile. Otherwise Abel would’ve been dead. Delia, too, most likely. Maybe even Julia. It only bought Abel and Delia a few more years, but at least they went from natural causes. Yet they paint me as the bloody villain.”

“No one expects Simon to have a conscience, Kiernan. And when you’re hanging around with him, acting like old friends, well . . .” Some of the old vulnerability is in Kiernan’s eyes when he looks up at me, but I continue anyway. “It’s hard not to lump you together is all. Why did you lie to me in Georgia?”

“I explained that.”

“You explained
part
of it. But I watched the two of you through the key that night. Before you got into the car. You and Simon . . . it’s like watching two brothers argue. And before I went back to save Martha, you promised you’d tell me everything you know. You promised on the ring I saw in that picture. The one you drew onto your Kate’s finger.”