Time Kissed Moments
Author: Tracy Cooper-Posey
Date: 2015-07-25 04:00:00+00:00
Keywords: M M F; Romance; Vampires; Menage; Time Travel
Description: If you can’t get enough of Brody, Veris and Alexander…These three vampires are thousands of years old, yet getting them to open up about their past lives takes just the right combination of events. An evening sitting around talking provides stories and flashes of insight, and a very special moment in all their lives.By reader request, find out what happened to Andy, Taylor’s former next door neighbor, the aftermath of the events in Kiss Across Swords, and a rare story from Alexander, who has the tables turned on him.A volume of short stories, snippets, and a conversation that wanders through t

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Table of Contents

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About More Time Kissed Moments

Praise for the Kiss Across Time series

More Time Kissed Moments Title Page

Time And An Iberian

More Time Kissed Moments [1]

Time and the Northman

More Time Kissed Moments [2]

How to Survive Time Travel [i]

More Time Kissed Moments [3]

Time and a Donor

More Time Kissed Moments [4]

Time And Ten Million Dollars

More Time Kissed Moments [5]

How to Survive Time Travel [ii]

Time And A Wiggle Dress

More Time Kissed Moments [6]

How to Survive Time Travel [iii]

More Time Kissed Moments [7]

Time And A Marine

More Time Kissed Moments [8]

How to Survive Time Travel [iv]

More Time Kissed Moments [9]

Time and The Celt

More Time Kissed Moments [10]

Time and the Detective

More Time Kissed Moments [11]

Time and Rafael

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Acknowledgements

About the Author

Other books by Tracy Cooper-Posey

Copyright Information

About More Time Kissed Moments

Where is Rafael?

Rafael is missing, with not a trace of him to be found, not even on the Timescape.

In a volume of interconnected short stories, snippets and conversations, Veris’ extended family of vampires and time jumpers comes together in unexpected ways, united by their need to find Rafael and get him back.

Reader Advisory: This time travel ménage romance collection features at least two super-hot alpha vampire heroes, multiple sex scenes, including anal sex and MM sexual play. Do not read this book if frank sexual language and sex scenes offend you. The time-space continuum was restored to order at the end of this book. Promise.

This book is part of the Kiss Across Time paranormal time travel series:
1.0: Kiss Across Time
2.0: Kiss Across Swords
2.5: Time Kissed Moments*
3.0: Kiss Across Chains
4.0: Kiss Across Deserts
5.0: Kiss Across Kingdoms
5.1: Time And Tyra Again*
6.0: Kiss Across Seas
7.0: Kiss Across Worlds
7.1: Time And Remembrance*
8.0: Kiss Across Tomorrow
8.1: More Time Kissed Moments*

The characters and events in this series are interconnected from book to book. Reading the books in order is strongly encouraged.

[*Short stories and novellas featuring the characters and situations featured in the Kiss Across Time series].

A Vampire Time Travel Romance Collection

Praise for the Kiss Across Time series

OH MY ! What an engrossing read. I really loved the way time travel was woven into the story. Tracy's descriptions are so vivid YOU ARE THERE.

The tales were short but so satisfying, it was wonderful to catch up with some old friends from previous books, to see what happened to them or how their histories intertwined with Veris and Brody.

This reminds me of watching “out-takes” after an animated movie. You know they were written special, but they add a lot of depth to the characters and provide some back story. If you enjoy history you will especially enjoy these glimpses into the past (or was that the future?).

I am an unabashed Tracy Cooper-Posey fan but this has to be my favorite series.

Have you ever viewed the world through a kaleidoscope? Beautiful images connected together at multiple locations.

These little snippets of stories are fantastic, every time you get to see how much love the vampires feel for each other, and how that love transcends time, they can go off and have adventures but they know that they will always come back, drawn together by love and some pretty fantastic sex as well!

I admire how the author made me feel like I was reading a book with one storyline when she writes about different events and basically strings together a series of short stories into one. Very well done. It was also nice to get some more in depth information about the characters.

Tracy weaves these colorful little shorts into a tapestry that gives insight into the past lives of Veris and Brody. They sends my imagination flying!

Time And An Iberian

Granada, Spain. Today.

They had been walking steadily for more than an hour beneath dappled late afternoon sunlight when Alex saw one.

He froze, his hiking boot thrust forward and up against the steep slope, his gaze riveted upon the ancient cypress ten meters away. For the first time since they had parked the car in the parking lot at the edge of the Sierra Nevada National Park and been forced to stop arguing because of tourists, Alex’s heart leapt and beat by itself.

Rafe turned back on the narrow track and pushed the end of his hiking staff against a knotty root which ran across the sandy, worn path. He did it as if he was tired and propping himself up, as humans do. “What now?” His voice was low and impatient.

“It’s right there.” Alex’s voice emerged as low as Rafe’s, for different reasons. “Can’t you see it?” He fought to keep his tone even, despite his pounding heart being jammed in his throat and stealing all his wind.

Rafe turned to peer along the trail once more. “See what?” He scanned the area. “Wait…are you talking about the squirrel?”

Alex stared at the red creature standing on a branch of the cypress, one tiny paw gripping the bark of the main trunk. It examined him with beady eyes, and held motionless. Alex swallowed, as an invisible band tightened around his chest and squeezed.

Rafe looked from the cypress to Alex and back. His shoulders shifted. His laugh emerged, soft and short, as if he was trying to control it and failing. “You’re afraid of squirrels?” His voice was strained with both mirth and excess control. “You?”

Alex’s heart pounded, beyond his control. The heat of his skin told Alex he was stressing his symbiot to the point of shutting down and letting human responses take over…such as sweating.

“You don’t understand,” he told Rafe, as the freakish-looking animal shifted on the branch, its snout wrinkling with demonic joy. “It is…red.”

“And furry and cute and harmless. You’ve seen thousands of squirrels in California and they didn’t freak you out.” Rafe moved slowly toward the tree, to avoid startling the thing. “Tame bugger,” he added, when the squirrel shifted its gaze to Rafe, yet still didn’t leap up the tree at lightning speed to escape.

“They’re different here.” Alex forced the words past the constriction in his throat.

“They’re red,” Rafe said in agreement. He halted three meters away from the cypress and lifted his hand toward the thing.

“God above, don’t touch it!” Alex pleaded.

Rafe glanced at him. Merriment shone in his brown eyes. He held his mouth in a mild curve, trying to not laugh. He stretched out toward the branch with his fingers.

Alex made himself breathe. “Rafe…” He couldn’t prevent the pleading tone from emerging.

“Hey, buddy,” Rafe murmured to the small demon.

The squirrel got up on its hind legs, showing ferociously red belly fur. It tilted its head toward Rafe.

“Look at it,” Alex said. “Those pointed ears. They’re…evil. And that tail!”

“The furry, bushy tail with the curl in the end?” Rafe asked. “Oh, it’s absolutely the most wicked thing I’ve seen all year.”

“It looks as though it is laughing at us,” Alex whispered.

“It probably is,” Rafe replied. “At you, in particular. It’s a squirrel, for heaven’s sake. You’re one of the race of ultimate hunters. It’s more afraid of you than you are of it. You can move faster than the damn thing, even in the dark. Step around it and let’s keep moving, or we won’t make the peak before sunset.”

the bright,

Alex tore his gaze away from the squirrel and made himself study the worn, smooth trail, instead. His heart worked even harder, now he couldn’t track the thing with his gaze.

Just a dozen steps. That was all. Then he would be beyond the tree and could move on. Just take the first step. One step.

His right foot was already planted ahead on the trail. He simply had to transfer his weight to take the step.

Rafe’s amusement faded. “You’re not fucking around with me, are you?” He shifted down the trail, closer to where Alex stood frozen.

The muscles in Alex’s forehead ached from being held tightly drawn. He couldn’t relax them. He shook his head, unable to speak. His gaze met Rafe’s and relief touched him when Rafe didn’t laugh again.

Rafe glanced down the trail behind them, then up at the sky visible through the diminishing autumn foliage, weighing it up. “We can head back to the car, instead,” he offered.

Alex didn’t think his heart could leap around more than it did already, yet at Rafe’s suggestion that they go home, it slammed up against his chest. It actually hurt. “No,” he said quickly. “Hell, no,” he added. “Sydney will skin us alive if we go back before…” He realized he had let his gaze skitter away from Rafe’s harsh expression when he saw the squirrel still sat there.

Alex closed his eyes and turned his head away. His humiliation was complete.

Rafe made a wordless sound. It wasn’t quite a hiss of frustration or impatience, or even amusement. Perhaps it was all three. Only, anger mixed with them.

He shifted back up the trail. Alex’s hearing extended to its most sensitive, to track the movements of the squirrel he dared not look at. Rafe’s relatively heavier boot steps sounded like cracks of thunder in comparison.

Four steps. A soft, inhuman growl.

The squirrel shrieked. It didn’t chitter. A full, panicked scream sounded. Bark twisted and flew, gouged by tiny claws.

Alex opened his eyes in time to see the red furry body and thick tail shimmy up the trunk of the cypress, twenty-five meters above them. It scurried along a slender branch. With all four limbs spread, the squirrel leapt across the space between the cypress and the closest spruce. Pine needles rained upon them as the limb the squirrel landed upon shivered and bent.

The squirrel hugged the trunk, shifting around the girth with panicked, quick movements, and disappeared, still chittering in alarm.

The creatures in the surrounding forest grew silent, recognizing predators were among them.

Rafe turned back to Alex, his top lip shifting as his incisors retracted. The feral gleam in his eyes faded as he returned to the state closest to humans they could ever reach. He gripped Alex’s arm. “Come on, Arab.” His tone was gentle, yet still harsh with control.

Rafe’s anger lingered. He was holding it inside.

Biding his time.

Alex sighed and let Rafe lead him around the cypress. As they moved up the trail, Rafe’s hand fell away. He pushed ahead, ramming the spiked end of the staff into the earth with more force than was needed.

In all the years he had known Rafe, Alex had never seen him hang on to his temper in this way. They had left the house nearly three hours ago and endured a silent ninety-minute drive to the western parking lot at the trail head to Silleta de Padul. Just parking had created conflict, for Alex had wanted to walk the longer trail up to the Siete Lagunas—the seven lakes—which would give them more time.

“The short one,” Rafe had tossed back, his tone stubborn. “I want this over and done with.”

That had hurt.

The semi-full parking lot and meandering tourists forced them to silence as they began the hike. They’d been walking for over an hour, at a steady, human-like pace, leaving the humans behind, for it was getting late. In all that time, Rafe had continued to brood.

Alex had left him alone with his thoughts, hoping Rafe’s better sense and normally sanguine mood would reassert themselves.

Now, he could not afford to leave Rafe alone to brood. It wasn’t simply Sydney’s directive that they sort things out between them before they returned home which drove him to speak, either.

“Fatimid,” he said to Rafe’s stiff, square back. “Arabs come from the Arabian Peninsula.” Which he did not. Rafe knew that, though.

“Whatever.”

The need to hit back inflated inside Alex with the force of a blow torch. It burned. He ground his teeth together. “Spaniard,” he muttered. Rafe hated the name. He considered it an epithet when applied to him.

Rafe whirled, his face working. “Iberian! Iberian! I’m fucking Iberian! And this is my land, right here!” His foot lifted and landed heavily. He stomped.

Alex stared, both fascinated and awed at Rafe’s flaring, heated anger. “In the nine hundred years I’ve lived, five centuries I have lived right here. I’m more a native of this land than you. You drifted. Only, that is what you do, isn’t it?”

Rafe strode down the trail, back to where Alex had halted. Rocks rattled and leaves crunched, for the trail hugged the edge of a narrow shelf here, as it rounded stony outcroppings and climbed toward the cairn at the peak. The trees thinned.

Rafe stopped barely a pace away. “What the hell does that mean?” His olive features worked, ruining the symmetry and the beauty. His dark honey-colored eyes narrowed. Not even the long lashes lessened the fury in them.

The air shifted between them. Alex saw Rafe as a stranger might. For a heart-stopping moment, he saw Rafe’s strength, his determination.

His passion.

This was not a passing moment for Rafe, either. It wasn’t a squall, forgotten soon after they made up.

Alex remembered why they were here and that he couldn’t afford to let this go, either. “You went to see your old family!” he cried, feeling the hurt all over again, as fresh and as painful as the first time he learned what Rafe had done.

“My fucking son died!” Rafe shot back, his face flushing red. His human emotions were stronger than his symbiot’s ability to compensate. “I shouldn’t go to his funeral?”

“You are supposed to be dead to them and to all the humans around them! How could you risk it, Rafe? How could you risk exposing us all this way?”

Rafe rolled his eyes. “Fuck the Blood,” he muttered, whirling away. “What do you know about it? My son died.”

“You knew it was wrong. You knew it was an unacceptable risk. It’s why you didn’t tell Sydney or me. It’s why you sneaked around behind our backs!”

“It’s my fucking family!” Rafe cried.

“We are your family!” The protest ripped from Alex’s chest, tearing out roots and leaving an invisible, bloody trail through his heart.

Birds fluttered and flapped, high overhead.

A squirrel shrieked at Alex. It sounded as though the creature perched over his shoulder, braced to leap at him. Alex threw up his arm, a cry jamming in his throat. He staggered away from the tree, his heart pistoning like a steam engine at full tilt.

His foot found nothing beneath it, warning him of the peril. Alex tried to throw himself back up the trail to where Rafe reached for him, his eyes wide.

Their fingertips met as gravity took Alex. He fell, turning and twisting, slamming against branches and trunks. Bones broke, ribs crushed. One punctured his lung. Another rammed a sharp sliver into the left ventricle of his heart. His spine fractured. Stones and bark and needle-sharp pine quills, sticks and twigs scored and punched into his flesh.

It was not a long fall. Perhaps twenty meters. It would have been fatal for a human. At the end of the sharp drop, the ground sloped at a more reasonable angle, the earth held in place by the skeleton of the mountain beneath.

He slithered and rolled as he tried to flip around so his feet pointed down the slope, to halt him against a trunk or rock. His boot rammed into rock and the femur cracked with a sodden sound.

For a moment, the pain blanketed his other senses, muffling them.

A force wrenched at his broken leg, gripping his ankle. The power of the grip against his moving body separated the severed bone and tore at the muscles surrounding it. Alex groaned at the sheer agony, helpless to do anything else.

Whatever gripped his boot anchored him and brought him to a halt with his leg at an impossible angle. His head laid on the downslope, resting against dried pine needles and pebbles which dug into his pounding skull.

For a moment, he was a ball of pure pain. Then the symbiot snapped into life, repairing the damage, blanketing the pain, muffling all sensations. It sent the human responses into hibernation, sparing him.

The crack and shiver of trees overhead forced Alex to open his eyes and focus.

Rafe descended, jumping from tree to branch to trunk, back and forth, using his vampire strength and speed, despite their public location. He landed on the slippery slope and slithered down the fifteen meters to where Alex laid. He kept his balance despite the mini-avalanche of rolling stones and leaf litter he set off.

Alex closed his eyes as the small landslide reached him. He held his breath until the stones stopped rattling past.

Rafe crouched down beside him, his gaze traveling over Alex’s body. Assessing.

“Sorry,” Alex said, his voice weak.

“How bad?”

“I’ll recover.”

“Not what I asked.”

The heat stirred in Alex’s chest. “It fucking hurts, okay? Does that please you?”

Rafe blinked. For the first time, his gaze met Alex’s. He looked away.

Alex tried to push himself up on his hands. The grip on his ankle held. “Can you pull me up the slope, so my leg straightens out? It won’t heal at this angle.”

Rafe straightened and thrust his hands under Alex’s shoulders and got a grip under his arms. “This will hurt,” he warned and pulled.

It did hurt, although the symbiot was already soothing aches and pains. Alex breathed hard as Rafe dragged him in a semicircle until his broken leg laid straight. The cracked ends rubbed together with sharp intensity, making Alex groan.

The grip on his ankle intensified.

“Stars and suns…” Alex muttered, trying to sit up, to see what was wrong.

“Your ankle is jammed between rocks.” Rafe’s tone was indifferent. “That’s what stopped you rolling all the way to the bottom.”

Alex managed to sit. Now he saw his boot was rammed between two large gray-white rocks. Or perhaps it had been one rock, once, thrusting up barely half a meter above the dirt. Water, cold and time had cracked it through the middle, then filled the crack with twigs and pebbles and dried leaves, separating it more.

Now Alex’s boot pushed deep into the leaf litter.

Rafe gave a sigh, got to his knees and gripped Alex’s ankle and pulled.

“Harder,” Alex said, when his boot didn’t move.

“Help me,” Rafe said shortly.

Alex shifted on his ass until his knees bent. The newly knitted-together femur gave out a throb, although the muscles obeyed normally. He got a grip on his ankle, above Rafe’s hands.

“One…two…three,” Rafe muttered.

They pulled steadily for thirty seconds.

“Something shifted,” Rafe said, hope tinging his voice.

“That was my ankle breaking,” Alex said, keeping his teeth together as new pain flared.

Rafe dropped onto his rear with a disgusted sound. He hung his arms on his knees, his hands dangling uselessly, and glared at the crevasse. In the last of the lowering sunlight, his face was bathed with warmth.

“We’ll have to move the rock, instead,” Alex said. He put his hands on the flat face of the crevasse and looked at Rafe expectantly.

Rafe glared at him. “It’s outcropping, Alex! It’s a piece of the fucking mountain itself. We’re strong, but we’re not that strong.”

Alex shook his head. “It’s cracked across. It might have been part of the mountain once, but it isn’t anymore. We only need to move it the smallest fraction. Just enough to free my boot. That’s all. We can do it.”

Rafe shook his head in irritation. He got to his feet and crouched, straddling Alex’s lower legs, and put his hands on the lower face of the crevasse, as Alex did.

“One…two…three,” Alex breathed.

They heaved.

They were of the Blood. It was nothing to them to move small boulders. Yet the rock didn’t move. Not enough of it was exposed above the earth. Even though it was cracked, they couldn’t determine how much of it laid like an iceberg beneath the surface. They might be trying to move something the size of a cathedral.

Rafe swore and staggered to his feet, his back to Alex. His hands flexed and stretched. “Some forces are greater than us.” His voice was soft. The anger was gone.

Alex turned his hands over and watched the nicks and scrapes heal. He wiped the blood away. “When did Sydney and I stop being enough for you, Rafe? Why did it happen?”

Rafe whirled to face him, his eyes as wide and large as they had been when Alex fell. His mouth worked, but no words emerged.

Then he turned and walked down the slope, sending more small runs and slides of earth down with him.

“Rafe?” Alex called, fright spearing his chest.

Rafe didn’t answer. He disappeared among the trees, farther down.

“Rafe!”

No answer.

Alex pummeled the ground with his fist. His helplessness made it worse. He couldn’t go after Rafe. He couldn’t fix this. He could only sit here and wonder what had gone wrong.

Darkness fell. The night creatures, who assessed correctly that Alex was harmless, scurried and flapped and went about their daily existence, unconcerned. The last of the summer cicadas gave chorus.

Alex tried pulling at his boot a few more times but gave up quickly. He knew it was pointless.

Instead, he listened to the night around him and fought to kill his imagination. Time stretched out, as precise and neat as it always was to a vampire, neither stretched nor compressed. Alex’s worry increased.

He told himself that of course Rafe would return. He’d gone for help. Or for Sydney, or perhaps some of the others—Veris and Brody and Remy and Neven, even Taylor and Sydney… All of them together could shift this rock, enough to free him.

Only the hollow assurance didn’t kill Alex’s growing fear that Rafe had gone and would never be back. He couldn’t dismiss the notion that he was alone and must find his own way out of this.

As the minutes ticked over, Alex noticed the cold. Usually, his body temperature remained the same as that of the ambient air, leaving him neither hot nor cold.

Now the chill crept into his bones. He wrapped the coat he normally didn’t need more firmly around him and hunched beneath it, his gaze on the slope.

When the squirrel chittered furiously somewhere overhead, Alex jumped and clapped his hand over his mouth to keep in the scream. His heart thundered in his temples, muffling the sound of movement above. Too much movement for an evil, spry squirrel.

The trees bent and shook.

Hope flared. Alex twisted to peer up at the cliff from where he had fallen. His night vision gave him perfect clarity. He watched with a frozen, aching heart as Rafe lowered himself down from the edge, sliding hand-over-hand down the tow rope Alex kept in the trunk of his Mercedes.

A nylon backpack hung from Rafe’s shoulders. It looked heavy and lumpy.

He dropped the rope and clambered down the slope, setting up another small shower of stones. Then he dropped the backpack to the ground.

It clunked, a heavy metallic sound.

With a sigh, Rafe crouched and unzipped the backpack. He pulled out the black tire jack which lived under the floor of the trunk, and the handle which cranked it open.

Alex stared at the jack, breathing hard. His eyes ached.

Rafe picked up the jack, hefting it and studying the crevasse which held Alex’s boot motionless. He glanced at Alex, measuring him.

Then his gaze snapped back. He lowered the jack. “Fuck, Alex. Are you…crying?”

As soon as Rafe spoke the words, Alex realized he was close to it. He shook, his stressed symbiot withdrawing and leaving his human responses to carry the burden.

“It’s just…I didn’t think you would come back.” His voice was hoarse. He put his elbow on his knee and shaded his betraying eyes. It was full night, now. Rafe would spot even more detail than his human vision could see in daylight.

Rafe swore softly. His hand rested on Alex’s shoulder. “I’m sorry. I should have said something as I left. Only…you shocked me.” His voice grew rougher. “And dammit, why on earth would you think I wasn’t coming back? You think so little of me? You think I would leave you here like this?”

“I know, I know,” Alex whispered. “I told myself that. I know you wouldn’t, only it didn’t stop me from thinking…” He trailed off, feeling pathetic and small. This was the reason Sydney had sent them away to sort things out. She had known, long before Alex realized it, that he could only share hard, core truths like this with Rafe when there was no chance she might hear him speak them.

Just as there were truths he would share with Sydney which he could never speak aloud to Rafe.

Rafe made a rough, impatient sound and caught Alex’s face in his hands. He kissed him, hard and swiftly. “Fool,” he murmured. “I’ll always return, Arab.”

Alex couldn’t halt the trembling. Not now. Not until he had fed and his symbiot was back on-line. He shook his head. “Iberian,” he corrected.

“As am I,” Rafe breathed, his mouth brushing Alex’s lips. “Of course I am…this is where the people who possess my heart and my soul live.” He kissed him again, taking his time. He rested his head against Alex’s. “The rest we can sort out later. When we’re off this bloody mountain and you can think coherently once more. Okay?”

“Very much okay,” Alex whispered, as the pressure around his heart shifted and eased.

Rafe picked up the jack again. His smile was grim and tight, but it was there. “Let’s go home,” he said, and got to work.

More Time Kissed Moments
[1]

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

Veris watched the Park Warden’s truck rumble over the iron bridge spanning the little ravine with a sense of inevitability. The truck was heading for the house. The road and the bridge led nowhere else.

This visit was overdue. He had been expecting it for days, now.

He put the axe down and shrugged back into the down-filled parka, for it was only thirty-seven degrees. Three degrees Celsius, the locals would say. Cold enough to make humans shiver.

Moving casually, for he knew the man driving the truck would already be observing and measuring, Veris glanced over his shoulder and scanned the big log cabin house. No one was at the windows who shouldn’t be there. No one was standing on the verandah in short sleeves.

Everything looked as it should.

He turned back to watch the truck take the last steep curve up to the flat parking area at the side of the house, behind the blackberry brambles. He and Brody had spent days spreading gravel over the freshly plowed area and tamping it down, to prepare for the winter to come.

The truck with its official shield on the side came to a halt, nose facing the brambles, nice and neatly. The Warden stepped out, put his hat on and nodded at Veris.

Yes, he had been spotted already, even though he hadn’t moved from among the trees where the chopping stump was.

“Morning,” the Warden said. “You live here, sir?”

“I do,” Veris said, keeping his tone easy. He headed toward the man, his hand out. “Veris Gerhardsson. Doctor.”

“Medicine or something else?” the Warden asked, shaking his hand with a firm grip.

There was an air about the man, faint but distinct, of alertness and coiled wariness. The squareness of his shoulders and the alert air said he’d had a different profession, once. He was in his mid to late thirties, perhaps even early forties, with tanned skin, a high forehead under the flat brim of the hat, and dark eyes which missed nothing. He was only an inch shorter than Veris.

“M.D and professor,” Veris said.

“You’re a long way from your lecture hall,” the Warden replied. “I’m Kit McDonald.”

Veris scanned the man’s face once more.

Kit McDonald grinned, showing white teeth, and rubbed a thumb over his jaw. “Yeah, Kit is to spare the tourists trying to figure out how to pronounce the real name.”

“What’s on your birth certificate then?” Veris asked curiously.

“Kisecawchuck,” Kit replied, grinning.

“Cree,” Veris concluded, for Kisecawchuck was one of the Cree nation’s great leaders.

“Half-blood.” Kit didn’t seem embarrassed about it. “I think the name was meant to make up for it.”

Veris touched the center of his chest. “Väinämöinen, on mine.” Which was a tiny lie. He didn’t have a birth certificate because he was born before births were registered. The name was true enough, though.

Kit’s smile was easy and relaxed. “Good to meet you, Väinämöinen.” His shoulders squared again. His glance took in the house once more.

“What can I do for you, Warden?” Veris asked.

“It’s Kit. We’re tracking a bear which hasn’t settled for the winter.” He lifted his strong chin toward the gray, sharp peaks behind the house. “You’re right on the border of the park, here, and Smokey was heading this way. I wanted to warn you. Probably a good idea to stick close to the house for a few days. You have pepper spray?”

“I do.” Not that he needed it. Bears recognized vampires as stronger and meaner predators and avoided them. Although he would insist Aran and Alannah and Marit wear the spray on their belts for the next few days, when they were here.

Kit nodded. “Well, then…”

“I expected the Mounties would be the first to show up and check us out,” Veris said. “Not Park Wardens.”

Kit’s smile was still easy. “A good assumption, as you’re the new guys in town. I run into the Mounties at least once a day. We all like Tim Horton’s coffee.” In other words, he would pass his assessment of the newcomers to the Mounties.

Kit’s eye nearly closed in a wink. Then he glanced at the house once more. “The construction of this place has kept the townsfolk’s tongues wagging since the first loaded truck trundled up here. You’ve got a great house.”

“Thank you. Would you like to step in and look around?” Veris made the offer because sooner or later, McDonald would find a way to get inside and inspect the place. Veris wanted to make it easy for him. The Canmore people and the authority holders, like the Mounties, would be curious and likely wary of the new arrivals. It was simple enough to reassure them that Veris and his family were normal, ordinary people, and willing to be good neighbors. Only the second part was true.

“I’d love to,” Kit said. “Only for personal reasons, though, so I won’t. I built a log house on the other side of the valley, five years ago.” He pointed toward the mountains on the southwest side of the narrow valley which cradled Canmore and the south end of the Banff National Park. “There are not too many big log houses in the area.”

“Then you must come back when you’re off duty and meet my family,” Veris said. “I’d be pleased to show you around.” After they had carefully secured the house so it looked as innocent as it should be.

The front door of the house opened and Taylor stepped onto the verandah. She wore a heavy overcoat and snow boots, which meant she had spotted Kit and had dressed to appear human. “Veris, you’re needed inside.” She glanced at Kit. “Sorry. A call from his faculty.”

Kit touched the brim of his hat. “I’d best be getting along, anyway.” He nodded at Taylor.

“My wife, Taylor,” Veris said.

“Kit McDonald, ma’am,” Kit said.

“Brody is in Canmore, picking up hardware at the moment, or I’d introduce him to you, too,” Veris added, deliberately invoking the question which would follow.

“Brody?” Kit asked.

“My husband,” Veris replied, meeting Kit’s gaze.

Kit didn’t quiver or twitch. “He would be the rock star, then?”

The gossips had dug deep. Veris grinned. “Former rock star. We’re staid married people now.”

Kit’s gaze didn’t skitter away. “We all evolve, eventually.”

Veris nodded. “Military, I’m guessing.” He let his gaze drift to Kit’s useful shoulders.

“Something like that.” Kit’s tone was still easy. “I may take you up on that offer to show me around sometime. I like interesting people.”

“Whenever you’re ready.” Veris didn’t bother trying to give him his cellphone number. Kit would find the number by himself, if he didn’t have it already. There were dozens of official forms, resident applications, building permits, zoning applications and more documentation which carried the number. Kit could wrangle his Mountie friends into showing him one of them.

Or he could call the university and ask the Faculty of Medicine for Veris’ number and get it the official way.

Kit moved back to the truck, his long legs swinging easily beneath the light coat. He backed the truck out and sedately rolled it down the curving drive toward the iron bridge.

Veris didn’t move toward the house until the truck crossed the ravine.

Taylor still stood on the verandah. She lifted a smooth brow. “I thought the RCMP would be first.”

“Almost the same thing. He’s best buds with them. He had a legitimate reason to come here. It was very smooth and polite.” Veris tilted his head. “You wanted me to get rid of him?” Her comment about an urgent call from his faculty had implied that much.

Taylor nodded. “Alex and Sydney are here. It’s not social.”

Veris opened the heavy front door for her, bracing himself. Taylor stepped past him, shedding the heavy coat and dropping the boots by the door. Barefoot, she padded through the big front room, which was still mostly empty, and into the hall at the back of the house. The wide hall contained the master stairs up to the next floor, and a heavy-duty mud room which serviced the back entrance to the house.

Beside the steel reinforced back door, there were five other doors lining the hall. One led into the dining room, which laid off the kitchen. Opposite, another gave access to the east end of the house, where their studies and utility rooms were.

The other eastern door gave access to the attached garage at the back of the house. The garage contained four vehicles and was heated by the same powerful furnaces which kept the house warm.

Under the stairs was a half-bathroom, which was the third door on the east side.

The second door on the west side opened onto what appeared to be a deep closet. Taylor slid the pocket door to one side. There were hooks on the back wall, holding coats and scarves, and a rack holding boots and outdoor shoes attached to the bottom.

Taylor reached into the closet and depressed the switch buried in the inside frame of the door. With a heavy click, the back of the closet swung toward them a few inches, revealing light behind it.

Taylor pulled the hidden door open, revealing a well-lit set of stairs heading downward. She moved down them.

Veris closed the hidden door behind them and followed her down.

On the official blueprints lodged with the Canmore authorities, the big log house didn’t have a basement. The entire house appeared to have been built on a concrete pad. The pad had thermal pipes buried inside it, to distribute warmth through the house, all documented and approved.

What the blueprints didn’t show was the added reinforcement and support struts added beneath the pad in the dark long hours of the night when the construction crews had gone home. Veris and Brody and a rotating roster of volunteers from around the globe, including Rafe and Alex, Sydney and Remy and Neven and other trusted friends and family, had spent nights working beneath the concrete pad. They had excavated the earth down to the native rock twenty feet beneath, lined and finished the cavity, then added facilities which would raise the brows of officials, if they knew.

Only after the house was deemed finished, above, did they break through the concrete pad which roofed the hidden basement, and add the stairs and hidden doorway.

The stairs were thick wooden planks, planed and sealed, and glowing with golden warmth. They led down to the far end of the basement. The side of the stairs was open.

As soon as Veris was low enough to see into the big room, he looked down at the colorful rag rugs covering the hardwood floor and the worn sofas and armchairs—veterans of a dozen different lives and houses. Their used, comfortable patina matched the warm golden wood paneling on the walls. The lighting was also a pleasant yellow, although daylight emitting overhead fluorescents could be switched on if decent working light was needed.

Sydney stood with her arms crossed, chewing at the ball of her thumb, her golden brows creased together. She wore gym pants and no makeup and watched the monitors on the wall which showed views of the main floor of the house and every potential angle of approach on the outside.

Veris glanced at Alex, then came to a halt on the stairs, for Alex was covered in dried blood, his clothes ripped and dirty, his hair ruffled and his eyes haunted.

“What the hell happened?” Veris demanded, moving down the rest of the stairs at a speed which would have made Kit McDonald’s jaw drop.

Sydney dropped her arms and turned to Veris, her jaw working. “Rafe is missing.”

Veris frowned. “Missing,” he repeated. He tried to fathom how anyone could go missing when at least five people in the family—including Sydney—could reach across the timescape and find anyone, no matter where they were.

“He was taken,” Alex said, his voice strained.

“I need Marit to search for Rafe on the timescape,” Alex said.

“Didn’t Sydney scan the timescape already?” Taylor asked, as Veris prodded at Alex’s perfectly healed ankle, beneath the destroyed hiking boot. She put her phone aside. “Brody is heading back. Twenty minutes.”

“I did look,” Sydney said. Her voice was low, harsh with control. “I’m not Marit, though.”

“Someone who knows how to hide on the timescape took him,” Alex added. “That’s a very small group of people.”

“Rafe knows how to hide on the timescape, too,” Veris pointed out. “You said you were arguing.”

Alex shook his head. “No. He’s not doing a Brody, Veris.”

Veris grimaced. Taylor winced.

“Sorry,” Alex added. “But you know what I mean.”

“No,” Veris said. “I don’t. Explain it to me again. You argued…?”

“We all argued,” Sydney said. “Then I told them to go sort it out.”

“Which we did,” Alex said, his tone just as sincere as Sydney’s.

“While hiking up Silleta de Padul,” Veris finished. “Then you fell off the mountain. How did that happen?”

“I…just wasn’t paying attention,” Alex said. “I slipped. There was nothing to grab, not for thirty meters. When I landed, my boot jammed in a crevasse. Rafe hiked back to the car and brought back the jack. We levered the rock open enough to free my foot, then we hiked back to the car.”

“Looking like that,” Taylor said, eyeing Alex’s bloody and alarming state.

“Which is why I hung back behind the tree line at the edge of the parking lot,” Alex said. “Rafe went ahead to see if anyone was around who would remember me looking this way.” He swallowed, his gaze dropping to his discolored hands, which hung from his knees. “He didn’t come back.”

“Doesn’t mean he was taken,” Veris pointed out.

“What else could it mean?” Alex demanded, lifting his head and glaring at Veris. “There was no trace of him. I quartered the area, using every sense, for two hours. Sydney can’t find him on the timescape. Someone took him, Veris.”

Veris lifted his hand, in a calming gesture. “I’m not saying you’re wrong. I just want to make sure we need to panic, before we reach out to Marit.”

Alex leaned forward. “The argument we had—that’s what it was about, Veris. About leaving without notice. About…” He swallowed. “About drifting away.”

“We’re all sensitive about it, after Brody,” Sydney added softly. “I’m sorry to mention it again, only…”

Veris sucked in a breath, exhaled heavily. “Okay, you argued and sorted it out.”

Alex nodded. “That’s why I know this is not Rafe abruptly dropping off the map because of some obscure need to avoid us. He wouldn’t do that, not after…today.”

Veris knew Alex had changed what he was about to say, to avoid speaking Brody’s name again.

“I know you and Marit are not on speaking terms at the moment, Veris,” Sydney added. “She isn’t talking to us, either. Only, she’s the other polytemporal. She can find Rafe, if anyone can.”

Veris’ middle jumped as he focused on Sydney’s careful phrasing. “The other polytemporal” reminded him of the first polytemporal. He soothed his heart back to silence and killed his anger before he spoke again. “And how, exactly, am I supposed to get her here?”

Alex’s eyes widened. “You don’t know how to reach her?”

His heart thudded, despite the control he was asserting. Veris made himself speak the words. “Marit changed her phone number.”

Taylor stared at her knees.

Alex pushed his hand through his hair. “Mother Mary…what did you say to her, Veris?”

Veris held his teeth together. “Nothing which is relevant right now,” he growled. “The point you’re missing is that I don’t know how to reach her. She ghosted me. Us.”

“Taylor knows how to reach her,” Sydney said, her tone flat with certainty.

Taylor looked startled. Her gaze flickered toward Veris, guilt touching her expression.

Veris picked up Taylor’s hand. “Thank Christ for that,” he breathed and squeezed it gently. “Is she well?”

Taylor took a deep, deep breath. “She’s as angry and stubborn as you, Väinä, but for this, she will come here.”

Relief touched him. Veris schooled his expression so the relief and the hope it generated didn’t reveal themselves. He nodded. “She’s a pragmatist, too. Reach out, Taylor. Let’s find Rafe.”

Alex found Veris in his office, where Taylor had sent him while she spoke to Marit.

Alex had showered and wore a pair of Brody’s jeans and a button-through shirt. His feet were bare and his hair slicked back.

“You look almost indecently casual, for you,” Veris said.

“Right now, I don’t give a damn,” Alex replied. He threw himself in the chair beside Veris’ big desk. “You agree with me, then, that someone has taken Rafe?”

Veris sat back. “Something has happened to him,” he said carefully. “It doesn’t matter if he was taken by an enemy or met with some misadventure…either way, he’s in a position where he can’t reach out for help. We have to find him.”

“We?” Alex repeated and raised his brow.

“You’re not thinking you’ll go after him by yourself, are you?”

“Sydney and me. Yes.”

“Don’t be stupid,” Veris shot back. “What if the two of you end up in the same black hole he’s in?” He rested his hand flat on the desk, to avoid curling it into a fist. “Rafe isn’t helpless, Alex. I’ve seen him fight solo against three pissed Roman legionnaires. For him to be unable to reach us, whatever happened to him, it’s overwhelming.”

“Exactly,” Alex replied. “I won’t ask anyone to take on the same risk.”

“You and your ethics.” Veris sighed. For a moment, ancient memories he usually kept locked away swam to the surface of his mind, as bright and clear as if it had happened yesterday…

Time and the Northman

Somewhere between Constantinople and Pergamum. Anatolia Peninsula. 491 C.E.

They had been four days on the road—the most uncomfortable and angst filled days Veris had ever suffered. It had little to do with the bouncing delivered by the jolting cart as the wooden wheels rolled into and out of every crack and hole in the road. Most of the discomfort was generated by the man sitting on the flat board beside him, his brown-eyed gaze on the road ahead.

Rafael of Iberia. A friend, he claimed. In the last few days that claim had been demonstrated. Rafael remembered the way back to Pergamum. Veris could recollect not a single detail of the journey which had drawn him away from his medical studies in the old healing center, to travel all the way to Constantinople as a guest of this man.

Wine and women had propelled Veris, Rafael had explained. Even more strange was that Rafael understood that consuming wine, for Veris, was an indirect business which required feeding from one already drunk. That one being Rafael.

Imbibed wine and slack women had beckoned, apparently. Plus, a need to drown his growing disquiet about a woman called Tyra—his wife, he had been told—about whom Veris also remembered not a single thing.

Eight days were missing from his memory. As vampires remembered everything, it was disturbing to recall nothing of eight entire days. This was the second time such blankness had gripped him. The first time, he had still been human. That was when the woman everyone said was his wife had disappeared. They had blamed him and ejected him from the village and the kingdom.

No one was screaming about murder this time, which was a small blessing.

Despite the missing memories and the shock of finding himself in Constantinople, when his last memory placed him on the coast of the great sea, Veris might still have accepted Rafael’s explanation about what had happened. It sounded feasible. It sounded exactly like something he might do.

Only, Rafael was lying.

The evidence was there for any half-aware man to notice. The pale skin around the man’s wrists, which spoke of slave bands recently removed, were the greatest proof that Rafael was not the successful Byzantine merchant he claimed to be. It meant the modest but graceful house from where they had departed, close by the walls of St. Sophia, was likely not Rafael’s house.

The lies added up after that. The business trip Rafael had undertaken, traveling to Panormos, where he and Veris had met, also seemed logical but was a lie.

Plus, Veris would not have left Pergamum and uncovered the trove of riches he’d hidden in the cave a day’s ride north, just to clear his head about troubling times in the past. Finding Pergamum in the first place, then begging to be permitted to learn from the masters there, had taken a year of toil and trouble. He would not have left on a whim.

Unmentioned by Rafael, yet clearly visible to Veris, were the markings of the Blood all over the man. Veris had fed from him, which wasn’t an enormous surprise—although why the man was still in his company after such an event was a smaller puzzle.

There were also markings from another of the Blood. Strange markings Veris had never seen before.

Both sets were faint and faded with each passing day. However, as four days had already passed and they were still visible, it meant the contact with the other vampire had been recent and possibly violent.

Rafael had mentioned nothing of a second vampire.

The only true note in Rafael’s story was that he had promised to show Veris the way back to Pergamum, which the man was doing. Among all the lies and omissions, this one fact sustained Veris and let him tolerate the man beside him, for the urge to return to Pergamum and take up his interrupted life was strong. When he got back there, when he was immersed in medicine and healing, he could put this business behind him.

Only then could he dismiss the liar sitting beside him and never see him again.

Today, they would turn east and lose sight of the sea which had laid to their right for four days. The salt in the air would diminish and the dust and heat would increase.

Yet they would be closer to Pergamum.

The thieves leapt upon them two miles beyond the crossroads, after they had turned east. The road plunged into a grove of ancient olive trees, their gnarled trunks a dark contrast to the white road and the bleached leaves.

Four filthy men lunged from the trees, yelling and brandishing rusty weapons. The gesturing and screaming were designed to freeze their victims with fright. Instead, Veris dropped the reins and calmly drew his knife. He reached under the bench and picked up the sword but didn’t jump down to deal with the thieves. It would remove the height advantage.

The first black-toothed fool ran onto the end of the sword. His last expression was one of surprise as he looked down at the burnished blade buried in his guts.

Veris kicked the body off the end of the sword, leaned to his right and across Rafael’s legs, to jam the point into the eye of the second man.

Rafael sucked in a shuddering breath, trying to draw himself away from the thief. Only, there was nowhere to go. The cart was an open, high-sided thing with the single bench on the front for the driver.

While Rafael quailed and shook, Veris pushed off with his boot, throwing himself forward to where the third ragged thief was trying to grab the horse’s halter. The gray tossed her head and lashed out with her hooves, for she had once borne Veris into battle and was a stalwart fighter.

Veris let his hand slap onto her back and pivoted from the arm, bringing his feet around. His boot slammed into the thief’s temple, dropping him instantly.

That just left the last one. Veris landed a pace beyond the mare’s nose, then sprinted to the back of the cart, where the more enterprising of the four men worked at the ropes which held down the canvas over the goods beneath.

The thief was too busy sawing and imagining what he would do with his unexpected wealth. He swung about, bringing the blade up and blocking Veris’ sword, although he had no battlefield experience.

Veris dispatched him cleanly with a slash to the throat, then wiped the knife upon his rags. He returned to the front of the cart, enjoying the dappled sunlight and the scent of warm, green olives.

Rafael was still curled into a defensive hunch on the bench, shivering.

All Veris’ simple enjoyment of the day evaporated. He tossed the sword under the bench. “You are no merchant. You have never defended goods in your life.”

Rafael lifted his head. His eyes were haunted.

Veris didn’t like the uneasiness Rafael’s horror stirred in him. He swore and walked back to the mare and gave her a pat and stroke and thanked her for her efforts. She had shown more grit than the man cowering on the bench.

Then Veris levered himself up onto the bench and picked up the reins. With a click of his tongue, he got the mare moving once more.

“Thank you for saving me,” Rafael said. Even his voice shook.

“I didn’t save you. I saved the cart,” Veris said stiffly, as his uneasiness rose higher.

It was the last thing either of them said that day, until they had stopped for the night in a shallow dip in the land, where they would have a little protection from the night winds.

If Veris had been traveling alone, he would have continued into the night for as long as the mare was willing to plod. However, Rafael was human, forcing Veris to make allowances.

He made a fire and a meal from the grains and dried fruits stored in a bag on the back of the cart, stirred together and stewed in water. A hunk of bread. Wine from the stone jar rammed between two locked trunks to stop it from tipping. Rafael ate silently, his gaze on the fire, his brown eyes watching the flames dance. They were expressive eyes, yet there was nothing to be read in them tonight. He had not spoken much throughout the journey, yet his silence was thought-filled now.

Veris expected the man would roll himself in the blanket and sleep as soon as he had eaten his fill. He had done so every night.

Instead, Rafael stirred and got to his feet. He moved around the fire to where Veris sat on the other blanket, a long branch in his hand, stirring the flames and breaking apart embers. For a moment, Rafael stood looking down at Veris. Then he dropped to his knees and considered Veris closely.

“Would you teach me how to fight?” Rafael asked. “As you do…so fearlessly?”

Veris sighed. “I cannot.”

Rafael’s face fell. HIs shoulders slumped.

Veris realized this was what he had been brooding upon all evening. He had been winding himself up to ask the favor.

Veris shook his head. “No one taught me how to fight. Everything I know, everything I do…I learned it from fighting. I’ve lived so much longer than you, Rafael. When you are a very old man, you might know as much as I do.”

“Might?” Rafael’s brow lifted.

Veris touched his chest. “The real power driving a blade comes from here. The drive, the determination. A man’s will.” He made himself stop speaking, for in his mind, all he could see was the shuddering man hunched upon the bench, terrified.

“More philosophy?” Rafael asked, his tone dry.

“More what?”

Rafael considered him. “Phil-os-ophy. You really do not recall any of it, do you?”

“I taught you that word?” Stunned, Veris stared at him. The ground between them had abruptly shifted. Rafael was, in this moment, not the weaker man. “What happened in those eight days?” Veris demanded. “Tell me. All of it.”

Rafael shook his head. “I cannot.” His gaze met Veris’. He had deliberately echoed Veris’ tone and words.

Veris laughed. The merriment caught him by surprise and the chuckle emerged as a squeezed, sighing sound.

Rafael’s smile was an echo of his amusement. The expression lightened his whole face and drew Veris’ attention to the fine line of his jaw and the surprisingly strong neck.

Was that how it happened? Did he signal in some way? For Rafael leaned forward and kissed him, his full lips warm and soft.

For just a fraction of a heartbeat, Veris enjoyed the kiss. Then better sense asserted itself. He shoved Rafael away. The man sprawled on the bleached white earth beyond the blanket, his fine merchant’s dalmatic and cloak coated in the stuff.

Rafael picked himself up, his expression bewildered.

Veris didn’t remember getting to his feet. He stood over Rafael, his chest heaving.

“I do not understand. You like…men,” Rafael said. “I know it.”

“I like people,” Veris shot back, his anger rising. “You are not a person, despite your fine clothes and sandals.” He picked up Rafael’s forearm and held it up so the wretchedly white, bloodless flesh above his wrist was between them. “You’re still a slave. In here.” He tapped the man’s chest. “Find another way to thank me for saving your miserable life.”

Rafael’s eyes widened.

Veris tossed his hand back. “And I do not entertain liars in my bed, either.” He turned and made himself stalk away before he said anything else he might regret.

The sun was at its highest when they came to the tiny inn on the side of the road.

Rafael, who had said nothing all day, straightened on the bench, staring at the parched, lonely building. “This place is the last I know. From here, I have only your directions.”

Veris glanced at him, startled. “My directions?”

Rafael’s gaze focused far away. He said in a flat monotone, “Continue east for a day and a night. There is a village, Soma. The cave lies north of the village. You know the way from there, from when you first found the cave.”

Veris barely noticed that the mare had come to a halt, as he let the reins go slack. “You quote me?”

“You made me remember it,” Rafael said. He rolled his eyes. “It would all be so much easier if you knew how to read. Then you could have simply written a letter for yourself and I could have remained in Constantinople.” The bitter note in Rafael’s voice stirred Veris’ guilt.

Then the secondary meaning registered. “Wait, wait… I knew I would not remember those days?”

Rafael’s eyes widened and his wariness grew. “It is best not to speak of them,” he said stiffly and looked ahead.

Veris had no intention of leaving the subject be. Only, before he could do more than fill his lungs to interrogate Rafael for every last scrap and detail, Rafael shaded his eyes and said in a low, worried tone, “Those are Byzantine army horses, in front.”

Alarmed, Veris extended his vision to pick out the horses tied to the railing on the far side of the building. Only the first two animals were visible. He noted the burnished copper buckles and stirrups. The smooth leather over the beasts’ noses. Their high and wide shoulders.

The Eastern Legions had been shifting away from the old Roman foot soldier model for more than a generation, favoring cavalry and speed. The Byzantine legions always acquired the best and strongest horses for their soldiers. Sometimes they didn’t pay for the animals, either.

In one respect, the Byzantine army was identical to the old western Roman legions: Their fighting prowess and power was to be respected…or feared.

Movement at the door of the tiny inn drew Veris’ gaze. An officer stood peering at them, his hand to his eyes, his cloak furled back over his shoulders.

“We’ve been seen,” Veris breathed.

“If we turn around, they’ll come to see why,” Rafael added.

Veris glanced at him, surprised at the display of strategic thinking. Then he realized it was pure survival instinct in the man, not strategy at all.

“Can we just drive past and not stop?” Rafael suggested.

Veris shook his head. “If you are right, if what I made you remember to tell me is correct, then there is no other inn or water between here and the village, a day away. It would be natural to stop. So we must stop and water the horse and eat, ourselves. It will raise suspicion if we do not.”

The wariness which naturally arose in the presence of Byzantine soldiers was both mutual and undiscussed. They were in accord. They would ease away from the soldiers as swiftly as they could and pray they did not earn their attention in the meantime.

They fell silent as the cart rocked and jolted its way to the inn. As they drew closer, Veris studied the details. A pergola built over tables and benches, to serve customers outside. The pergola, which should have been a shady retreat because of tangled growth of some vine or another, was a bare skeleton. Any vines planted to grow over it had long since withered and died.

Instead, long lines of harsh sunlight painted the tables beneath.

The inn itself had a long window open on one side, to serve customers. Cups hung from rope, beside the window.

Farther along, close to where the army horses were tied, was a long and narrow water-filled tub, for watering horses. No shade was on offer there, either.

Altogether, it was a miserable, dry spot, but it would be guaranteed the custom of every traveler, because it was the only inn in this area.

On the benches beneath the pergola were a dozen soldiers, their leather breastplates and red cloaks distinctive. They drank from cups which were not secured by rope. The inn keeper had wisely chosen to behave as if he trusted the soldiery.

The officer stood with his shoulder against one leg of the pergola, his arms crossed, his eyes creased against the strong sun, watching the cart approach. He had the raven black hair, cut short, and olive skin of a native Roman. Likely he came from a well-to-do family in Constantinople who reckoned their ancestors back to Rome itself, and had bought himself an officer’s commission.

Only, he did not look weak or stupid, or dull. He straightened as the cart came closer and murmured something to his men. One soldier wiped his mouth of wine and hurried into the inn itself.

Veris’ wariness increased. He let the cart drift past the pergola and halted the mare in front of the watering tub. As he fussed with lowering the reins, he pushed the sword deeper beneath the bench with his heel, where the sunlight would not glint upon it.

Rafael jumped from the cart and hurried up to the mare’s nose and helped her step forward and drink. It put him on the far side from the soldiers, who had all turned to watch them.

Veris let his cloak drop around his shoulders and arms despite the heat of the day, for it helped disguise his scars and the width of his shoulders. It also hid the hilt of his knife, which would let him draw it unobtrusively, if he needed to.

“That’s the man, Captain! He’s the one who stole my slave!”

Rafael gave a startled curse and looked over the mare’s neck. Veris whirled.

The officer—a captain, although he wore no insignia—stood three paces from the door of the inn. A tall, skinny man of greater years, with thin hair and watery eyes, stood beside him. His chin was silver with whiskers and his long finger pointed at Veris.

Rafael ducked under the mare’s nose, as the two men headed for where they stood. “His name is Baradeaus,” he said, his tone urgent and low. “He cheats at dice, so you cheated him, to win me. Then you freed me. You did not steal me.”

Veris met his gaze. His surprise was muted by his growing anger. “A merchant of Constantinople, you said?”

Rafael’s expression was earnest and sincere. “This is the truth.”

Veris nodded. “I believe you.” And he did, for it made terrible sense.

He turned to confront the captain and Baradeaus. “Good afternoon, Captain.” He let his gaze settle on the second man. “Baradeaus.”

“See, he remembers me!” Baradeaus plucked at the captain’s tunic sleeve.

The captain tilted his head, taking in Veris and Rafael. Rafael stood at full height, his shoulders square, and looked straight back at the captain without a quiver or tremble.

Veris hid his smile. “Of course I remember you,” he told Baradeaus. He looked at the captain. “Be wary if he offers a game of dice, Captain. He shaves his dice.”

Soft curses sounded from the pergola. “He fleeced me!” came the protest.

The captain’s eyes narrowed. “A crooked game of dice isn’t as serious a charge as the theft of a slave.”

“I won Rafael in a game, despite the weighted dice,” Veris replied.

“He lies!” Baradeaus protested.

“Then freed him, I see,” the captain said, ignoring Baradeaus. Instead, his gaze crawling over Rafael once more. “Are you so rich you can let a slave go, Northman?”

Veris hesitated. Claiming wealth would make him a target, farther down the road. Neither could he claim he freed the man because his status as a slave offended him, although Rafael’s hasty whisper told him he had done exactly that. Only, to say so would mark him as an oddity and raise suspicion.

He had already hesitated for too long. The captain glanced at the loaded cart with open curiosity. Veris could not afford to have the man look beneath the canvases. There were items in the cart he could not easily explain, for they had been acquired in a different time and place.

“This is a trifle not worthy of your time, Captain,” Veris told him. “Let me buy you and your men a few flasks of wine, instead.”

A few of the centurions at the table looked around hopefully.

The captain frowned. “You don’t look like a thief. If the slave has been freed and stays with you willingly—”

“Veris Gilmárdal is a good man,” Rafael said firmly. “Wise beyond what even he understands, and a fierce warrior, too.”

Baradeaus shrank back.

The captain looked curious. “Aye, you have the markings of a soldier. Were you with the legions?”

“I was a mercenary for many years,” Veris replied, for there was no harm in letting the captain and all his men, who listened openly, know he could fight. “Now, I study healing. I am on my way back to Pergamum.” As the road east led nowhere else, there was little point in disguising the fact.

“Captain, if he’s a surgeon, let him treat Florian’s wound,” a soldier called.

The captain raised his brow.

“I would be happy to,” Veris replied. “Only, I do not have my tools and herbs—”

“They’re in the cart, remember?” Rafael replied. “Tucked down behind the bench.”

Within reach of the sword.

Veris shrugged and tried to look sheepish. “It has been many days since I packed the cart, and this has been a journey for business, not medicine. I will treat your man if you wish it.”

The captain stepped to one side and waved toward the pergola.

“Rafael—” Veris began.

“I’ll get the chest,” Rafael said, his tone one of agreement. He spun and turned back to the cart.

The man, Florian, had scored his arm on some rusty implement, somewhere. Veris did not ask for details. His companions had stitched the wound, yet infection had set in.

Even though he had only been studying at Pergamum a short time, Veris knew how to treat the wound. He was pleased to realize that the contents of the chest Rafael brought him were all known to him. He remembered placing the items in there, and he remembered using them. He had not lost all his faculties in the missing eight days.

Veris set about opening the wound once more, letting it drain and cleaning the interior, while Florian moaned and his companions poured wine down his throat. Veris re-stitched the wound, using the thread the surgeons in Pergamum had thoroughly boiled, then applied a poultice of herbs to draw the rest of the infection out. He gave the man and his fellow soldiers instructions on caring for the wound until it was properly healed, while Rafael repacked his chest.

By the time he finished, the captain had moved to another table and was drinking with his men, his suspicion allayed. Veris nodded to him as Rafael carried the chest back to the cart.

Veris refused as gently as he could the many cups of wine the soldiers tried to press upon him as payment. He moved back to the cart, climbed on and turned it onto the road.

As the inn fell behind them, Rafael sighed. “Thank you.”

Veris raised his brow. “For what?”

“You don’t remember a thing, only you defended my freedom, anyway. You could have just as easily let Baradeaus take me back and avoided the captain’s suspicions.”

Veris stared at the mare’s back, which shone a healthy cream color in the afternoon sun. “I could have done that,” he said in agreement, speaking slowly. “Only, it wouldn’t have been right.”

“That’s what you said, when you first freed me. That slavery wasn’t right. You were angry about it.”

“Was I?” Veris nodded. “It…makes sense.”

“Does it?” Now Rafael was the one to sound surprised.

Veris reached for an answer. It was there, just out of reach, for he had never had to find the words for the feelings and beliefs which had been gradually building in him over the years. “I have lived a long time, Rafael. I have seen far too many slaves and men bound by obligations, trapped in misery because of it. It isn’t right, although there isn’t a sensible man or merchant alive who would say so. They haven’t lived as long as me. They haven’t seen what I have seen. I’ve been a poor mercenary most of my life and couldn’t buy a slave. When I had the means to afford one, I was no longer interested in buying one. I had seen the plight of too many.”

“And one in particular,” Rafael added.

“Apparently, your fate touched me more than any other.” Veris still could remember nothing about freeing Rafael, even though it made sense that he would do so.

Rafael hid his surprise.

“Then you were not referring to yourself?” Veris said. He sat up. “Another slave…one known to me.”

“I spoke out of turn,” Rafael said swiftly. “This is not a matter we can discuss, for your own future would be impacted by it.”

“Future?” Veris turned on the bench to face him properly. The hint of great, life-changing affairs he could not remember made his heart beat. “Who are you?” he breathed.

“I was once a slave. I am no longer,” Rafael replied. “Thanks to you and your need to turn to healing, instead of hurting. That is all you need to know…all you can know.”

“While you know it all,” Veris said bitterly.

“One day, so will you,” Rafael assured him. “At least, that is what you told me. That one day, it would all make sense to you.”

They drove a dozen more miles, while Veris mulled over Rafael’s startling hints. Then he heard what he should have heard far earlier. He cursed and looked over his shoulder. “Horses. A mile or two away but coming closer. And fast, too.”

Rafael didn’t question how he could possibly hear such a thing. He gripped his hands together. “The soldiers.”

Veris snapped the reins, encouraging the mare to quicken her pace. “The captain showed far too much interest in the cart. We can’t out-run them. Look for a track, anywhere we can pull off and hide.”

“It’s wide open here,” Rafael said, his tone worried. “Not a single olive grove or valley.”

The bleached white earth spread to either side of them, dotted with rocks and the odd, stunted bush and dry grasses.

Veris didn’t try to reassure Rafael. He was too busy calculating, weighing possibilities and options. There had been fourteen in the unit, beside the captain. He could fight fifteen and win, even fifteen Roman-trained soldiers. Only, it would be a costly fight and he couldn’t protect Rafael while he was doing it.

Hiding was their only option. There was nowhere to hide, though.

“I see them,” Rafael said, his voice tight. “They are far away.”

“They are coming closer. The horse cannot keep this pace for long.” Veris glanced at Rafael. “Even giving them the whole cart will not appease them. Not now.”

Rafael’s gaze met Veris’. He nodded.

They didn’t speak again, for there was nothing to say. They listened to the growing thunder of the cavalry unit gaining on them. Not even Rafael looked back.

The soldiers stopped the cart by pacing alongside the mare and grabbing her halter. They tore the reins from Veris’ grip.

They pulled Rafael from the cart, as Veris leapt among them with his sword and knife.

It was a bloody few minutes. Veris killed six before another smashed the back of his head in with a stone. The blow would have killed a human. It dropped Veris to the hard earth, his senses reeling. He gasped, trying to pull together his thoughts, while his blood pooled in front of his face.

Rafael struggled between two men, while the captain studied him. Veris watched with dull fury, his limbs useless until he healed, as the captain gripped Rafael’s hair in his fist and yanked his head back, to better examine him.

Rafael spat at him.

The captain wiped the spit from his breastplate, grinning. “Take him behind the cart and hold him down,” he said, his tone amused.

Veris swore in his mind, his voice still useless.

Rafael shouted and struggled between the pair as they hauled him around the cart and out of sight.

The captain looked at his men. Six still stood. “Carry on,” he told them.

They grinned and laughed as he stepped around the cart, unclipping his cloak.

Veris got his knees under him and came up from the earth with a roar. There was only six, and they thought him dead, or dying. He finished them easily, for their shock limited their movements.

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 reality.

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.

The pistol waved between their double grip. Rafe ground out, “Give up. Don’t make me do this.”

The man bared his teeth. With a hiss, he muttered, “Fottiti, mostro!”

Italian. And uncouth Italian, at that.

“Damn it all,” Rafe muttered and flexed his arm. A wet, tearing sound came as he wrenched at the man’s neck.

London closed her eyes and turned her head away, her stomach fluttering.

“Who the fuck are they?” Neven murmured.

“Not now,” Rafe said sharply. “I’ll take the heavy one. He’s not bleeding and I don’t have a change of clothes. Neven, you grab this one. Quickly. Quietly. Back to the house.”

“Not in my house,” London said quickly.

“The potting shed,” Rafe amended. “Where Jason won’t see anything.” He bent and picked up the first big man with no apparent effort and hoisted the body over his shoulder. “Hurry. Neven, move it. Neven!”

Neven nodded and lifted the other man.

Neven returned to the potting shed in fresh clothes, pushing the black sweater sleeves up his arms, as Rafe and Remy dug through the garments on the two bodies lying on the rickety plank table in the middle of the shed.

“Jason is asleep,” Neven murmured to London as he passed her.

“Thank you,” she whispered back.

“Anything?” Neven asked Remy and Rafe.

“Not a single piece of ID,” Rafe said. “Not unexpected.” He shoved a hand through his thick, black hair. “Chloroform on a pad. A syringe with something stronger. One gun. A cosh.” He glanced at each item lying on the bench beside the table, as he listed them.

“Extra weapons in case the chloroform wasn’t enough,” Remy said, his tone dry. He was concentrating on the skinny man’s sleeve.

Rafe turned to Neven. “What the hell happened back there?”

Neven frowned. “I know as much as you.”

“I’m not talking about why. I’m talking about you,” Rafe said. He crossed his arms. “You froze.”

“I did not,” Neven shot back.

“You did,” London murmured.

Neven looked at her with a wounded expression.

Rafe pointed at her. “So did you, m’lady.”

London jumped. “Me? But…they caught me by…” She bit her lip and glanced at Neven.

Neven wore a heavy frown. “I did slow down,” he admitted. “I kept thinking—it’s stupid, but I couldn’t get rid of the idea that just killing him outright wouldn’t be…”

“Fair? Right? Human?” Rafe asked, his tone dry.

“Yes,” Neven said. He grimaced.

London wanted to nod in agreement. Rafe’s expression told her not to.

Remy looked up from the body he was probing, scanning everyone. He took in Rafe’s rigid stance and returned to examining the body.

Rafe moved in a tight little circle, six steps, his movements controlled and slow. Then he faced them once more. “You’re not human,” he said. “Not anymore.”

“We live amongst them. We live as humans.” Neven’s tone was defensive.

Rafe threw out his hand, a gesture of frustration. “This life you live is purely surface details. You float along it, like a boat on the sea. At any moment, you can be tipped into the water below, where your true life lies. You have to be braced for it. You must be constantly ready for it to happen.” He pointed toward his feet. “What do you do when you really are dumped beneath the surface of the water?”

Neven’s face smoothed out. The defensiveness evaporated. He had once drowned and the memory lingered, never far away. “Swim for the top…if I can.”

“Exactly what you did not do out there tonight. Either of you.”

“I am human,” London pointed out coldly.

“A detail that makes no difference,” Rafe snapped. “Your life is our life. You gave up being purely human when you married Neven the second time. Your real life lies beneath the surface and you put all of us at risk when you hesitate the way you did tonight.”

London cleared her throat. “I don’t have your speed and strength.”

Rafe’s expression made her squirm inside, because there had been a moment when she had held herself back. A lifetime of conditioning told her to let the authorities deal with the men, that responding violently would be wrong—even as the training she had been going through suggested a dozen different ways of fighting back. “It was just so unexpected,” she said weakly. “I don’t know why they wanted me. I don’t know them.”

Rafe nodded, as if he had read her thoughts. “You can’t fuck around with this stuff, London. You must off-load your human sensibilities about the law and human rights. Tonight, out there, with these two men…this is the thin edge of survival showing itself. Holding onto old habits and expectations won’t serve you in the long run.”

“As much as I’d like to watch you tear them into small, writhing strips,” Remy said, his tone mild, “I have to interrupt. Look at what I found.”

Rafe turned back to the table. London moved over to stand beside Neven as he stepped closer. She wondered if Neven trembled as much as she did. Disapproval from Rafe was a difficult thing to accept.

Remy lifted the skinny man’s elbow. He’d yanked back the sleeve of the knitted shirt the man wore. A silver chain hung around the man’s bony wrist, far down the forearm. Remy turned the chain until a flat solid plate appeared. There was a little red icon at the corner.

“Medic alert,” Neven said.

“Alert for what, though?” Rafe murmured. He reached out and dipped the tip of his finger in the great wound where the man’s neck had been, then touched the bloody tip to his tongue and frowned.

“What are you doing?” London breathed, horror spreading through her.

“Sampling,” Remy said, watching Rafe. “Diseases and chronic conditions can sometimes show themselves in the blood.”

“Oh, ugh…” London pressed her lips together.

“We can’t catch anything, remember?” Remy told her, the corner of his mouth lifting.

Rafe shook his head. “Nothing, except there’s way too much sugar for someone so skinny. He should be burning all his blood sugar at near perfect efficiency. Give me the chain, Remy.”

Remy hooked a finger over the links and tugged, caught the broken chain as it fell, then held it out to Rafe.

Rafe shoved it in his pants pocket and pulled out his phone. “Alex can search on the ID number on the bracelet. It will give us a direction to look, at least.”

“Is that necessary?” London asked. “They’ve been dealt with. Why dig deeper?”

“Because we don’t know why,” Remy said, his tone patient.

Rafe looked up from the phone. “Think of it this way. We’re all still swimming for the surface. Until we know why this happened and can negate it, we can’t get back.”

Sydney opened the potting shed door and stepped inside and shivered, for it was considerably warmer in southern Spain than it was in Brittany. “I didn’t think you meant this type of trouble,” she said, glancing at the bodies. Then she said to Rafe, “Alex is logging into the database as I speak.” She held out her arm.

“I’ll be back,” Rafe said, and stepped into her arm.

They jumped and disappeared.

Remy reached for the striped awning which shaded the south of the house in summer. He unfolded it and tossed it over the bodies. “London, you look as though you need a scotch. Come on.” He put his arm around Neven’s shoulders. “Rafe is right on every point,” he said gently.

Neven sighed. “I know that, dammit.”

London didn’t say anything. She knew Rafe was right, too. The knowledge didn’t remove the big, tight mass in her chest, or calm her swirling belly. They were both sensations which Neven was spared, as he was no longer human. Only she got to suffer through them.

“Make it a double,” she told Remy.

“His name was Giuseppe Novara, and he was from Turin,” Alex said, two hours later. He stirred the silver chain laying on the table between them with his forefinger. “That’s why it took so long to get the details,” he added. “Sydney had to hack into the European database to find him.”

“What was the alert bracelet for?” London asked, sipping her third straight espresso. It was at times like this she wished for the vampire lack of need for sleep.

“Renal cell carcinoma,” Alex said.

“Which explains the sugar,” Rafe added.

Remy nodded.

“Pretend I’ve only been a vampire for under a year,” Neven said, his tone patient.

“Blood sugar feeds tumors,” Alex said. “Unlike the rest of the body, which can switch to burning fats if there’s no sugar. Cancer cells are survivors by definition—they will do anything to make sure their food supply continues. The man was emaciated and probably always hungry and eating like a horse…which provided the sugar the cells needed. The tumor was probably advanced and stealing nutrients from the rest of the body, too.”

“Cancer…” Neven breathed. “Where does that leave us?” he added.

Sydney smiled. “If it was all we had dug up, we’d be nowhere. Alex isn’t the only one with access to interesting databases, though.”

“What did you find?” Remy asked.

“Giuseppe Novara was arrested in St. Malo three days ago, for possession of cannabis.”

“Cannabis is still illegal in France,” London pointed out.

Alex tapped the bracelet. “This was his get-out-of-jail card. He has a prescription on record for medical marijuana.”

Remy leaned forward. “Please tell me the police took his address.”

Sydney smiled.

St. Malo was the nearest big town, four hours north-east of Saint-Jacut-de-la-Mer.

“The address is all wrong, though,” Remy pointed out. “It’s right on the quays, among the warehouses.”

“Suggestive, no?” Sydney said softly. “No houses nearby…”

“What are you doing, London?” Rafe said, his tone sharp.

London folded the switchblade and shoved it in her jeans pocket. “I’m coming with you.”

There were at least three protests in response.

“Someone has to stay with Jason,” Remy added.

“You can,” London replied. “He won’t settle for anyone but you when he’s teething, anyway.”

“We might need fighters,” Sydney said, her tone mild.

“You must do without one,” London replied, “and put up with me, instead. I started this. It’s me they wanted, although I still can’t guess why. If we really are still swimming for the surface, then I can’t just sit back here and wait while you sort it out. It’s worse than hesitating at the wrong moment.”

Rafe’s expression was calm. He nodded. “Very well.”

Remy and Neven protested again.

“If London stays, Neven must, too,” Rafe said, looking at Remy.

Remy scrubbed at his dark blond hair. “Choix impossible...!” he muttered.

Alex held up his hand. “I’ll watch Jason. And I’ll get rid of the bodies while you’re gone. I noticed bags of lye in the potting shed and the old iron bath is out in the yard.”

London shuddered. Then she remembered she had a switchblade in her pocket and there was a good chance she would use it by the end of the night.

They drove to St. Malo, for none of them knew the town well enough to jump to the address Novara had given the police. The hour was late enough that little traffic was on the D168, even though it was a major route through northern Brittany.

Neven parked the big Renault estate car by the quay where the channel ferries berthed, among a hundred other vehicles. They walked across the bridge to the enclosed quais, and the acres of concrete and cargo containers, warehouses and silos, and dark, silent semi-trailer road trains.

As they drew closer to the warehouse, Sydney took the lead. She loosened the gun she wore under her jacket but didn’t withdraw it.

London was surprised when Sydney didn’t creep up to the massive sliding door. She walked up to it as she might approach the doors of any public building, as if she belonged there.

Sydney put her hand on the door, then held her other hand up. “It’s unlocked,” she breathed, and withdrew the gun and cocked it. The silvery metal flashed in the light shed from lamps high overhead, as Sydney looked around with an intense, assessing stare. “Camera,” she added, nodding toward the roof. “They know we’re here.” She looked at Rafe and raised her brow.

To London, it seemed she was conferring with Rafe.

He considered and shrugged. “Go in, anyway,” he said. “We need the information.”

Sydney raised the gun. “Pull weapons if you have them,” she said in a low voice, then pushed the door open. It moved easily for such a large door and stopped just beyond a normal door’s width.

They slid inside silently. There were massive shelves and racks holding boxes and cartons, trunks and mini containers, all of them sealed. The shelves ran in long rows back into the darkness.

To the right, though, bright light shone over the top of the shelves. The glow lit their way as they moved past the rows of shelving. London griped her knife harder to stop her hand from shaking and moved around the last row with trepidation. It was one thing to tell Rafe she would do her bit to sort this out. It was quite another to face the prospect of violence calmly.

No one else looked afraid, though.

London made herself stay level with Neven and Remy. Everyone halted as they rounded the last row of shelves and moved into the brightly lit area beyond.

“Sheesh…who’d’ve called that?” Sydney murmured, her gun lowering until it hung from her fingers.

London had to agree with her. In the center of four banks of outdoor arena lights was a single reclining armchair, and a pedestal table holding a decanter and crystal glass.

A man sat in the chair, his feet up, a cigar in his hand. He wore a normal business suit and his short hair was brushed back neatly from his forehead. He was in his late fifties. Gray sprinkled the temples of his medium brown hair. The lines at his eyes folded as he smiled at them.

“Welcome. Come in, come in,” he said in French, waving them forward with a flicker of his hand. A pinky ring flashed in the bright lights. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

“What the fuck?” Rafe breathed.

“Closer, but not too close,” Sydney breathed. She slid forward a dozen steps and everyone followed.

The man watched them and puffed on the cigar. He was relaxed. The guns, knives and cudgels they carried did not seem to bother him in the slightest.

Beyond the circle of lights which illuminated him, London could see nothing. The lights blinded her and all was shadow. There could be anyone back there. “I don’t like this,” she breathed.

“That’s unanimous,” Remy murmured, his gaze on the man in the chair. Then he frowned and peered closely. “I don’t believe it…Louis Durand!” He straightened and said in French, “What are you doing all the way over here in Brittany?”

Durand smiled, showing large, yellow teeth. “Ah, you do remember me. I am pleased. Our dealings were not always cordial, eh, Zoric?” His eyes narrowed as he looked at Neven expectantly.

London hid her dismay. Durand thought Neven was Kristijan Zoric, the man she had first married, a criminal with an organization spanning most of Eastern Europe. They could not explain that Neven was Kristijan’s alter-ego, from another, parallel world.

Neven crossed his arms. “Nor were they memorable. I don’t remember you at all.” His voice was flat and harsh. London shivered, for it was the way Kristijan had always spoken in the later years—with a complete lack of empathy for anyone, including her.

Durand nodded. He didn’t seem upset by the observation. “You’ve grown older, Zoric. So have I, hey? Look at me…” He prodded his stomach. “Two hundred pounds gone, just like that.” He clicked his fingers.

“Why did you try to kidnap my wife, Durand?” Neven demanded.

Sydney shifted back two steps, making it seem natural and unforced. It put Neven out in front of everyone, where Kristijan Zoric would naturally stand.

“To talk, Zoric. Just to talk, you and me. I could not think of another way to gain your attention.”

Neven’s jaw flexed. “You’re lying.”

“A professional habit, I assure you,” Durand said, his tone still jovial. His face hardened. “I have been waiting here since noon today, for Novara or you to appear. As it is you, I presume Novara and Philstein are dead.”

“A smart presumption,” Remy said. His voice was also flat and hard—just as London remembered it from the days when she had thought him to be a monster.

“You wanted to talk, Durand,” Neven added. “Talk, then. My patience won’t last forever.”

Durand puffed on the cigar and blew a cloud of blue smoke into the air above his head, where it swirled and hung like a fog in the light. “True, true. That was never one of your virtues, was it? Let me tell you a tale. Three years ago, I was told my heart was failing. Congestive failure, probably the result of far too much good living.” He winked. “They put me on a waiting list for a donor heart. I was told not to hope. My blood type is AB negative, you see.”

London fought to control her need to gasp. She was AB negative.

Her heart beat harder, as if it had heard her thoughts.

“Then, miracle of miracles!” Durand exclaimed. “A man in Paris, a horrible accident, a fall from the top of his apartment building…he was AB negative. What odds, hey?”

Remy’s laugh was short and hard. “You killed him for his heart.”

Durand touched his chest. “Moi? I was just the joyfully happy recipient. So were three other men.”

“Including Giuseppe Novara?” London asked, as it came together with a sudden flare of horror and amazement.

Durand managed to appear astonished. “Indeed! He received a kidney…so fortunate, no?”

London couldn’t help the sound of disgust which escaped her. “The man in Paris, the donor. He had cancer.” It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t even a guess.

Rafe’s eyes widened. Sydney swore softly in astonishment.

Durand looked sad. “Indeed. We who received his organs…we only found out this year. The man who received his lungs…ah, he did not last long at all, alas. It was the first alarm. Then the Englishman in Nice…they say he will not last the summer. Brain tumor.”

“And Novara had kidney cancer,” Neven said. “Might I hope you have cancer, too? Is that why we are here?”

Durand touched his chest. “Malignant sarcoma in the right ventricle. They tell me I will not see next year.” His tone was bright, as if he was relaying the weather.

“You’re arranging another donor for yourself,” London finished. “Me.”

Durand inclined his head. “It is nothing personal, Mrs. Zoric. Indeed, I was careful to only hunt for the next donor from among people who are registered and willing to share. So you can understand my surprise and my utter delight when I realize the wife of a dear friend might be able to help me.”

“Dear friend…” Remy murmured, with a disgusted sound.

Durand picked up a small remote control from the pedestal table and touched a button.

More lights came on. They were sited behind his chair and illuminated the area which had been hidden from them by the dazzling lights surrounding Durand. Within the second circle of light was a small forest of medical equipment, banks of monitors and displays, towers on wheels holding steel trays of tools and supplies.

The surgical bed in the middle was empty, the sheet stretched over it pristine white.

“It just so happens that one of France’s greatest heart surgeons, Dr. Etienne Davos, is working in Reims this week.” Durand’s tone was conversational.

Everyone stared at the makeshift surgery.

“He has been paid a generous retainer and is on standby,” Durand finished.

London realized she was shifting backward when her back bumped against Remy’s chest and her progress was halted.

Remy rested his hand on her shoulder. “What is the other shoe, Durand? You’re far too relaxed for someone who has lost his last chance of a new heart.”

“You always were a slippery bastard,” Neven added, in Kristijan’s cold voice.

Durand nodded, with a smile which said he appreciated the compliment. “I confess I do not understand why you gave up your enterprises in Serbia, Zoric. There were rumors, of course. About De Sauveterre and you. When you both decamped to France, I looked into it. I have some interesting resources and their reports were extraordinary. At first, I didn’t believe them. Yet the proof was incontrovertible. It gave me hope I had not held for more than a year.”

Rafe gave a soft sound of irritated exclamation. “He knows,” he murmured. “Novara called me a monster, just before he died.”

Durand knew about the Blood. He knew Neven and Remy were of the Blood. Why would that fact give him hope?

Durand touched the remote again. The second set of lights extinguished, hiding the bed and the surrounding equipment. “Of course, there is a way to avoid calling upon Mrs. Zoric’s aid in this matter.”

“Let me guess. We turn you and everyone goes home happy,” Remy said.

“Oh, I don’t doubt for a moment you would need encouragement to contribute to the venture,” Durand said.

Sydney glanced at Neven. “He was going to take London and extort you into turning him. If it didn’t work, he still had London. Now, he’ll try to buy your cooperation.”

Durand still didn’t seem offended. “A nice, round sum. Five million.”

Neven shook his head. “Is that all your life is worth, Durand? One billion.”

London drew in a breath which shook. It was a mind-numbing sum.

Durand didn’t show any surprise. “It would take time to collate.”

Neven shrugged. “My time is infinite.”

“No,” Remy said, his tone still flat. “We won’t do it. Bring an unethical worm like you into the Blood? I would rather sever my own neck.”

Neven glanced at him and frowned.

“There is always Mrs. Zoric,” Durand said, his tone still easy. “You don’t think I sit here alone and undefended, do you? You are surrounded. We monitored your approach to the warehouse. We know where your car is, where your house is, where your son sleeps.”

London gasped again, this time louder. Remy’s fingers dug into her shoulder in warning and she gritted her teeth together.

Durand just smiled.

“Then what?” Remy said. He stepped around London and moved up alongside Neven. “We turn you and you become a thorn in our sides for the rest of time? You were a constant pain in the ass when we had dealings with you in Serbia, Durand. It was only because we had more men and expected you to cheat and steal and lie, that we stayed one step ahead of you.”

“Of course the choice is completely up to you,” Durand said. “You do not have to turn me.”

The alternative was that he would take London’s heart.

Remy and Neven, standing together, hid the repulsive man from her sight. It didn’t lessen the horror she felt. She glanced at Rafe, who wore a tight, hard expression and stood rigidly, his attention not shifting from the slimy man in the chair.

If Novara’s attempt to snatch her had been the thin edge of survival showing itself, then this moment was the iceberg beneath the tip. This was what Rafe meant about discarding human reactions and human values.

How much did she want to survive? How much did she want to reach the surface once more and go back to pretending to be human, with the perfect life she had found with Remy and Neven?

The question barely needed thinking about. She would do anything to keep that life. Just as Durand would do anything to keep his.

London didn’t hesitate, this time. She triggered the knife and launched herself passed Remy and Neven. Remy reached out for her, perhaps to halt her. His movements were slowed by his surprise, which she had counted on.

Three lunging paces toward the chair. She saw movement in the shadows, triggered by her swift movements. There were guards there, watching silently, with guns at the ready.

London was merely human. Just “Mrs. Zoric”. No one had been braced for action from her and now they hesitated, perhaps wondering what on earth she thought she could do. It gave her the few seconds she needed. She slapped her left hand against the high back of the recliner, to give her extra power, and slammed her right hand against Durand’s chest.

She felt the knife grate against ribs, then slide deeper, for it was sharp. The side of her fist rammed against the soft meat of Durand’s chest.

He looked down at her hand, then up at her, with a puzzled expression. “What…?”

Behind her, London heard the others launch into action, swiftly scattering into the dark which surrounded the chair. Grunts sounded. Shockingly, a gun fired, the muzzle flash bright in the total darkness. London heard the bullet whizz past her. She ignored it. A grunt of pain sounded from that direction.

London got a better grip on the knife as Durand tried to lift his fingers, to pry her hand away. Blood showed at the corner of his mouth. She ignored it and closed her mind to the pity and horror which tried to rise. Deliberately, she sawed sideways, along the rib, the buried knife blade slicing through anything it came up against.

Durand spasmed in the chair, his fingers scrambling at her wrist. There was no power in his movements.

The blood jetted from the wound she opened, shocking her with the heat and power of the spray. It covered her hand and wrist and splattered up her arm.

London let the handle of the knife go, appalled. She staggered back, staring at what she had done. Her knees bent, weakness draining her.

An arm caught her around the middle and raised her back to her feet. “No, no,” Remy breathed, propping her up. “It was the right thing to do.” He pushed her hair away from her sweaty face. “They weren’t watching you. You weren’t a threat to them. You were the only one who could do it and you did.”

London clutched at him. “Is it safe to be human now?”

Remy glanced around. He could see into the dark and assess the opposition. “We’ve got this. Yes.”

London turned in his arm, bent and vomited.

London watched the dawn arrive while sitting on the beach, with her feet buried in the cool sand. She was cold. She welcomed the numbness it imparted. When she had first sat here, her skin had been lobster red from the long, very hot shower she had taken to remove all the blood. She still didn’t feel particularly clean.

Sydney had jumped London back to the house, leaving Rafe, Remy and Neven to clean up, then return in the car. Alex had lifted London’s chin and peered in her eyes, without regard for the blood which covered half her body. “Mild shock. Sleep and food will fix it.”

“So will a shower,” London said, her teeth chattering, and headed for the bedroom.

Then she had come out here, just as the first light of dawn showed.

It was full day when Rafe settled in the sand beside her and watched the waves. The tide had retreated. They lapped yards away, although a narrow channel of water still ran between the beach and Ébihens.

Rafe leaned and nudged her with his shoulder. “I have to apologize.”

She shook her head. “You were right. I’m not human anymore. I can’t behave like a human anymore, not if I want to keep this life, and I do.”

“That’s why I must apologize,” Rafe said softly. “I overlooked you. I’ve spent months easing Neven’s transition, while you’ve been left to cope on your own. I want to fix that, if you will let me.”

“I think…” She swallowed, a little shiver rippling through her. “I think I just made the change, tonight.”

“A massive one,” Rafe said, his tone one of agreement. “Still, if you would allow it, I think you and I should meet once a week and talk, just as I do with Neven.”

“There’s more adjustments to make?” London asked, appalled. How far did they extend? How much would she have to change? “What will I become?” she breathed.

“Whatever you want to become,” Rafe said, his tone kind. “That is what I would help you with. You could easily let yourself become like Durand—inhuman in all but physiology. Or you can make decisions. Carve out rules for yourself and those around you.”

“Like Veris does…” London breathed, as she recalled the flat, absolute wall of refusal Veris sometimes threw up, which Remy and Neven complained about. Now she recognized that Veris became unreasonable and uncooperative usually when his kids or Taylor or Brody would be impacted. His sweeping, overwhelming demands always centered upon their welfare.

“Like Veris does,” Rafe said in agreement. “Like Alex and Sydney do—although I never had to teach them. They just knew.” Pride was rich in his voice.

London shivered again and wrapped her arms around her shoulders. “This, tonight…it was all my fault.”

“It’s not your fault you have AB negative blood,” Rafe said.

“It is my fault I was still on the donor register,” she said. “You told us, right from the start, that we had to remove all traces from past lives. Remy gets it, because he’s done it so many times already. I didn’t even think about the register. I signed up when I was in college and never gave it another thought, and I should have. I have to keep track of that sort of stuff now. I have to…to limit my roots.”

“Sail along the surface, not put down roots,” Rafe said softly.

“Yes. I get it now.”

Rafe nodded. “There is still peace and contentedness to be found, even if you can’t be really human and plant yourself, as true humans do.”

“Only I can plant myself,” London said, surprised.

Rafe raised his brow.

“I can plant myself in this life. My real life, now. With Remy and Neven. With you and Alex and Sydney. Even Veris, bless his ornery soul, and Taylor and Brody. Marit and the twins and…and anyone else who finds themselves a part of it.”

Rafe’s smile was warm and full. “Hey, look at you. You just made it back to the surface.”

More Time Kissed Moments
[4]

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

Neven spun the phone again. “We owe Rafe. Big time. All three of us, Remy, so don’t look like that.”

Remy held his lips together, a straight, hard line. Then he relented. “I should make allowances. He’s reserved. Standing beside Alex doesn’t help—”

London laughed. “Alex is the polite one. Always correct and doesn’t horn in like Brody and Veris do.”

Remy shook his head. So did Neven.

London stared at them. “Alex is…proper,” she said, reaching for the only word which encompassed what she knew of the man.

Neven pushed his cellphone into his pocket and leaned back. “He’s polite, I’ll give you that, but Alex’s ego is not a single inch less than Veris’. He gets his way. Always. He just doesn’t trample on people while he’s doing it.”

“Which is why we must go to Canada and help find Rafe,” London said. “Look at us. We were talking about Rafe and shifted to discussing Alex and Veris. It’s what everyone does.”

“My god,” Remy breathed. “We did.” He got to his feet. “Jason is still asleep. That will make it easier. I’ll bundle him up—it will be cold there.” He walked out of the kitchen.

Time And Ten Million Dollars

Dear Beloved,

My name is Harold Diamond, the current winner of $328 million on the just-concluded Mega Millions Jackpot on November 4, 2014. I know this is surprising for you to have received this at this very early stage.

But because I just received the check on Monday, January 12, 2015 and I am excited, I am willing to donate $10 million to you and as part of my effort to alleviate poverty and care for the less privileged around the world. I have decided to donate to just five people.

For immediate release of these donated funds, send your full name, age, telephone number, and country. We will instruct our payout bank to transfer the sum of $10,000,000 to you.

Dear Mr. Diamond,

Thank you for your kind and generous offer. I can tell that you are an intelligent man, who could easily consider world domination as a career choice.

I am beside myself. Ten million dollars! I will use the money to buy groceries for my five wives, and the twenty-three...ooops, no, twenty-four sons who now bear my name.

I am humbled by your thoughtfulness. I didn’t know I was in poverty. Thank you for the insight.

Only, I am confused.

I am just an underprivileged, uneducated sucker, but it seems to me that if the Mega Millions Jackpot of November 2014 has just concluded, then you must be living in a time-warp, or I time-traveled in my sleep again – my wives keep complaining about how it messes up the sheets, so I try not to do it too often.

Please, please send me your bank account number and password, so I can log in and accept your bountiful donation. I don’t want to put you to any trouble, and I don’t have a phone. Or a computer.

Gap-tooth@suckerville.com

More Time Kissed Moments
[5]

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

Taylor thought Veris had not noticed her walk into the room, for his gaze stayed on the monitor and he kept typing. She put her hand on his shoulder. He touched her fingers for a moment. The lightest stroke. He continued typing.

“You ran away,” she said. “London and Neven and Remy are here.”

“I heard them arrive,” Veris said.

She read the first few lines of the email he was writing. “Are you responding to spam again?”

“Scambaiting is a fine and honorable tradition stretching back to the dawn of the Internet,” Veris replied, and hit send.

“So, it’s five minutes old?”

He stood up, picked up her hand and kissed it. “It’s stress relief.”

“So is chopping wood. You like scrambling spammers’ brains,” she chided him.

“Yes.” His grin was small and wicked.

Taylor braced herself. “I want to call Alannah. Ask her to come and watch the children.”

His smile evaporated. He shook his head, his blue eyes turning flinty.

“You can’t keep us wrapped in a cocoon forever, Veris,” Taylor said gently. “I’m of the Blood now. I’m stronger, faster and near immortal. And I want to help find Rafe.”

“Brody is all those things, and look what happened to him,” Veris growled. “I won’t allow it, Taylor.”

She smiled and patted his cheek. “You can’t stop me, you old bear. Not unless you tie me down or lock me up and you won’t do that. So reply to another spam email, while I phone Alannah.”

He considered her for a moment. “I long for the days when you were afraid of me. You have no respect, anymore.”

“I respect you plenty, Veris. I just know you too well, as you know…” She trailed off.

“As I know you? Why didn’t you finish it?” Veris said softly.

She recognized his tone. She had nudged his curiosity and his wariness. He would lever the truth out of her. Taylor sighed and gave him the truth. “I was about to say, ‘as you know me’,” she said. “Only, you have been second guessing both me and Brody since he…” She grimaced, unable to finish.

“Since he left and came back again,” Veris murmured. “You’re thinking of Whitewitch Falls, aren’t you?”

She nodded.

How to Survive Time Travel
[ii]

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

Time will bite you on the ass because you were taught that the past is behind you, as fixed and unchangeable as the history books which record it.

What you will quickly discover—to your peril—is that even the past can change, and not in a cute, Groundhog Day way, either. Your own personal past, that you remember perfectly, can be radically different when you arrive back there. Even the past is not immune from Relativity. If you go back to check out your history, you will change it because you are observing it for a second time.

Better not to fuck with your own past at all. Your past is someone else’s future.

Only you will, despite my warning, because you are reading this manual, and because you will not resist the lure of sentimentality.

Time And A Wiggle Dress

Whitewitch Falls Vacation Resort, Adirondack Mountains, Upper New York. August 1958.

Ma’am? Mrs. Gallagher?”

Taylor wanted to shake her head, to help orient herself. Caution kept her still. She had to presume Mrs. Gallagher was her. She must behave as if she hadn’t dropped into the middle of this situation from another time only two seconds ago.

She turned her head, instead of shaking it, to glance where the question had come from. A clean-cut man in his twenties, with screamingly short and slicked back hair, stood beside her with a martini glass on a tray. “Your Manhattan, Mrs. Gallagher,” he said, lifting the glass from the tray. He wore a white jacket and black cummerbund.

“Oh, yes, thank you,” Taylor said.

A merry laugh sounded beside her. “She’s too busy watching the hunters to notice!”

More feminine laughter joined the first.

Taylor took a sip of the Manhattan, giving herself a precious five seconds to sort out where she was and why.

It was a huge room. That was the first impression. The roof was a long way up, supported by massive dark logs wider than her hips. The walls were smoothed and finished properly. Louvered windows lined two walls and all the louvers were open. It was warm in the room, despite the high roof. And it was noisy.

Dozens of round tables spread with white tablecloths hugged the two windowless walls of the big room. Taylor sat at a table with four other women. The four were all smoking a cigarette, with a drink in their other hand. Between each woman was an empty chair.

In front of each place were gleaming white china plates bearing the remains of a meal. Also, coffee cups and drinks in various types of glasses, including saucer bowl champagne glasses, martini glasses and more.

And there were ashtrays.

One of the women held her cigarette in a long ivory cigarette holder. Her hair was curled and piled on her head. Her raw silk dress’ wide collar stretched from one shoulder to the other, revealing the flesh of her shoulders.

A band played music in the corner—and it wasn’t a rock band. There were no guitars and the drum kit had a single snare drum, a bass, cymbals and that was all. There were four trumpet players and the rhythm of the quiet tune was steady and moderate.

Foxtrot, Taylor identified, although she didn’t know why she was so sure.

Now she remembered where she was and why she was here. This was Whitewitch Falls, somewhere in the 50s. Veris and she had jumped here to speak to Peter Tremaine, a member of the Blood. It was their project to document and track vampires across history because…

Because Brody had left them. Yes, she remembered now.

Sadness touched her. Brody was gone and she and Veris had found a way to move on. It was an artificial prop, but it was working. They were keeping busy and they were doing it together.

There were many couples on the open and large dance floor, between the tables and the walls with the open windows. They moved sedately to the music and Taylor studied them, fascinated by the clothes—especially the women’s’ clothes. They were nearly all full dresses with nipped-in waists and skirts which came down to just past the knee. Stiff petticoats held the skirts out. Only one or two of the women wore sheath dresses and no petticoats, and they were younger women.

The men wore full suits or tuxedos with generous shoulders, ties or bow ties, and the waistband of their trousers sat up high on their waists. Some of them wore cummerbunds similar to the waiters scurrying around the tables.

Dinner and dance night at the Whitewitch Falls Resort.

Veris had come here in 1958 to… Taylor frowned and sipped her drink once more. Veris had hedged around the reason why he had come here originally, when he had proposed they jump back to speak to Peter. “It’s a time when Brody wasn’t with me and the first time I saw Peter since the Reformation. We could go back to merry old England, only there’s no plague in the 1950s, so I vote we go there, instead.” Veris had shaken his head. “Although even 1958 wasn’t without its drama.”

They had jumped here, instead of eighteenth-century England. Clearly, they had arrived safely and for some bizarre reason, Taylor was Mrs. Gallagher here. One of Time’s little cosmic jokes.

“Oh, look. There’s that Shiraz woman!” a woman at the table said. “She’s going over to speak to them.”

The women at Taylor’s table openly stared at another table on the other side of the bandstand. She turned to spot the woman and squeezed the stem of her glass when she saw the table which was the object of everyone’s attention was Veris’.

Only one other man sat at the table with Veris, although the other places held finished meals, which waiters were busy clearing. The other man’s head was at the same level as Veris’. The man had dirty blonde hair and a square jaw. His high brow made him appear intelligent. He scanned the dancers with sharp interest.

Peter Tremaine, Taylor presumed.

As Peter scanned, Veris spoke in a low voice. Peter nodded. Veris was easing him into a conversation about times past and other vampires he had known—the point of their jump back here.

Then Taylor saw “that Shiraz woman”. She approached the table with a luscious, heated smile on her perfect lips.

The Shiraz woman was an Eastern goddess in appearance. Black hair, honeyed skin, black sultry eyes and a voluptuous figure which would send most men into a tailspin. She wore a sheath dress which glowed like silk, with beads shimmering over it as she sashayed to Veris’ table. Her necklace and earrings and bracelet all matched—glittering jewels which were most likely the real thing, and worth a small fortune.

She wore a fur stole around her shoulders—sort-of around her shoulders, at least. She had let it fall so it hung from both elbows, allowing the backless and wide shoulders of her dress to show off her gleaming flesh. Her hips wriggled as she walked…and she watched Veris steadily as she stalked to the table.

Veris watched the woman approach with a small smile of his own.

Taylor’s heart slammed and bruised itself against her chest. She was human here. She was vulnerable to the physical impact of her emotions. Awareness did not diminish the sickness which spread through her as the Shiraz woman cocked her hip, put her hand on it. The woman stood before Veris and Peter with one foot perfectly turned out to show off her knees.

“Bitch…” a woman at Taylor’s table whispered. “She will ruin it for any of us.”

“Not that Barbara cares.”

Taylor dragged her attention back to her own table, to fathom what the women meant. Barbara, Taylor presumed, sat with a cat-who-got-the-cream expression on her carefully made-up and powdered face. She inspected her long, lacquered fingernails, with a small smile.

Taylor guessed Barbara had enjoyed a liaison with Peter. Veris had been frank about Peter’s enjoyment of sex and his voracious appetites. Peter had the good looks and arresting presence which would make many women pause. Just as the Shiraz woman was.

And apparently, just as Barbara had done.

Taylor’s smile evaporated when she remembered the women had said “hunters”.

Plural.

Her heart gave a sickening jolt. Horror spilled through her. “Was Peter pleasant company?” Taylor made herself say to Barbara, with a light, unconcerned and mildly interested tone.

“Vaughn, you mean,” Barbara said, with a sniff.

Vaughn.

Taylor squeezed a ball of the linen tablecloth in her hand, beneath the top, where no one could see it.

“Dr. Gardener is very pleasant company,” Barbara added.

Dr. Vaughn Gardener. Veris’ Americanized identity, for times when anyone not white, Western and Christian were treated with suspicion.

Taylor fought to breathe evenly, to not show any hint of the tumultuous pain tearing through her, as the Shiraz woman sat on the chair which Veris pulled out for her and leaned forward while Veris lit her cigarette.

The woman sitting on the second chair to Taylor’s right touched her wrist. “Taylor, dear. Here comes your husband.” She nodded her head and shifted her gaze to the other side of the dance floor.

Confusion gripped Taylor. Hope flared, too. If she was Mrs. Gallagher…

Taylor swiveled to face where the other woman had pointed with her chin and her eyes. There were many people threading their way around the edge of the dance floor, heading for the big doors on the other side. Beyond them, Taylor could see night sky and the soft glow of paper lanterns.

Taylor scanned them all, looking for Brody.

It was Rafe heading for their table.

Rafael.

Taylor just barely hid her gasp of shock. She sat motionless as Rafe walked right up to her side and held out his hand. “A dance, my dear. I’ve left you alone for too long.”

Taylor couldn’t form words, neither in her mind, nor with her lips. Nothing came.

Rafe bent a little and picked up her hand from her lap and tugged her to her feet.

Taylor let him pull her out onto the dance floor. For the first time she became conscious of what she was wearing. It was a sheath dress, rather than one of the pretty, full-skirted dresses the other women wore. It was white with big black polka dots. Corsetry or a girdle held everything in place and pulled in her waist, too. The hem flared for the last two inches, just enough so it flipped and flared around her knees as she walked.

Her hair wasn’t piled on her head, nor was it hanging down her back. Taylor pushed her hand up against her temple and felt short, cropped waves and curls.

Rafe pulled her into his arms and led her in simple steps around the floor. His eyes met hers. “I’m not wearing a red shirt.”

Taylor drew in a breath which shook. “Then you’ll live long and prosper…god, Rafe, what are you doing here?”

“Apparently, being your husband in this time and place. You don’t remember—you can’t remember, not until you jump back to your subjective time and place, but this is the second time you’ve been here.”

Taylor tripped, her surprise making her clumsy. Rafe kept her on her feet and turned her in a neat spin which made them both appear elegant and graceful.

Taylor gripped his jacket. “Second time, Rafe? Are you…are you trying to change something?”

He shook his head. “No details. Not now. Except to say I am from your future.”

Taylor pressed her lips together. “You know what will happen. That is why you are here.”

“In a way. I am also here to warn you. You must keep your head, Taylor. This time and place…it is far more complicated than you or Veris thought it would be. You are both responding to forces you don’t understand, which will doom you. I am here to put you back on the right path.”

Taylor sighed. “I don’t understand, of course. What must I do?”

“Behave as naturally and properly as a married woman of this day and age would. You must forget that Veris is known to you. He is just one of the Romeos who prey on lonely wives at these types of resorts, while their husbands drink and play cards and fish.”

Taylor breathed hard. They were facing the wrong way and were on the wrong side of the room for her to see Veris’ table. Yet she knew the Shiraz woman would still be there, flirting with an outrageously heavy hand.

Rafe touched her chin, bringing her attention back to him. His eyes were grave. “Veris didn’t know you, in this time. You weren’t even born. You would judge him by your personal time standards, anyway?”

Taylor shook her head miserably. “I know he wasn’t a saint, Rafe. It’s just…”

“It’s hard to watch,” Rafe said gently, in agreement. “It’s your Veris in the older Veris’ body, and he must play the part just as you must.”

“Yes.” She sighed again.

The music ended and the band immediately began another, something Latin and shimmery.

Rafe smiled. “Although…there’s no harm in reminding Veris he’s only supposed to pretend.”

Taylor’s heart pattered. “What does that mean?”

Rafe pushed at her hip, spinning her around, then guiding her back into his arms. “Let me show you.”

Most of the dance floor emptied, leaving younger couples. Some of the older people settling back at the table wore disapproving expressions.

“What is this dance, anyway?” Taylor asked.

Rafe settled his hand on her hip and walked her backward in a slow, sensual way which made her think of the way the Shiraz woman had stalked Veris’ table. “Rhumba,” he breathed. “A shocking dance, which the older folk think outrageous.”

“Wait until they see a mosh pit,” Taylor said, recalling the topless women and jumping, stoned drinkers who had stomped and writhed at Brody’s concerts.

“Shh. Concentrate. Watch me.”

“When did you learn to—” She swallowed the rest of her question as Rafe turned her in a tight spin which sent her out three steps, then pulled on her hand and brought her up against him.

Hard.

Taylor caught her breath. Held this way, all she could see was Rafe’s eyes. Heat flickered there. Promise.

She shivered as they separated and danced again. Taylor followed Rafe, falling into the beat and pulse of the dance with a sensation similar to being drunk. All thoughts fell away, as she responded to the outrageous sensuality of the dance…and the heat emanating from Rafe.

Taylor had never noticed this smoldering quality in him before. Of course, he was Iberian, the origins of the Latin race, and had the same passionate temperament. Until this moment, though, she had forgotten that about him.

Nor had she realized how much taller than her Rafe really was. He was the shortest man in the family—even Aran had grown taller than Rafe, now. Only, Rafe was not short at all.

He had all of a vampire’s speed and strength and agility, yet his grace was his own.

The dance ended with them mashed together once more. Taylor couldn’t catch her breath. Nor could she tear her gaze away from Rafe’s eyes. He seemed to be looking into her mind and seeing possibilities even she wasn’t aware of.

“Rafe…” she breathed.

He put her back on her feet. Gently. “I think that got his attention,” he said, the corner of his mouth lifting. He put her hand on his elbow and walked her back to the table. The other four woman were all watching them, with the same open, hungry expressions they had been wearing while watching Veris’ table.

“I don’t think it was just Veris’ attention you got,” Taylor murmured.

“Good thing I’m married,” Rafe said, his tone light. “They look ravenous.”

Taylor smothered her laugh, as her heart settled down into a slower pace.

Rafe handed her into her chair, as other men were doing around the table. “I left a high stakes game with fifty dollars on the table. I promised I would go back and finish it.” He nodded to Taylor, in a way which was almost a bow of the head and walked away.

Someone at the table—Barbara, Taylor suspected, although she didn’t check to confirm—gave a soft sigh.

Taylor reached for her unfinished Manhattan and sipped, as a slow waltz began and the dance floor filled with dancers. She lost sight of the tables on the other side of the room. Her heart did another little jump when she saw Veris walking around the edges of the dance floor.

He was heading in her direction, his gaze steady, his blue eyes glittering with suppressed emotion.

Taylor took in his height and the width of his shoulders. Under the exaggerated padded shoulders of the black tuxedo, they seemed massive. She was not the only woman watching his progress around the dance floor with an appreciative expression.

For a heated moment which made her breath come more quickly, Taylor allowed herself the indulgence of pride. Veris was hers.

Then she remembered that Rafael was her husband in this time and place.

Veris stood over her chair. “Mrs. Gallagher, I believe?” His voice was tight with control. He was angry. It explained the intense light in his eyes.

“Dr. Gardener,” she replied, keeping her tone cool and reserved.

Veris’ smile was small. “You know who I am, then. Good.”

“Do you know my husband, Dr. Gardener?”

“My friend, Peter, does.” Veris held out his hand. “I’d much rather know you. Shall we?”

Taylor considered refusing him, although in this here and now, dancing with men who had not been formerly introduced was not an impropriety, the way it had been a hundred years before. She put her hand in his.

Heat. Strength.

The impact from his touch sent a jolt up her arm and spiked her heart. Taylor hid her reaction, reminding herself that Dr. Vaughn Gardener was a stranger to her.

Veris helped her rise to her feet with a small tug on her hand. He pulled her out into the middle of the dance floor, skirting around whirling couples with ease. He settled his hand on her waist, and she could feel the heat through the silk and the supporting layers beneath.

“I’m not wearing a red shirt,” she murmured, as Veris turned her into the first large circle of the dance.

“Of course you bloody aren’t,” he said, his voice just as quiet. “You weren’t here the first time around.”

Oh, the anger in his voice!

Taylor looked into his eyes. “Are you human, now, Veris? Your body is human hot.”

The emotion in his eyes grew more intense. “Yes, I’m heated! The dress you’re wearing…” He swallowed. “And what the fuck is Rafael doing here? Peter warned me your husband was a Latin American with a temper and then you put on that…that…display.” His voice was tight and hard, the fury deeply hidden. More than fury glowed there. Now she understood why Veris was hot to her touch. His human autonomic responses had overridden the control he usually kept over his heart beat. His heart was working at human levels.

Taylor shuddered in reaction, her heart leaping.

“I don’t know why Rafael is here,” she said. “He says he’s from our future and can’t tell us why.” She made herself meet Veris’ blazing gaze once more. “He did say he was here to remind us why we were here—that we can’t get…distracted.”

“I’ve spoken to Peter,” Veris growled, and spun her around in a tight, hard circle, making her catch her breath. “We’re done here. When this set is over, I will take you outside, then we can jump back home.”

“Veris, where is Brody, here and now?”

Veris made a sound in his throat. “He’s not here. It’s why I picked this time.”

“I know. Only, I’m Mrs. Gallagher here and now. And Rafe is here, warning us to not get side-tracked. It’s all…weird. We’ve never been through a time jump like this. Is Brody nearby, Veris? Somewhere close?”

Five rapid heartbeats, then Veris said, his tone calmer, “He’s in France.”

“What is he doing there?”

“Ask him.”

Taylor rolled her eyes. “I can’t ask him, not now and not when we go back either. Override your distaste for talking about your past, Veris, and tell me. It might have something to do with this…whatever this is.”

Veris shook his head. “It doesn’t.”

“You don’t know that.” She met his eyes once more. “You’re angry. And you’re human hot. You’ve lost the fine edge of your control. Your judgment is compromised. So tell me, and we will decide if it is irrelevant.” Taylor made her voice calm and her tone objective. Logic would appeal to Veris’ intellect and help him calm down.

Veris sighed. “Brody was in a muck sweat for a month over a blonde. Delilah.” He rolled his eyes. “It’s her real name. I checked.”

“You investigated her?”

“Of course,” he said blandly. “Brody wasn’t thinking straight. When it was clear she was mostly harmless, I told him to go cool off his gonads. He did.”

“In France,” Taylor murmured. Then Brody really did have nothing to do with this. She looked Veris in the eye, for it was where his true emotions usually showed themselves first. “You didn’t…mind?”

“Not then,” Veris growled. The fury raged, blazing like a lighthouse beacon, showering her in its invisible heat. “Back then…now…in this time and place, I was still the idiot who believed Brody would never leave me. Not forever.”

Hurt oozed through Taylor at the reminder.

Veris’ hand on her waist squeezed tighter. “If Rafael is from my future, does it mean you are, too? Is Rafael important to you, in that time, Taylor?”

Taylor almost tripped over her feet as her understanding of the events playing out here shifted and revealed more truth.

Veris wasn’t just angry. He wasn’t just jealous. He was afraid. He’d seen her with Rafe and considered the possibility that if the impossible could happen, and Brody could leave him, then so might she. Taylor had blithely told him Rafael was from their future and Veris, the strategist, had extrapolated from there.

“Oh, Veris…” she breathed. She shifted her hand from his shoulder to his cheek. “No, I am yours, Veris. You and I both jumped here from your study on Martha’s Vineyard and arrived barely twenty minutes ago. I know nothing more than you about why Rafael is here.”

Veris closed his eyes briefly, shuttering away his reaction, but not before she saw profound relief write itself there. Then he cleared his throat. “We’re basically strangers,” he reminded her, his voice stiff and hoarse. “You wouldn’t touch me the way you are.”

She dropped her hand back to his shoulder. “Isn’t your contemporary self on the hunt for any willing woman?”

“That’s what those women told you?”

“The Shiraz lady at your table told me. Did you…do you sleep with her, Veris?”

“That was sixty years ago,” he growled.

“That would be yes, then.”

Veris met her gaze. He said nothing.

Taylor nodded. “I should go back to my table, then. Let you get on with your seduction.”

His hand on her waist tightened again. “There is more chance of Odin rising to claim Midgard, than there is of me bedding the damn woman, now.”

“But…history…” Taylor said helplessly, while her heart did a funny little flip and her middle fizzed.

“Fuck history,” Veris breathed. His hand shifted against her torso. “How am I supposed to give a damn about the past, when I have you in my arms, looking the way you do?”

Taylor’s entire body leapt to flames. The flesh between her thighs pulsed, growing slick and ready. Her nipples rubbed against the inside of the confining brassiere.

Veris let out a hard breath. “The look in your eyes...” He raised his head and glanced around the room. “I can’t wait,” he said. “Our business is done here. There’s no reason to wait and I will not wait, not even for the end of this number.” He stepped away from her, so her hands dropped, picked up one of them and lead her off the dance floor.

Taylor let him guide her around the floor, toward the open doors and the night beyond, where they could jump back home without being observed. Her heart hammered and her body throbbed, for she knew exactly what Veris would do when they arrived back at the study they had left a short while ago. It was possible he would not wait to pull her into their bedroom. It would not be the first time he had lifted her onto the desk, shredded her clothes from her, parted her knees and delivered her to shuddering, screaming bliss.

When they passed the table where Veris and Peter Tremaine had been sitting, Veris paused for a heartbeat.

The Shiraz woman… Taylor wished she knew the woman’s name. All she had was her husband’s last name. Whatever her name, her position at the table provided a dollop of relief to Taylor, for the Shiraz woman was now sitting beside Peter with her knees crossed so the coffee-smooth flesh and silk stockings above her knees were on display. She spoke in his ear, while Peter gazed at her cleavage, just inches from his mouth. His eyes held both heat and calculation.

Then he saw Veris and touched the Shiraz woman’s arm and spoke just as softly. He got to his feet and buttoned the white dinner jacket closed over what Taylor was sure would be a raging erection. He sidled around the table to where Veris waited. Veris moved to meet him halfway, which would put Taylor and the Shiraz woman out of hearing distance.

Peter rested his hand on Veris’ shoulder. “It was most peculiar.” His gaze flickered toward Taylor. “Her husband danced with Jasmine, talking hard the whole time. Then she came and just about sat on my knee, purring, her hands all over me like a rash. Sorry, Veris. Although it seems you’re set for the night, anyway.” He spoke with a rich upper-class English voice.

“I am set. Enjoy yourself,” Veris replied. He nodded at Jasmine Shiraz, who smiled with a heated, knowing expression.

Taylor caught up with Veris as he headed for the door once more. The dance set ended. The room quietened as everyone headed back for the tables. Taylor lowered her voice, knowing Veris could hear everything she said, anyway. “Rafael orchestrated that liaison.”

Veris glanced at her. “You heard what Peter said?”

“My hearing is better than it was when I was just human,” she replied. “Not as good as when I am fully vampire, but better than usual.”

Veris nodded. A furrow ridged his brows as he contemplated the puzzle. “When we get back, we must sit down with Rafael and sort this out.”

“That Rafael won’t know about this,” Taylor pointed out. “We have to wait until the other end of the loop closes, when that Rafael has jumped back here, to find out.”

Veris gave a frustrated hiss, then shook his head, as they moved through the doors, across the deep verandah, to a high flight of wooden steps leading down onto a large lawn.

Paper lanterns were strung across the rustling oak trees which bordered the lawn. Beyond them, a wide, slow-moving river gleamed in the light from a small new moon. The horizon was jagged with mountain peaks, black silhouettes with facets lit by moonlight.

It was considerably cooler out here.

There were couples dotted about in the night, most of them shadows in the dark and oblivious to anything around them but the one they were with. Veris looked around, pushing his hand through his hair, his frustration building once more.

“Behind one of the oaks,” Taylor suggested. “Dr. Gardener pressed his attention upon Mrs. Gallagher behind a tree. She objected and stalked off in a huff. Gardener returns to the dinner dance to see if he can score a second time in one night.”

“Let’s hope I figure it out when I come to behind the tree and wonder what happened to the last thirty minutes of my life,” Veris murmured.

“It works, though,” Taylor pointed out.

“Well enough so we can jump now and not wait.” He glanced over his shoulder as he pulled her behind the tree. “Good. At least one person saw us.”

Taylor reached to put her hand around Veris’ waist, already bending her knees to jump back home.

Veris shook his head, gripped her waist and put her back to the huge old tree trunk. “I can’t. Not now.”

“Everything was done, you said.”

His fingers moved over her midriff. Stroking. Teasing. “If you think I can ignore this dress, then you overestimate my discipline.” He bent and ran his lips along the great curve of her shoulder and neck, hovering over the artery. He licked it, and Taylor shuddered. Her body returned instantly to the heavy throbbing state, her clit blooming and pulsing. The tips of her breasts swelled and rubbed with delicious friction against the satin of her bra.

She grew aware once more of the great heat Veris was radiating. He was in overdrive, his heart thundering, his body taut.

He kissed her, driving his tongue into her mouth and pressing himself against her, so she was trapped between him and the gnarled oak. His hand protected her back from the bark, though.

Taylor surrendered willingly, her need overcoming any reluctance she felt about their semi-public position. She felt satin lapels under her fingers, slid her hands inside Veris’ jacket and was bathed in more heat.

He was pressed too tightly against her for her fingers to explore, so she slid her hands around and cupped his ass and pressed, driving him against her. His cock, already a thick, jutting shaft, ground against her with delicious pressure.

Veris groaned and shifted her away from the tree an inch or two. He found the zipper tab on her dress and yanked it down to her waist.

With impatient movements, he tugged the narrow shoulders of the dress down her arms, bringing the wide straps of the bra with them.

The dress sagged around her torso. The satin lining gleamed in the moonlight.

Veris impatiently shoved the bra down to her waist, too, exposing her breasts and the tight, aching nipples. With a fierce sound of satisfaction, he sucked a tip into his mouth.

Taylor clutched at his head as he rolled and nipped the tip, scraping it with his teeth and tongue and driving her need to have him to the end of the scale. She trembled and moaned, while her pussy pulsed emptily.

With the same hurried, driven movements, Veris pulled the hem of her dress up until the tight sheath rolled up around her waist. He splayed his hand over her belly. “Girdles,” he breathed. “Oh, I remember them…!” He slid his hand beneath the open bottom end of the girdle, and up underneath. His fingers brushed her inner thighs, as he found and grasped her panties and yanked.

They tore with a soft sigh and he ripped them out from beneath the girdle and shoved the silk in his pocket. Then he tucked his big hand beneath her ass and lifted her. “Unzip me,” he said, his voice raw with wanting.

Taylor unbuckled the belt, opened the button on his trousers and strained to lower the fly. Her fingers were thick and uncooperative.

She found his cock and released it, then indulged herself by stroking it.

Veris groaned and pushed her back against the tree, wrapped her legs around his hips, and slammed into her in one hard thrust.

For a moment they froze in that position. Taylor could hear and feel Veris’ heart against her. Even his cock shifted and throbbed inside her. His heated breath fanned her neck.

Pleasure rippled through her.

Veris withdrew and pushed back into her again, his fingers digging into her flesh, his breath a grunting exhalation.

Taylor gripped his shoulders and hung on as Veris fucked her with a single-minded intensity, his body tight and hard and driven. He bent and savaged her breasts with his mouth, drawing them out and rubbing the nipples to raw, silvered nubs, sending secondary waves of excitement through her.

Her climax came far quicker than she wanted it to, gripping her and sending bubbles of pleasure coursing through her. She wanted this to last a little longer. Or forever.

Then Veris’ fangs buried deep in her neck. Pleasure exploded through her body, shredding her nerves. Her toes curled, her pussy clenched. Her heart seemed to stop. Her hearing faded. She ground her teeth together, fighting to hold her scream in. For a moment she hung on the edges of consciousness, buoyed up by the thrilling sensations.

Veris paused, as her pussy gripped him. It was barely a hesitation. His driving lust was too great. He slammed into her again. Once, twice…then he stiffened and came with a groan torn from deep in his belly.

All her nerve ends jangled and sizzled. Her breathing wouldn’t calm. Taylor’s nerves were alive and human. She tightened her thighs around Veris’ hips. “More,” she begged in a raw voice.

“Yes, but not here,” Veris said, as he lowered her to the ground, and pulled her dress into place. He closed the zipper as she pulled the arms back into place.

“Home, then.” She sighed.

Veris shook his head. “And miss the pleasure of undoing this dress again? I want to take my time with it, where we won’t be interrupted. I want to follow with my mouth everywhere my fingers move, and take off one delightful layer at a time, then wrap those silk stockings around your wrists, tie you to the bed and make you scream.”

Taylor’s heart gave another little jolt of pleasure at the idea.

“Only, I can’t find my shoe in the dark,” she said. “It dropped off, somewhere…”

Veris bent and put his shoulder against her thighs, folding her over his shoulder. He straightened and patted her ass as she hung helplessly against his back. “You won’t need shoes where I’m taking you.”

Taylor woke with a jolt, for she was no longer used to the transition from sleep to wakefulness. Any loss of consciousness was a fearful thing for a vampire.

Veris’ arms tightened around her. “You’re safe,” he breathed.

Taylor relaxed, her cheek against his shoulder. “You watched over me while I slept.” Beyond his chest, bands of bright sunlight showed through Venetian blinds, playing light and dark upon a white gauze curtain which moved gently in the morning breeze.

Birds chirped and whistled, outside. She could hear a lawn mower and smelled freshly cut grass. From farther away, the crack of tennis balls against racquets. People laughing and chatting softly. The clink of china.

Morning at Whitewitch Falls.

“I watched you sleep,” Veris corrected. “A personal pleasure which has become rare for me.” He kissed the top of her head. “Hungry?”

Her belly rumbled. “God, yes. Food!” She sighed. “Bacon. Waffles. They’ll serve the real things in this time. Nothing frozen. Oh, and fruit!”

Veris laughed and let her go. “You’ll have to learn which is your chalet and change for breakfast. They’re still big on appearances, here and now.”

Taylor reached for the undergarments lying on the floor beside the bed. “I suspect I won’t be the only one sneaking back to her chalet with her shoes in hand. Shoe, in my case.”

“Shoes,” Veris corrected. “I went back and retrieved the other one last night, when you were in a delta wave phase.”

Taylor smiled her thanks. Delta wave phases of sleep were the deepest and the hardest for a human to wake from. Veris had waited until she would not detect he was gone. “Shouldn’t we just jump home from here? We should leave your original self to get back to his life.”

Veris handed her the stockings he had unraveled from the bed frame and sat to watch her slide them on and buckle them to the girdle. “And give up breakfast?” he asked her.

“If I must. There will be other times, I’m sure.” For Taylor thoroughly understood and agreed with Veris’ reluctance to stay back in the past for a moment longer than they needed to. “We’ve already lingered too long here for no good reason.”

Veris didn’t argue. Yet he still frowned.

“You’ve been thinking during the night,” Taylor guessed.

He nodded. “I can’t fit Rafael into the puzzle.”

“You want to stay until you know why he’s here, too?”

“Or perhaps just ask him the blunt question. I can join you and your husband at your table for breakfast and find a potted palm to pour my coffee into.”

Taylor turned her back to Veris, to let him slide the zipper closed. “You should wait until we can speak to him back in our time, when the loop closes.”

“Only, my gut says do it now,” Veris replied. “We’ve already changed the way last night happened from the first time I was here and—”

A woman’s scream was loud and shocking, tearing apart the sunny, placid morning air.

Startled exclamations followed, as resort residents paused and looked around for the source of the scream.

“That was close by,” Veris said, standing and reached for last night’s trousers and shirt. He moved fast. Vampire fast. Inside sixty seconds, he was dressed and shoved his bare feet into loafers.

Taylor pushed her pumps on and followed him out the door.

The scream came again and now the babble of excited and fearful voices rose around it.

“The police! Someone get the police!”

“Oh, dear god, he killed her!”

Veris froze with his hand on the chalet door. “Damn…” he breathed. “Shiraz!”

“What?” Taylor asked, confused.

Veris had already opened the door and stepped out. She hurried after him and shaded her eyes against the blast of early morning sunbeams. It was still cool, although the sun was bright and direct.

She stepped carefully down the chalet steps onto the gravel. This chalet was one of dozens lining the broad gravel path. The path to the left led to the central public rooms. The dining and dance hall. The administration offices. The theatrette. Or so the hand-lettered wooden signposts said.

To the right, the path passed among more chalets. Taylor turned that way, for the scream had come from there, and it put the sun to her back. Then she saw the reason for the screaming and concern.

A short man with black hair and dark olive skin and black eyes walked down the path. His pace was slow because everyone stood watching him approach, frozen by fear or horror. They reared and scurried away when he drew close.

The man held a curved sword in his hand, and the blade was red with blood which dripped from the point.

“Ah, fuck…” Veris breathed as Taylor reached him. He sounded tired.

The man lifted his hand to point at Veris. Everyone turned to where Veris and Taylor stood at the bottom of the steps.

“You!” the man cried.

“Who is he?” Taylor whispered, sotto voce.

“Jasmine’s husband,” Veris murmured back.

Shiraz strode toward Veris, the sword lifting, while everyone scattered and ran, many of them screaming. Shiraz’s finger still pointed at Veris. The finger was bloody, too.

“You!” Shiraz demanded. “Tell me where I will find Peter Tremaine. You are his friend. You know where he is, now he has sullied my wife and made her impure. Tell me now, I demand it!”

He spoke with a strong middle-eastern accent.

Taylor’s gut tightened as she realized what had happened. Even in the twenty-first century, in the more traditional Muslim countries husbands were still legally entitled to have their wives stoned to death if they thought them to be adulterers.

This was 1958. Shiraz considered it perfectly reasonable to see to the matter himself, with whatever he had to hand. In this case, a scimitar.

And now he wanted Peter Tremaine’s head.

Veris didn’t move as Shiraz drew closer. He reached out to Taylor and pushed her behind him, instead. “I have no idea where Peter is,” he told Shiraz. “Even if I did, I wouldn’t tell you while you’re holding that blade. Justice works differently here, Shiraz. Put the sword down and let the police take care of it.”

“I want Peter Tremaine!” Shiraz screamed, his face turning red. He brought the sword up and Taylor flinched backward.

Veris didn’t move. “You’ve vacationed in America every year for ten years, Shiraz. You must know you’ve broken the laws of this land. You really think anyone will simply hand Peter over to you?”

Shiraz gave a strained cry, the sword lifting into a striking position. Madness shone in his eyes.

The quiet ‘snick’ and whizzing sound came at the same time Shiraz dropped the sword. The little man’s knees buckled, and he clutched at his chest, where blood bloomed across his white silk shirt.

Then his eyes grew blank. He fell forward onto the gravel.

Veris turned and shoved Taylor toward the chalet. “Sniper! You’re human. Run!”

She turned and sprinted, her heart screaming. The heels of the pumps wouldn’t let her climb the steps to the chalet quickly enough. She would be a target for too many long seconds as she climbed them. She continued running along the gravel, heading for the nearest narrow alley between the chalets.

When she reached it, an arm swept out, and nearly plucked her off her feet and pulled her into the alley.

Rafe kept her on her feet and held her steady until she regained her balance. “You’re fine. You’re safe. Just stay here a minute until the panic subsides. Then we can go back to my chalet.”

Taylor pressed a hand against the wooden siding of the chalet, to prop herself up and recover her breathing. She was shaking badly.

On the gravel path beyond, more screaming and shouting sounded, spreading concentric circles of alarm out across the resort.

From even farther away, Taylor could hear the low note of police sirens—not the electronic warble of her time, but a winding, low sound from a wind-driven klaxon.

“Who the hell killed Shiraz?” she breathed. “A sniper in the Adirondacks in the fifties… Nothing makes sense, this jump.”

Rafael rested his hand on her shoulder. “Who do you think did it? Sydney, of course.”

Rafael took the long, roundabout way back to his chalet, avoiding as many people as possible. “We want to be able to say we were in the chalet all night, and didn’t emerge until the panic started,” Rafe said.

Taylor nodded, as if this made complete sense to her. “Veris…” she said, looking over her shoulder.

“He’s survived greater troubles, and you don’t know him in this time—not well enough to go to his aide,” Rafe replied. “Play your role, remember?”

“Is that what you’re doing now?” she asked. “Unsnarling a loop?”

“Wait until we’re behind a door,” Rafe replied.

When Rafe closed the chalet door behind them, Taylor’s question was wiped out by fresh surprise, for Sydney sat on the big bed.

Sydney calmly broke down a long rifle and put the pieces into a large, hard-sided metal briefcase laying open beside her. She wore twenty-first century jeans and flats, and a striped Breton teeshirt with long sleeves. Her hair was tied in a messy bun at the top of her head, ice blonde tendrils escaping at the edges.

“Compound jump,” Taylor breathed, cataloging the clothes and the modern rifle and briefcase. “That’s how you could bring the Parabellum back here.”

Sydney nodded and snapped the briefcase closed and looked at Rafael. “Peter’s still out. I peeked in on the way back. The manager will find him apparently still deeply asleep, when he gets there.”

Rafael took off his sports jacket and rolled up his sleeves. “Have a seat, Taylor. Drink?” He went over to a low, long cupboard which held a silver tray and decanters, crystal glasses, an ice bucket and a vase with a chrysanthemum in it.

Taylor’s throat tightened. “Scotch.” She sat on the end of the bed, for the armchair and the dressing table stool both had clothes piled on them.

“No alcohol,” Sydney said shortly. “They’ll smell it on your breath.”

Rafael lifted a pitcher with orange liquid. “Fresh orange juice,” he said, and poured, and held it out to her.

Taylor sipped. The orange juice had actual orange pieces still in it. And a pip.

“Drain the glass,” Sydney told her.

Taylor drank. She knew what Sydney and Rafael were doing. They were compensating for her human physiology. Sugar would offset Taylor’s shock.

“He’s here,” Rafael said softly and moved to the door. He opened it.

Veris stepped through. He glanced at Sydney and raised a brow. “Ah…!” he said, with a tone of dawning understanding. Then he crouched in front of Taylor. His gaze moved over her face and downward.

“I’m fine,” she assured him. “How did you know to come here?”

“Your pheromones.” He stroked her wrist and got back on his feet. “Taylor’s calm and now I’m here. Give. It’s time to explain what is going on.”

Rafael nodded.

Veris glanced at Sydney again. Then he rolled his eyes, with a sound of disgust, as if he had just figured out what he should have known all along. “A double loop,” he said, his tone flat. “We’re on a lateral jump. We’re using our earlier bodies. You’re not.”

“And that’s where the problem sets in,” Rafael said. “Taylor, brace yourself.”

Taylor laughed. “I’m too confused to do anything but listen and try and make sense of it.”

Rafael nodded. “Veris, what do you remember of the first time you were here? Your memory will still be of the unchanged past. It won’t change until you jump back.”

“I don’t remember someone taking Shiraz out with a sniper rifle,” Veris said, his voice a rumble in his chest.

“Because I didn’t, the first time,” Sydney said. “You killed him.”

Taylor drew in a breath. “Veris…?”

Veris wore a wary, chagrined expression. He grimaced. “At least I didn’t take him out in public with a bullet which hasn’t been invented yet.”

“They won’t find it,” Sydney said, her tone certain. “I was very close. The bullet rifled through him and kept going, much farther than ballistics experts of this decade would think to search.”

“You killed Shiraz?” Taylor asked, unwilling to let the point go. “Why?”

Veris looked at her. The wariness in his eyes was growing.

“This is why I said you must brace yourself, Taylor,” Rafael said. “The first time he was here, Veris spent the night with Jasmine Shiraz. The next morning, her husband slaughtered her when she returned to their chalet.”

Taylor pressed her hand to her belly, as tension made it swirl. She couldn’t look at Veris. She could acknowledge intellectually that the original Veris of this time hadn’t known her. A night with another woman was nothing. Brody was off in France doing the same thing. It was an arrangement which had let their relationship flourish for centuries.

However, intellectual acknowledgement was different from accepting it in her gut and heart. Especially when Veris’ night with the woman had caused her death.

“He beat her nearly every week,” Veris growled. “The bruises showed when she took off her clothes. She was thirteen when her family had her married to him, and every month she failed to conceive, the beatings grew worse. Yet she wouldn’t consider running away from him because it would be dishonorable. So yeah, I killed the bastard for her.” Veris grimaced. “I did it a year later, in Tehran, when there would be no chance of connecting it to here. It was at least quick and clean, which was more than Shiraz gave his wife.”

Rafe nodded. “He’s the nephew of a caliph, and claimed diplomatic immunity, which let him escape the murder charge, here.”

Taylor sighed, horror swirling through her.

“The second time you came back here, Veris,” Sydney said, “you, of course, did not spend the night with Jasmine because Taylor was here, too.”

Veris rubbed the back of his neck. “This is the third time I’ve been here?”

Rafael nodded. “Third for you, second Taylor. Because you used lateral jumps, your earlier selves have no memory of the time you were here. It has the effect of wiping the second jump from your memory, Veris. Which is probably just as well.”

His tone was grim.

“What happened?” Veris asked, his voice just as dark.

“It’s what didn’t happen,” Sydney said. “Shiraz didn’t kill Jasmine. He didn’t die a year later.”

Veris crossed his arms again. “Who did he become, then?”

Sydney crossed her arms, too. “He beat Jasmine to death only six months later. That was in Iran, so nothing was done about it because he claimed she was an adulterer. It is most likely true.”

“So she died, either way?” Taylor asked, appalled.

“Who is Shiraz?” Veris demanded. “What did his failure to die set off?”

“Shiraz remarried in 1965 and had a son, Ramin, in the same year,” Sydney continued. “Forty years later, Ramin was radicalized. He spent thirteen years drifting from terror cell to organization to outfit, until he was tapped to lead a team of the best fighters. They smuggled themselves aboard a US Airforce troop carrier, inside the coffins of fallen soldiers, to take control of the plane and the Sarin gas cargo it carried.”

Taylor gasped. “Jesse Hall was on that plane!”

“She was,” Sydney said. “And because Shiraz survived and had a son, Ramin killed Jesse and successfully completed his mission. The plane crashed in the greater London area and killed over four million people.”

The silence was thick and pensive. Beyond the chalet walls, Taylor could hear voices lifted in concern. There was no fear or panic in the voices anymore. The situation was under control. The police sirens had stopped, too. The police were here, investigating.

“We had to come back a third time and fix it,” Taylor said, her voice hoarse.

Sydney and Rafael both nodded.

“That’s why you pushed Jasmine into Peter’s arms,” Veris said, with a sigh.

“It didn’t take a lot of pushing,” Rafael admitted. “I mentioned he was the third richest man in England and was the heir of a duke, to boot. She almost levitated into his lap after that.”

Taylor rubbed at her temples. “Why did Sydney shoot Shiraz? Why not let Peter take care of it, instead? He basically stepped into Veris’ shoes last night.”

“Because he didn’t take care of it at all,” Veris said. “He wouldn’t. Peter would have considered it none of his business.” He examined Sydney. “Exactly how many times have you and Rafe been back here, watching the scenarios unfold?”

“A few times,” Sydney admitted. “Each time we would go back to find disaster waiting for us and would return here to have another go. We don’t know if this will work, either. We’re running out of options. The sniper rifle seemed the most certain option. Trying to assassinate Shiraz in Iran leaves too much time for alternatives to sprout. We used Alex’s sleepy cocktail to knock Peter out and poured scotch over him and down his throat. He will appear to be sound asleep, recovering from a heavy night of booze, when the manager and the police arrive at his chalet to question him. And we had to make sure you were right there where everyone could see you were clearly not the shooter, Veris, because the police would have looked at you, next.”

Something in Sydney’s tone made Taylor’s belly tighten and her breath to shorten. “How do you know they would do that?”

“Because they did,” Rafael said. “The second time you came here, you two jumped back to our time and left the older version of Veris with no idea of what happened and no way to account for his time. He was charged and found guilty. Of course, he escaped prison less than a year later and was never seen again in the United States. It led to neither he nor Brody living in Los Angeles at the turn of the millennium…and they never met you, Taylor.”

Taylor wrapped her arms around her middle. “It’s a disaster, no matter what happens,” she breathed.

“This time, we are keeping everything as close to the outcomes of the first time around,” Sydney said, in agreement. “Which meant there was no way to save Jasmine.”

“We tried that, too,” Rafe said, and shuddered.

Taylor didn’t ask what had happened when they tried. Her nerves were already shredded. Instead, she turned to Veris and rested her head against his shoulder. His arm came around her. She could hear his heart beating far too fast. As a vampire, his heart shouldn’t have been beating at all.

“We can’t leave here,” Veris said, his voice rumbling against her ear. “We have to play this out, until the police stop watching. I have to go back to being Vaughn Gardener, and Taylor, you and Rafe must be an unhappy couple the morning after.”

“Then I can tell the police I was with you,” Taylor finished.

Sydney got to her feet and picked up the silvered metal briefcase. “And I have to get the hell out of here before the police knock on the door, which they will do any minute.” She moved over to Rafe and kissed him soundly.

Rafe took his time returning the farewell kiss. Taylor turned her face back into Veris’ shoulder. She could tell from the lack of movement in Veris’ body that he watched the pair, unembarrassed by the display of affection.

“Be safe,” Sydney murmured.

Taylor heard the floorboard squeak as Sydney jumped. Then Veris shifted her away from him and kissed her as soundly as Rafael had kissed Sydney.

Her heart pattering faster than usual, Taylor smiled at him.

Veris glanced at Rafael. “Two days, maybe more. We’ll play it by ear. Vaughn Gardener and you should probably become friends, so we can talk more easily.”

“After a suitable period of snarling at each other over my wife,” Rafael replied.

“Not too much snarling. This is almost the swinging sixties, remember.” Veris grinned. “If I become friends with you and still get to dance with your wife, my reputation as a ladies’ man will be set in concrete.”

“Slut,” Taylor chided him.

Veris kissed her once more. “Blame the dress,” he breathed in her ear. He eased the chalet door open, glanced in all directions, then slid out and closed the door.

Taylor turned to Rafael.

He put his hands in his pockets and raised his brow. “What is it you didn’t say, a few moments ago?”

“You knew I was biting my tongue, then?”

“You have a tell,” Rafael said, his mouth turning up at the corner. “Decades of courtroom cross-examination…I know when someone is holding back. Veris is gone, now.”

Taylor nodded. “You and Sydney said you were trying to make things happen as close to the way they happened the first time, to make it turn out right. Only, if you were trying to repeat the first time, why didn’t you push Jasmine on to Veris, the one she really wanted, until she found out about Peter’s money and title?”

“Because you were there,” Rafael said.

“I had to be here. I’m the jumper,” Taylor said patiently. “You didn’t even try to make that part of last night the same as before. You dangled me in front of Veris on the dance floor, so he would have an excuse to cross the floor and ask me to dance. You deliberately screwed with the way it happened the first time.”

“Not me, Taylor,” Rafael said gently. “That was Veris’ doing. In between the second and this last jump, when we knew how badly things had screwed up, and were trying to figure out how to fix things, Sydney argued he should do exactly what he had done the first time.”

Taylor’s heart squeezed. “He refused…”

Rafael nodded. “He couldn’t bring himself to sleep with Jasmine. Not even to save four million lives. Not even if we arranged it so you would never find out. He flatly refused to consider it.”

A sharp rap rattled the closed door. Taylor barely heard it.

“That’ll be the police.” Rafael went to the door.

More Time Kissed Moments
[6]

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

Taylor gripped the front of Veris’ shirt, her heart stirring from its usual silence, as the memories played out.

Veris breathed hard. “Whitewitch Falls is not the way I remember it. It has changed.”

“My memories, too,” Taylor breathed. “God, it’s all jumbled. I’ve never had my memories corrected like this before.”

“Breathe, and review from the beginning,” Veris said, his tone remote. His gaze focused inward. He was following his own advice.

They stood together, their breathing shallow and fast, as they reviewed their memories of the jump back to Whitewitch Falls.

“Rafael,” Veris said.

“Sydney and Rafael never spoke about this,” Taylor added. “Alex was in on it, too.”

“They may not have jumped back there yet,” Veris said. “He said he was from our future.”

“We jumped back to Whitewitch over a year ago! They could have completed the loop any time afterward.”

“Or they might still not know about it. We can’t say anything, Taylor.”

“We have to. Don’t you see?” She tugged at his shirt front. “If they haven’t jumped there yet, then we know we’ll find Rafe now and bring him back safely. Sydney and Alex deserve to know, at least.”

Veris looked as though he was debating in his own mind. His shoulders were stiff. Then he sighed and relaxed. “Very well, but cautiously, Taylor. Ease into it and back off the moment you sense they don’t know what you’re talking about. No details.”

Taylor put her hands together and bowed. “Yes, sensei.” Then she caught her breath again. “Jesse! I still remember Jesse—she was here last week…so it worked, didn’t it?”

Veris nodded. His expression was grim. “Aran will hate us for it.”

Taylor blinked. “Why on earth would he?” She frowned. “What has Aran to do with Jesse’s past?”

“Nothing.” Veris pushed her toward the door. “Go break the good news to Sydney.”

How to Survive Time Travel
[iii]

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

WHAT TO PACK IN YOUR GO BAG

Nothing, numbnut.

Yeah, this is a trick question. Fact is, you’ll most often find yourself back in the past via a lateral jump. You get whatever is in your pockets when you open your eyes…if you even have pockets.

If you have the luxury of a compound jump via the timescape, then most often, the jump will be unplanned and urgent. You get to grab whatever is within reach before you go and most of what you grab will be useless…or even dangerous. More than one heretic was burned at the stake for possessing a device which captures souls and keeps them locked inside for the witch to peer at them.

Planned, thoughtful jumps back into time are rarer than flamingo tears. If you ever reach that exalted ideal, there’s a good chance what you plan to pack and take with you will be just as useless as the cellphone you accidentally took with you last time.

I keep repeating myself on this point. I will repeat it one more time because you looked up the question in the FAQ section and here you are, wondering what you should pack. So, here’s the repeat. Ready?

Time travel is wildly unpredictable. Assume you know nothing about where you’re going, even if you have a PhD in that exact era (and the exact decade would be even better). Question everything. Proceed with caution. It’s dangerous out there.

More Time Kissed Moments
[7]

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

Sydney was standing on the back porch, looking up at the snow-covered peak of Mount Lady Macdonald, which dominated the skyline to the north of the house. She glanced over her shoulder as Taylor stepped out.

“There are goats up there,” Sydney said, her tone one of amazement. “Right in there with the snow, on what looks like a vertical wall.”

“You’ve never lived among mountains, have you?” Taylor asked.

“You haven’t either.”

“I do, now.” Taylor smiled and moved over to the balcony rail and leaned on it, her shoulder inches from Sydney’s. “Sydney…”

Sydney raised her brow.

“This is a risk, but I have to take it,” Taylor said.

“Uh-oh.” Sydney turned to face her, resting her hip against the railing. “Go.”

Taylor took a breath. Let it out. “Whitewitch Falls. 1958.”

Sydney’s eyes widened. The glacial blue shifted to a warmer tone. “Oh, you remembered. Finally. I’d almost forgotten about it, myself. It’s been so long…what on earth made you think of it, now?”

Taylor sighed. “Rafael, of course. Damn…I was so hoping you wouldn’t have a clue what I was referring to.” She sat on the railing and blew out her breath.

Sydney sat, too. “You prefer me to be ignorant?”

“I would have preferred that you and Rafael hadn’t gone back there yet. Then the loop would still open and it would mean—”

“That Rafe must come back, to complete the loop,” Sydney said softly. She bumped her shoulder against Taylor’s. “It was sweet of you, but none of us gets a guarantee, this time.” She cleared her throat and turned her head away.

“Rafe’s smart. He’s lived a long time,” Taylor said. “Whatever’s happened, he knows we’ll come for him and it will keep him going, too.”

Sydney nodded. She cleared her throat again and looked back at Taylor. Her eyes were suspiciously bright, although her cheeks were dry. “Has Veris remembered the changes from 1958, yet? Can we talk about it?”

She was changing subjects.

Taylor let it go. “We reminded each other. It was weird. I’ve never had my memories shift before. I don’t know how Brody and Veris do it. Well, I do, because Veris told me to breathe deep and review systematically, which is what they do, I guess. Only, wow, is it disorienting!”

Sydney smiled. “I’ve yet to have a personal memory change on me. I’ll have to remember what you said. Breathe and review. Is Veris talking to Alex about 1958? Alex was in on it, too.”

“His elixir.” Taylor frowned. “I don’t know where Veris is right now. Probably down in the workshop, waiting for Marit to arrive.”

Sydney stood. “Let’s go and tell Alex then. It’ll take his mind off things.”

When Remy wandered into the workshop, Brody glanced up, then returned to the circuit board he was repairing.

Remy circled the other two big tables—Veris’ and Taylor’s—and bent to examine the projects in progress. The powerful overhead lights over those tables were off, although Remy only needed ambient light to see details.

“Which one is Taylor’s table?” Remy asked.

“What makes you think we have a bench each?”

Remy smiled. “Taylor probably had to smack Veris around verbally to get him used to the idea that she would need one. She knows how to get her way. And lo—there are three tables.”

Brody laughed, for Taylor had stomped her foot and demanded equal space and tools. “Which table do you think is hers, then?” He put the soldering iron back in the stand and turned it off. Remy was good company.

Remy stood back and considered the other two benches. They were placed vertically to Brody’s horizontal bench. The three of them could look up and see each other, if they happened to be all working at the same time—something that happened more often than Brody had thought it might. They were all rugged individualists.

One bench was messy, with organized piles. Tools and drawers of supplies were scattered around the edges of the current work in progress—a complex miniaturized tracer and communications chip that, when it was finished, could be surgically implanted. The multiple pages of the hand drawn blueprint were clipped to a stand for easy reference. Banks of drawers and tool boards behind the table had gaps and spaces corresponding with the drawers and tools already on the bench.

The other bench was pristine in comparison. The project in progress was a scrollwork filigree wooden box. The sides and sliding lid were laid out around the solid base, waiting to be assembled, before being lacquered and sealed. All the tools were put away. A pile of sawdust sat in the garbage can beside the bench. A tablet computer was clamped into a stand to hold it vertically, for easy reference. At the moment, the tablet was turned off.

A desktop computer took up the other half of the near-empty bench. The CPU tower was under the bench, while the monitor and keyboard, and digital stylus and pad were lined up on top.

Remy rubbed his chin. “It would be too easy to point to the neat table with the pretty project and say it was Taylor’s. I hesitate, because you three defy expectations at every turn. Yet the microchip has a medical aspect. And the pretty bench is paperless and Veris is slow to change in that regard, so…”

Brody pointed to Remy’s feet. “Don’t step into the chamber,” he reminded him.

Remy looked down at his feet.

The three benches made up three sides of an almost square space in the room’s middle. Brody had painted a six-inch wide white line all around the edge of the internal square, to remind people to keep the space clear.

The fourth wall of the workshop was empty except for a five-foot long, one-foot high digital calendar clock, displaying the date, including the year, and the time in 24-hour notation.

Remy’s boot was half-way over the white line between the benches and he winced and pulled it back. “Right. Sorry.”

Brody nodded.

“What did Nayara call it, again?”

“An arrival chamber,” Brody said.

“It’s a great idea. A simple clock, and empty space—much easier to visualize.”

“Nayara said it is the only way to arrive accurately at the right time. Without it, she sometimes arrived a day or more off target and would have to jump again.” Brody recalled the few times Nayara had shocked them by materializing in front of the big fireplace in the house in Martha’s Vineyard, only to curse and disappear again. She would reappear a day later, still cursing.

The heavy, metal lined workshop door swung open—it was a swing door. Veris prowled into the room, and the sounds of people talking on the other side of the basement came through the door with him.

Remy nodded at him, then watched with narrowed eyes as Veris glanced at the clock on the wall.

“It’s been thirty minutes already,” Veris said. “How long does it take to gulp down coffee and put on an overcoat?”

Brody pushed himself away from the bench. The stool rolled out by a foot. “Marit will get here. She said she would come.” He kept his tone mild. “Have you ever known Marit to not keep her word?”

Veris stood, his head down, his shoulders flexed. Frustration and impatience flowed from his taut stance. Then he blew out his breath and nodded. “Sorry.” His glance took in Remy.

Remy spread his hands. “We all learn as we go along. I thought I knew how to be a father. Jason is teaching me I’m wrong, every single day. Which is comforting. It tells me I still have things to learn.”

Veris gave a small sound of agreement. “Something to do, then…” he murmured, looking around.

Remy’s interest sharpened. His eyes narrowed as he watched Veris size up the benches.

When Veris moved behind the neat bench and picked up the digital stylus, Remy rolled his eyes.

Brody laughed.

Veris looked at them both, puzzled. “Did someone just lose money?”

“Remy came close to it,” Brody said.

Remy moved around the back of Veris’ bench and peered over his shoulder. “What does the Large Hadron Collider have to do with a filigree box?”

“Absolutely nothing,” Veris said. “This is research for a different project.”

“Which is?”

Veris turned on the stool to consider Remy. “You really want to know, or are you being polite?”

“I’m told I don’t know how to be polite.” Remy shrugged, the way only a Frenchman could.

Veris didn’t move.

Brody waited, watching Remy curiously.

Remy sighed. “Since the affair in Serbia, I have been retreating into the old habits of staying aloof, of not associating with the Blood because of the dangers it brings. And I brought Neven and London with me into that isolation. We…all three of us…have been reminded by this business—by Rafe’s disappearance—about how interconnected we all are. I’m not used to family. I am sorry for that and wish to make amends.”

Veris considered him. “Very well,” he said, and turned back to the computer. “My apologies for bringing up the subject, Brody.” His gaze flickered to Brody.

Brody shook his head. “No problems,” he lied, as his heart beat.

“Remember how Brody disappeared from the timescape, when Dara had him?” Veris asked.

Brody rolled back to the bench and switched on the soldering iron, intending to immerse himself in the work. Only, he couldn’t stop listening.

“Because of the magnetized mountain,” Remy said. “Yes?”

“Yes. A lodestone. I’m trying to figure out a way to generate an artificial version which can be switched on when needed.”

“A shield against time jumping,” Remy said, his tone admiring.

“One that will hide anyone beneath it from the timescape, too,” Veris said.

“And you need dark matter for that?” Remy asked, glancing at the image of the Large Hadron Collider on the screen.

“At this point, I have no fucking idea,” Veris said, his tone frank. “The simple solution is to hollow out a man-sized lodestone and hunker beneath. It’s not useful, though. Lodestones are stone. Lugging around a stone shield went out of fashion a few millennia ago.” Veris grimaced. “Reproducing the same effect is more of a challenge than I thought it would be.”

“Electro-magnetic generators won’t do it?” Remy asked.

“If they worked, there would be blank spots all over the timescape,” Veris said. “Most electrical engines, including every car on the planet, throws off a magnetic field.”

“So does every cellphone,” Brody added.

Remy grimaced, then patted Veris’ shoulder. “Better you than me, mon ami.”

The flutter of clothing snapping in a breeze and the soft exhalation snapped Brody’s attention back to the arrival chamber area.

Marit stood in the center of the area. Her flaming red hair was down to her hips, with a bright scarf tied into a narrow headband holding all but thick tendrils back from her face. She wore a light sundress and a glowing suntan, multiple bracelets up one wrist, and sandals with straps which wound around her ankles.

Over her arm was a heavy down-filled parka, and over her shoulder was a crocheted handbag with heavy fringing.

There were two redheads in the extended family. London and Marit were so different in style and personality and temperament, though, they had to stand together for Brody to remember they shared the same hair color.

Marit looked at the wall clock, then spun on her heel. Her gaze met Brody’s. “Athair,” she breathed, smiling.

“You look well, Marit,” Brody said. “Very well, in fact. I like the tan.”

“It’s summer already in Australia,” Marit reminded him.

Veris got to his feet as Remy stepped back and out of Veris’ way, for Veris was looking steadily at Marit.

Marit turned to face him. “Hello, Far.”

“You’re still calling me Far, at least,” Veris said, moving around the bench.

Marit rolled her eyes.

“Step out of the arrival chamber, Marit,” Brody reminded her.

“Oh, right. I forgot.” She walked to the open end of the square and stepped out, as Veris reached her.

“You look like a hippy,” Veris said, his tone judicious.

Brody winced.

Remy grimaced, too, and eased around the edge of the room, heading for the door.

“Thank you!” Marit told Veris, as if he had complimented her. “Well, I’m here. What is being done about Uncle Rafe?”

Veris blinked. He was taken aback by the authority in her voice and the snap of command.

Brody got to his feet and moved around the benches, feeling the need to be close enough to intervene. Perhaps even separate them, if it was needed.

“We have to find Rafe on the timescape,” Veris told her.

“I already looked, Far,” Marit said, with an exasperated note in her voice. “As soon as Mom said he’d gone. Why do you think it took me thirty minutes to get here? He’s not on the scape. Not anywhere.”

Veris crossed his arms. “Then why did you bother coming here? You could have texted it to us.”

Brody planted his hand on Veris’ shoulder and dug his fingers in. “Veris, back down.”

Marit crossed her arms and glared back at Veris. “Because I want to help get Rafe back, that’s why.”

Brody rubbed his temple. At this moment, Marit was a replica of Veris in temper and obstinacy. They both had their arms crossed and neither would give ground easily.

He squeezed Veris’ shoulder again.

Veris’ gaze flickered toward Brody. He drew in a breath and let it out. “Fine. If you want to help, then…” He shook his head. “I can’t believe I’m about to say this, but—”

“No, Far!” Marit said, her tone alarmed.

“—we have to reach out to David for help,” Veris finished.

Brody sighed.

“No,” Marit repeated. “No. Fucking. Way. No! I will not talk to that man.”

Veris spread his hands. Entreaty. “You are the only one who can reach him. He can see things on the timescape even you cannot. He’s the only one who can locate Rafael.”

Marit growled. It was a feminine version of the same growl Veris used whenever he was frustrated beyond the ability to string words together—a rare occurrence for both of them.

“I don’t like it any more than you, Marit,” Veris said, his tone mild, although Brody could detect the control behind the mildness. Veris had regrouped. “You think I want him anywhere near you?”

Marit clutched at the back of her head, her eyes scrunched shut. “How very hypocritical of you, Far. You stood in front of me last year and said you would disown me if I so much as said hello to him.”

“You agreed with me!” Veris said, his voice lifting. “Why did you run away to Australia, if not to get away from him?”

Brody groaned. “Stop this, both of you.”

“To get away from you!” Marit shouted. “You and your over-bearing, dictatorial Neanderthal ‘do-it-my-way-or-else’ attitude!”

Brody slapped his hands on both their shoulders. “Enough!” he roared.

Beyond the swing door, he could hear everyone in the living room had fallen silent.

There was another flutter of clothing and a flash of movement from the corner of Brody’s eyes. He turned to check the chamber area.

Aran stood with his arm around Jesse’s waist, his eyes wide as he took in the two confronting each other at the end of the chamber area.

“What are you doing here, Aran?” Brody demanded. “You’re supposed to be in college.”

“Same as Marit,” Aran said, his tone cool. “We’re here to help get Uncle Rafe back. I picked up Jesse on the way.”

Jesse nodded, one of her firm, no-nonsense gestures, and resettled the backpack on her back with a hitch of her shoulders. Her hair was pinned to the back of her head as it had been throughout her military career, even though she was a private citizen once more. “We should move out of the way,” she said. “Alannah will be here shortly, too.”

Marit beckoned. “Come on. Last time I was here, there was nothing in the kitchen to eat. Let’s find out if that’s still the case.”

Jesse stepped out of the chamber square. “And a table or a counter, so I can work while waiting for the start of the mission would be nice.”

Brody stepped around Veris. Veris still fumed, although he had the sense to not take it out on anyone right now. “Jesse, you don’t have to get involved. There’s already enough of the Blood here to take on a small army.”

Jesse lifted her chin and met Brody’s gaze. “You have no professional fighters. I can help.” She gave a stiff smile. “Besides, I owe Rafael.”

“You do?” Brody said, astonished.

Her gaze shifted to Aran, who had made his way to the swing door and had a hand on it, ready to push through into the living room beyond. She looked back at Brody. “I do,” she said shortly.

Time And A Marine

09-29. 13:48 hours.

This house is full of tension. I’ve walked into ISIS dens which felt more relaxed. Not that I walked. You don’t stroll into those places…

…and I’m completely ducking why I’m sitting at the kitchen counter with my laptop, spilling my guts onto virtual paper.

What happened down there in the basement? Why on earth did I tell Brody I owed Rafael?

What do I owe Rafael? For the life of me, I can’t figure it out.

All the writing books say that when I do a brain dump like this, I have to keep my fingers moving. No stopping for thought. No reflection. The more I belch onto the page, the quicker I’ll reach the subconscious shit tripping me up. And there’s sure as hell something there. Only I can’t figure it out. But I said that already.

Okay, so talk about something. Anything.

And why did Nob Hill jump to mind?

Lemme see.

I house-sat for the Brennans last year. Spring in San Francisco. It was the perfect first job. Me, fresh out of the Marines, house-sitting the Brennan’s mansion on Nob Hill. They loved the idea, especially when I told them I’d only move out of the house to get groceries, every couple of days, and yeah, I’d feed their cat and clean the litter box.

After more than ten years of khaki and fence-link-and-pipeframe beds with shitty mattresses, I was sleeping on 5,000 thread count Egyptian cotton laid over soft-as-cloud pillowtop.

I parked my backpack beside the dining table and wrote my ass off. In the two weeks the Brennans toured Greece and Turkey, I wrote a whole novel. It was a shitty novel, but it was my first and it was finished. And I learned humongous amounts, getting it done.

I was four chapters into the second novel when the Brennans came home to hug their cat.

They tipped me three hundred dollars. Peace of mind, they called it, while I got paid to research scenes and settings in one of the coolest cities in the world for my next novel. I took the tip and asked them to recommend me to their friends, no matter where their friends were located—I was happy to go to them. Of course, I didn’t say why I was willing to cross the continent, if asked to.

Then I texted him and headed down the sidewalk that felt as though it wanted to be a mountain, to wait where he said he’d meet me. Couldn’t have him suddenly appearing in the Brennan’s glass and chrome living room.

Oh yeah, I’m talking about Aran. D’uh. Forgot to say that, because I’m writing this to myself. I’m supposed to be writing it as if someone would read it. So, yeah, I walked to the end of the block to meet Aran, as arranged.

Still not sure how it ended up that Aran got to take me to wherever I wanted to go. Since the Armistice Day thing, I’ve never paid for or used an aircraft to get anywhere, and I’ve been all over the world. Even the day I was decommissioned and got my walking papers, I declined the offer of military transport back to my city of intake. I was in Germany at the time, only there was nothing waiting for me in Ohio now that Mom was dead. Instead, I texted Marit and asked if she would mind very much jumping me to San Francisco, so I could arrive at the Brennans’ when I was supposed to. It was a no-brainer. Twenty-four hours plus on a rattling, cold military transport, or a few seconds and hot coffee waiting for me at the other end.

Marit didn’t show up at the gates of the base. Aran did. The gate sergeant phoned me. He sounded as if he was trying not to laugh. “There’s a kid here, asking for you, Captain.”

I picked up my new Swiss Army backpack and glanced around the room. Narrow bed, desk, chair. My uniforms were still in the tiny closet. Boots beneath. I didn’t need any of it anymore. So I walked to the gates and nodded at the sergeant as they raised the boom for me.

Aran straightened from his lean against the building next to the gates. He’d shoved his hands in his coat pockets. It was February and Ramstead could get cold. “Captain.”

“Not anymore.”

“Jessenia, then.”

I grimaced. “Not if you want me to answer.”

“Jesse.” His smile faded. “Congratulations. Ten years, five promotions and a rack of fruit salad any careerist would be happy to have.”

I was stupidly proud in that moment, which was silly. I mean, c’mon. Aran’s…what? Twenty-two, I think. He’s just out of pimple phase. But the way he said it…well, I grinned like an idiot. I think I was just glad someone had noticed. Apart from all the paramilitary and private security firms who’d tried to recruit me, that is.

Aran glanced over my shoulder. I imagine the gate guards were all watching curiously. Most people drove through the gates. “Let’s walk a bit and get out of sight to jump,” Aran said. “Marit couldn’t make it, by the way. She and Far were shouting at each other when I left.”

“You came from Martha’s Vineyard? I pulled you away from a family visit?”

“I was glad to escape.” Aran grimaced. “Things have been difficult, since Athair came back.” He glanced at his boots, then at me. “You’re really going to write novels, Jesse? The paramilitary people must surely be waving five hundred thou a year at you.”

“Try seven hundred thousand.”

Aran raised his brows. “I rest my case.”

I shook my head. “I might have taken one, but for Armistice Day last year.”

He nodded, his expression sober. After all, he was the one who got to go back to France in 1918, while I sat and chewed my fingernails. He was the one who got the life-altering experience. Although for a three whole minutes, I have stood in the salon of Louis XVIII, in Versailles. Wig and all. And believe me, that’s as life-altering as it gets.

Maybe Aran did understand, after all. Maybe his life-altering was as profound as mine, because he simply said. “San Francisco it is, then.” He stepped into the first side street we came to, looked around for observers, then a secondary scan for CCTVs, then he jumped me to Nob Hill. He only left me to return home after I promised him I’d text when I needed another jump to my next job.

Then, four weeks later, he was back. He came walking down the hill toward me, carrying a brown paper bag with no logos, wearing a simple white button-down shirt and black jeans. He’s taller than most—he has all of Brody’s height, and he also has the same black Celtic looks. Black eyes, black, shaggy hair which has never seen a military cut in its life, and a chin usually dark with growth. White, clear skin and teeth.

He wasn’t wearing sneakers, which I expected. Instead, he wore elegant, slim loafers which made me think of Europe.

A tram clanged as it went by, reminding me we were still in San Francisco.

Aran held out the paper bag. “Good morning.”

“What’s this?”

“Coffee and croissants.”

I opened the bag and sniffed. Delicious. “I didn’t realize there was a patisserie nearby. I don’t know Frisco all that well.” I had walked around with Google Maps open on my phone, whenever I had left the house.

“There isn’t. They’re French,” Aran said.

I almost rolled my eyes at him.

“From Paris. I bought them from a patisserie in the Latin Quarter, ten minutes ago.”

I didn’t want to be impressed, but damn, those croissants were good! We ate them sitting in a park we found off Sacramento Street, then Aran jumped me over to Denver, where my next job waited. An indoor swimming pool, this time. Bliss.

I had a dozen jobs between retiring and Christmas. It became automatic to ask Aran to move me on to the next one, as he was always willing, while everyone else seemed to have lives.

That’s probably unfair. But really, the guy is in Harvard, and floating through his classes. Both he and Alannah have their mother’s brains and their father’s drive. And they grew up with Veris, who doesn’t forgive thoughtlessness and crucifies laziness. Aran is studying politics, for chrissake. He could probably out-argue his professors. He hinted once he’s sat in on Aristotle’s lectures. The Aristotle. How does a New England tenured professor compete with that?

So Aran has a lot of free time and can come and go easily. He and Alannah share a house near the campus, with three other students…and that’s one I don’t get.

Marit told me over beer and pretzels before she shot off to Australia to get away from her folks that Aran and Alannah could have stayed at home while they were going to Harvard. Lateral jumping comes as easy for them as assembling a Glock in the dark is for me. They could live at home, save money, jump to Boston each day, or even jump back and forth between lectures, and live comfortably in the meantime.

That’s not the screwy bit. I get they wanted the same experience millions of college students get. They grew up in a very different family, and they’ve lived double lives forever. So, yeah, rent a run-down house which leaks even in summer, share it with other students…be normal. Only, if that’s why they did it, why on earth did they share the same house?

Wouldn’t they have found a more authentic experience if they both went off on their own and rented with 100% completely normal humans?

Or is it a twin thing?

Not that they’re living in each other’s pockets in the house, anyway. Aran doesn’t gossip or whine, but he’s hinted that Alannah isn’t home too often. She keeps her grades up at the brilliant level, only she doesn’t have to work too hard for them, either. In between economics lectures—if she even goes to them—she’s living a full-on life.

Which reminds me of Portland. Early this year. January, because the snow was still thick around Portland. Oregon, I’m talking about. The house I was sitting was in the southwest district. At the top of the hill. I grew to love the aerial tram. I’d take it every day, down to the wharf for coffee and to write in my notebook while I watched the snow fly and the native Oregonians hurry by with their shoulders hunched against the cold.

The owners of the house…you know, I can’t even remember their name now. Deliberate absent-mindedness, I guess, considering what happened. Anyway, their house was staggering. Right at the top of the hill with a view up and down the river which brought me to a standstill, even three weeks after the owners had pushed off to Lake Lucerne—that’s Switzerland, mind you—for Christmas and New Year. They wouldn’t be back until mid-February, and I wanted to get my fourth novel finished.

I had already published the second novel I finished. And just before Christmas I made some honest to God sales of the book. Looking at those sales figures made me a little bit dizzy.

When I got my first review, even though it was only four stars, I had the ridiculous urge to cry.

When Aran gave me the traveling coffee mug with Jessenia Hall—Author carved around the base, I did cry. Just not where he could see me doing it.

I got the third book published as fast as I could, then that started selling, too. So now the pressure was on to get the fourth book finished. With two months in that fancy house, with only the muffled sound of snow outside, I knew I would get the whole book done, easily.

I read a lot about authors who can’t seem to get their shit together and write. I don’t have that problem at all. Maybe it’s all the Navy discipline but cranking out the pages just isn’t an issue.

Or maybe it’s because I’ve suddenly discovered I have a lot to say about wars and fighting and what real military people go through to serve their country. Novels are great for getting the message across. No footnotes. Fudged figures to add to the drama, which all helps drive the point home…

And maybe I was supposed to be doing this all along. Who knows?

Although I bet some time traveler somewhere will tell me that in an alternative timeline, I have been an author my entire life, with hair down to my ass and no discipline at all.

Don’t care. I’m writing now.

Anyway, I got sidetracked, didn’t I?

Portland. Snow. Writing furiously.

On January 20th, I paused mid-sentence when I heard the iron gates at the front of the house crank open, the wheels at the bottom crunching over untouched snow. The controls for the gate were in the mudroom. The only other way to open them was with a remote which was in the owner’s car, at the long-term lot at the airport.

I didn’t figure it out until I saw the black Audi roll across the smooth snow to the garage door, which was sedately rising, welcoming the owners home.

They stood shoulder to shoulder in their all-white, gleaming kitchen, and thanked me for guarding their precious home. They didn’t even offer a tip.

What could I say? My next house was two weeks and three days away. I had some cash reserves and Amazon would pay me a little bit at the end of the month, but even a cheap hotel room would wipe me clean. Only, that wasn’t their problem.

So I packed my backpack and took the aerial tram down to the wharf for the last time and started walking. It was too cold to stand still. Besides, I was too angry…and yeah, fear was there, too. I was technically…no, scratch that. I was literally homeless.

The anger got into my brain and started careening around, which does zero good for your aim and reaction speeds. It also doesn’t help you think straight. I just wasn’t going to come up with a solution until I calmed down. Only telling myself that and doing it…well, let’s say my old sergeant would have been disappointed in me.

I walked, and when it got too cold, I bought another cup of coffee, and kept walking. Sooner or later, I promised myself, I would stop and do some constructive thinking. For now, Captain Hall, keep walking.

When Aran emerged out of the falling snow like a black Yeti, wrapped to the nose in a scarf and black hat, I was so surprised, I wouldn’t have noticed a grenade going off right next to me. I was still reacting and not thinking yet, so I couldn’t put together how he was there.

“I didn’t text you,” I said. Obviously, Einstein.

All I could see was his black eyes between the hat and the scarf. That was probably why I noticed for the first time how long his lashes were. I think they’re longer than mine. That romantic Celtic look must net him all the bed partners he could possibly desire. Even the most sex-weary college co-ed wouldn’t be immune to those eyes.

Aran unwound the scarf. “It’s thirty degrees, Jesse. Why didn’t you call?” His jaw flexed. His breath blew out in a thick cloud.

“How did you find me?” My teeth actually chattered. I hadn’t believed people really did that, until that moment. Thought it was just something in novels and what actors used to cue the viewer it was cold. Only, when I said “did”, it came out more like “d-d-did”. “How did you know?” I added.

“Know what? You’ve been walking around the riverside for four hours, Jesse. What happened?”

That made me wary. “Yeah, but how did you know that? Are you tracking me?”

“Yes.” He said it calmly, like one confirms their phone number or name. Like this wasn’t a big deal at all. He pointed to my pocket. “Your phone.”

Abruptly, I wasn’t cold anymore. I was back to white hot fury, for an entirely different reason. “How dare you! Do you know how many privacy laws you’ve broken? I should sue your ass!” I fumbled for my phone, anger making me clumsy. See, I told you it fucks up your aim and your reactions. I nearly dropped the damn thing. Aran caught it. He pulled his glove off with his teeth, shoved it in his pocket and thumbed through my phone, like he knew where everything was.

That didn’t help at all.

He shoved the phone at me. “There. That’s the app.”

I struggled to get my own gloves off. I would delete the sucker. Right fucking now.

Aran gripped my wrist. “Don’t, Jesse.”

“You’re following me! I don’t believe it.”

“Why not?” His tone was calm. “Don’t you get it? For over a year, since Armistice Day, you’ve been watched and monitored and guarded…and not just by me. You’re part of the life, now. Things happen to those of us caught in it. So we watch out for each other.”

My finger shook too much to let me swipe the delete setting properly. I shoved my phone in my pocket. I would do it later. “I can look after myself!”

“Says the woman who has been walking around Portland in a blizzard for four hours,” Aran replied. His tone was calm, which made me madder still. Even now, looking back on that moment, I get wriggly and squirmy about how unreasonable I was.

“You’re just a fucking kid! I’m the Marine! I’m ten years older than you! You don’t even know how to load a handgun! It’s insulting!”

Aran’s jaw flexed again. His eyes grew flinty. I don’t think I’ve ever seen them change color the way they seemed to, then. The black was almost translucent. Hard as diamonds. “I don’t need to know guns,” he said softly. “They get the wrong people killed.”

“The wrong people?” It was like the air had been vacuumed out of my lungs. My throat ached. I had no strength in my voice.

So I fell back to natural instincts. My natural instincts, that is. I grew up being told to think before I act but went through most of my childhood being busted for acting first, and maybe thinking. Usually later, long after the action and the inevitable reactions were over.

I socked Casey Haigh in the jaw in eighth grade, when he sawed off the end of my braid with his new pocket knife. It earned me my first suspension, although the warning signs that I was heading for it had been rumbling for a while.

In junior high, there was the boy—damn, what was his name?—actually, I think it was Dan. Anyway, he wasn’t willing to hear my “no”, in the broom closet at the school dance. His parents billed my parents for the dry-cleaning, because Dan woofed all over his shoes and shirt when I kneed him in the crotch.

There were various other moments when my tendency to act first got me in a whale of trouble. The Marine Corps, with its history of discipline, seemed like a good option, when the recruiters came to the high school in my sophomore year. The recruiter told me they could fix my sloppy impulse control.

And they did. It took ten years, and some tough-as-leather sergeants, but I finally learned how to slow down, take a breath and think. That’s when the promotions started happening.

Only now I was faced with a kid who thought he was smarter than me. I didn’t give a damn how pretty he looked…no one got away with protecting me without my permission.

I reached for the little Beretta 3032 Tomcat I kept in the side pocket of my backpack. Another advantage of getting to jump anywhere on the planet was that I didn’t have to pass through scanners and metal detectors to do it. The automatic hadn’t shifted from the pocket since I had slid it in there. I hadn’t forgotten it was there, though.

I didn’t even get the gun up to shoulder level. Aran snatched it from me.

Impossible. My brain froze. No one was that fast.

Aran pointed the gun at me and my heart stopped. I’ve faced guns before, but never without an M16 against my hip. It made me feel extraordinarily vulnerable. I didn’t like the sensation very much.

“See?” Aran said. He still spoke as if he was discussing his lecture schedule. “That’s how the wrong people get killed.”

Then he pulled the gun apart.

Had he seen a Tomcat before? I don’t know. I have never asked him. We’ve never spoken about it since. While my jaw waved around, unhinged, Aran disassembled the gun in quick, sure movements. Then he completed the mind-fuck by throwing the pieces into the river.

I could have happily murdered him with my teeth. Never mind that the river was at least sixty yards away, and he casually threw the pieces like he was tossing a baseball in the park on a sunny Sunday. They soared in a high arc, moving fast, and plopped into the river. I couldn’t hear the splash because it was too far away and the snow was hissing down again.

Then, while I was still speechless because my brain had short circuited, Aran turned, scooped me up in his arms and jumped.

And all I could think of was that he was toasty warm and I felt like a popsicle.

The bright sun dazzled me. I could smell wisteria, faded and old, and there was stone under my feet.

A sliding door pushed aside. “Aran, what happened?”

“Possible frostbite,” Aran said, as he turned me around like a doll.

Alex stood in the doorway, in shirt sleeves, which he hastily rolled down and rebuttoned. His gaze flickered over me. “Bring her to the surgery,” he said.

“I can walk!” I protested. Only, the cold was finally getting to me. I was shuddering. I made myself walk over to the door and step inside. This was the house in Spain where Alex, Sydney and Rafe lived. I had never been to Spain, but I’ve been to Morocco and the old colonial branding there was the same feeling as here. With Alex stepping out of the door, it was a lock this was their house in Granada.

It was three rooms and fifty yards to Alex’s surgery. I made it there by myself. Aran’s hand under my elbow doesn’t count.

I stayed at the big house in Granada until the next house-sitting job came up. It wasn’t my idea, only I couldn’t get my shit together enough to argue. I slept a lot and ate a lot and thought a lot. Talking to anyone seemed like too much effort.

“Mild malnutrition and exhaustion,” Alex told me. “They pull the pith out of anyone, Jesse. The Navy used to feed you and balance your work-life for you. Now you have to do it yourself.”

It was mortifying that Alex had seen me in that state. Such a stupid thing—I was a consenting, legal adult and I couldn’t figure out how to feed myself properly? I couldn’t figure out a decent sleep schedule?

I couldn’t stand the thought that Aran knew. I stayed away from Sydney and Rafe. I didn’t go out of my borrowed room. I wouldn’t let anyone but Alex in, and I only tolerated him, because he was the doctor.

Rafael knocked on the door a few days before my next house-sitting assignment. “I’m stepping through the door in thirty seconds, Jesse, whether you want me to or not,” he said through the door.

I sat up. Only now, after two weeks, did I remember that Rafael was the life coach for the extended family. He helped people “transition”. That covered a lot of ground and now I realized it also covered my situation.

I was about to be coached.

My cheeks were already burning when Rafe stepped through and shut the door. He leaned against it, his arms crossed and considered me. “Feeling stupid?” he asked.

Some life coach. I plucked at a button on the quilt.

“Good,” Rafe said.

I scowled.

He sat on the other end of the bed. “I think you’ve realized now that discipline is a matter of balance. You’ve got discipline by the bucket load, but you’ve been using it the wrong way. You can’t just floor the gas pedal. It’s not a long-term solution.”

“I didn’t have to think long-term, in the Marines,” I pointed out. I didn’t like the defensive note in my voice. “Everything was in and out. Move it, soldier.”

“And now you do have to pace yourself. You’re smart, Jesse. I don’t have to tell you to eat properly and get some sleep. You know all that stuff, or you know how to research it for yourself. Promise me you’ll do it.”

“I already promised Alex,” I said stiffly. That was true. He had been more forceful about the need for nutrients and the nasty side effects of long-term malnutrition, which included mental decline. That revelation sealed the deal.

“Good enough,” Rafe said. “Then let’s shove the humiliating stuff out the window and talk about something else.”

I managed to look him in the eye for nearly a full heartbeat. “Talk about what?”

“About us. About travelers,” Rafael said shortly. He had no trouble looking me in the eye. The expression in his was kind enough. He wasn’t laughing at me, or impatient. Or pissed. “You’re part of this world, Jesse. You never had a choice in the matter. Time itself wrapped you into our world, over a hundred years ago, when your great grandfather was tapped on the shoulder by the Weimar and told to put on a uniform or else. You just didn’t know until a year ago.” He paused. “There is no getting away from it.”

My gut clenched. “Aran told you what I said.”

“Because he was concerned,” Rafael replied. “All of us would react the same way. Aran grew up surrounded by this world. He learned at a young age how dangerous the life can be, and the only way we survive is if we lean on each other.”

He sounded like a lecturer on the benefits of fraternity and trusting your fellow Marines.

“I’m not a traveler,” I pointed out.

“Neither am I,” Rafael replied. “Yet we still get caught up in time complications and need help to escape.” He paused. “Aran says you want to delete the tracking app on your cellphone.” Another pause. “You know we can track you without it, don’t you?”

I’d heard enough idle chatter by then to be able to answer that one. “Across the timescape?”

Rafael nodded. “Those of us able to bridge the timescape will always be able to find you on it. If you leave the app on your phone, then we don’t have to take that extraordinary step to keep you safe.”

“And if I keep it on my phone, it means I’m volunteering to be tracked, right?”

Rafael tilted his head from one side to the other. “That’s one way to consider it.”

I shook my head. “I don’t want to be part of this world. I wasn’t asked!”

Rafe tried to hide his smile. “None of us did, Jesse. Yet here we are. For some reason—and none of us knows enough about how time works to guess why—but for some reason, your life and your actions have a profound effect on history and the future…on time itself. There have been key people like you throughout history, although usually their impact on history is recorded and clear. Grand Duke Ferdinand of Austria was one. In every alternative world we’ve ever mapped, his assassination starts a global war. You stopped a global war, instead of starting one. Because something didn’t happen as a result of your actions, no one will ever notice. So in one respect, you are lucky. You get to move through life unnoticed by history.”

I shuddered. “I don’t like the limelight.” Every time anyone ever paid me attention as a kid, punishment usually followed. As an adult, attention meant I’d been noticed—not a good thing for a soldier trying to blend into the countryside.

“Don’t delete the app, Jesse.”

I sighed. “I’m a former US Marine. You know how it feels to be coddled?”

Rafael actually laughed. “That’s the last thing anyone would dare do to you.” He shook his head. “Keep the app, because one day you will need to cry out for help. Trouble comes with the territory. Keep the app, and promise me that when the day comes, you will turn to us for help. Until then, you can be as independent as you want to be.”

I considered it. “So, the app is a backup weapon?”

He shook his head. “It’s peace of mind.”

And it hadn’t cost me a three hundred dollar tip. “Tell Aran he owes me a handgun. Pocket sized.”

“Tell him yourself. Or learn to live without the gun. Having it makes you weak.”

My face must have given away the horror I felt at that idea.

“Aran took it from you and threw it in the river. How did that make you feel?” Rafael asked.

“Pissed. That was a five hundred dollar gun.”

He looked at me with a knowing expression.

I studied the buttons on the quilt once more. “I didn’t like it,” I admitted.

Rafael sighed. “You’ve been too long in the military. It made you afraid, didn’t it—to be confronted by someone with a gun and not have one yourself?”

“You’re a really bad life coach. I’m not feeling motivated at all.”

“I’m not here to motivate you. I’m here to make sure you stay alive.”

I don’t remember looking up, but I found myself caught in his steady gaze.

“Keep the app, Jesse,” he repeated.

I kept the app.

Sydney jumped me to Toronto, my next job. It was a good city to spend the rest of February and most of March in, because it’s set up for cold weather. I spent the first day in the penthouse apartment I was sitting figuring out basic, dumb shit like how many calories I needed in an average day, and how much food and what kinds would give me sufficient energy. It was the first time in my life I’d ever had to figure out what was protein and what were carbs, and how much fat I got. I’d simply never had to worry about it before.

I walked each afternoon—through the tunnels and walkways which riddled the downtown core and allowed shoppers to move from city block to mall to shopping areas without going outside. And I stopped writing each night at six and made myself eat dinner.

I went to bed at ten, after reading for a while.

It felt artificial and awkward…until it didn’t. A couple of weeks after I started the routine, I realized I had moved through the day, doing all the things I “should”, all while focusing on the novel. It was like my days had been on base—the routine had been mindless and almost invisible, while I focused on strategies, tactics, weapons and fitness.

My next job was New York city. I was looking forward to that…only I had to get through the process of getting there. I had my military passport, so I could take a commercial flight, only they might ask me how and when I entered Canada, which would be awkward.

And was I such a coward I couldn’t look Aran in the eye when he arrived to take me on to the next assignment? I would risk being arrested as an illegal alien, just to avoid him?

That put it into perspective. So I texted him the address and tried to settle into reading until he got here. He couldn’t jump directly to the apartment because he had never been here before. There was likely some spot in the city he did know, and he could find the apartment from there. He was well traveled—much more than me.

I jumped when the door alarm buzzed. Shelley, the apartment owner, fresh back from filming a movie in British Columbia, answered the door. “Oh, you must be Jesse’s friend. She said she was being picked up. Come in!”

Aran murmured something polite in his low voice and Shelley giggled.

Giggled. This was a movie director with multiple awards and a string of movies and TV shows to her credit.

Shelley offered coffee, then dinner, then urged us to stay the night. I politely refused. Aran smoothed it over, and got her back to giggling again. We left, with Shelley’s assurances that she would tell everyone she knew about my service and that she would definitely have me back next time.

We stepped into the elevator and the doors shut.

Aran looked at me. “Where to, now?”

“You want to jump from in here? A moving car?”

He rolled his eyes. “You shoot from the hip, sometimes, don’t you?”

“Yeah, but I’ve been doing it for a long—” I pressed my lips together and held the rest in. “Okay,” I said, instead and moved over to him. “Manhattan.”

“Mid-town, downtown, where?”

“SoHo.”

“Of course. Only the best.” He flexed his knees and the world shifted and shimmered.

We arrived in a narrow alley just off Mercer Street and Aran insisted on walking with me to my new assignment. He was polite the entire time.

I was just as polite and couldn’t wait for him to be gone. Only, when he was, I felt even worse.

I love New York. New York in early spring is a great place. Late spring is even better, but I wasn’t here for that long, alas. I soaked the place up, walked everywhere, and absorbed the energy.

I was feeling more like my old self. A few weeks of exercise and food and decent sleep made a huge difference. I felt like a fool all over again when I realized (in hindsight, of course) how ignorant and stupid I had been. Even more surprising was how many more pages I got written than I thought was possible with my shortened schedule.

Maybe that’s why I let down my guard.

Everyone knows New York is a high crime city—even after the big clean up in the eighties. Any big city is. Toronto has a higher murder rate than New York, but in New York, there are a shit ton of petty crimes most people don’t even bother reporting. Petty, and not so petty. Purse snatches, all the way up to gang rape and violent robbery.

The five of them came up behind me one evening, just after the sun had gone down, which made it slightly after seven. Just as I realized they had surrounded me, they shepherded me into an alley.

I recognized the alley. It was the one Aran used as an arrival chamber.

The herding turned into pushing. Tugging at my coat.

“Where’s your purse, bitch?”

“I don’t have one.”

“Wallet. Give us your money. Don’t make me say it again.” The heavy-set asshole in front of me might have been black. Or Hispanic. Or even Jewish. He wasn’t white—that was all I could say for sure.

“Okay. Okay.” I reached into my coat, which prompted a metallic ratcheting sound that made my blood go cold, for I knew what it was. The man to my right, at the corner of my vision, had just cocked a semi-automatic.

“Relax. I’m just getting my wallet out.”

“Drop your hand! Drop it!”

I lowered my hand.

Asshole in front of me pushed his hand roughly inside my coat. His fingers slid over my breast and I shuddered. As his fingers closed over my wallet, I grabbed his wrist and yanked him forward and head butted him.

He staggered and went down, and I turned to take the automatic out of action.

Too slow. Way too slow. I had forgotten a dozen factors which were no longer a given, which I had learned so thoroughly I no longer gave them thought. I didn’t have a weapon of my own. Not even a knife. I didn’t have team mates standing beside me, sniper cover from a nearby nest or backup within radio distance. I had calculated the odds of coming out of this as good based on those criteria…which weren’t there.

The first bullet took me in the lower right hip, the second square in the belly and the third right under the ribcage on my left…and far too close to the heart.

I fell forward. The concrete surface of the alley was cold and damp. It smelled of gasoline and rubber.

Someone shouted for the police. The voice was far away.

I saw the thousand-dollar sneakers sidle past me and disappear. “Run, run!”

“We gotta finish her off now, man! She’ll talk!”

“She’s dead either way. Run!”

Then nothing.

Breathing got hard. The bullet in my ribcage had probably perforated my lower lung.

Perversely, growing colder reminded me of Portland, and walking in the blizzard.

…promise me that when the day comes, you will turn to us for help.

Rafe’s voice. A tiny whisper in the back of my mind.

I reached for my phone. It took damn near an ice age to get my hand up high enough to pull it out of my coat. Then I had to put it in front of my face, because I couldn’t lift my head.

Every tap took enormous strength to complete. I still had Aran’s old texts and just had to reply. It took all the energy I had to write two simple words.

help me

I hit send just as the first concerned neighbor rushed up and dropped beside me to shake my shoulder and make me groan with the agony that flared through me. I couldn’t talk. Couldn’t breathe.

“Let me through. Let me through, please. I’m a doctor.”

Aran. I would know his voice anywhere.

Hands under me. Lifting me.

“Hey, should you be moving her?”

“Where are you taking her?”

The rhythmic jostle of walking.

“Hold on a few moments more, Jesse,” Aran breathed in my ear. “I know what to do.”

I believed him. Absolutely and without question—just as I had believed and relied upon my brothers in arms.

I closed my eyes.

…and opened them what felt like only a second later. Bright lights in my face, someone giving medical orders, the beep of monitors, and the cold flood of fluid in my arm from an injection, racing along the veins.

“There she is.” Rafe’s voice.

“Jesse! Jesse! Look at me.”

“Give her a moment, Aran.” Alex, sounding sharper and curter than I had ever heard from him.

“I’ve re-inflated the lung.” Sydney’s voice. Calm and quiet.

I could breathe again. It hurt like hell, but I could draw in air.

I blinked, trying to pull things together. They were confused. Mixed up.

Aran leaned over me. “Jesse. Listen to me. I’m going to take you back in time.”

“You can’t!” Alex protested. “Is that why you insisted we bring her around?”

“Shut up, Alex,” Sydney said, her tone just as curt. “He’s right. He has to take her back.”

“Back?” I might have said it aloud, or just in my head. I don’t know.

Aran leaned over again, so all I could see were his eyes and those stupidly long lashes. Thick brows and the cold slate determination in his gaze. “I’m going to lift you. You must direct the jump, Jesse. Think of a time before the mugging. Only a few minutes. It has to be a lateral jump for this to work—don’t worry about the details. Just think of a moment before the mugging and hold it in your mind. I’ll do the rest.”

“You’re kidding…a lateral jump?” Alex said. “Right back into her own body again?”

“No, he’s right. It’s the only way,” Rafe said. “Help me sit her up, so Aran can jump with her.”

Hands on me. Under me. It hurt like hell.

Arms around me.

“Think of the moment, Jesse. Think of it.”

I thought backward to my stroll along Mercer. Enjoying the sounds of early evening. The rustle of new leaves overhead. The hint of green things in the air. Lights from shop fronts spilling onto the uneven pavement. The next chapter of my book.

Then I heard the little yap-yap dog barking in a living room window as I passed by. Actually heard it. For I was walking along Mercer again. No wounds. No pain.

My phone buzzed. I pulled it out. It was Aran.

Keep walking. I’m right behind you.

I put the phone away, my heart pistoning. That’s the problem with knowing the future. It makes you dread it.

The five of them came up behind me—how the hell did I miss it the first time? They weren’t even subtle about it. The shepherding began. Then the alley and the pushing.

This time, I shoved back.

“Hey, hey, she’s got some claws!”

Another, harder shove which sent me stumbling.

“You should probably let the lady go.” Aran’s voice.

“Fuck, where’d he come from?”

I managed to turn about. Aran stood in the entrance to the alley, his feet spread. I recognized the ready stance and my heart gave a little blip of delight. I settled my own feet and sized up the men closest to me. I could reach two of them, no problems.

I put out two of my fingers, on my left hand.

Aran’s gaze flickered to my hand, as the dude with the semi-auto cocked it. “You better back away, man,” he told Aran. “Just turn and walk away and we’ll let you live.”

“I don’t think so,” Aran said. He still sounded like he was discussing his lecture schedule. His left hand, down by the long side of his coat, shifted. The two outer fingers curled up, leaving three digits pointing straight down.

I might have argued the toss. Three men? Without a weapon, with a semi-automatic trained on him? He wasn’t even military trained. It was sheer stupidity to rely on him taking out three of them.

There was no time to question it further. Aran shifted, starting his turn to the left, as advertised, which forced me to spin and take out the asshole with the gun. The other one was the solid-set spokesman. The one who assured them I was dead either way before leaving me lying on the concrete.

He outweighed me by maybe a hundred pounds. I spent fifteen years learning to overcome the weight differential, which is a fact of life for me.

Then, because I couldn’t help myself, I turned to deal with the third one, if Aran hadn’t managed it.

All three of them were on the ground, groaning, or knocked out. One had a bloody face.

Aran shook his fist and examined the broken skin over the knuckles. “Fabulous,” he said, his tone dry.

“What now?” I asked. It was fantastic just to be able to speak and breathe. My blood was fizzing with adrenaline overload.

“Back to the apartment you’re sitting,” Aran said.

I turned and headed down the alley. I’d learned in the last two weeks that it was a shortcut back to the apartment building.

“Where are you going?” Aran called.

“Back to the apartment.”

He shook his head. “No, you must go back to your subjective time. That’s about thirty minutes ahead of this moment. Come here.” He waved me over with his bloodied hand.

Deep reluctance made me slowly pace back. “I was nearly dead, thirty minutes from now.” I wasn’t completely ignorant about bullet wounds.

“And now you won’t be.” He tucked his arm around me. “Think of the apartment,” he said and jumped, before I could demand an explanation. I hastily thought of the book-lined living room, then saw it appear in front of me.

The carriage clock on the middle shelf showed I had lost about thirty minutes. Exactly on the money.

And I was still breathing. And standing.

Aran let me go and stepped back to look at me. He lifted a brow. He knew I had five thousand questions. Dammit.

So I didn’t ask any. “I will scalp someone if I don’t get a coffee in the next fifteen minutes,” I said, instead, and went back into the kitchenette to put on the kettle.

After two sips of fresh black juice, I felt slightly better. Aran sat back in his chair, turning his cup around, his long legs crossed, looking completely at ease.

“Okay.” I put my mug down. “Why did you do that?”

“I should not have saved your life?”

“I’ve spent over a year listening to your fathers—Veris in particular—raging about changing the timeline, of messing with the past. You did exactly what your fathers have spent your entire life telling you not to do, so why?”

“You asked me to.” He shrugged.

“You shouldn’t have!”

“Why not?”

“I’m nobody, Aran.”

“You save the world.”

“Exactly. That’s in the past. The reason everyone changed time for me has gone. I already saved the plane. You changed time for no reason.”

Aran got to his feet. “I didn’t change time. I jolted us into a different time line, one where you fought off the muggers and lived to tell the tale. The only people who know about the change are now in this room. In a few hours, even you won’t remember about the way it first happened, because that isn’t what happened in this timeline.”

“What about Alex and Sydney and Rafe? They know.”

“They won’t remember, either. Not unless they write it down and Sydney will make sure neither Alex nor Rafe record anything about it.”

I stood, too. I didn’t like having to crane my neck to look up at him. Standing didn’t help me find anything better to say.

Aran pushed his hands into his pockets. “You earned a break, Jesse. Enjoy it.”

“I still don’t know why you did it.”

Aran smiled. His black eyes danced. “Because I like the world with you in it.”

Then he jumped away, before I could ask any more questions. Which proves he was smart right then—I had thousands of them.

Just because I didn’t want to forget what had happened the first time around, I spent the rest of the evening writing out the events as they happened in the other timeline. The next morning, I found the document open on my laptop and read it, and it was like reading fiction. None of it was left in my memory. Only, there was a sense of familiarity about the descriptions and events, which convinced me I wasn’t trying to gaslight myself.

Nothing else changed except that single thirty-minute period…and I suppose, everything which happened afterwards, because I’m still alive, instead of being dead from three gunshot wounds after a simple mugging.

I keep reading my essay about the mugging every now and again. After today, I will read this essay to remind myself of what would have been.

Is that why I owe Rafe? I suppose, because of what he said, I did ask for help when I really needed it. Only, wouldn’t I have asked, even if he’d said nothing? Or am I so stubborn and so independent, I would have mulishly died in a puddle of blood in that alleyway?

That’s what I can’t figure out. Something deep in my brain has decided I owe him, for some reason I can’t fathom. I just can’t pin it—

More Time Kissed Moments
[8]

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

Jesse!” Marit said again.

Jesse jumped and looked up from the screen of her laptop. “I’m sorry. What did you say?”

Marit hid her smile. The distant look in Jesse’s eyes reminded her of Brody, when he was writing a song…only that hadn’t happened for a long time. “Espresso, or blonde roast?” Marit repeated.

“Oh, espresso,” Jesse said, her tone distant. With a firm swing of her hand, she shut the laptop. “I can finish it later.”

“Blonde roast has more caffeine in it than espresso,” Marit pointed out.

“Blonde roast doesn’t remind me of Paris.”

Startled, Marit said, “When were you in Paris?” She didn’t think the Navy had seen action in France lately.

“I wasn’t.” Jesse put her chin on her hand. “Are you going to reach out to David?”

Marit turned to check the kettle, to hide her jumpy reaction. “I must suck it up and talk to him, I suppose. For Uncle Rafe.”

“Is the man really that horrible?” Jesse asked. Of course, she hadn’t met him, yet. Although, Marit admitted to herself, everyone else seemed to find David fascinating.

Except for Veris, although his prejudice was that of a protective father. Which was what made his request that Marit reach out to the man even more extraordinary.

“Shouldn’t you be doing that, instead of making coffee?” Jesse asked. Her tone was kind enough, even though the question was provocative.

Marit unplugged the kettle and poured water into the two French presses. “There’s no rush. It’s early morning for me. I need to wake up more before I talk to him.”

“What if Rafe is under duress?” Jesse asked.

“You’re forgetting about time shifts,” Marit told her. “I could wait a week, and David could still arrive here three minutes ago.”

“Isn’t that…cheating?”

Marit looked at her, surprised. “Cheating who? And what rules are we breaking?”

Jesse considered. “I suppose time travel itself is one great hack. After that, it doesn’t matter.”

“Survival is the only rule maker,” Marit added.

“Hear, hear,” Jesse murmured.

“Oh god, fresh coffee! Could I have a cup? Please?” Alannah moved into the kitchen with slow steps. She wore sunglasses, and her heart-shaped face was pasty white beneath the black lenses.

Jesse wrinkled her nose as Alannah fell onto the other end of the bench. She turned her head and waved her fingers in front of it. “Bourbon,” she said. She got to her feet. “Dry toast and water, too,” she said decisively. “Do you think there will be bread here?”

“Mom keeps a loaf in the freezer, just in case,” Marit said. She glanced at Alannah. “A cold shower would do you more good, sis.”

“What cat dragged you through a hedge, ‘lannah?” Aran asked, from the door to the living room. He moved over to the table, paused and sniffed. “Never mind. I’ve got my answer.” He sat where Jesse had been sitting. “Maybe you should go back to Boston, Alannah. You won’t be any use here.”

Alannah lifted the glasses, as if she intended to glare at him, then thought the better of it. She put her hand on her hip. “I’m here to help Rafael.” Her voice was scratchy and used.

“You haven’t shown a skerrick of interest in the family for months,” Aran said. “Why start now?”

Jesse threw the twins a startled glance.

Marit was used to their bickering, although she listened as Alannah answered Aran in Latin. Latin was useful if one wanted a really pungent insult and Alannah didn’t hold back.

Aran’s face turned red.

“Wow,” Jesse breathed, by Marit’s shoulder. “Whatever she said, it sounded super impressive.”

“Umm…” Marit pressed her lips together. “She made an observation about Aran’s, um, abilities in bed. The lack of them. Only Latin is slippery, so she was also telling him he was pretty much impotent in all things he did.”

Jesse laughed. “I thought they knew each other better than that.”

Alannah got to her feet and paused, her fingertips jammed against her temples. “I think I will have that shower.” She shuffled through the other door, which led to the dining room, then to the back hall and the main stairs.

Jesse glanced at the two slices of frozen bread in her hands. She shrugged and put them on the shelf in the fridge. “They’ll be there later,” she said.

How to Survive Time Travel
[iv]

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

Learn classical Latin.

If you don’t acquire Latin through a lateral time jump—which would work for damn few travelers—then learn it the hard way.

I visited Portugal in the nineteenth century. There, I watched a Portuguese fisherman, a Spaniard, a French Legionnaire, and a Sicilian privateer have a conversation about ships and cargo hauling. The remarkable thing was that none of them spoke a common language.

They all used their own language, and because they all spoke one of the Romance languages, they all made themselves understood.

Latin is the grandfather of half the worlds’ languages and dialects. If you know it, you can grasp what the locals of the here-and-now you are visiting are saying—which is critical when they’re urgently telling you to duck.

More Time Kissed Moments
[9]

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

Brody looked up as the workshop door swung open again.

Alex stepped in. “May I interrupt?”

“Stupid bloody question,” Brody said. He pushed away from the bench.

Alex moved down the wide corridor between Taylor’s bench and the wall of drawers and hanging tools. “Is it?” he asked, not smiling. “You’ve been in here since you got back from Canmore.”

“Staying out of the way,” Brody said, his tone even gruffer. “There are too many chiefs out there already.”

Alex settled his hips against the bench and crossed his ankles, facing Brody. “I’m feeling as if someone slapped me around with a pillow dosed in low-grade tranquilizer. So many people…everyone, really…everyone wants to be part of the crew which retrieves Rafe, when we figure out where he is.”

Brody smiled. “That surprises you?”

“Humbles me,” Alex said. His smile flickered into life. “Makes me proud, too.”

“It should. You’ve got a fine man in your life, doc.”

Alex’s smile faded. “Only, you haven’t asked to be included in the crew.”

Brody tossed the bolt he had been turning over in his hand onto the bench. It clattered heavily. “Of course I want to be part of it. It’s Rafael.”

“Only, you didn’t ask. Or demand. Or presume it was your privilege.”

“That last one was Veris, right?”

Alex’s smile flashed again. “Of course.” His gaze held Brody’s. “Why haven’t you presumed so, Brody? Rafael has as much claim on you as he does upon Veris. For that reason I expected you to include yourself.”

Brody’s heart stirred. “We’re long past such silly considerations—”

“No.” Alex shook his head. “Two years ago, we were. Only Dara fucked up your life in the meantime and that changes things.” He narrowed his eyes. “You didn’t dispute me about Rafael’s claim upon you.”

Brody drew in a breath and let it out. “Lucky guess, Alex? Or has Rafael indulged in pillow talk?”

“Rafael is as discrete as you two. Molten iron brands wouldn’t open him up if he didn’t want to talk about it.” Alex shook his head. “I had a suspicion, fed by hints and implications over the years. And Veris, of course, let slip about their shared past, years ago. It was a short reach to consider Rafael may have also found you somewhere in history, too.”

Brody cracked his knuckles, an absent-minded motion, as he weighed his options. Centuries of conditioning had built a solid reluctance to dredge up the past. Yet there was a worn look around Alex’s eyes, which spoke of deep fear held in tight control. Alex was urbane and polite as always, and still thinking of others, even now. He’d sought out Brody on nothing more than a suspicion.

Brody decided abruptly. “It’s not just a simple claim, Alex.”

Alex’s brow lifted. “Oh?”

Time and The Celt

Constantinople, Eastern Roman Empire. 491 C.E.

The endless run of bewildering days and nights ended twenty-two days later, when Breandán detected a familiar scent from among the stenches and aromas which wafted through the open window high up near the roof of the room in which he had stayed.

He sat up on the wide, far too soft bed he had not needed for sleep. His heart, which had been still and silent, gave out a single beat. It stirred in his chest.

Breandán put his hand against his chest, detected the coolness of his skin and the organ beneath.

Then a voice he recognized sounded from the same direction as the scent.

How could he recognize both sound and smell, out on the busy road beyond the house? How could he have survived for twenty-two days and not felt hunger or thirst? The questions which had circled in his mind for too many days now crowded to the forefront.

The man…Rafael, he had claimed his name was. Rafael would have answers.

Breandán listened as the man came closer to the house. He was talking to the people who lived in the houses on either side. Laughing.

Talk about a journey to Pergamum…

Breandán didn’t know where Pergamum was. He had heard the name before. Merlin had spoken about the place with reverence and awe…

Breandán gripped the covers on the bed and gave a soft gasp. Merlin! He had not thought about the druid for years and years. The old man who had advised Arthur had died when Breandán was small, yet now the memory of the tall, silver-haired wise man formed completely in his mind. He could even hear the old man’s voice as he spoke about the advanced knowledge on healing which he had learned at the hands of the masters in Pergamum….

Breandán gripped his temples with a finger and thumb and squeezed. How could he possibly remember something from such a young age, and so clearly? He had not thought of his childhood for many years. He had almost forgotten he had one. Each day in the slave pit had been the same as the one before, blending into each other. Each day had required concentration and cunning to survive it and all his energy and focus. Nothing else had entered his thoughts but the will to survive at least until tomorrow.

Breandán shuddered.

The heavy front door of the house closed. He had not noticed it being opened.

Breandán clutched the side of the bed again, his heart thudding, as he listened to footsteps softened by leather soles patter through the vestibulum and into the peristylium. The room Brody was in came off that open area. He had stepped out once, and stared at the riotous growth of green things, smelled the sweet scents and the buzz of bees. The sun had blazed through the open roof above, direct and without shutters or bars crossing the blue sky.

Breandán turned and stumbled back into the room and slammed the door shut, his heart strumming as it was now. He’d put his back to the head of the bed and drawn his knees to his chest and gripped them, waiting for the trembling to pass.

The door eased open. “Brody?”

The man called Rafael stepped in. He was richly dressed. His tunic was clean, the dalmatic brightly colored and the sash a good, wide cloth without stains. Like every man in Constantinople, Rafael’s hair was black. Only, his skin was different. It had a pleasant cast to it which meant he was not a Byzantine.

Breandán’s gaze drifted to Rafael’s wrists. The skin was still paler than the rest of his arms, yet it was not as washed out as it had been the first time he had displayed where slave bands had once been sewn about his wrists.

It had been twenty-two days since that time.

The man’s gaze settled on Breandán. “You are here, still. Good.”

“Where would I go?” Breandán’s voice emerged scratched and strained.

“Anywhere you want,” Rafael said, sounding amused. “You are a free man, now. More than that.”

Vampire.

Breandán recalled the term Rafael had used to describe what he had now become. “Vampire,” he said softly, tasting the word in his mouth. He looked at Rafael. “Evaristus was one, was he not? I have been thinking about it.”

“Evaristus was in the slave pit with you?”

“He did not eat. Nor did he drink. I do not remember seeing him sleep. Just as I have not eaten or drunk or slept since you left.”

“He is the one who was to turn you, only he was killed before he could,” Rafael said, his tone distant, his gaze on somewhere unknown to Breandán.

“Who did turn me, then?” The phrase was an odd one, although he understood the meaning. Turned. Changed. Different.

“Another vampire. They have left the city now.” Rafael moved closer, examining Breandán carefully. “Have you not moved from this room since I left?”

Breandán swallowed. As the man drew closer, his scent grew stronger. It triggered a yearning in Breandán that was similar to hunger, only far more powerful. Breandán clutched at his chest as the pressure built there. Something moved in his mouth. The teeth…fangs…which Rafael had explained were for feeding.

Breandán pressed his fingers to his upper lip, tracing the shape of the fangs beneath.

The light in the room became dazzling, as if a thousand lamps had been lit. Breandán could see everything, from the smallest speck of dust in the corner, to the threads of the cloth on the bed, to the finest hairs on Rafael’s head. Rafael himself was picked out in an odd light. He glowed.

Breandán got to his feet. There was no thought in it.

Rafael’s eyes narrowed. Then he sighed. “You need to feed.” He made an impatient sound. “Why is this my burden?” he muttered.

Breandán shook his head, barely processing the words. “I feel…” His chest rose and fell as his breathing hastened.

“I know,” Rafael said. He unwound the belt and took off the bright dalmatic, leaving him in a good, whole, white tunic. He came closer. “Control yourself,” he said, his tone one of warning. “There is a cudgel right beside the bed and I will use it against your head if you take too much.”

Nothing the man said made sense. Breandán could only focus upon the bright line running down the side of his neck. It beckoned. His fangs stirred, lengthening and Breandán’s lips parted by themselves. He brought his mouth down upon the tender flesh there, bit and tore. It was instinctive.

The spicy, delicious flood of rich liquid was ambrosial. He fed, swallowing eagerly. This was better than any meal he remembered.

“….Stop! Stop! I said to control yourself!”

Rafael beat his fists against Breandán’s head and shoulders and back, pummeling sense into him. Breandán staggered back, his lips and chin damp. The fangs drew back up into his mouth, hiding themselves. The ravaging need for more faded.

Rafael turned his shoulder and strained to peer at his neck from the corner of his eyes. A great wound gaped at the base of his neck, pooling with blood. “Christ and Mother Mary,” Rafael breathed. He turned his shoulder toward Breandán and beckoned with his fingers. “Now you must heal it.”

Breandán wiped his mouth and chin. “I must?”

Rafael rolled his eyes impatiently. “You lick the flesh. That makes it heal, much faster than humans do. Go on. You’re supposed to just know how.”

As he had just known how to feed? Breandán stepped closer to the man and bent toward his neck. Saliva filled his mouth…only it was not saliva. It was cold and silvered and sharp. He let it pool on top of his tongue, then closed his mouth over the wound he had made and let the sharp liquid bath the wound.

He lifted his mouth and examined the wound. Blood stained the flesh where the edges of the wound had been, while the wound itself was gone. Breandán licked the blood, grimacing at what would be a salty, bitter taste, yet the same ambrosial delight filled his mouth.

He cleaned the flesh. Then, remembering Rafael’s warning about controlling himself, he stepped back. “I’m sorry, there’s nothing I can do about the tunic. The blood has stained it.”

Rafael moved his shoulder experimentally. “Considerate of you. Perhaps there is hope for you yet, Brody the Celt.” He laughed. “What strange times these are. A human teaching a vampire…” He shook his head. “I must eat, myself. Something hot and plenty of it, for I have eaten too little these last few days on the road.”

“You ate no meat at all,” Breandán said. His lips parted in surprise and his eyes widened.

So did Rafael. “No, I did not want to take the time to hunt,” he said. “Traveling alone was risky enough. You tasted that?”

“I didn’t know it until I said it,” Breandán replied.

Rafael shook his head again. “Very well. Food and conversation. There is much we must discuss. Come.”

Rafael sipped the second cup of wine he had poured himself, after eating a stew he had warmed upon the stove in the kitchen. Breandán watched Rafael move about, competently building the fire and making the meal. There was cheese and bread to go with it, which Rafael said he had brought from the market stalls on his way through the city from the western gates. The wine had been in the wagon all along.

Breandán could smell the food and the wine, although nothing stirred hunger in him. The dried blood on Rafael’s tunic held more appeal, even though it was stale.

Rafael insisted Breandán join him in the triclinium. Breandán awkwardly arranged himself on the couch, Roman style, while Rafael rested upon the other to eat. After a few minutes, even Rafael had sat up with a soft curse. “Who do I think to impress with such a pose? I have eaten sitting upright all my life. Sit, Brody. We’re both fools if we do anything else.”

“I should let you eat undisturbed,” Breandán said. “There is no point in me sitting with you.”

Rafael’s glance was sharp. “The point is to appear as human as you once were. I do not insist upon you pretending to eat and drink, not tonight, although you must learn the trick of it.”

Breandán blinked. “I must hide what I am?”

“Your nature is one of the greatest secrets in the world, Brody.” Rafael sighed. “If Evaristus had turned you, then you would have been taught these things. As it happened, your maker cannot be your teacher, so it must fall to me.” Rafael went on to explain about the Blood and the necessity of hiding from humans while living among them and passing as one of them.

“Sooner or later, you will meet another of the Blood, and you can learn more from them. For now, though, if you retain the importance of staying undetected, it should be enough,” Rafael finished. “I know too little about vampires to be of use beyond that point.”

“You know more than I,” Breandán pointed out.

“Not anymore. What I understand, I have shared with you.” Rafael relented and gave him a small smile. “Be at ease. I’m told that most of what you need to know is instinctive. Such as feeding. It will come to you, Brody.”

Breandán frowned. “Why do you keep calling me that? My name is Breandán.”

“You are not that human slave anymore,” Rafael said, his tone sharp once more.

Breandán considered that. “You said…I died?”

“In the amphitheater. You remember none of it—and you should be glad you do not.”

Breandán frowned, hearing the odd note in Rafael’s voice. “You saw it. You saw me die.”

All the pleasant aspects of Rafael’s expression froze. “I did,” he said. He reached for the wine jar and refilled his cup. “You have a new life now. You will need a new name. Brody seems like a good one.”

“Where did you learn this name?”

Rafael shrugged. “I heard it, in my travels.”

Breandán frowned. “I do not like it.”

Rafael scowled. “Then choose any name you like. Just as you can choose any life you like. Do you have any idea what you want to do?”

Breandán stared at him. “Any life?”

“Anything at all. You must have some thoughts about what you might do, now. You have sat here for nearly a month, doing nothing but thinking.”

Breandán felt suddenly breathless. “I have not a single thought at all.” He gripped his knees. “Anything?” he repeated.

Rafael considered him. “Anything,” he said flatly.

Breandán’s heart stirred. It was not a pleasant sensation. Tension coiled in his gut. His chest tightened. “How am I to choose among anything?” he demanded.

Rafael’s gaze dropped to Brody’s knees, where he gripped them tightly. He put his cup down and held up his hand. “Be at ease,” he said gently. “The decision overwhelms you. I can see that.”

A tiny tendril of relief eased some of the ache in Breandán’s chest. “You can?”

“I recognize it,” Rafael said, his voice harsh. “I felt fear, just as you are, when I first confronted the idea of freedom. A…friend helped me through it.”

“The friend you traveled to Pergamum with?” Breandán asked.

“Yes.” Rafael drained the cup and put it down with a decisive tap. “There are rare treasures from the far western and northern borders of the known world tucked away in the wagon I brought back with me. The markets here are the ideal place to sell them. Merchants with an eye for rarity and quality gather there from far-flung places and have the coin to pay for them.”

“Constantinople is the center of the world.” Breandán had heard the city spoken of in that way before.

“A fact which will serve us,” Rafael replied. “For the next few days, we will sell everything of value in my possession. The treasures, this house, the goods in it, even the wagon itself. We will need a better wagon. A stronger one which will last the journey.”

“Journey?” Breandán repeated.

“West,” Rafael replied. “You and I are leaving this city of miserable memories behind.” He held out his wrist, to display the pale flesh. Brody’s wrists were unmarked, even though he had been wearing slave bands on them for decades. “We were slaves. We are no longer. We came from the west, you and me. That is where we will go, with the wealth we raise from the sale of everything we cannot take with us, to start us on a new life.”

Breandán swallowed as the tension of too many choices formed in his chest once more.

“The way to the west,” Rafael continued, “to Iberia and the Hyperborean Isles of your birth, Brody…it is a long road. It will give us both time to think and to adjust.”

“I am Breandán.”

Rafael scowled. “Tell me, Breandán. You must know this much. Do you want to return home?”

Breandán recalled the clear, bright memory of Merlin. Other associated memories stirred. His mother, laughing and lovely. His father, writing upon parchment. “I was happy there…” Breandán murmured. “Yes, I want to go home.”

The selling of the house and all the goods Rafael did not want to risk carrying with him took another month. “Winter will soon be upon us,” Breandán pointed out. “Should we even leave until next summer?”

Rafael shook his head. “We will be traveling through winter no matter when we leave. No one is certain how long it takes to reach the western wilds. Do you remember how long it took?”

Breandán shook his head. “I came by boat and saw no daylight. I lost count of days.”

Rafael tilted his head, considering him. “I was brought to Constantinople when I was five. I didn’t know what this place was. I just knew it was not home. I have no idea how long it takes, either. There are few merchants in this city who dare travel so far, so we cannot take advice. I only know I cannot stomach lingering here for another year.”

Breandán made himself consider the matter, as Rafael had been nagging him to do.

“You have a mind. You have opinions. You’ve forgotten how to form them, for you haven’t been asked what you think since the Saxons slapped you in irons,” Rafael had said, more than once. “Think, Brody.”

Breandán thought it through now. “I believe I do not want to wait, either,” he said at last.

Pleased, Rafael went back to the merchant who was trying to decide if he wanted the gold plate with the curious angular patterns around the edges, which Rafael had shown him.

Rafael used money from the sale of the house to buy a stout, new enclosed wagon. “The roof will provide shelter in bad weather,” he told Breandán, as Breandán circled the curious contraption.

“As long as you do not ask me to drive the thing,” Breandán said. “I have had enough of driving to last me a lifetime.”

Rafael’s eyes widened. “Is that a jest?”

Breandán raised his brow. “It was not amusing?”

Rafael gave a soft laugh. “For a former chariot driver, it was thigh slapping. It just caught me by surprise. I didn’t think you knew how to laugh.”

“I don’t. Only, you said I must behave as a human. People relax and drop their hands from their knives when someone makes them laugh.”

Rafael considered him. “They do,” he said.

Thirty-two days after Rafael had returned to the city, Breandán drove the heavy cart through the western gates of Constantinople and along the road heading west into Thrace and Macedonia.

He wore a plain dalmatic and suede boots, a heavy cloak with a silver pin, and a sharp new eating knife was thrust into his sash. Rafael was similarly dressed. Both had heavy purses tied to the back of their belts, under their cloaks, where passers-by would not spot their wealth.

A sword was pushed beneath the seat, behind their heels, although Breandán barely remembered how to use one.

“I am as unfamiliar with a blade as you,” Rafael told him, when he put the weapon there. “Anyone who attacks us won’t know that, though. You will learn soon enough.”

It was as well Breandán was practiced at driving, for when he saw the plains which spread beyond the city gates, divided only by the wide road to the west, his shoulders hunched and all thoughts of controlling the horse dispersed.

“So much space!” he breathed. His heart fluttered. He looked at Rafael.

Rafael’s brow lifted. “You’ve never seen the horizon…”

Breandán shivered and shrank lower on the seat. “Not since before.”

Rafael considered him. “Draw a deep breath, Brody. It works for humans. It might work for you. Go on.”

Breandán obeyed. It didn’t seem to make any difference. “The horizon is still too far away,” he muttered, squeezing the reins.

“Here, give them to me. You’ll crush them,” Rafael said. “We can’t stop to replace new leather only a mile beyond the city. Here.” He took the reins. “Put your cloak over your head. It will hide the horizon from your sight.”

Breandán did as he suggested. He held the edge of the cloak up, so he could not see the wide expanse of pale land and dry bushes spreading for miles beyond the wagon.

It did help a little.

His heart calmed. The need to breathe eased.

“Better?” Rafael asked. He had been watching him closely.

Breandán straightened. “Why do such normal, simple things like horizons and markets and the sea affect me and not you? You were a slave, too.”

Rafael studied the road ahead. “I was not in the chariot pits. I never was.” He glanced at Breandán. “Not tall enough,” he said, with a small shrug. “I suppose I should be grateful for that. I was sold to Baradeaus when I was twelve and it was clear I would grow little higher. Baradeaus called himself a merchant, although he was really a thief. He made his money from crooked dice games.” Rafael paused. “You are familiar with dice?”

Breandán nodded. “The guards used to play endlessly. I don’t know how to play, myself, but I know what the game looks like.”

“I will teach you, once we have acquired some dice. It is a simple game. The wagering upon each roll is what makes it interesting. That, and the men who are drawn by the prospect of vast winnings.”

“You spoke to people. Normal people. Not slaves,” Breandán surmised.

“I spoke to people,” Rafael confirmed. “I saw the sun. I traveled widely, for Baradeaus could not linger long in a town once he had fleeced the citizens. I grew brown in summer, all except my wrists.” He turned his head to peer down the road ahead of them. “I slept under the open sky. I’ve watched the moon rise and fall. I’ve seen shooting stars, the glory of Constantinople and the pillars of Thrace. I have mingled with people all my life…and I saw what freedom looks like.”

Breandán looked down at his own unmarked wrists. He had only ever seen the sun in the few short minutes he drove a chariot, and he had been too busy winning the race to look up at it. His wrists were unmarked not because of the great change which had been made to him, but because he had never had the marks in the first place. “I was thirteen when they put me in the pit. I don’t know how many years have passed since then. When you woke me in that house and told me I was a vampire, it was the first time I had been anywhere but the pit or the amphitheater since I was put there.”

“And now you have more than a lifetime to learn what you have been denied.”

Breandán glanced beyond the edges of his cloak, then pushed it back in place. “Not if I am too afraid to look at it,” he muttered.

Rafael’s hand settled on his shoulder. “You will be able to look, eventually. Time is endless, for you. When enough of it has passed, you will be able to look and marvel.”

They traveled in easy stages along the old Roman road. The road was carefully maintained as it was the primary route west from Constantinople. It ran through Thrace and Macedonia and into the northern reaches of the Western Empire. There was a crossroads there, where another great road ran south toward Rome itself and north into Germania. Their route continued west, into Gaul.

At night, rather than seek an inn, they camped beyond town walls, the covered wagon providing secure lodgings and privacy for them to talk.

For they talked…and talked. There was little else to do and decades of knowledge Breandán did not possess, while Rafael had absorbed all manner of odd facts and information.

Until they reached the crossroads, the road was secure and they had no concern about robbers and thieves or worse. The might of both the Western and Eastern Roman Empires controlled the route and kept travelers safe. Once they were beyond the crossroads and were moving farther west, the road became far chancier.

“Rome gave up on the west before I was born,” Breandán said. “I can remember my father speaking of the might of Rome with derision.”

“The lack of concern shows,” Rafael said, wincing as the wagon creaked and rattled over the poor road surface.

When they reached Mediolanum, the last great Western empire city, they acquired a second sword. “A sword with a proper reach, Rafael—not another of those short swords the Romans favor,” Breandán said.

“The short sword suits me,” Rafael replied.

“I know how to use a long sword,” Breandán insisted. “At least, I remember training with one. I don’t know how a hilt will feel in my hand after so long without even a knife to pare fruit.”

“If there is such a sword to be found, we will find it,” Rafael said.

There was a single sword in the city, part of a collection of oddities a blacksmith had hanging from the roof. For a price the smith sharpened the blade and recovered the hilt with fresh leather.

The long sword joined the blade Rafael had acquired in Constantinople, under the bench. Each night, they would practice, and teach each other what they knew about sword fighting and defense.

“You and I have both been slaves for too long,” Rafael explained. “We don’t think about defending ourselves. Not up here.” He tapped his head, then his chest. “And in here, we are convinced it is our lot to accept whatever comes our way, because we have never had any other choice. Now, we are free men and we must defend ourselves and our possessions. So get that point up, Brody.”

“Breandán!” He slashed at Rafael’s short blade.

Rafael swiped his long blade aside and stabbed the point into Breandán’s side.

With a hiss, Breandán pulled his tunic up and watched the wound disappear. “You put a hole in my tunic.”

“I’ll teach you how to sew it closed again. Defend yourself!” Rafael came at him again.

Rafael had been right about time working changes upon Breandán. The mild mid-summer weather was shifting toward colder days, and they were well into Gaul when Breandán realized he was peering toward a far distant line of craggy mountain peaks and not cowering at the vast openness of the land.

He glanced at Rafael. Rafael laughed.

Two nights later, the storm broke.

It had been an unseasonably warm day, with the air still around them, leaving their dust trail to hang for a mile or more behind them. The horse plodded, head down, its back sheened in sweat.

Breandán and Rafael dropped their cloaks well before the sun was at its zenith, and then their dalmatics, too, leaving them both in light tunics.

“I remember days like this,” Rafael said. He spoke softly, for in that motionless air, no noise muffled his speech but the soft rattle of the wagon wheels. He did not say more, although he watched the horizon.

Late that afternoon, he pointed to the west. “A storm is coming.” He glanced around, at their surroundings. They were on an open plain, the road running straight as an arrow to the west. “It is far too open here. We should find shelter.”

“We carry shelter with us,” Breandán reminded him.

“Not against this,” Rafael muttered.

Breandán’s chest tightened, as he watched the worry in Rafael’s eyes increase as the thick, billowing black clouds raced toward them across the pale blue sky. A breeze brushed their sweaty brows.

Breandán put his dalmatic back on. Rafael did the same and added his cloak. “Yours, too, Brody. You will need it.”

Breandán eyed the roiling clouds. They were black at the base, a bruised color in the middle and tinged with ugly yellow and green. Light flashed from deep in the interior.

His heart gave a little squeeze and hurried on. “Something flashed, inside the clouds.”

“Lightning,” Rafael said. “That’s what I was afraid of.”

“Light makes you afraid?”

“Out in the open, like this? Yes.” He pointed to the reins. “Hurry the nag along. The road dips, up there. It might be deep enough.”

Rafael’s worry made the band of tension around Breandán’s chest tighten even harder. He remembered this sensation from the chariot races. It was worry combined with the pressure of winning the race. Of juggling possibilities, devising ways to inch ahead.

He slapped the reins against the mare’s back and she lifted her head and picked up her hooves a fraction more. The lethargic day had left her with little energy.

“We could walk faster on our feet,” Rafael muttered. “In fact, we probably should.” He leapt to the ground, one hand on the edge of the bench, before Breandán could halt the wagon. He moved up to grab the nose strap and guide the horse along.

Breandán tied the reins to the foot bar and leapt to the ground himself. He moved up to where Rafael was guiding the horse. “How can clouds hold light, like that?”

“It’s lightning. Gods, Breandán, you must remember lightning and thunder?”

Breandán shook his head. “I know the names, I know what they mean, but I don’t remember ever seeing or hearing them. Not as a child.” He eyed the scudding clouds. “We lived in the palace, far in the innermost sanctums.”

Rafael shook his head. “And chariot races were canceled if a storm arrived, so you wouldn’t have seen them in Constantinople, either.”

The racing clouds covered most of the sky. The wind whipped their cloaks around their bodies and made their eyes water. The mare kept her head down, her steps slowing even more. She didn’t want to continue.

Rafael cursed and dragged her forward. Breandán grabbed the other strap and hauled, too. He was stronger—far stronger than he had once been, he had discovered. The mare had no choice but to pick up her pace.

The first crack of thunder caught Breandán by surprise. It seemed to come from directly overhead, accompanied by a flash of light so bright it seared the back of his eyes and blinded him for a long moment.

Breandán threw his arm up with a cry of alarm, which he barely heard, for the thunder had stolen his hearing.

He cringed, as more lightening flashed.

Rain fell in hard, stinging drops, flinging itself to the ground in a torrent.

The mare whinnied and threw her head from side to side. She halted, unwilling to take another step.

Breandán wasn’t aware that he had hunched over and was crouched close to the ground until Rafael’s hand slid under his arm and pulled him to his feet. Rafael yanked him toward the back of the wagon.

Yes, inside. Away from all this madness.

Only Rafael pushed on his shoulder, guiding him down. Under the wagon.

Another thundering crack of sound stole Breandán’s hearing again. It left his sensitive ears ringing. Breandán threw himself forward and slithered under the wagon, away from the stinging rain and the reach of the thunder.

He was breathing too hard. Even in these few short weeks, he had learned that to expend too much effort would mean having to feed sooner. He could not continuously feed from Rafael, for it weakened him. It meant finding another human, and out in this lonely part of Gaul there were few humans to be found. For certain, they would not be out in this storm.

Rafael pulled out his knife and jammed it under the wheel so the hilt acted as a brake. Then he sprawled on the ground and blew out his breath, with his head against the spokes of the wheel. He wiped the water from his face.

Breandán hunched over, his arms around his knees. Shivers wracked him. He couldn’t stop them, or his heart from running either.

A third stab of lightning and the loudest explosion of sound yet. Breandán smothered his cry against his knees. He had no idea thunder was like this. It was violent. Wild. Overwhelming.

It took as little time for the storm to pass as it had taken for it to arrive. Another few, far less ominous and deafening strikes, then the wind dropped. The rain slackened.

The heavy gray cloud stayed overhead, while the bruised and roiling light had moved on.

Breandán trembled as he climbed out from under the wagon. Rafael stood and brushed off mud and dirt and gave a small laugh.

Then Breandán realized the trembling wasn’t simply fear. His fangs were trying to descend. The need to feed was urgent and undeniable. He leapt upon Rafael, wrenching at his arm, exposing his neck.

Rafael gave a small cry of his own, as fear-filled as Breandán’s had been. He threw up his hand. Only, he was a puny human and Breandán was…was mighty and superior. He bent his head and tore open the flesh and bathed in the rich goodness which flowed.

How many moments passed before sense asserted itself? Breandán didn’t know. It was like waking from sleep, which he could still remember. Then he realized he had Rafael pinned in his arms, at his mercy.

Horrified, Breandán set about repairing the damage he had caused. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, as he worked. “Please believe me. I was not myself.”

Silence.

When the wound was gone, Breandán carefully put Rafael on his feet once more. He avoided Rafael’s gaze. “I should have died in that amphitheater,” he said bitterly and went back to the wagon, got in and shut the door.

The dark was sanctuary from everything but his thoughts.

Time ticked on mercilessly. He was aware of time now, in a way he had never noticed as a human. It was invariable. Constant.

The door to the wagon opened, showing dim late afternoon light.

“Do not come in,” Breandán said sharply.

“There is no room for me between you and your self-pity,” Rafael replied. He stayed on the ground, outside the door. His arms were crossed. “Shall I bring you your sword, to fall upon?”

Breandán shuddered. “I should fall upon my sword. There is no honor in this life I have left. There is no honor in me. Only, a sword through the heart will do nothing but ruin my clothes. I cannot escape that way.”

Silence.

Rafael didn’t move from the door. He watched Breandán where he sat on the single sleeping shelf, which only Rafael needed to use. “You fail to evoke my sorrow for your plight.”

Breandán shook his head. “That was not my intention.”

“Then why do you cower in here?”

“Because…” Breandán frowned. “Because I am ashamed,” he admitted.

“God’s teeth! Ashamed? You are right, Breandán, you should find a way to end this misery you swim in.” Rafael slammed the door shut, leaving Breandán in the dark once more.

He had gone too long in the dark. Years of it, with only the light of torches to disperse the shadows. Breandán climbed from the wagon, out into the dim light of the cloud-filled day.

Rafael leaned against the front of the wagon. He had unhitched the mare and held the leather bucket for her to drink from. The bag of oats sat at his feet. He glanced up at Breandán.

“How can you even look at me?” Breandán demanded. “After what I have done to you?”

“You have done nothing. Look.” Rafael shifted his shoulder, to display the untouched flesh at the base of his neck.

“But…”

“No!” Rafael shook his head. “I will hear no more about your downfall. You are a fool, Breandán.”

Breandán sighed. “I know nothing,” he admitted.

“I know just as much,” Rafael shot back. “Yet I do not beat my chest about it the way you do.” He flung his arm out, pointing to the north. “Look! And there!” He shifted to point to the west. “And there!” The southern horizon showed a strip of blue sky.

“I can look at them now and not quail,” Breandán said in agreement.

“You do not see beyond them!”

Puzzled, Breandán said, “Can you?”

“No! I am not like you! I am not of the Blood! Gods, Breandán, you have all of time before you. Don’t you want to see what lies beyond the horizon?”

Breandán blinked. “Beyond the horizon…”

“You are stronger and faster than any human. You heal instantly when wounded and I think…I suspect you will never grow ill, either. You can move to the edges of the known world without fear. You can go beyond them. You can do anything you want, yet you sit in a wagon with the door closed and wail about how unlucky you are!”

The fury in Rafael’s eyes and the taut lines of his body and jaw made Breandán’s heart squeeze. Rafael was the only person he knew in this strange new life. If Rafael was to leave…

“Are you even listening to me?” Rafael demanded.

“Of course I am,” Breandán returned.

Rafael shook his head. “No, you’re not. Not really.” He hung the bag of oats over the mare’s head, so she could reach into it. Then he pulled his short sword out from under the bench and pushed it through his sash. “Make yourself useful.” His tone was flat. Disinterested. “Pull the wagon off the road and make a fire. And don’t come after me.” He walked away, heading for the tree line.

Rafael returned well after dark. Breandán heard him approaching, long before he saw his silhouette at the edges of his vision. He said nothing, as Rafael lit the lamp and climbed into the wagon. The door closed.

Breandán let the fire die out and sat in the dark…which was not really darkness the way he remembered it to be. He could still see trees and rocks and bushes, far away, picked out in ghostly gray shapes, their details perfect. Another aspect of being one of the Blood, he presumed.

Rafael did not speak until mid-morning, the next day. If they had not needed to ford the river, then it was possible Rafael would not have spoken at all.

The wagon crested a low hill to reveal another wide, gently sloping dale.

At the lowest point in the dale, a slow, narrow river wound through a stony bed. More than half the river bed gleamed white and dry, for it had been a torrid and dry summer.

There was no bridge. The river was fordable, then. With luck, it would also be potable, and they could refill the water skins. Breandán did not share his thoughts with Rafael, though. He did not think they would be welcomed.

As they drew closer to the river, Breandán could see the white bed was chalky and soft. Most of the land was arid and poor, here.

“The river is rising,” Rafael said, startling him.

Breandán stared at the narrow ribbon of water. “How can you tell? It looks unchanged.”

“The edges of the water. See? They’re moving over dry ground.” Rafael glanced up the river as the mare reached the point where the stones of the road dipped down into the river bed and disappeared. She stepped onto the white bed and snorted.

Breandán slapped the rein on her back, to keep her moving.

Rafael threw off his cloak. “I don’t like this.”

“It is just water,” Breandán pointed out.

“I’ll guide her through,” Rafael said. He grabbed the mare’s head strap and moved her forward. He halted where the water lapped and peered down at it. Even as the pair of them examined the water, it rose, bathing Rafael’s toes. He looked up the river once more. “The storm last night…it must have moved to the north. Now the water is running downstream.”

Breandán dropped the reins. They were not needed with Rafael at the mare’s side. He jumped down and frowned at the softness of the chalky river bed. “I’ll help.” He grabbed the chest strap and tugged.

The mare didn’t like the touch of the water on her hooves and protested, straining backward. Between the two of them, they forced her into the water, until it was lapping at the top of her back hooves, and up to her knees at the front. The ribbon of water was wider than when they had first seen it, and Breandán realized it would be deeper, too.

The mare stepped gingerly through the water, lifting her knees. As they progressed, the river bed grew muddier, until the chalky stuff sucked at Breandán’s boots. With each step he took, he had to tug his foot free. The mare struggled to pull her hooves from the mud, too.

“Step on stones, if you can find them,” Rafael said. “Stay out of the mud on the bottom.”

Breandán searched blindly for stones to place his feet upon.

They reached the middle of the river, and the water sucked and pulled at Breandán’s waist. It swirled around the mare’s chest and she nickered and snorted unhappily. The water raced around the wagon wheels, sucking at the spokes, nudging the wagon sideways. Only the sludgy mud held the wheels in place.

“And up again,” Breandán said, getting a better grip on the mare’s chest strap.

She threw her head up in protest and pulled the strap out of Rafael’s hand. He cursed and jumped to grab it once more, splashing water and stumbling. He secured the strap again and shook his head. The thick locks of black hair sprayed droplets. “Again.”

Then he frowned and looked down at his feet, invisible below the water. His shoulders shifted. “I can’t move them,” he muttered. He lifted his chin to look at Breandán over the mare’s back. “I can’t shift my feet.” He sounded amused.

The running, chuckling sound of the river grew louder.

“Can you use your hands, to pull at your knees?” Breandán shifted his own feet, to check. It was difficult to raise them, but not impossible.

Rafael let go of the horse and reached under the water to grab at one knee and pull. He tugged, straining, his breath coming in gusts.

Then the other knee.

He put so much effort in to it that when his hands slipped, he was forced to pinwheel his arms to keep balanced upon his unmoving feet, for he could not step backward to stay upright.

Breandán said nothing. The water, which had been at his waist, was now lapping beneath his arms.

Rafael slapped at the racing water. “The bank is right there!” he shouted. “Ten steps and we’re out!” Fury tinged his voice.

Breandán could hear the fear, too, buried deep.

The sour, scared note in Rafael’s voice made his decision for him. Breandán let go of the horse. She wouldn’t move, now. He made his way up the side of the bed, around her nose, with a pat to assure her, and back to where Rafael stood chest high in the raging river.

“You want to drown with me, Celt?” Rafael snarled.

“You talk when talk isn’t needed,” Breandán growled. He slid his arms beneath Rafael’s and gripped his wrists behind Rafael’s back. Then he found a stone beneath his feet and rammed his boot up against it.

He hauled, keeping the pressure up. He understood that he was stronger than Rafael, than most humans. He didn’t know how strong he was. Would he be strong enough to do this?

Rafael curled his fingers over Breandán’s shoulders in a desperate grip. “I can’t even push,” he complained.

“Shut up,” Breandán growled. He searched for and found another large stone to use for leverage and put his left boot behind that one and hauled again.

Rafael’s feet came loose without warning and they both fell backward into the water. Rafael came up gasping and coughing. “I can’t swim,” he said, sounding annoyed.

Brendan grabbed the back of his dalmatic. “Don’t put your feet down again,” he warned him. He got his own boots planted, then pulled Rafael ashore.

It was twelve steps to the other bank. Rafael fell to the ground, breathing hard, his sodden clothing muddy and clinging to him. White mud caked his face and matted his hair.

But he was still alive.

The mare whinnied, panic building. Breandán waded back into the river and unhitched her from the wagon. By the time she was free, the water was at her shoulders. Breandán took a deep breath and bent to grab the strong chest strap. He found his footing and hauled again. He would pull until he needed a breath, then try again.

Only, the need for another breath did not arise. With a start, he realized that breathing wasn’t necessary for him anymore. He settled in to pull the mare to the bank, one slow step at a time, fighting both the mud and the powerful water.

The mare floundered, kicking in panic, trying to find footing. Breandán ignored her struggles and hauled until she flailed and struck stones with her hooves. She scrambled and jumped.

Breandán broke surface again.

“Christ above! You are alive!” Rafael exclaimed.

Breandán got behind the mare and pushed her up to the dry bank. She jumped and snorted. “Grab the reins,” he told Rafael curtly.

Rafael threw himself forward, squelching, and snagged the reins.

Breandán waded back into the river. Before he reached the middle, it was above his shoulders. He paddled, making for the wagon, which shifted and groaned under the force of the water.

A stout rope was tied to the back of the wagon. He unlooped it and fastened one end to the hitching bar and the other end around his waist. He swam toward the bank until his feet found the bottom and hauled himself up onto the edge.

Rafael was on his feet once more. The mare’s reins were wrapped around a rock. “You can’t haul it out by yourself. We must wait for the water to drop.”

“The wagon will wash downriver if we wait. Stand aside.” Breandán put the rope over his shoulder and gripped it. Then he put his head and shoulders down and pulled.

For long moments, nothing seemed to happen. Breandán was at the point of admitting his new and greater strength was not up to this task, when the wagon lurched forward, the mud letting go of the wheels, which must have settled deep into its grip.

The wagon floated downriver, turning gently.

Breandán threw himself forward, taking up the slack once more. He hauled.

It took long, long minutes to pull the wagon through the raging water to where the front wheels bit into the river bed on the other side. Then more hard minutes laboring to roll the wagon up the stony bank and onto the land beyond. By then, the water had broken the banks of the river bed and was spreading beyond, flooding the land.

The wagon splashed through the water, with rivulets running from all four sides.

Breandán hauled until the wheels no longer squelched, then another dozen paces for good measure.

He dropped the rope, untied it from around his waist and looked back at the swirling waters beyond. His blood raced through his veins, fizzing in a pleasurable way.

Rafael came up to him. “Such strength. I had no idea…”

“Neither did I,” Breandán admitted. The first chuckle caught at his belly and chest, making his breath hitch. He laughed, letting it out.

Rafael’s lips parted in surprise, then he smiled, too.

Breandán threw his head back and roared with delight, with surprise…and with understanding.

They went no farther that day. Instead, they hitched the mare only long enough to draw the wagon over to the edge of the tree line, even though Breandán argued he could pull the wagon that far himself.

Then they made camp and set about cleaning out the wagon, drying their possessions and tallying the damage. Most of the food was ruined, except for a sack of oats tucked on the shelf above the bed.

“At least the horse will eat,” Rafael said, his tone sour.

“So will you,” Breandán told him. He nodded to the trees. “There is a boar in there. I can smell him. He would make a fine meal.”

“You can smell him?”

“Less than a mile from here. Pass me my knife.”

“Breandán, it’s a boar! You don’t know if you can—”

“I can,” Breandán said. “I know I can, just as you said I would. Relax. I’ll be back soon.”

The boar was dressed and trussed and a haunch roasting over the fire when the wagon was at last dry and clean, inside and out. The bedding and their clothes were hung by the fire to dry.

There was plenty of water for washing. They hauled it from the still-raging river and heated it in skins around the fire. Breandán found it easy to carry two skins in each hand, while Rafael struggled and panted, carrying just one skin in one hand.

It was while he was washing the mud from him that Breandán recognized the lightness in his soul. He realized he was smiling.

He looked over at Rafael and watched as he tipped a full skin of water over his head. The water cascaded down his body, which gleamed in the light from the dancing flames.

Rafael lowered the skin. His dark honey-colored eyes met Breandán’s.

The air about them shifted. Breandán’s heart strummed. Tension pulled at his chest…and lower than that. His belly tightened.

“Tell me I am not the only one to feel…this,” he said.

Rafael’s chest rose and fell. “You are not the only one.” He padded closer, his bare feet leaving damp prints and stopped before Breandán. “I will not take. Not this time. You have had a lifetime of being taken.”

Breandán drew in a slow breath, letting the jolt from Rafael’s words disperse. “That was a different life.”

Rafael rested his hand on Breandán’s shoulder. His fingers curled around his neck. “You have much to learn about pleasure, Breandán.”

Breandán nodded. “Teach me.”

Because he could magically heal from any wound, Breandán felt no fear. Rafael’s mouth was hot against his, his body even hotter, until Breandán lost control of his heart, and it beat as it had always done when he was human. Their bodies grew slick with effort and passion.

Rafael silently spread a blanket before the fire and pulled Breandán down upon it. Then he shocked him by pressing his lips not just to Breandán’s mouth, but all over him. His hands followed, exploring every inch.

Breandán’s shaft was rampantly erect, throbbing in time with his heart, when Rafael at last let his mouth hover over it.

This was not the way of it as Breandán knew it. The guards had never lingered to savor or explore. They had paused only long enough to pour oil upon their palms, to ease their way inside—and they only delayed long enough for that consideration in order to keep the slave whole and uninjured for future occasions.

Rafael was gentle, in comparison. Yet there was a force in his movements, adding tension and lust to his every touch. As his mouth closed over Breandán’s shaft and teased, Breandán cried out at the shock and pleasure of it. He had not dreamed it could be this way, that he could take pleasure for himself.

His excitement climbed, driving him. He was the stronger one. He knew that in his bones now. Breandán pulled Rafael to him and kissed him fully, letting himself explore, to experience every little nuance and delight. It was his turn to make Rafael writhe as he had done.

He put Rafael on his knees and settled behind him and reached for the oil. Rafael watched him, his gaze heated.

“I understand now,” Breandán told him. “No pain, not for either of us. Just pleasure, no matter who takes who.”

“Yes, you see it now,” Rafael said in agreement.

Breandán took him slowly, with care, watching Rafael’s reactions, measuring and learning what he liked, what made him make sounds which curled in Breandán’s belly and made his heart thud harder.

Then the mutual delight grew overwhelming. They strove together for the peak. Breandán’s climax tore through him, spearing him with the most exquisite, thrilling rush of sweetness, made better by Rafael’s deep, deep groan of satisfaction.

When Rafael’s trembling subsided, he sat up, gripped Breandán’s face and kissed him deeply. “My turn. Brace yourself, Breandán.”

He caught Rafael’s arm. “Brody.”

Rafael’s smile was warm and slow. “Brody.”

Their daily progress along the old Roman road became even slower, for they both sensed that this time would end, when they reached the place where their paths separated. Brody dreaded that time.

“Why can you not come with me to Britain? There is nothing for you in Iberia. Not even family, anymore.”

“I do not know for certain,” Rafael replied, as he stirred coals in the fire. “I must find out, first, before I can decide anything else.”

“Then I will come with you.”

Rafael shook his head. “Your destination is elsewhere, Brody.”

Brody hissed his frustration. “Beyond the horizon,” he muttered.

“Exactly.”

Brody scowled.

Rafael sighed and dropped the branch. “Don’t you understand? I am human. You are not. You have such…such great wonders ahead of you. You have the time to explore places which don’t exist on maps, places humans have never heard of before. You will meet people and see things undreamt of by man. You will see the future. Not just the days and weeks ahead, but years. Decades. Centuries.”

“You know that.”

“I can see how it will be for one like you,” Rafael replied. Yet there was a cautious note in his voice.

Brody sat up. “No, you know. I heard it in your voice. You know what I will see.”

Rafael hesitated. “The shape of it, yes. Not the details. It is dangerous to know too much about the future, so the details were not given to me. But yes, I know something of the places and times you will live to see.” He grimaced. “I don’t have that time, Brody. I just have the horizon and no further.”

Brody grasped his wrist. “I could turn you.” His voice emerged low and earnest. “You said it could be done by anyone of the Blood. It was done to me. I could do it to you. Then you would have that time.”

Rafael pulled Brody’s fingers from his wrist. “No, Brody.”

His disappointment was so great, it hurt. Brody hung his head, breathing hard.

Rafael rested his hand on the back of Brody’s neck. His fingers stroked. “It is just the prospect of being alone which makes you say such things, that makes you feel this way.”

“Being without you, you mean,” Brody whispered.

Rafael lifted his chin. “You think this is of no consequence to me? I do not relish the moment we must part, either, Brody. But part we must.” He bent to peer into Brody’s eyes. “I am not the one who will complete your life, who will walk beside you for most of it and make you happy.”

“You don’t know that,” Brody said miserably.

“I do.” Rafael’s voice was low. Hoarse with emotion and undeniable knowledge.

Brody straightened, studying him. His heart thudded. “You have seen it…”

Rafael nodded.

Brody opened his lips, about to demand details, information, answers. Then he grimaced. “But you will not tell me.”

Rafael shook his head. “First, you must learn how to get along in this world. You must learn to look forward, to wonder what is over the horizon and crave to learn. Then you will be ready for them.”

Brody’s breath caught. “Them?”

Rafael frowned. Then he shrugged. “I say it that way so I do not give you even their gender to ponder upon.” He stretched and yawned. “I should sleep. It is late.”

Brody knew he would say no more. Rafael was a puny human, but his will was one of the strongest Brody had ever come across. Nothing would make him speak further about this mysterious someone in Brody’s future.

“Stay by the fire where it is warm,” Brody said, keeping his tone off-hand. “I will watch over you.”

Rafael’s smile was warm. He pillowed his head on his arm and closed his eyes. In less than a dozen breaths, sleep took him.

Brody watched him sleep, while turning over everything Rafael had revealed about his future.

Centuries. Hundreds of years.

What would the world look like, then?

Lugdunum had once been a great Roman military city. After a bitter civil war there, centuries ago, the city had never recovered. It was nothing more than a collection of abandoned villas, most of them falling apart, surrounding the great crossroads.

It was in Lugdunum that they parted.

“I have traveled farther west than I should,” Rafael told Brody, as they sorted out the contents of the wagon. “That is your fault, of course.” His grin was easy, without strain. “Now I have added more miles to my journey south into Iberia than I care for.”

“It is as well I am not coming with you,” Brody told him. “There will be no room in the wagon for me, between you and your self-pity.” For Rafael was taking the wagon and the horse, along with all the food. Brody wanted only the long sword.

At Lugdunum, Brody cast aside his dalmatic and bought the plainer over-tunics and cloaks the locals wore. They were bereft of the garish colors and patterns and embellishments Byzantines preferred.

“Now you look as everyone here does. Even your hair and face are the same,” Rafael observed. “Does that please you?”

“It means I am at last nearly home,” Brody admitted. “It pleases me greatly.”

He also bought a horse, to carry his few possessions and to make this final lap of the long journey go faster.

At last, there were no more arrangements to make. The time had come.

Brody hitched his horse to the back of the wagon while they traveled together from the inn they had been using, to the intersection of the two great, busy roads. Rafael pulled the wagon aside, so other travelers could pass.

For long heart beats, they said nothing. Brody couldn’t bring himself to climb down from the wagon.

“You delay my journey, Celt,” Rafael said softly.

Brody’s eyes ached. He pressed the heel of his hand to his eyes and looked at the pink moisture there.

There was nothing else to say. They had said their goodbyes last night. He let his shoulder rest against Rafael’s for a moment, then climbed to the ground and unhitched the horse.

Rafael clicked to the mare and the wagon rolled forward.

“Wait!” Brody said. He hurried to the front and put his hand on the bench, where he had been sitting a moment before.

Rafael raise his brow.

“I will be in the north of Britain,” Brody said, his voice low and urgent. “Eboracum. Remember the name.”

“Why must I do that?” Rafael asked.

Brody squeezed the edge of the seat and felt it flex. He loosened his grip. “So you know where to find me.”

Rafael opened his mouth to speak. Brody shook his head. “No, do not protest. Just listen. You must go home—of course you must. So must I. I have missed a lifetime there. I must get to know it once more. I know it drives you to return, too. Eventually, I will roam, but for a long time, Britain will be enough for me. Only…you and I are the same, Rafael. One day, Iberia will not be enough for you, either. When that time comes, when you feel your mortality chafe, come and find me. I will give you the world beyond the horizon.”

Rafael did not laugh at him. Neither did he refuse the offer. “How will I find you?”

The tension in his chest eased. Brody let go of the bench. “I might have any name. Ask for Breandán. Or Braedon. When you come to a place where people know a man who only lets his closest, dearest friends call him Brody, you will have found me.”

More Time Kissed Moments
[10]

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

Alex didn’t speak for long moments after Brody had fallen silent.

Then he sighed. “You are Rafe’s maker. I should have guessed.”

“It runs deeper even than that,” Brody said.

“Yes,” Alex said in agreement.

“He chose you. He walked alone, until you came along,” Brody added. “He always walked alone. The only man more stubborn than Rafe is Veris.” He hesitated. “I owe Rafe in ways that…” He shrugged. “I owe him my life,” he finished. “If not for Rafe, I would not have gone on and found Veris and later, Taylor.”

Alex squeezed his shoulder. “It runs both ways, Celt. If not for you, I would not be here and would not have met Sydney and Rafe. Our lives are so intertwined, there’s no point in keeping score.”

Brody nodded.

Alex let his hand drop. “Although now I understand where Rafe developed this drive to help people cope with massive change. You were his first client.”

Brody shook his head. “I think Veris was the one who set Rafael on that path. He was kind to him.” He raised his voice. “It was you, wasn’t it, Veris? The man who taught Rafael about philosophy and the world beyond the horizon?”

Alex twisted to look over his shoulder, with a little start of surprise.

Veris pushed open the door to the workshop and came in. “I didn’t want to intrude.”

Brody smiled at him. “Your company is never an intrusion.”

Alex got to his feet. “I should—”

“No, stay, Alex,” Veris said. “I think David has arrived and I must go and stand between him and Marit.”

“He didn’t jump to here?” Alex asked, glanced at the arrival chamber.

“I must have forgotten to tell him about it,” Veris said. His tone was dry. He reached for Brody’s hand and held it in his. “Stop hiding down here. We need you upstairs.”

Brody held his teeth together. “All right,” he said, knowing Veris would not move until he agreed.

Veris sighed and let his hand go. “Alex, please make him see sense.” He strode from the room, his hand hitting the swinging door harder than necessary. The door flapped back and forth furiously.

“Sorry,” Brody said, as Alex cleared his throat.

“For a past which was over long ago?” Alex asked. “Or for being a cowardly fool in this century, too?”

Brody’s insides jumped. “Excuse me?”

“Or perhaps we should go back to calling you Breandán?” Alex asked.

Brody scowled. “You’ve all earned the right to call me Brody.”

“Except you don’t think you deserve to be called that anymore, do you?” Alex added. “You’ve been creeping around Taylor and Veris for over a year, trying to make amends for something which wasn’t your fault. If there was anything at all they needed to forgive you for, they did it the minute you came back to them. Only, you can’t forgive yourself and you’ve been holding yourself away from them because you don’t think you deserve them anymore.”

Brody couldn’t meet his gaze. There was a forgotten piece of wire beneath his bench, shaped like an s…

“Brody,” Alex said gently.

Brody sighed. “No, I don’t deserve them,” he said flatly. “Only, at the same time, I’m terrified I’ll lose them, too.”

“Rafe would kick your ass, if he was here,” Alex said.

Brody felt his mouth twitch. It was involuntary. “Let’s get him back, then. I’m long overdue and I can’t figure out how to do it for myself.”

Alex tilted his head toward the door. “Come upstairs. Veris listens to you and someone has to keep him from strangling David.”

With great reluctance weighing him down, Brody followed Alex out into the living room, then up to the main floor of the big house. As they climbed, voices grew louder.

Sydney sensed movement from the corner of her eye. She looked up. David strolled into the reading area at the top of the stairs as if he had been in the house all along.

Cassander David Solon Pallis, son of Alexander the Great.

“You can’t use the arrival chamber like everyone else?” Sydney barely hid her irritation. He had startled her.

His black eyes settled on her. The keen gaze seemed to drill through her. “As I am the only one able to help you get your mate back, you should be more pleasant.” His tone was chiding.

Sydney put the book she had been pretending to read to one side on the wide sofa and got to her feet. “You know where Rafe is?” She didn’t bother hiding the flare of hot hope which speared her and made her heart stir.

David put his hands in his pockets. “I do.”

“God, who’s making all the noise?” Alannah said, as she emerged from a bedroom. She had Jason on her hip, and Liberty held her other hand. Alannah scowled when she saw David. “Oh, it’s you.”

David didn’t turn to look at her. “Good evening, Alannah.” His voice, Sydney admitted, was smooth and honeyed and she could easily listen to it for a long time. She couldn’t tell what his accent was. Perhaps he had a plethora of them—picked up one by one over time so they blended into an unidentifiable foreign note in his otherwise rich British English.

Alannah leaned over the landing railing. “Marit, get up here!” she bellowed.

Sydney winced.

David raised his brow.

“Everyone is preparing, downstairs,” Sydney said. “Waiting to hear news,” she added.

David stepped back and waved toward the stairs. “After you.”

Sydney hurried down the stairs. On the landing, she met Marit on her way up. Marit’s eyes widened when she saw who was behind Sydney. Sydney turned her around by her shoulders and pushed her down the stairs. “He has news,” she added.

“Everyone is in the front room,” Marit said and moved over to the big doors into that room.

“Look who’s here,” Sydney called as she stepped through the doors herself.

Everyone in the room looked up as David strolled in. Aran sat in the big chair by the fireplace. Taylor had been talking to him. She stood beside the chair.

Jesse was on the window seat, her legs crossed, swinging a small, folded knife in her finger and thumb the way people spun fidget widgets. She stared at the view. Since arriving at the house, she had knotted her hair at the back of her head and removed most of her makeup.

Sydney recognized the shift. Jesse was preparing for action.

London and Remi were sitting together on the low bench placed near the front door. It was a flat surface which tended to collect hats and gloves. Boots were shoved under it. They had cleared space for themselves and had been talking with their heads together, one bright red, the other honey blond.

Neven was over by the other big window. Instead of sitting on the window seat, he stood in front of it, his feet spread, a worried frown between his brows.

Marit moved over to the other end of the window seat Jesse was using and sat on the edge.

David stepped in and took a place between the two halves of the room.

“David has news,” Sydney said.

Veris came in the door behind David and Sydney realized with a jolt that David was as tall as Veris.

Veris eased around him with soft steps and moved over to the space between the chair where Aran sat and the window seat, near Marit.

Jesse got to her feet at the mention of news. Her hands linked behind her back, and her feet were slightly spread. The Marine at ease.

No one spoke. They all watched David.

David didn’t seem uncomfortable with the scrutiny.

Sydney mentally urged him to spill his news but didn’t speak. She held her hands in tight fists.

“It took me a while to find Rafael. Searching the timescape was as fruitless for me as it was for Marit.”

Marit scowled, looking so much like Veris that Sydney had to clamp her teeth together to avoid smiling.

“There are few ways to hide on the timescape and from me, which gave me an idea,” David continued. “I looked for negative spaces, instead.”

“Get to the point,” Veris growled. “Where is Rafael?”

David met his gaze. “Cyrus has him.”

Sydney sucked in a breath. “Cyrus? He was stranded in Powys, in the tenth century! How can he be here, now?”

“Clearly, he found a way back,” David said, in the same soft tone.

“The Council,” Marit said, her tone bitter. She sounded very old. “Herakleides is on the Council and he just happens to be Cyrus’ brother.” She stood and glared at David. “Your precious Council did this. The question that leaves is did they do it on your orders?”

David didn’t react. His gaze was mild as he considered Marit. “You are a smart woman, only you let your passion cloud your judgment. Think. What reason would I have to order the Council to do this?”

“To fuck with us,” Marit said bitterly. “You’ve never liked that we outed you, a year ago.”

“And yet my existence has remained a closely guarded secret within this family, just as I requested. There is no extortion here. I did not give the order. This is not the Council’s doing, although Herakleides may have assisted his brother to return home.” He paused. “We will never know for certain, for Herakleides is no more.”

Sydney drew in a shaky breath.

Behind David, Brody and Alex came through the door. Brody edged around the man, heading for where Neven was standing. Alex dipped around David with a murmured apology and moved straight to where Sydney was. He stood beside her, close enough so their hands brushed together.

“Did you hear…?” she murmured.

“Yes. Cyrus.”

Veris crossed his arms. “Okay, it wasn’t the Council behind Rafael’s abduction. Only, how does Cyrus know how to shield himself from the timescape?”

Sydney swiveled to catch David’s response to that. It was a very good question indeed.

David gave another elegant, Continental shrug. “I told the Council.”

“Perfect,” Brody said. “Just…perfect.”

Veris dropped his arms. “Tell me I really didn’t hear you say you gave the Council the information that Cyrus is now using to hide himself and Rafael from us.”

“That is exactly what you heard,” David said. His tone was still polite, his tone quiet. He wasn’t afraid of Veris at all. Not even now when Veris’ temper was making his blue eyes snap and his jaw to work. Veris was squeezing his fists, too, which made the tremendous forearms flex.

David continued speaking as if no one was staring at him with shock, horror, dismay or outright fury. “A Council is only as useful as the information it has to work with. I have always been frank with them, so they could provide services I required. Naturally, I told them about the incident with Brody’s brother, so they could consider the long-term ramifications.”

Alex shifted on his feet. “Then it is you we should hold accountable for whatever happens to Rafael?” His tone was as cool as David’s yet Sydney could feel a fine trembling in him. He was as angry as anyone in the room.

David’s gaze settled on Alex. “I am ultimately responsible, yes. That is why I am here. The information I give the Council is classified and not intended to go any further. This matter has demonstrated I can no longer count on their discretion. Therefore, their primary function has been compromised. That is why, before I came here, I formally disbanded the Council.”

Veris moved faster than Sydney had ever seen anyone move. It was vampire speed on steroids and he was a blur to her vision. In this room of vampires and their kin, Veris could be reckless about appearances.

David’s reactions were faster. His hand gripped Veris’ throat and squeezed, halting him an arm’s distance away. Veris growled, tearing at David’s fingers.

“A little more pressure and I will tear your throat out,” David said, his tone conversational. “I expected more from you, Väinämöinen, than this cliched knee jerk. I will put it down to a father’s concern and give you the benefit of the doubt. Nod, and I will let you go.”

Jesse’s eyes were very large. She had not seen vampires at their worst, before, but she was staying in control, anyway. Sydney approved of her clear-headedness.

Veris breathed heavily.

David brought Veris closer and dropped his voice. “Are you going to help me get Rafael back, or should I consider you an obstacle, too?”

Veris patted David’s hand.

Sydney didn’t wait to hear more. She skirted around the spectacle of Veris being put in his place and hurried through the back hall to the door. She grabbed her coat as she stepped outside into the crisp early evening air and moved over to the far north-eastern corner of the big verandah.

The twilight was thick and silent. The mountains reared over the house, making Sydney feel insignificant. It was a lesson too many people in this house could stand to learn.

“Hey.” Alex spoke from the doorway. “Do you want company?”

Always considerate. Sydney sighed. “We did this to Rafael.”

Alex closed the door and came over to where she stood. He didn’t bother with a coat. “You mean, because of the jump back to Powys?”

“No, yesterday! This morning! Whenever the hell it was!”

Alex hesitated. “The argument,” he ground out. “How does that make us responsible?”

“Every day we’ve been in Rafe’s life makes us responsible,” Sydney said. “He would not have been alone out there for Cyrus to take, if not for us and what we did to him.”

Alex gathered her in his arms. “Shh, shh…”

“But it is true.” She closed her eyes.

“And you’re letting emotions cloud your judgment,” Alex said softly. “You’re being Sydney, not Morrigan, and it won’t help Rafael.”

Sydney rested her head against Alex’s shoulder. “I can’t help it. That awful, awful argument! The things we said!”

Time and the Detective

Granada, Spain. Yesterday.

Alex texted Sydney to meet him in the bedroom. He said nothing else. He didn’t need to. Just the simple R back. Bedroom was enough to make her heart stir and pound.

Sydney moved up the stairs at a sedate human pace, even though she wanted to blast up them like a gunshot. Only, there were housekeepers and maids working in the upstairs rooms.

Alex was there before her, pacing the rug in front of the big bed. He turned as Sydney entered the big room and pointed to the en suite.

Sydney nodded. She could hear the shower running, too. “Why didn’t I hear him come in?” She sub-vocalized, because Alex would hear it anyway, and over the running water, Rafe would not.

Alex turned at the end of his pacing track. “Taxi at the back entrance.” His voice was bodiless, too. He pointed through the curved archway into the big walk-in closet they shared.

Sydney took two steps and looked through the arch.

There was an island of drawers in the middle of the closet, and a bench beside it. Rafe’s leather duffel bag sat on the velvet cushion.

There were flight tags on the duffel.

Sydney’s belly tightened and her chest ached at this hurtful reminder. He hadn’t even asked her to jump him there. He had taken a commercial flight. The fact was devastating. It hurt more than the reason he had gone to the States.

The water turned off in the en suite.

Never had the cessation of such a soft sound startled Sydney as much as that sudden silence did. It seemed to boom and throb in her temples, making her heart hurt. She would have to feed after these coming moments. She had been forced to feed for three out of the five days Rafe had been gone, anyway, for her heart had not settled despite all her efforts.

She realized she was staring at the en suite door, waiting for it to open.

Alex touched her arm. She nearly levitated from the floor. He gripped both her arms, to steady her, and rested his head against hers. “Breathe,” he murmured.

“I can’t,” she whispered back.

He rubbed her arms gently, in sympathy. Alex had fed twice since Rafael left, too.

When the door opened, Alex stepped away from her, straightening with almost a guilty jerk.

Rafael moved out into the bedroom. He was gloriously naked and still damp. Sydney caught her breath, trying to push away her almost instant reaction to the sight of his lean body, the olive skin and the muscles working beneath the flesh. She couldn’t afford to be distracted now.

Rafe paused, taking in that both of them were in the room. His smile was small and warm. “Well, hello,” he said, his voice warm, too. “The welcoming committee.”

“No, Rafe. We aren’t,” Alex said.

Rafe frowned. Was he actually puzzled by that?

“We’ve been waiting for you to get back—” Sydney began.

“I told you I would be gone for a week,” Rafe pointed out, his tone reasonable.

“That’s not the point!” Sydney shot back. Her voice was rising despite trying to prepare for this for days.

Rafe threw up his hand. “Uh-uh-uh!” He shook his head. “We do this the civilized way.”

Alex sighed. “Not when you’re wet and naked, Rafe.” His tone was also reasonable. Yet Sydney could see his jaw was working. He was riding herd on his reactions, too.

Rafe narrowed his eyes. “I see. Then I had better get dressed.”

Sydney moved aside as Rafe padded across the room to the closet and went inside. She stepped back again. She couldn’t help herself. She watched Rafe select trousers and a sweater—black, of course—and swiftly put them on. He didn’t glance at them. He didn’t speak. A tiny furrow ran between his brows. Was he concentrating? Trying to figure out what they wanted?

Sydney steeled herself against the fear which tried to rise because she could not measure Rafe’s mood. She had been able to for years. Now, she couldn’t even guess.

Rafe didn’t bother with shoes. He walked back out to the main room, and over to Alex and gripped his shirtfront.

“No, this isn’t the time, Rafe,” Alex said.

“Yes, it is. It must be. We say hello and goodbye, always, no matter what happens on either side of it.”

Alex sighed.

Rafe kissed him, a soft and lingering touch of the lips. “Alexander,” he whispered, then dropped his hands.

As he turned away, Alex closed his eyes, his face working hard.

Sydney rubbed her temples with both hands. She wasn’t sure she could take this.

Rafe moved to stand before her. He curled his hand around her neck and brushed her jaw with his thumb. “Sydney…” He bent and kissed her.

The touch of his lips was shocking. His gaze met hers as he let her go.

Sydney looked away. She couldn’t help it. Meeting his gaze would reveal too much of her own chaotic thoughts.

Rafe moved back to the bed and settled on it and crossed his legs. He rested his hands on his knees. “Now, say what you must.”

Alex glanced at Sydney. She could read his mind in that strained stare. He couldn’t do this. He didn’t know how to start.

Sydney crossed her arms. “You went to the States. We know why. And I’m not speaking for Alex. I’m pissed as hell about it, Rafe.”

Rafael sat like a statue for too many heartbeats. Then he said softly, “I should have expected that. Sydney the Detective. You just don’t know when to quit, do you?”

“That’s not the point,” she said, although guilt stirred in her chest. She had called in favors going back years, tracking Rafe through international databases, then tapping contacts in police departments in California, who all tracked Rafe’s movements and faithfully reported back. As everyone who had known her in California thought she was dead, the work had been challenging.

Rafael’s face hardened. “I’m surprised you even noticed I was gone.”

“Rafe!” Alex said, startled.

“I’m including you in that, too, Alex,” Rafael replied. He bounced off the bed, suddenly angry himself. “So I went to California. It had absolutely nothing to do with either of you. Why do you both stand there, interrogating me?”

Alex threw out his hand. “You went to visit your family. Your previous family!”

Rafael flicked his hand, an irritated gesture. “Do not dare lecture me on identity security. I stayed incognito. No one knew who I was. I avoided cameras and CCTVs and cellphones. Everyone but the family still thinks I’m dead.”

“God, you will deny it until we drop you into it!” Sydney cried. “We don’t give a damn about security, either!”

Rafe spun to face her. His face worked. “I must be dropped into it?” He pointed at her and then at Alex. “Look at you. Joined at the hip. Elbows linked. Did you work out a script together before you came up here and shanghaied me?”

Sydney recoiled, stunned.

“Rafe, don’t be ridiculous,” Alex began.

Rafael confronted him. “No. Do not do that reasonable thing. This is not a reasonable discussion. Fight me, damn it!”

“You want us to be pissed?” Alex demanded.

Rafe laughed. “I want something out of you. Anything at all would be nice.”

Sydney squeezed the flesh over the bridge of her nose, trying to refocus. “What are you saying, Rafe?”

His laugh was as bitter as the first. “The great detective! You can’t see what is right before you, can you? Too busy poking into other people’s lives—”

“Rafael, stop,” Alex said sharply. “You can batter us with rhetoric, and passion and anger and you may feel as though you’ve won, but it won’t solve anything. Stop insulting Sydney. Stop provoking me. You’re using it as a shield. Drop the shield and talk to us.”

Sydney wanted to hug Alex. Or hold him and smother him with kisses. He’d seen what Rafe was trying to do.

Rafe pushed his sleeves up his arms, baring his forearms with violent movements. “Calm, huh?” He drew a breath. Let it out. “Can either of you remember why we came here?”

“To Granada?” Sydney asked, surprised. “It was your idea, Rafe.”

“No it wasn’t!” Rafael cried, thumping his fist into his palm. “I said Toledo. Or Zaragoza, or anywhere in the north! Instead we came here, where Alex wanted to go!”

Alex rubbed the back of his neck. “I was offered the contract at the university…”

“No,” Rafael said. “You got the contract afterwards. For a vampire, you have a shitty memory. Or maybe you’re choosing to remember it that way. It makes a nice, smooth narrative, doesn’t it?”

Sydney pressed her hand to her chest. The urge to feed was building, exacerbated by this toxic outpouring. “This is getting way off the point—”

“No, this is the point,” Rafe shot back. “This is my land. My people. Only Alex took over, like he always does. The great interloper. Everyone talks about how polite Alex is, but that’s a complete crock. He smiles and does exactly what he wants and fuck what anyone else wants.”

Sydney couldn’t find any sane response. She was too floored to gather words together. She wasn’t even sure what she would say. She didn’t know what she was feeling.

She was numb with shock.

“Why go back to see people who think you are dead, Rafe?” Alex asked. “Why leave us?”

Sydney realized what he was doing. He was ignoring Rafe’s attacks. Batting them aside and coming back to the point, over and over. He would drive it home, no matter how furious Rafe got.

Did that make Rafe right? Did Alex always get what he wanted?

“I came back, didn’t I?” Rafe said to Alex, his tone hard.

“Why?” Alex asked.

For the first time, Rafe hesitated. “Why?” he repeated. “Why wouldn’t I?”

Suddenly, the words were there. Alex had shown her the shape of it with his odd questions. She nodded. “Yes, why, Rafe? That’s not what you do. You drift. You unconnect. You shy away.”

Alex drew in a sharp breath, as if Sydney had struck him with her words. “Yes,” he said. “In all of time, you’ve never stayed true to anyone. Not like Veris and Brody.”

“That’s not the way of the Blood,” Rafael said. “Those two are aberrations. You didn’t stay with anyone either, Alex.”

“I did,” Alex said softly. “I remained friends with Brody for centuries. Friends, Rafe. A true connection. You can’t claim a single friend in all that time. Not one.”

“And now you’re trying to pull away from us,” Sydney added. The words were difficult to say, because they were raw truth.

“Us,” Rafael repeated. His mouth turned down. “It’s always only ever been you and Alex, hasn’t it? I’m the attachment.”

“What are you doing, Rafe?” Sydney asked, appalled. “Are you trying to make us angry?”

“Yes, he is,” Alex said softly, his gaze upon Rafael.

“I don’t have to try!” Rafael cried. “I just have to speak the truth. Don’t you see? Why have you never gone back in time with me, Sydney? You dived back to that sandy hell of Alex’s in a heartbeat, but you’ve never even asked about my past.”

“You won’t talk about it!” Sydney shot back. “Neither of you do!”

Rafael nodded, as if she had answered his question. “The Sydney and Alex show. I’m just the useful tool who solves everyone else’s issues but mine.” His mouth turned down again. “At least my human families wanted me.”

“Some commitment that was, Rafe,” Sydney said, her tone withering. “A few decades, maybe a century, then they die and you’re free again.”

Alex caught his breath, as Rafael’s face sagged in shock.

Sydney drew in a shuddering breath, just as surprised as both of them. Where had that come from? Like many of the profound truths she had stumbled over in the last few years, this one had come from deep inside, rising like molten lava.

“Mama, why are you all shouting?” Liberty said, from the open door of the bedroom.

Sydney whirled, horror swirling through her. “Oh, honey, don’t be afraid!” She scooped her up.

Liberty looked at her with her huge brown eyes, sorrow and fear filling them.

“We’re just having a grown-up argument. People do that,” Sydney told her.

Rafael made a choking sound.

Sydney spun to face him again. “Rafe, I’m sorry. I don’t know where it came from.”

“Only you meant it,” Rafael said softly.

“Mama!” Liberty plucked at Sydney’s shirt, her tone pleading.

“We can’t do this now,” Alex said, his tone soft and soothing, to avoid frightening Liberty any more.

“We must,” Sydney begged. “We cannot table this. Alex, you and Rafael should go somewhere safe and sort this out.”

“I just got back—” Rafael began.

Sydney shook her head. “No. No excuses. No putting this off. There’s far more going on here than any of us realized. If we don’t air it, it will rot away and ruin…everything.”

Alex gave a great sigh. “Sydney is right, Rafe. It must be now. Will you come with me?”

Rafael hesitated.

Sydney made herself meet his gaze. “Please, Rafe.”

He made a soft sound in his throat. She couldn’t tell if it was irritation or surrender. “Very well.”

Sydney brushed Liberty’s hair from her face. “Are you hungry, sweetheart?”

Liberty nodded.

“I’ll get Liberty some lunch and…all the usual things,” Sydney said. Normal. She could do normal while Alex and Rafe sorted out the rest of their lives…she hoped.

Alex nodded. His expression was strained, too. He knew that the next few hours would be pivotal, too.

Sydney made herself walk out of the room as Alex and Rafe discussed where they could go in polite tones. She forced herself to respond as she always did to Liberty’s endless questions. Like Alex, Liberty had an insatiable curiosity.

Reassured by the shift back to everyday routine, Liberty chatted non-stop in a charming blend of English, Spanish and Arabic. It took mental energy to follow her chatter, which helped Sydney keep her thoughts away from what had just happened.

She had settled at the table with Liberty, to help her cut up her lamb chop and eat her vegetables, when Rafael came into the room, moving like a shadow.

Sydney watched him warily.

He didn’t smile. “I wanted to stay goodbye.”

“As angry as you are, you still want to?” she murmured, while Liberty focused on stabbing a pea with her oversized fork.

“Because I am so angry, I must,” he insisted.

Sydney’s eyes ached. Stung. She couldn’t speak.

Rafe made a soft sound and touched her cheek. “No, no…it is not for this I insist,” he said softly. “It is to reassure you.”

Sydney shook her head. “You insist because you want all your accounts squared away,” she replied. “Because you might not come back.”

Rafael bent and kissed her damp cheek. “I love you, guardián de mi alma.”

Then he turned and left.

More Time Kissed Moments
[11]

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

Alex soothed her, with murmurs and words and kisses, his hands stroking. Sydney relaxed in his arms. Only with Alex and Rafael could she let herself be petty and weak.

Please let Rafael come back to them!

If only he did, she would listen and fix and change… She would work her fingers to the bone to show Rafael he was wanted and loved and that she needed him to stay.

She sighed. “Please let him come back.”

Alex kissed her temple. “We have this grand ambition to save time, to not change history, yet with everything we do, we change it. We have accidentally and deliberately changed history so many times, I am sometimes shocked we are all still standing here. Only, have you noticed the one thing which does not change?”

Sydney shook her head, her cheek rubbing against the soft cotton of his shirt.

“I learned something tonight,” Alex said. “From Brody. I will tell you about it one day…or perhaps Rafael may yet come to relate that story. Anyway…I learned that the people in this house are so interconnected, it doesn’t matter how much we try to change things or keep them as we think they should be. We, all of us, have gone through trials and times we should not have survived…and yet we always come back to each other.”

“Always?”

“I’ve been thinking about it since I spoke to Brody. The four of us have known each other for centuries. We kept turning up in each other’s lives, over and over. Sometimes by design, sometimes by accident.

“Since Brody and Veris finally met Taylor, whom they have been waiting to find for hundreds of years, it is as though we have entered a new phase. You and Taylor, London and Neven and Remy…Marit and Alannah and Aran and even Jesse—”

“And Liberty and Jason,” Sydney added.

“They, too…all of us are repeating the pattern which the four of us maintained, only the numbers are greater and the repeats tighter and more concentrated. And I think I’ve stretched this analogy as far as it should go.” His arm tightened. “My point was, that we are all connected, and we all return to each other. Over and over again. That gives me hope.”

Sydney drew in a lungful of the cool air and let it out. “I will keep that in mind.” She kissed him.

A knocking sounded, drawing their attention away from each other.

Aran stood at the back door, his knuckles against the frame. “Time to go, guys.”

Alex took Sydney’s hand. “Let’s get him back.”

Everyone was gearing up as Alex and Sydney returned to the living room, except for David, who stood to one side, frowning.

“I did say only a small team should go, did I not?” he said, speaking to Veris. “We’ll be jumping into a public space. Too many will increase the chances of being noticed.”

Veris pushed a wide-bladed knife into the hilt on his belt and held his gaze. “I dare you to tell anyone in this room they can’t come.” He paused. “Please,” he added, with a fake bright smile.

Everyone paused, watching David. Waiting for him to single them out.

Sydney realized with a start that fifteen people were in the big living room. Even Alannah sat on the sofa, with Jason on her knee and Liberty tucked up against her.

David considered everyone, one at a time. Then he gave a gracious nod of his head. “Very well.”

Marit lifted her voice. “Okay, everyone. We’re doing it differently this time. A single circle, backs to the center. That way, we can take everyone across the timescape, and bring you all back together. Remember whose hand you’re holding and make sure you grab the same hand when we come back. Rafael…” She paused. “Rafael will be between me and David, on the way back, where we can watch him. This way, we arrive ready to go instead of having our backs to the outside. So, circle up, grab hands and be ready for my count.”

Alex tugged Sydney over to the center of the room where everyone formed into a circle, except for Alannah and the children. Taylor grabbed Sydney’s hand and squeezed it. “Finally,” she breathed.

“Yes,” Sydney replied.

Alex took her other hand.

“Okay,” Marit called, from behind them. “On three. One…two…three!”

Time and Rafael

Two days later.

Even though everything smelled differently and sounded different, too, Rafael opened his eyes cautiously.

He saw buckled plaster on the basement ceiling, with the familiar gray water stain, and black marks where Alex had tried to repair it with a hammer.

He let out a ragged breath. He had never been so happy to see something so ugly.

“If that is the shitty basement ceiling, then I have to be in your surgery, Alex.” The weakness in his voice was a shock to him. “And I’m missing a big chunk of memories.”

As soon as he spoke, he heard Alex curse under his breath. Metal clattered. Then hurried steps. Alex appeared, leaning over him. “Don’t sit up yet,” he said quickly. “Your symbiot is still recovering.”

“I don’t think I can sit up,” Rafael said, as his rubbery arms gave way beneath him. “What the hell…?”

“Sydney!” Alex called, not softly.

Immediately, from overhead, came the patter of fast steps.

Alex sat on the edge of the bed and picked up Rafael’s hand. His throat and his jaw worked. His brow wrinkled. “Rafe…”

“Rafael! Oh, god, Rafe!” Sydney burst into the little surgery, a frantic missile of blonde energy, and threw herself on the bed, trying to grab all of him at once.

Rafael groaned at the impact. “Jesus Christ on a pony…that actually hurts.”

Alex smoothed his brow. “It will for a day or so. You’re half human, at the moment.”

Rafael raised his useless arms and managed to grab Sydney’s face. Her cheeks were damp, shocking him. He wiped them. “Hey, only one half-human at a time,” he chided her. “Alex is brilliant but two patients will force him to multi-task.”

“We can’t have that,” Sydney said, her voice husky.

“God, no,” Alex said, with deep dread in his voice. “I leave that up to women. It’s a natural talent for them.” He squeezed Rafael’s hand once more. “Do you feel like talking? We are all curious to know what happened.”

Rafael blew out a breath. “You were there. You saw Cyrus. What did he say?”

Alex glanced at Sydney.

Sydney gave a great sniff and sat up. “Cyrus didn’t have a chance to say anything. David…well, he dealt with him.” She and Alex exchanged a glance. Alex grimaced.

Rafael frowned. “I remember…someone…well, glowing. Although I was very confused by then.”

Alex nodded. “That was him.”

“It sounds as though you should be telling me what happened,” Rafael said. He glanced around the surgery. It was empty except for the surgical bed he laid on, and Sydney and Alex and a great deal of equipment, some of which was beeping. “I’m surprised Veris isn’t here with a probe and a recorder, demanding details,” Rafael said. “That was him there, wasn’t it? The big shape—that was his size.”

“Everyone was there,” Alex said.

“We told them to stay away,” Sydney added. “To give you time.”

“Yes, but we’re talking about Veris,” Rafael replied.

“Alex had a chat with him,” Sydney said carefully. “Veris wanted to treat you. Alex got his way and brought you home.”

Rafael looked at Alex. Alex’s gaze was steady.

Rafael cleared his throat. He pushed on the stiff mattress beneath him, detesting the crinkle of the heavy-duty plastic cover beneath the sheet. “I have to sit up. I feel like I’m in an episode of General Hospital.”

Alex and Sydney coordinated themselves on either side of him and raised the back of the bed and Rafael, then arranged the pillows behind him. Rafael kept hold of their necks and pulled them in tighter against him, as his heart pattered in a sickly way, and his breathing came hard and fast. “Just…let me hold you,” he whispered. “Just for a while.”

He closed his eyes. There would be time to speak about Cyrus and how he had been inspired by the tale of Brody’s brother, Dara, and his scheme to punish Brody. Cyrus could not reproduce the weapons of the future which had decimated Brody’s body and nearly taken his mind, too. Cyrus had substituted with an ancient form of torture, instead. Thousands of cuts had bled Rafael to the point of constant blood fever. Unaddressed fever, he quickly learned, became agonizing.

That was a discussion for a different time. For now, he was home.

And he had fences to mend.

Rafael kissed Alex and Sydney and let them go…all except their hands, which he clung to. He gripped their fingers convulsively, trying to find the words. “Ah…Alex is the orator,” he said, finally. “Let me just spill my guts and don’t interrupt, okay?”

Alex and Sydney exchanged glances once more. That was okay. That was the two of them mind-reading, which saved hours of talk-talk.

“Okay,” Sydney said softly. “Spill.”

“You’re right. Both of you were dead on the money. In all ways, only I didn’t like the way it made me look. When it came out of your mouths, I…cringed.” He grimaced, as his heart gave a squeeze and his chest ached. “I hated that you were right and what that made me.”

Neither of them said anything. Alex’s pale blue eyes, Sydney’s ice blue ones, both calm, considered him. They were not looking at him in disgust or anger. It gave him the courage to continue.

“Yeah, I’ve fought to stay free,” he whispered, his throat squeezing down on the words. “From…from Brody onwards,” he added. He paused, measuring their reactions.

Alex nodded. Sydney’s eyes widened. Her lips made a silent “ohhh…!” sound.

Before they could do more, Rafael stumbled onwards. “Brody…Brody was too soon, I thought. I had just found freedom and I liked it. And anyway, even then, I knew he could not be mine. Not really. So I moved on.” He swallowed. “Only, every possible partner, every lover…they were too soon. They…” He made himself say it. “They threatened my freedom.”

Sydney stroked his hand. “Only, humans didn’t.”

Rafael let out a breath. She had understood, after all. Fine trembling started up in his middle. Relief, he suspected. It had been a very long time since he had experienced relief in this physical way.

“Humans are so short lived, it didn’t kick in my defenses. I never had to push them away,” he added in a rush. He had to let go of Alex’s hand to press his thumb to his eyes, for they were stinging. Then he just held his hand there, shading them, because the next part was the crux of it. “I was pushing you away. Both of you. I was getting uneasy. I didn’t recognize it until you cornered me and said all the words which had been floating through my subconscious lately. All those terrible words.” He convulsively reached for Alex’s hand once more. “I don’t want to be that way. I don’t want to be that guy.”

They gripped his hands and let him hold on. Sydney trembled as much as he did.

Rafael licked his lips. “I spend my life teaching everyone else how to cope with change. You know why I’m so good at teaching people that?”

“Because you’re so good at coping with change yourself,” Alex said gently. Softly.

“Because I like it,” Rafe said, the words tearing at his throat. “I need you to teach me how to live without change, because the truth is…I’m scared. I don’t want to fuck this up, but I don’t know how to do this long term…”

“Oh, Rafe,” Sydney breathed. She didn’t say anything else. Instead, she rested her head on his shoulder and sighed.

Rafael closed his eyes, as the hot, sweet relief mixed with happiness.

Alex kissed him, over the top of Sydney’s head. “I suppose we can start by calling you Iberian from now on.”

Rafael shook his head. “No. If any of us gets to be called that, it’s you. You’ve lived here for centuries more than me. This is your adopted land. Take it.”

“And what is your adopted land, then?” Sydney said, sitting up.

“I have no country,” Rafael said. “I don’t need one. I have a family—a real family, not a temporary substitute—and that family is all I need.”

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The Next Book in the
Kiss Across Time series

The next book in the Kiss Across Time series will be released in September 2019. Sign up for Tracy’s email list so you don’t miss the announcment of the release date! (See next page for how.)

In the meantime, try more vampire time travel ménage stories from the Beloved Bloody Time series.

Bannockburn Binding, Book 1, Beloved Bloody Time series.

Time is theirs to keep. But it comes with a price

In the early 23rd Century, vampires learned how to travel back in time, and created a time-tsunami that threatened life as we know it, until they corrected their mistake.  They created the Chronometric Conservation Agency, which is tasked with preserving history and therefore protecting humanity’s future.  The Touring arm of the Agency offers trips back into the real past, with vampire guides, called travelers.

When Natalia (Tally) Marta, vampire and traveler, takes her client to visit the siege of Stirling Castle in 1314, she is caught and held hostage for ransom by Robert MacKenzie, a Bruce clansman. Rob finds himself drawn to the wilful, stubborn and very different English lady he has captured and the relationship becomes an intimate, highly-charged sexual pairing. Swiftly, Tally and Rob realize their bond is more than sexual, that the emotions stirring their hearts are true.

Christian Lee Hamilton, vampire, one of the last true southern gentlemen, and Tally’s ex-lover, knows the 1314 time marker enough to jump back and help Tally return home. His arrival at Bannockburn adds complications, for Christian finds himself drawn to Rob MacKenzie as much as Tally is. But neither of them can stay in the past forever. To do so means certain death.
___

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Nominated Erotic Paranormal Book of the Year 2011—The Romance Reviews

Reviewers’ Top Pick: Oh wow, is this a great read! I simply couldn’t put this down once I started. OMG! I didn’t see this resolution coming. —The Romance Reviews

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Acknowledgements

Dina Bushrod, Audrey Cienki, Hes. H., Kathi Soniat, Kathy Zisek -- thanks so much, guys!

About the Author

Tracy Cooper-Posey is a #1 Best Selling Author. She writes romantic suspense, historical, paranormal and science fiction romance. She has published over 100 novels since 1999, been nominated for five CAPAs including Favorite Author, and won the Emma Darcy Award.

She turned to indie publishing in 2011. Her indie titles have been nominated four times for Book Of The Year. Tracy won the award in 2012, and a SFR Galaxy Award in 2016 for “Most Intriguing Philosophical/Social Science Questions in Galaxybuilding” She has been a national magazine editor and for a decade she taught romance writing at MacEwan University.

She is addicted to Irish Breakfast tea and chocolate, sometimes taken together. In her spare time she enjoys history, Sherlock Holmes, science fiction and ignoring her treadmill. An Australian Canadian, she lives in Edmonton, Canada with her husband, a former professional wrestler, where she moved in 1996 after meeting him on-line.

Other books by Tracy Cooper-Posey

For reviews, excerpts, and more about each title, visit Tracy’s site and click on the cover you are interested in: http://tracycooperposey.com/books-by-thumbnail/

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Scandalous Scions

(Historical Romance Series – Spin off)
Rose of Ebony
Soul of Sin
Valor of Love
Marriage of Lies
Scandalous Scions One (Boxed Set)
Mask of Nobility
Law of Attraction
Veil of Honor
Scandalous Scions Two (Boxed Set)
Season of Denial
Rules of Engagement
Degree of Solitude
Ashes of Pride

Once and Future Hearts

(Ancient Historical Romance—Arthurian)

Born of No Man
Dragon Kin
Pendragon Rises
War Duke of Britain
High King of Britain
Battle of Mount Badon
Abduction of Guenivere
Downfall of Cornwall
Vengeance of Arthur
Grace of Lancelot
The Grail and Glory
Camlann

Kiss Across Time Series

(Paranormal Time Travel)
Kiss Across Time*
Kiss Across Swords
Time Kissed Moments
Kiss Across Chains
Kiss Across Time Box One (Boxed Set)
Kiss Across Deserts
Kiss Across Kingdoms
Time and Tyra Again
Kiss Across Seas
Kiss Across Time Box Two (Boxed Set)
Kiss Across Worlds
Time and Remembrance
Kiss Across Tomorrow
More Time Kissed Moments

Project Kobra

(Romantic Spy Thrillers)

Hunting The Kobra
Inside Man

Vistaria Has Fallen

Vistaria Has Fallen
Prisoner of War
Hostage Crisis
Freedom Fighters
Casualties of War
V-Day

Romantic Thrillers Series

Fatal Wild Child
Dead Again
Dead Double
Terror Stash
Thrilling Affair (Boxed Set)

Beloved Bloody Time Series

(Paranormal Futuristic Time Travel)
Bannockburn Binding*
Wait
Byzantine Heartbreak
Viennese Agreement
Romani Armada
Spartan Resistance
Celtic Crossing
Beloved Bloody Time Series Boxed Set

Scandalous Sirens

(Historical Romance Series)
Forbidden*
Dangerous Beauty
Perilous Princess

Go-get-‘em Women

(Short Romantic Suspense Series)
The Royal Talisman
Delly’s Last Night
Vivian’s Return
Ningaloo Nights

Blood Knot Series

(Urban Fantasy Paranormal Series)
Blood Knot
Southampton Swindle
Broken Promise
Vale
Amor Meus
Blood Stone
Blood Unleashed
Blood Drive
Blood Revealed
Blood Ascendant

The Sherlock Holmes Series

(Romantic Suspense/Mystery)
Chronicles of the Lost Years
The Case of the Reluctant Agent
Sherlock Boxed In

The Kine Prophecies

(Epic Norse Fantasy Romance)
The Branded Rose Prophecy

The Stonebrood Saga

(Gargoyle Paranormal Series)
Carson’s Night
Beauty’s Beasts
Harvest of Holidays
Unbearable
Sabrina’s Clan
Pay The Ferryman
Hearts of Stone (Boxed Set)

Destiny’s Trinities

(Urban Fantasy Romance Series)
Beth’s Acceptance*
Mia’s Return
Sera’s Gift
The First Trinity
Cora’s Secret
Zoe’s Blockade
Octavia’s War
The Second Trinity
Terra’s Victory
Destiny’s Trinities (Boxed Set)

Interspace Origins

(Science Fiction Romance Series)
Faring Soul
Varkan Rise
Cat and Company
Interspace Origins (Boxed Set)

Short Paranormals

Solstice Surrender
Eva’s Last Dance
Three Taps, Then….
The Well of Rnomath

Jewells of Tomorrow

(Historical Romantic Suspense)
Diana By The Moon
Heart of Vengeance

The Endurance

(Science Fiction Romance Series)
5,001
Greyson’s Doom
Yesterday’s Legacy
Promissory Note
Quiver and Crave
Xenogenesis
Junkyard Heroes
Evangeliya
Skinwalker’s Bane

Contemporary Romances

Lucifer’s Lover
An Inconvenient Lover

The Indigo Reports

(Space Opera)
Flying Blind
New Star Rising
But Now I See
Suns Eclipsed
Worlds Beyond

Non-Fiction Titles

Reading Order

(Non-Fiction, Reference)
Reading Order Perpetual*

Copyright Information

This is an original publication of Tracy Cooper-Posey

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for third-party websites or their content.

Copyright © 2019 by Tracy Cooper-Posey
Text design by Tracy Cooper-Posey

Cover design by Dar Albert
http://WickedSmartDesigns

Edited by Mr. Intensity, Mark Posey

All rights reserved
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

FIRST EDITION: May 2019

Cooper-Posey, Tracy
More Time Kissed Moments/Tracy Cooper-Posey—1st Ed.

Romance—Fiction
Paranormal – Fiction