Time's Divide (The Chronos Files Book 3) (5 page)

“So, all this stuff Prudence has been telling me is true? I mean, I was able to check some of what she said. I’d never really paid much attention to the whole Cyrist mythology. To be honest, I kind of avoided it. The fact that these Cyrists used her name—well, it was painful every time I heard it.”

I’m so close to saying it didn’t stop her from giving me the awful name, but I bite my tongue and let her finish.

“When Pru told me about Cyrist International, all I had to do was type in
Sister Prudence
to confirm that part of it. Her picture popped up all over the place, some with actual photos. But . . . you’re saying she’s really using that thing to travel through time? Nobody is crazy?”

“Well,
you’re
not crazy.” I pat the spot beside me on the bed because she still doesn’t look very steady. When she doesn’t join me, I go on. “Yes, Prudence is using the key to time travel.”

“What about the rest of it? She said our father—not Dad, but some other, biological father I didn’t even know we had—is alive. He’s stuck a few years in the future, and she’s trying to help him avoid some sort of global catastrophe. That’s true as well?”

“No. I mean, yes, Saul is alive, but he and Prudence are
causing
the catastrophe, not preventing it.” Her eyes narrow. “I don’t know how much Pru understands about that, though.”

I hate making excuses for Prudence. I can still hear her at the World’s Fair, telling me that I could either join the Cyrists or line up with the rest of the sheep to be fleeced and slaughtered. The notion that she’s an innocent victim doesn’t sit well with me. But I also know Mom won’t find it easy to accept my suspicion that the sister she loves is an evil, murdering bitch.

I take a deep breath, choosing my words carefully. “I think Saul lied to her about what he was planning, at least at first. And I
know
that she’s been using the key a lot. Too much, even going back to alter things in her own timeline. Changing her own memories. That’s not good. Katherine says—”

I immediately wish I could yank those last words back, because Mom’s eyes flash at Katherine’s name. “And how do you know Mother isn’t the one who’s lying? She’s been lying to
me
my entire life! Maybe this Saul really is trying to—”

“No!” I say, packing every bit of certainty I can muster into the word. “No, Mom. Saul did a test run on a village in Georgia, back in 1912. I saw rows of bodies—kids, babies even—who died because Saul dropped something into their well.”

Just thinking about the scene in God’s Hollow brings tears to my eyes, and I have to blink them away.

Mom’s expression softens a bit as she watches me, but she’s still uncertain. “What about Prudence?”

I don’t follow her question at first, and then I shake my head when I realize she’s asking if her sister was involved in the massacre. “No. I don’t think she knows that part. But I can’t be sure.”

“How can you be sure of
anything
that happened in 1912, Kate? How can you know that Saul was responsible?”

Because I was there. I heard him laughing, I watched him spin around with his face raised to the sky like the corpses before him in that chapel were a gift from the heavens.

Emphasizing the fact that I’ve been up close and personal with a homicidal maniac recently—several of them, actually—would only amp up Mom’s current level of freak-out. I opt instead for a watered-down version of the truth.

“I was able to view it through the key, Mom. Saul was happy about it. Blissfully happy. I think we have a shot at stopping him now—some things have changed in the past few days. I have allies now, people who may be able to help me.”

At least I hope I do. I still can’t shake the feeling that I might be just as alone, maybe even more so if what Julia believes about Kiernan is true.

“I have to get back to DC as soon as possible,” I say. “I just needed to see that you were safe first. I know she’s your sister, but you can’t trust her. I’m not sure she’s even sane.”

I can tell from Mom’s expression that she’s wondering about that last part, too. As she opens her mouth to say something, there’s a knock, followed by Prudence’s voice just outside the door.

“Deborah? Are you in here?”

So much for Trey being able to give us a warning.

Mom moves toward the door. I grab her arm and slip the spare CHRONOS key into her hand. “Please, Mom,” I whisper. “You have to keep this on you. And we have to go back to DC.
Please
.”

She takes the key and sighs, putting it in her pocket. “For
now
.” She wipes the hand that held the medallion on her jeans like she’s touched something nasty. “We’ll finish this discussion later. And I won’t leave Prudence here alone. I can’t.”

Pru steps in as soon as Mom opens the door. Trey stands behind her against the corridor wall with his eyes fixed on something to his left.

“Why didn’t you wait in the lobby?” Prudence flashes an angry glare in my direction before looking back at Mom. “You knew I’d be right back!”

“Did I?” Mom sniffs. “Your track record isn’t exactly spotless there. The first time you blinked out you were gone more than thirty years.”

Pru’s expression is so wounded that I almost—
almost
—feel sorry for her.

“Deb, I explained about that. It wasn’t my fault. You said you believed me! And this time . . . I went back to make reservations. For
tea
.”

Prudence’s sad puppy act seems to work, although I’m pretty sure that Mom would never have bought it from me, even when I was a little kid.

She gives Pru an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it to come out like that. It’s just . . . this is all so strange. I don’t know what to believe anymore.”

Prudence gives me a smug glance and takes Mom by the arm, pulling her into the corridor. “I know,” she says sympathetically. “It’s a lot to take in. Why don’t we go downstairs and discuss everything over tea and cakes?”

Pru steers Mom to the left. She’s still prattling on about tea, but her voice fades as they turn at the intersection just down the corridor and head toward the elevators.

My gaze has been locked on the two of them, so it takes a moment to realize Trey is still staring at that same spot, just to the right of the doorway. He must feel me watching, because he flicks his eyes toward me and then back. That’s when I notice the shadow on the carpet. It’s a man. He seems unnaturally tall, although I’m guessing that’s an illusion from the lighting in the hallway.

Whoever he is, the bright blue light coming from that direction tells me he’s carrying a CHRONOS key. And while the lines of the shadow on the floor are too blurry for me to be certain, I think he’s holding a gun.

∞4∞

C
OUNTY
H
ALL
, L
ONDON

September 10, 3:47 p.m.

Snatching my backpack from the bed, I unzip the front pocket and grab the Colt. Trey is still rooted to the same spot.

Unfortunately, if Shadow-Man is holding a gun, there’s no good way for me to approach. In the movies, the wall near the door is always free of obstructions so the heroine can press against it and pivot around the doorway, gun extended. Clearly this hotel wasn’t planned with gun battles in mind, because a luggage stand is right smack in the way. I also suspect I’m at least partially visible from the man’s vantage point, thanks to mirrored closet doors.

I advance cautiously, but before I reach the door, the shadow moves toward the entrance. My gun is raised. Trey is too close, however—and now Trey is also moving. I catch a fleeting glimpse of a very familiar face as Trey tackles him from behind, shoving him through the door and onto the floor.

“Bloody hell, are you both crazy?”

Kiernan’s voice is muffled by the carpet. He starts to get up, but Trey pushes him back down with his knee.

“Are you coming, Kate?” Mom yells. “We can’t keep holding the elevator.”

“Go ahead! We’ll meet you downstairs.”

I motion for Trey to step away. He gives the gun in my hand an uneasy look, then takes his knee off Kiernan’s back and moves toward the door, closing it behind him.

Kiernan props himself up, rubbing his head where it hit the carpet. He casts a wary eye at my gun, now pointed at the floor. “You can put that thing away, Kate.”

“You first,” I say, nodding at the Colt in his hand, identical to mine aside from the pearl grips on my handle.

He shrugs, sticking the gun into his pocket as he stands. It’s only then that I get a clear look at his face, and all of the breath is sucked out of me.

He’s . . . different. Older. He hasn’t gone gray and there are no wrinkles, but I can tell he’s aged. Five years, at least. His jawline is more defined, and his eyes . . . I can’t quite place exactly how they’re different, but they’re the most telling sign of all.

Kiernan holds my gaze for a few seconds, then sticks out his hand toward Trey. “Kiernan Dunne. Who are you?”

A wide scar zigzags about four inches along the inside of Kiernan’s arm, midway between wrist and elbow. It wasn’t there when I left him in Georgia last night, but it’s not fresh. It’s faded—a silvery, knotted line against his skin.

Trey takes the hand Kiernan offers and gives it a brief shake, still eying him cautiously. “Trey Coleman.”

As soon as he releases Kiernan’s hand, Trey looks back at me and says, a bit defensively, “He came in with Prudence. They both just . . . apparated . . . or whatever, right there in the hallway. I didn’t have time to knock, and he had the gun out, so . . .”

“It’s okay.” I give him a smile, then turn back to Kiernan. “Why are you here? Why are you standing outside my mother’s hotel room with a gun? How long has it been for you, since last night . . . since Georgia? And what happened to your arm?”

Kiernan shakes his head. His expression is odd—I can’t tell if he’s amused at the barrage of questions or annoyed. “As usual, I’ll take them in order. Pru said come for tea. I’m her bodyguard, so I did as I was told.” He nods toward Trey. “There was a strange man lurking in the hallway when she pulled up the location on her key, which should explain the gun. Georgia was a little over six years ago for me. The scar . . .” He shakes his head dismissively. “An accident. Looks worse than it was.”

I doubt that. The scar is jagged and wicked looking, wider than my thumb in some spots. It’s really two scars, because there’s a smaller, curved line, about an inch long, running nearly parallel. Both cuts clearly needed stitches.

I’m about to push him for more information when Trey asks, “So Prudence didn’t tell you we were here?”

“No,” Kiernan responds with a wry quirk of his lips. “I’m sure she thought it more amusing to have us all meet in the hallway. One side effect of working for a madwoman is dealing with her sense of humor. And she doesn’t know about Kate’s little toy there.” His eyes rest on the gun, which I’m still holding.

“Neither did I,” Trey says, giving me a worried look.

“I told you about the gun.” I shove it into the backpack.

“I didn’t know you were actually carrying it.”

My own views on carrying it have changed pretty drastically in the past few days. A week ago, I’d have been terrified of the thing, but the fact that I was armed saved Kiernan’s life and quite possibly my own at God’s Hollow.

“I’m here to rescue my mom. From a madwoman, as Kiernan just noted. I thought it might come in handy. Why are you working for Pru in the first place, Kiernan?”

He shrugs. “We have common enemies. And a few common goals. But we’re late for tea, so the details will have to wait.” He motions with his head toward the door. “Shall we?”

As much as I’d like to tell him we shall
not
, at least not until I have more answers, I don’t like leaving Mom alone with Prudence. I still don’t think she’d actually hurt Mom, although I have to admit that Pru’s current level of instability has made me less certain on that point. Either way, she’s clearly on a mission to convince Mom to accept her version of reality. And in a battle for heart and mind, every second I leave them alone is risky.

There are two other passengers in the elevator, so we don’t talk on the ride down. The three of us just stand against the back wall, awkwardly silent, with Trey casting occasional angry glances at Kiernan over the top of my head. I grab Trey’s hand and lace his fingers between mine, hoping to signal that he has no reason to feel threatened.

If I’d had to guess which of the two would be acting jealous and territorial, I’d have picked Kiernan. But the vibe I’m getting from him is very different from when we were in Georgia. The change in his eyes I noticed earlier is one thing—he looks tired. Resigned, maybe. That spark that’s always present when he looks at me is gone. Well, maybe not gone, but definitely muted. Distant.

His transformation is disconcerting. I almost feel like I’m standing next to a stranger. People can change a lot in six years.

Maybe he’s moved on?

Maybe he’s moved on with Prudence?

Ick
. I inch closer to Trey because even if it’s not rational, and totally unfair, that idea bothers me on so many different levels.

Trey and I step into the lobby and Kiernan follows, grabbing my arm to hold me back. “Give me your key,” he says, yanking his own from his pocket.

“Why?”

He rolls his eyes and reaches over, pulling at the black cord around my neck that he knows holds my CHRONOS medallion. His fingers brush against my collarbone for only a moment, but it’s still enough to trigger the shiver I feel when he’s too close for comfort. And as awkward as that is at any time, it’s a million times more uncomfortable with Trey watching.

Kiernan activates his key and slides mine out of the leather pouch that shields the light if you come into contact with someone carrying the CHRONOS gene. He holds the two together, transferring a set of personal coordinates from his medallion to mine. Some stable points, apparently the most popular destinations, are standard to all keys. Less frequently used locations are in the
Log of Stable Points
that Katherine has back home. With a local point, however, this is the quickest way to share it, otherwise you have to manually enter a string of coordinates pinpointing the exact geographical location and then another set pinpointing the exact time.

Trey is still a few feet away, eying us warily. I motion for him to join us. He glares at Kiernan for a second, then comes over.

“How did he get to London?” Kiernan asks.

“British Airways.”

Kiernan’s brow creases. “Why’s he carrying a key? I can see it through his pocket. Before, you said Katherine wouldn’t allow it. That it could hurt him.”

Trey answers for me. “It was unavoidable. I was under the CHRONOS field when a time shift happened. And . . . I told Katherine I wasn’t leaving. That I
volunteer
. I can’t be much help to Kate if my memory keeps getting wiped.”

Kiernan still looks troubled, but he hands me back my key and walks over to the registration desk. The woman points to the left, and he heads off in that direction, waving for us to follow.

A few minutes later, we’re in the County Hall Library, which stretches along the front of the building. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves separate the room into semiprivate dining nooks—small round tables covered with white linen, encircled by comfy-looking chairs.

Trey spots Mom and Prudence three tables back, in an alcove with a nice view of the Thames and Big Ben. A flustered-looking waiter stands behind them. I’m not sure why he’s flustered until I realize there are now five of us and the table is set for four.

Pru waves her hand dismissively. “Don’t bother. The dark-haired one is just my bodyguard. He can stand.”

Kiernan seems entirely unfazed by the comment, but her tone pisses me off.

I’m about to press the point when I find an unexpected ally in the waiter. His mouth tightens. “I’m afraid the gentleman will have to be seated if he’s to remain with you, miss. I’d be happy to pull up an extra chair if you ladies would be so kind as to move a bit toward the window.”

Mom complies immediately. Pru, on the other hand, gives the waiter a stare that makes me hope for his sake that this is one of those places where the tip is added to the check automatically.

“Fine,” she snarls, squeezing her chair a few inches to the right. I sit next to Mom, facing the entrance. Trey quickly drops into the chair the waiter placed beside me, leaving Kiernan to round out the circle.

The waiter sets another place for Trey and pours tea into the empty cups. Then he gives us a rundown of the items on the tiered tray near the center of the table—assorted pastries that look much too elaborate to eat, along with a variety of scones and delicate finger sandwiches.

When he finishes, Prudence clears her throat and purposefully taps the rim of her empty champagne flute. The waiter assures her he’ll be back with champagne momentarily and hurries off.

Mom takes a sandwich from the tray and asks me, “What took you so long?”

“Well, the elevator was slow. And then we had to find the Library, since you didn’t wait for us in the lobby.”

Pru shrugs. “I wasn’t sure how long they’d hold our reservation.” A sly grin spreads over her face. “I thought maybe you and Kiernan were just catching up on old times. Although I guess that might have been
awkward
with your new guy around.”

Mom chokes on her tea and gives me a questioning look. I start to respond, but Trey beats me to it.

“Perhaps,” he says in a level voice, staring directly at Pru. “But no more awkward than sitting across the table from the aunt who sneaked into her boyfriend’s bedroom.”

Pru’s eyebrows rise gradually, and she does a slow clap, her grin widening.

“Ooh, touché! After your rather . . . stoic . . . behavior that night, I’d pegged you as cute-but-boring. But it looks like Kate’s little pet has claws.” She catches Mom’s expression out of the corner of her eye as she reaches the end of the sentence. I think maybe she’d forgotten her sister was there, because some of the color drains from her face. She pastes on her too-wide smile again. “Oh, excellent. The bubbles have finally arrived.”

The fact that Pru calls champagne “bubbles” makes me want to vomit.

The waiter fills each glass in turn. Prudence’s is nearly empty before he makes his way around the table. Over his shoulder, I see the two security guards near the entrance. Tall Guy is talking to the hostess, while Short Guy watches our table, his eyes on Pru. When they shift to me, he realizes I’m staring back and quickly looks away.

I’m pretty sure I’m over the legal drinking age in Great Britain, but either Mom doesn’t know that or it doesn’t impress her.

“Could you bring her a bottle of water instead?” she asks the waiter. I shoot her a peeved look, although it’s more for show than anything else. Skipping the “bubbles” is fine with me. I need to keep a clear head.

“Hmph,” Pru says. “She’d be better off drinking the tap than bottled. You never know what’s in that stuff. No need for this to go to waste, however.” She scoops up my glass, then looks over at Mom. “Don’t get me wrong, Deb. I’m the last person who’d ever complain about extra champagne, but your puritan streak is showing again. Since when did you become so much like Mother?”

Given Mom’s opinion of Katherine, I expect her to take offense. And there
is
a tiny hint of offense in her expression, but she just says, “Possibly when I actually became someone’s mother.” She shoots me a quick glance from the corner of her eye and then looks back at Prudence. “Kate’s mother. Whom you already seem to know pretty well. Maybe you’d like to explain how and why you wound up in her boyfriend’s room?”

“I was teaching your daughter a lesson, Deborah. A little reminder to stop playing around in things she doesn’t understand. Cyrist International isn’t a game. We have a serious mission, and we mean to carry it out.”

Pru’s voice rises a bit with each sentence. Kiernan reaches over and squeezes her arm gently, looking pointedly around the room and then back at her. His meaning is clear to me—people are watching, lower your voice—but either Prudence doesn’t catch it or she doesn’t care, because she yanks her hand away and says, even louder, “I was trying to protect her. I thought you’d want that!”

“Of course I’d want that,” my mother says. “What I don’t understand is why you didn’t contact me first, Pru. She’s
my
daughter. It’s my job to protect her, not yours, and I can’t do that when everyone is keeping me in the dark.”

A quick glance in my direction makes it clear that I’m included in that criticism. I give her an apologetic smile and pretend I’m absorbed in deciding which of the pastries to grab from the top tier.

I hate that Mom feels excluded, but to be honest, I’d make the same decision about informing her if I had to do it again. Except . . . I’d probably try to talk her out of accepting the research grant, now that I know whose money was funding it. It’s not that I like lying to Mom. I just don’t think she’s capable of staying out of this. She won’t be able to stand on the sidelines and watch me take risks. She’ll go into crazed mother tiger mode and lash out at anyone—Katherine, Dad, even me—if she believes they’re responsible for putting her cub in danger.