While she waited, her mind and heart wrestled over her future.
She let them thrash it out, desperately attempting to keep a dispassionate distance. Her quick trip to 1888 had become a personal nightmare, both physically and emotionally. Instead of returning to Chris’ arms, she was bearing his ashes home in hers.
Then, there were the two Victorian gentlemen. Jonathon’s offer of marriage had seemed solely based on honor––an uncharacteristic gesture, according to the doctor. Alastair’s proposal came from the heart, and was harder to set aside.
I don’t belong here. And yet, in some odd way, she knew she did. This time period had captured her imagination with more ferocity than any other.
She pulled her lover’s photograph out of the bag. Besides the heartfelt decency of the gesture, the doctor was gently telling her that Chris was in her past, and that he offered her a future.
Cynda propelled a stream of air out the side of her mouth. That earned a glower from the pub owner, probably because she didn’t have a drink in front of her. She rewrapped the photo, placed it in the bag so it wouldn’t be squashed by the urn, and retreated to the street.
Depression soon gave way to irritation. If this jerk stood me up… she murmured.
Miss Lassiter? a voice called. The interface buzzed under her mantelet. She gave it a tap.
Standing a few feet away was a nondescript gentleman with a graying beard and moustache. As he moved closer, she noticed one iris was darker than the other.
Dr. Samuelson? she asked, cradling the heavy bag in her arms.
Indeed.
She waited for an explanation for why he was late, but it didn’t come. Instead, he observed her with guarded eyes.
Shall we? she said, gesturing.
Indeed.
The longer they walked, the more the man annoyed her. He didn’t offer to carry her bag, there was no apology for his late arrival, and he didn’t give way on the sidewalk to women. He marched right down the middle as if he owned it.
God complex. She’d seen the type before. The shrink wasn’t toting any sort of luggage. Tourists always brought back souvenirs: copious notes, rare books and the occasional collection of naughty postcards from Half Moon Street. What was with this guy?
Cynda scrutinized each alley for departure potential. She shared that trait with the whores—hunting for a dark corner to conduct her business.
Her eyes slid toward her companion. Where have you been all this time?
Working, was the crisp reply.
Did another Rover contact you?
He shot her a sidelong glance. I did not care to return, so I did not make myself available to be contacted, as you put it.
You arrogant creep. Your contract with TIC specified when you were to return.
My contract is not your concern, Miss Lassiter.
She felt the corner of her mouth twitch. Why do you want to go home now?
I’ve completed my work.
That didn’t ring true. Given the number of asylums in this country, Samuelson could be here for life and never visit them all.
Unless his disease shield was wearing off…
How’s your health? she quizzed.
Fine.
This guy was a fountain of information. Weren’t psychiatrists supposed to be a bit more chatty?
She shifted the bag into her left hand and scratched her wrist.
Instead of diminishing, the itching increased.
They paused near a passageway that seemed suitable, waiting for a couple to leave. As she leaned against the brick wall, a flash of blue caught her notice. Perched on a broken barrel stave at her feet was her personal delusion.
Along for the ride? she asked silently.
Always, the spider replied. Its many eyes shifted toward the psychiatrist. Something’s not right with this one.
What do you mean?
I wouldn’t go with him, if I were you.
She muttered under her breath about paranoid arachnids.
I’m serious! it spouted.
Cynda rolled her eyes at the delusion. All she wanted to do was get the hell out of here. It didn’t matter if Samuelson was a selfcentered jerk, just that he got home.
Turning back toward him, she asked, Did you learn anything at the asylums?
Yes, was the terse reply.
I moved heaven and earth to find this cold fish?
The couple from the alley wandered by. The woman spied Samuelson and said in a cheery tone, Mind he doesn’t cut your throat or nuthin’.
I’m sure he won’t. Cynda dug harder as the itch on her wrist flared up. She was scratching right over the top of where her PSI unit would usually be located. Without it, she had no idea what was going on.
Let’s get this done, Samuelson said, striding forward.
You get lost for over a month, and now you’re in a rush?
Cynda asked.
Her reply was the sound of his footsteps in the narrow passageway.
She found a portion of the alley that was a bit darker than the rest, without any windows overlooking it. Setting the bag down, she pulled the watch from her bodice. Instead of preparing for the transfer, Samuelson stared toward the street, tense.
What the hell is going on? she demanded, turning to look for herself. Are you in trouble or something?
A shake of the head. He turned back, gesturing impatiently for her to continue.
Desperate to put an end to this torture, she flipped open the watch. Would TIC transfer them both, or just the tourist?
Only one way to find out. You still have the time band?
No.
She shot a glance at Samuelson. Another hassle. His odd eyes regarded her with what appeared to be anticipation. Figured it out yet? he asked.
Figure out what? she demanded.
A malevolent grin formed. You’re as dense as the other one.
Chris? You said––
I lied.
She flipped the watch shut. Just what the hell is your game?
Her answer came as a line of silver lancing through the murky darkness. Cynda lurched backward instinctively as the knife slashed toward her. Grabbing the bag, she pulled it up in front of her. Her right shoulder failed to support the weight, and the bag dropped. The knife slashed along the leather with a ragged, tearing sound.
Before she could recover, Samuelson lunged toward her again.
This thrust hit home, deftly negotiating between two ribs. Forcing his weight into the blade, his eyes drew close to hers. She saw ecstasy in them.
He pulled the knife out in one swift tug. Her grip loosened and the bag slipped to the ground, landing with a solid thud.
Staggering backward, Cynda bumped into the wall and began sliding down the rough bricks, one by one. Blood bubbled around her fingers as they probed the wound. An eerie suction pulled at her palm with each frantic breath.
Why? she gasped.
Her assailant retrieved the watch from where it had fallen and placed it in her free hand, wrapping her fingers around it.
Why? she repeated, this time barely above a whisper.
He didn’t answer. There were voices at the end of the alley and he sent his attention toward the noise. Not yet, he murmured.
He looked back at her, dropping to his knees. Come on, die, will you?
She raised her head. The…other Rover?
Of course I killed him, he spat back, as if it were a silly question. Over the sound of her thudding heartbeat, she thought she heard an accordion. There wasn’t enough air to permit her to shout for help. Each breath grew noticeably shallower. Dull gray formed on the edges of her vision, like a fog creeping along the sides of a narrow tunnel.
Samuelson rose to his feet, retrieving the knife from his pocket.
It had something white wrapped around the handle, now stained with her blood.
Not fast enough, he said. He stepped to her left side and grabbed her hair with his right hand, pulling her head back. She felt cold air caress her throat. The silver blade hovered in the air in front of her.
No…
Alastair’s progress toward the boarding house was painfully slow. Part of him didn’t care that more than one woman eyed him with frank suspicion, as if he’d brandish a knife at the first opportunity. His mind was on Jacynda. Was she gone now? Was there any chance he’d ever see her again?
She refused me. Though his practical mind told him they had no future, his heart had hoped otherwise. The only thing he had to offer was himself, and that wasn’t much. In another month or so, the Wescomb’s donation would be exhausted, and then he’d be skipping supper again. It was an uncertain future he’d offered, and she had been wise to decline.
Perhaps it is for the best. His heart said otherwise.
In the distance, he saw a familiar figure puffing through the throng. Alastair called to him. Keats veered, diving for him like a drowning man would a life ring.
Where is she? Keats demanded, perspiration coating his face.
When Alastair didn’t answer quickly enough, he repeated, Where is she?
She’s gone home.
Keats dragged a handkerchief from a pocket to mop his face.
I’ve been hunting for you for the last hour.
Why?
Another deep breath. I found where Jacynda’s lover was staying before he died. Keats dug in a pocket and produced an envelope. Mr. Stone’s landlady discovered this envelope while cleaning the room. I thought perhaps Jacynda might know this person, and it could aid in your investigation into Mr.
Stone’s…death.
Alastair grabbed it from his hands and stared at the return address.
Morley’s, Trafalgar Square. Over Keats’ protests, he opened the envelope and scanned the note.
Oh, God, Alastair said, whirling around in the direction he’d come. Perhaps she hasn’t met him yet.
What’s wrong?
Alastair waved the note. Cynda received a similar missive last evening. She is meeting this same man tonight.
Keats’ face blanched.
With a grim nod, Alastair set off at a furious pace. Keats hurried to catch up, hooking onto an arm to slow him down.
Do not run. This crowd is too volatile. They nearly strung up some poor bloke this afternoon just because he tried to chase down a constable to report a robbery.
I don’t give a damn. She may be in grave danger.
In that, you may be right. Nevertheless, we will be of no assistance to her if we’re hanging from a pair of lampposts.
Nodding brusquely, Alastair marched on, Keats at his side.
I should never have left her alone.
She took off a bit ago. Wasn’t drinkin’ at all, the publican complained, and then turned away to refill someone’s pint of bitter.
Outside the pub, Keats surveyed the streets with worry.
Where would they go? Victoria Station?
Alastair ignored the question as the answer would be too improbable. You search that side of the street, I’ll take this one.
If you find her, bring her to the pub and wait for me. Understood?
Keats gave him a petulant frown and then scurried across the street. Alastair began his own hunt. Maybe it was of no concern that both notes had come from the same establishment. Perhaps her lover had been waylaid before he’d made his rendezvous. None of Alastair’s rationalizations eased his fears.
Each alley he scrutinized made his hope rise. Perhaps she was already gone, safe in her time.
Squinting into a passageway, he saw two figures, one bent over another. His eyes caught the flash of metal in the air.
Disregarding Keats’ warning, he bellowed and broke into a run.
The watch slipped through Cynda’s fingers to the ground with a metallic tinkle. She had no strength to retrieve it. Her existence collapsed into distinct images: the unholy gleam of the knife’s edge, each raspy breath, the dull throbbing ache in her side, the sure knowledge she would die here.
The hand tightened on her hair, arching her head further back, exposing her. Perversely, her mind noted her attacker was lefthanded, like Alastair. Like the Ripper. She thought of the two Victorian men who would see her in the coffin. Would the doctor have a photograph made of her? Would Jonathon arrest her killer and watch in grim satisfaction as he was hung?
Don’t… she whispered.
Nothing personal, I assure you.
Who are––
Who am I? A rough laugh. I’m Dr. Montrose, don’t you know? he said.
No. He’s––
An enraged shout, followed by pounding footsteps.
Her assailant swore. The blade moved closer. She drove her left elbow backward, aiming for his groin. It impacted his thigh instead, causing his grip to tighten.
A sharp cry from her foe. As he spun away, the blade sliced at an imperfect angle. He cried out again, tumbling to the cobblestones.
Clutching the side of his chest, he regained his feet, breathing heavily, searching wildly for his unseen attacker. There was another shout from the approaching figure. Collecting the knife, the killer took to his heels.
Cynda sagged against the brickwork, hand to her throat and blood washing across her fingers. Strangely, there was no pain— just the heightened sense of diminishing time.
The sound of skidding boots on pavement. Alastair’s frantic face filled the tiny window her vision afforded.
Prying her fingers away, he dabbed at her neck with his handkerchief. It didn’t spray like an arterial wound, and for that he was grateful. Still, her face was alabaster, lips blue-tinged. She shook like a sapling in a gale. There had to be another wound, one more grievous than the cut on her neck.
Where are you hurt? he demanded.
Chest.