More Time Kissed Moments Page 5

  He stood among their bodies, checking to make sure they were all truly dead. There would be no mercy today, for the sounds of struggle behind the cart earned them none.

  Then, bracing himself, Veris hurried around the cart at more than human speed.

  …and came to a skidding halt, in time to see Rafael plunge the short sword up into the captain’s chest and throat via the gap in his armor beneath the arm. The captain had a grip on the hilt, too, and looked as though he was guiding the sword—only his knuckles were white and the tendons on his arms were flexed with might. Rafael was taller, but far leaner, yet from somewhere he was pulling upon a strength which overcame the captain’s practiced power.

  The other two soldiers laid motionless on the ground.

  With a heavy grunt, Rafael shoved the sword an inch deeper.

  The captain stiffened. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth and his eyes grew lifeless.

  Rafael stepped away, pulling the sword out with a wet, slick sound.

  The body slumped.

  Holding the sword tightly, Rafael spun and took two steps, then saw Veris and sagged, one hand gripping the high side of the cart. “God above! I thought they’d killed you.” The sword point rested on the earth, which absorbed the blood dropping from it.

  “Then where were you going in such a hurry, if I was dead?” Veris asked.

  “To…to avenge you.” Rafael looked away.

  Veris drew in a sharp breath. He couldn’t help it. His gaze moved from one dead soldier to the other, to the captain folded at Rafael’s feet. “You killed them for me?”

  Rafael looked embarrassed. He wiped his brow with his sleeve, for his hand was as bloody as the sword. “I…yes.” His cheeks tinged red. “They made me angry.”

  “They made you angry,” Veris repeated wonderingly.

  “It was so unfair!” Rafael protested. “Fifteen of them! Two of us! Who are they to take what you possess? You worked hard for it!”

  “You killed them for it,” Veris added.

  Rafael looked around him, perhaps seeing for the first time the bloody results of his work. He looked surprised. Then the corner of his mouth twitched. He touched the center of his chest with his clean hand. “I found how to fight. In here.”

  Veris laughed, startling the riderless horses cropping grass on the edge of the road.

  Rafael grinned, then laughed, too.

  Veris stripped the horses of everything but their halters and hitched them to the back of the cart in a long line. He stowed everything worth taking in the cart, working methodically and quickly, while Rafael scooped and poured white sand over the blood stains on the road.

  “Won’t the horses slow us down?” Rafael asked.

  “You can turn them loose if you want. They’re yours.”

  “Mine?”

  “Spoils of war,” Veris said.

  Rafael drew in a breath and let it out. He nodded. He also left the horses hitched.

  They didn’t make the village before nightfall. They had been delayed too long that day. Instead, they pulled off the road and made camp on the lee side of a thick copse of thorn bushes.

  After he had eaten, Rafael moved around the fire and knelt beside Veris.

  Veris was surprised to feel his heart frantically beating.

  Rafael considered him calmly. “This is not a thank you.”

  “I know.”

  Rafael kissed him and Veris let the kiss extend and deepen. Then he noticed Rafael’s trembling. He held the man away from him. “You are afraid.”

  Rafael nodded. “This is the first time…I have willingly…” He swallowed.

  Veris held his face. “You have much to learn about pleasure, human.”

  “Teach me.”

  Veris did. Willingly.

  Afterwards, they laid companionably together. Rafael held up his hand. “I still tremble.”

  “For better reasons than fear,” Veris replied.

  Rafael smiled. “Yes.” He propped himself up on one elbow. “I am glad you are not dead, Northman.”

  “It will take more than a unit of centurions to kill me.”

  Rafael nodded. “Much more.”

  Veris’ gut tightened and his heart paused, as he recognized Rafael was referring to something he had learned in the eight lost days.

  Rafael rested his hand against Veris’ cheek. “Do not look that way.”

  “What way?” Veris demanded.

  “Panicked. Afraid.”

  Veris scowled.

  “That’s better.” Rafael sat up. “When we reach Pergamum, let me buy the cart from you. An exchange. One of the horses for the cart.”

  Veris sat up, too. “You will not stay in Pergamum?”

  Rafael shook his head. “My company does not soothe you, Veris. I am a reminder of what you do not know and it chafes you.”

  Veris hid his disappointment. Instead, he made a fuss of turning his tunic out the right way and putting it back on.

  “Besides,” Rafael added. “I have an appointment in Constantinople I must keep.”

  Veris rolled his eyes. “I do not believe that. Just as I do not believe you are a merchant, or that you own the expensive house within earshot of the bells of St. Sophia.”

  Rafael laughed. “I have protected my goods this day. I am a merchant. And the house really is mine. You gave it to me.”

  Veris lowered the tunic.

  Rafael’s smile was knowing. “See? There is panic in your eyes once more. When we reach Pergamum, it will be time for me to go.”

  “If you must,” Veris said stiffly and pulled the tunic over his head.

  Rafael caught a bunch of the linen in his fist, halting him from tugging it down. His gaze was steady. “There is someone else for you, Veris. You will find them, eventually.”

  The fear rose even higher. Veris shuddered as invisible fingers from great events hidden by time and more touched his spine.

  “Believe me,” Rafael said gently.

  And suddenly, the fear was gone. Veris nodded, relaxing. “I believe you.”

  “Good.” Rafael pulled the tunic back up over Veris’ head and discarded it. “We are still three days from Pergamum.”

  More Time Kissed Moments

  [2]

  Canmore, in the Rocky Mountains, Alberta, Canada. A few minutes later.

  Veris scowled at Alex as Alex picked up one of the newly printed handbooks from the stack sitting on the deep windowsill. “Of course I’m in, you stiff-necked idiot. I owe Rafe that much, at the very least. Whatever it takes to find him, I’m in.”

  Alex kept his gaze on the handbook, as if he was studying the lettering on the front. His jaw worked. So did his throat.

  Then he cleared his throat and nodded. He glanced at Veris. “Thank you.” His voice was hoarse.

  Veris nodded back, then pretended to read the screen of his computer, to give Alex time to recover.

  After a moment, Alex held up the handbook and waved it. “How many people have you pissed off with this diatribe, by the way?”

  “You mean, besides Sydney and the son of a whore in Greece?”

  “David?” Alex clarified, his smile growing. “David, the son of Alexander the Great?”

  “You heard me.”

  Alex laughed and flipped the pages.

  How to Survive Time Travel

  [i]

  From How to Survive Time Travel—A Practical Handbook, by Veris Gerhardsson, PhD, M.D.

  …although it has been commonly accepted among Travelers that ignorance is usually fatal, it would be more accurate to say that arrogance is the mortal weakness of Travelers.

  You think you know better, because you are from the future. You arrive back in a past you presume to understand and that is your arrogance.

  The past is as much an undiscovered country as the future. It is also far less civilized and the natives less forgiving of errors.

  Travel there at your peril, for not even a lifetime of study will prepare you for the reali
ty.

  More Time Kissed Moments

  [3]

  Canmore, in the Rocky Mountains, Alberta, Canada. A few minutes later.

  Marit isn’t here yet?” Alex asked, as he and Veris stepped down into the basement.

  Taylor got up from the sofa and picked up Alex’s hand. “She’ll get here. It’s three a.m. where she is, and she won’t jump until she’s fully alert.”

  Veris scowled. “She’s in fucking Australia?”

  “Other side of the planet from you, Veris.” Sydney’s tone was cool.

  Veris held his jaw together, for despite her dry tone, Sydney’s eyes were pinched with shock and stress.

  “We should phone Neven.” Taylor was patently changing the subject.

  “No,” both Alex and Sydney said together.

  “Yes,” Veris said.

  Alex turned on him, his jaw working again. “They have a toddler—”

  “Don’t give me that,” Veris replied. “You have a daughter. Where is she, by the way?”

  “Alannah’s bed,” Sydney said. “It’s the middle of the night for Liberty.”

  “We all have kids and family and obligations, Alex,” Veris said. “Even if they are on the other side of the planet,” he added darkly.

  Sydney’s smile was weak, but it was there.

  “Call Neven,” Veris told her. “Alex doesn’t get to decide for them if it’s too dangerous.”

  “He’s done too much of that lately, I’m told,” Sydney added, as she lifted her cellphone.

  Alex glanced at her. “Not you, too.” His voice was low.

  “Rafe had a point,” Sydney replied, lifting the phone to her ear. Her gaze was unflinching as Alex’s face worked, revealing a growing anger. “But that is for later,” she added, her gaze shifting from Alex to Veris and Taylor. Then her focus adjusted inward. She said into the phone, “Neven. Hi. I know it’s horribly late and I’m sorry if I woke London or the baby…”

  Saint-Jacut-de-la-Mer, Côtes-d’Armor, Brittany. A few moments later.

  London rubbed at her eyes, trying to make them open a little wider than sleepy slits. She couldn’t make them focus properly.

  Remy put one of the fine demitasse cups in front of her and touched her arm to draw her attention to it. The rich aroma of strong espresso rose from the black liquid.

  “Mm…” She smiled her thanks at him, as he sat at the small, bleached white wood table beside her.

  It was still early and dark outside. Despite the dark, she could hear cormorants and seagulls bickering, over the sound of the slow waves on the beach. It was high tide. The dawn chorus would start, soon.

  Neven, sitting on the other side of the table from Remy, spun his cellphone around on the worn wood, frowning. He couldn’t be tired, yet his cheeks were hollow, the high cheekbones more defined than usual, as if they were drawn by exhaustion.

  “What else did Sydney say?” London asked him.

  Neven glanced at her, then at Remy. “Nothing. She suggested we jump there and they’ll explain everything then.”

  “To their new house in Canada,” Remy said.

  “It’s a nothing jump,” London assured him. “Lateral only.”

  “You’ve never been there. You’re to jump blind?” Remy asked her. His tone was affronted.

  Neven shook his head. “Sydney or Taylor will come and guide us. Or both. They wouldn’t ask that of London.”

  London considered Remy, taking in the gleam in his eyes and the tautness of his jaw. “You’re angry,” she breathed. “Because they asked us to help?”

  Remy shook his head, although his jaw seemed to grow even tighter.

  “You are angry,” Neven said. “What the hell, Remy?”

  Remy grimaced. “It is nothing,” he assured them. “Only…I do not think we should go to Canada.”

  “Not even to find Rafe?” London said, shocked.

  “Is this about having the snot beaten out of you on Martha’s Vineyard, two years ago?” Neven asked.

  “No!” Remy said, sounded as surprised as London was. “Of course not,” he added, his tone calmer.

  “Then give,” Neven said. “Why do you look as if you’ve been asked to eat Surströmming?”

  London gagged. The first and last time she had merely sniffed the open tin of Swedish pickled herring, she had vomited.

  Remy didn’t smile, even though his gaze shifted to her as her face sagged. He sat back and crossed his arms. “Every time they reach out, we get swallowed whole by whatever crisis they’re dealing with. They’re a disaster on wheels.”

  “They? Or him?” London asked gently. It was a guess, but a directed one, for Remy was not a fan of Veris, although he had never said anything. She had spotted the almost invisible signs Remy gave off when he held in his irritation around Veris.

  Remy didn’t meet her gaze.

  Neven went back to spinning his cellphone.

  “Both of you? What is it about Veris which makes grown men behave like three-year-olds?” London demanded. “He’s smart and strong, and would do—has done—anything to preserve his family—”

  “He’s an overbearing prick,” Remy said.

  London’s jaw sagged. “He saved our lives!”

  “And did you notice how he stepped in without asking? Božidarko turned into his victory and his operations,” Remy shot back. “We were handling it.”

  “We were not handling it,” London said grimly. “If Veris hadn’t been there, Neven would have died.”

  “Alex treated him, not Veris.”

  “And Alex wouldn’t have been there if Veris had not stepped in without asking!” London slapped the table top for emphasis.

  “I think we should go to Canada,” Neven said, as Remy opened his mouth to reply.

  Remy blew out his breath. “You can’t stand him any more than me.”

  Neven shook his head. “We can sort that out later. There’s a reason to go which outranks Veris.”

  “Rafael,” London said softly.

  Neven nodded.

  Time and a Donor

  Rougeret Beach, Saint-Jacut-de-la-Mer, Côtes-d’Armor, Brittany. Last year.

  Four silly tourists had hiked across to the island of Ébihens, earlier in the day, and forgotten to watch the returning tide and got themselves trapped there. So, when Sydney delivered Rafe to their front room after supper for his usual coaching chat with Neven, the two men headed for the beach to watch the harbor master’s cutter chug out to the island to rescue them.

  In the village of Saint-Jacut-de-la-Mer in March, watching the former fishing smack turned harbor patrol boat bounce strenuously over the waves as the sun set was considered high entertainment.

  London waited as long as she could, then slid on her flats and walked the quarter mile from the house to the beach to fetch them back. It was good to get out of the house. Jason was teething—one of the big back molars—and had his father’s temper. Only Remy could calm him. She left Remy bathing Jason as the two batted inanities back and forth in old French. Jason had picked up Remy’s milk tongue faster than English.

  The beach was nearly deserted, for it was cold and a storm last week had dumped a long line of rotting seaweed at the high tide mark. The stench didn’t seem to bother either man. They sat with their bare feet buried in the dry sand just above the weed, arms on their knees, talking softly. They were two dark shapes in the gloaming, far along the narrow beach.

  London walked along the ribbon of tarmac, heading in their direction. The smaller cottages along the beach were nearly as old as their larger house, which stood behind them. Good strong electrical light shone from windows as families settled in for the evening. The road was as deserted as the beach. Every car parked along the edge of it was a local vehicle and known to London.

  The lap of the small waves close to the weed line all but muffled the tick of a car engine issuing through one of the narrow public lanes between the houses.

  It was the only warning London got.

  A
hand slapped over her mouth. A damp cloth laid in the hand and London wrenched her chin to one side, away from the cool wetness, for it smelled stronger than the seaweed.

  “Hold her, damn your eyes,” a deep voice muttered in thickly accented French.

  A big arm came around her.

  Instinctively, London let her knees crumple, ducking under the arm. She pushed up from the tarmac with her hand, away from the man. “Neven! Help!”

  Countless cool instructions and directions flowed into her mind. She should use the leverage of her hand on the tarmac to twist and ram her foot into a stomach or chest. She could push off with her feet and use her shoulder to the same effect. She could run, only they had come prepared with a knock-out preparation, so this wasn’t random. They would come after her.

  Therefore, she had to fight.

  All of it whizzed through her mind as she straightened and got to her feet. Her hands came up, just as Remy and Brody and even Sydney had tirelessly taught her was the most useful position when she didn’t know what would happen next.

  Do something! London railed at herself.

  Even as she hesitated, someone moved passed her so quickly, they were a blur in her vision. The big man reaching for her staggered backward. His feet lifted. He fell backward heavily, with a grunt.

  A hand gripped her arm, the fingers digging in. London tried to whirl to face the second attacker. His grip was too tight.

  Then Neven was there. His arm shot passed her chin, lightning fast. She heard the tips of his fingers slap into the man’s flesh—probably his windpipe, for it would make him lose all interest in fighting, to concentrate on breathing, instead.

  The man’s grip on her arm slackened. London wrenched her arm away.

  “Finish him, Neven!” Rafe spoke quietly, his voice whiplash sharp.

  Neven took a step toward the gasping, gagging man. He seemed to move slowly. His jaw worked.

  Rafe swore and leapt, pushing past Neven. He slammed into the second man, one hand reaching for his throat, the other gripping the pistol the man had drawn. The two of them dropped to the ground in a tangle of arms and legs. The man’s head rapped on the road with a heavy, solid sound.