“And risky,” Neven added. “And we’re moving past my point. How do you think Aimée would cope with modern life, Remi?”
“She’d adapt,” he ground out.
“Would she? There are tribes on isolated islands in the world who still live a nomadic life, because they can’t adapt to modern life. The Amish reject it and believe they are better for the absence. Most humans are over-stressed, distracted and unhealthy—”
“And let’s not start on the twenty-first century strains of viruses they’d face,” Sydney added, for this was somewhat in her sphere of expertise. She had been researching DNA, although she had been immersed in germ biology courses when she first met Kristijan. “Modern viruses are virulent, compared to two centuries ago. They’ve acquired resistance to antibodies. Your children wouldn’t have any of the common antibodies, either.”
Remi swallowed. “Then I should just let them die because they might get sick, here?” His tone was bitter.
“No, we’re not saying that,” Neven said, his tone firm. “We’re only asking you to consider the impact upon your children, if you bring them forward. They might not be able to adapt. They might hate you for taking the life they know from them.”
“They would be alive!” Remi cried, his fist thumping against his thigh. “If they’re alive, anything else is fixable. It’s…tolerable.”
Neven shook his head. “You’re using Sydney’s out-clause.”
Remi leapt from the butcher’s block with a flex of powerful muscles and spun on one heel to face Neven. “Why would I not?” he demanded. “Maybe this is supposed to happen!”
“Remi—” London begun, her heart racing, making her feel dizzy. The emotions swirling in the room were miasmic, making the air too thick and hard to draw into her lungs.
Remi spun to face her. His face worked. “I killed them,” he railed. “They died an awful, awful death—I can still hear them screaming, in here.” He didn’t touch his temple, but his heart. “I should have foreseen what would happen. I was complacent and blind and…and stupid. I got them killed. Now there is a way to make amends, to fix it. And you are telling me no.”
London shivered and looked at Neven helplessly.
Neven’s expression was wretched, too. He was behind Remi, so Remi could not see his reaction. His voice, when he spoke, conveyed everything in his face. “This is what I was afraid of. London and I…we are not enough for you. Jason is not of your blood.”
Remi closed his eyes. “That is unfair. Jason is no less dear to me than my own children. You know that.”
Neven nodded. “I do,” he said. “If that is unfair, consider how fair it is, what you are asking of London and me.”
Remi stood with his head hanging, defeat slumping his shoulders. “I only know I cannot stand it—staying here in this time, knowing I can save them…and yet, I cannot.” His tone was bleak.
Neven drew Remi to him and held him tightly. “I know, Remi. I know.” He kissed him.
Remi did not fight the kiss, which sent relief trickling through London.
She was incapable of feeling anything else, even though watching the two of them together usually never failed to arouse her to a high state of readiness. The fear was too close and gripped her throat too tightly, for her to enjoy the sight of them as she usually did.
Neven let Remi’s mouth go. Remi turned his head and held out his hand toward London. “Come here,” he whispered.
London’s tears did fall then. She got to her feet and moved over to take his hand, and Remi pulled her up against him and Neven. He kissed her—a gentle touch not designed to arouse. He pressed his lips against her damp cheeks. “I do not mean to hurt you,” he said, his voice hoarse.
“I know,” London whispered. “I am so afraid, every time we talk about this.”
Neven slid his hand beneath her hair and stroked the back of her neck. “Maybe now is not the time, Remi, but have you considered that it doesn’t matter when you go back to get them?”
London gasped, her horror leaping to life once more, as she stared at Neven. She felt almost betrayed by his observation.
Remi, though, drew in a slow, deep breath, the misery in his expression easing. “I had not,” he admitted. “I am not the jumper,” he added diffidently, as if that explained his lack.
Neven shrugged. “In a year, or ten, or thirty—it doesn’t matter when—we may all be better prepared and feel more comfortable about bringing them forward.” He hesitated. “In four years time, Jason will be six. He will be of a similar age to your three.”
Remi scowled. “I must wait four years?”
Neven caught his face in his hand. “You’ve waited two hundred years already, mi amor. What difference does four make now?”
Remi’s scowl deepened.
“Because now he knows it is possible,” London murmured.
“And that makes their screams so much louder,” Remi added.
She shuddered.
Neven picked up Remi’s hand. “Let’s see if we cannot distract you from that.” He tugged, drawing Remi toward the door into the sitting room.
London’s heart leapt. She pushed Remi into following Neven.
“You can distract me for four whole years?” Remis’ tone was still grumpy, yet there was a teasing note in his voice, too. He had responded to the promise in Neven’s voice.
“We can certainly try,” London assured him, as she followed them into the sitting room, unbuttoning her shirt.
For that night, at least, they did try. They laid Remi between them on the faux fur rug beside the old fireplace, stripped him and did their best to take his mind off the matter, while Remi writhed and groaned.
Then he returned the favor, until all three of them were sweaty and exhausted, their bodies replete.
The next day, when they prepared to jump to the next alternative timeline on their list of assignments, Remi elected to stay at home and watch Jason. That told London that Remi still brooded upon his guilt, and that she and Neven stood between him and redemption, which was now achingly within reach.
He had not put the matter aside at all.
The other timeline they jumped to was a near-replica of their own, which London was becoming used to and was perfectly normal to Neven.
Neven looked around the old town of Saint-Jacut-de-la-Mer, cataloging differences. “There’s the Internet café,” he said, sounding relieved.
About half the worlds they had traveled to didn’t have the Internet café on the Boulevard du Rougeret. The café was a throw-back to the nineties and double-oughts. Here in this sleepy corner of Brittany, there were still people who lived without mobile devices of any sort and no computers, either. As Internet access was gradually becoming a necessity, they found themselves renting computer time in the café. The café which did a surprising amount of business, especially in summer when tourists caught up with home news.
Alternative worlds without the café made it more difficult to catalog the major differences, for it required a trip by jolting, rattling bus to Saint-Lormel, which had a public library. With the café, they could rent a computer and look up people they knew and today’s news, which told them most of what they needed to know.
There had been one memorable world where there had been no Internet at all, which had flummoxed them, until they had learned of the person-to-person 3D video network, there.
For worlds with the café, they had established an efficient routine.
“I’ll check on everyone,” Neven said, digging out his wallet.
“I’ll head for the beach,” London said in agreement. Just walking to the beach and checking for the island across the tidal strait told them much, too. In some worlds, the island had been destroyed in a sea-quake.
There was another reason London liked to walk to see the island. She had never told Neven about it.
They separated, with Neven heading for the café, while London walked north along Boulevard du Rougeret, which led directly to the low-tide causeway acro
ss to the island. It was barely a mile to the beach from here. Saint-Jacut-de-la-Mer was only a small village.
London walked down the old, narrow road to the beach and turned right to follow Boulevard du Chavet along the beach. “Boulevard” was a grand name for another narrow street and an ancient footpath made of fitted-together concrete blocks with weeds and grass thrusting up between them.
In that regard, this world was the same as hers.
London kept her gaze on the big beech tree up ahead. The tree was directly opposite the narrow alley between the cottages on the other side of the road. The alley led to the road running behind them, which was the road to their house, in their world.
London had come across Remi, Neven and her alter-ego picnicking below the beech tree, with Jason between them, several jumps ago. Seeing herself had shaken London, which Neven and the others assured her was perfectly normal.
She had ducked out of sight behind parked cars and watched, fascinated by the simple happiness which seemed to make the small group on the tartan blanket almost glow with contentedness. It was a mild December day, and everyone else was sensibly tucked away inside, shivering beside fires. Their odd picnic went unobserved by all but seagulls and London herself, crouched behind a Renault, thirty yards away.
While the other London sipped from a thermos cup that steamed, and Jason ate a Cornish pasty with relish, the three adults talked quietly. Remi would reach and tuck London’s hair back over her shoulder while they talked. Neven would chuckle and touch both of them on the shoulder and the arm or the knee. Fleeting touches. Subconscious ones.
The little family picnic did not take place on every single timeline, London had learned. The first time she had rounded the curve and seen the grass beneath the tree was bare, she had been disconcerted.
This time, the grass was bare again. London had quickly figured out what to do in these worlds. She turned and hurried down the alley to their road, then turned left and moved up to where the road bent around the headland. The house was on the other side of the bend.
Why did she take this extra step to catch a glimpse of her alternative world families? She was still not sure why. She only knew she was uneasy until she had glimpsed at least one of them.
Today, though, she didn’t even have to fully turn the corner to learn what she needed to know. London stopped in the middle of the road, staring at the lot where, in her world, their big old house with the white shutters stood among the hundred-year old grove of beech trees.
The trees had gone. So had the house. All that remained now was fire-blackened stumps of walls, gleaming charcoal black in the damp morning air.
London stared at the house, her heart strumming with odd jerks and jolts.
She whirled and hurried back down the road to the field at the far end. She could climb over the field’s walls and cut across to the boulevard. It would cut a quarter mile from the journey back to the center of the village.
Now she wanted to find Neven as quickly as possible, then jump straight back home. She was shaking as she put her hand on the cold rock wall and vaulted over it.
The boulevard by the café was empty when she reached it. London moved over to the Internet café. Neven would surely still be there. She had been gone only forty minutes.
Neven emerged from the café as she approached it. Her relief was deep. She hurried up to him. “I want to go back.”
Neven gripped her arms. “Not yet.”
“Now,” she insisted.
“No.” He shook his head. “I need to think…” He looked around. “The bench. Come on.” He let her go and moved across the road to the bench which in summer sat beneath the shadowy canopy of the ancient oak behind it. He brushed off the moisture and dirt with his glove and sat.
London pulled her coat in around her and settled beside him, sitting on the edge of the bench. She couldn’t relax. Then she noticed that Neven looked almost ill. “What did you find?” she asked, her upset about the family instantly wiped away.
“Nothing,” he said bleakly. “It’s all wrong.”
“What does that mean?”
He looked around for eavesdroppers. “I used French to ask for the computer, and the clerk looked at me as if I had sworn at him. I switched to Breton and he looked even more offended and answered me in English.” He paused. “Brittany isn’t part of France in this world.”
“It’s British,” London guessed.
He nodded. “And this is Lesser Britain—the old name for it.” He looked around again as he rubbed the back of his neck. “I plugged into the news sites on the Internet, and that’s when it really got weird.”
London thought of the burnt-out shell of the house on the beach head and said nothing.
“Veris doesn’t exist, London. There’s no Brody I could find. Taylor is a professor at UCLA, and married to some guy called Danforth. Sydney is an inspector with the LAPD and I couldn’t find Alex, either.”
London swallowed. “If there’s no Veris, then there could be no Brody, or Alex. Alex became a vampire because of them. So did Rafe….” She breathed in and let it out. “There is no us, either, Neven.” Her voice emerged with a crooked note.
Neven shifted on the bench to look at her. “You checked the house…”
“It’s not there,” she whispered. “It was burned to the ground not long ago. I could smell it, still.”
“Burned…” Neven murmured and shuddered.
Then she remembered. “You think this is the same as what happened in your world, Neven? Veris and Brody and Taylor’s house was burned out in your world…”
Neven shook his head. “It can’t be the same. The council is gone, Cyrus is gone. In all worlds. David took care of that. It’s just…” He shook his head. “Burned. It’s a weird coincidence, given what we were talking about just last night.”
“Or is it a coincidence at all?” London asked, her heart thudding heavily.
“It has to be. None of us are in this time and place,” Neven pointed out. “The hairs on the back of my neck are trying to stand up.” He rubbed his neck again.
“Who is POTUS here?” London asked. The name of the President was one way of cataloging the worlds.
“No one I’ve ever heard of before,” Neven said slowly. “Robert Edward Nightbrook.”
“What happened here?” London asked, her throat tight. “Is this…could this world have split off from ours because of something we did?” As she said it, she realized that this was the fear which had been making her feel sick, since seeing the burned down house. Were the big changes here a result of something they had done? That she had done? Or not done?
“It’s not all about us,” Neven pointed out, although he didn’t sound any more convinced of it than she did. “Everyone makes decisions and creates divergences. Every single day, every single minute.”
“Then why does it feel as though this is a result of something I did?” London demanded.
“Because we’re not here. It makes you want to know there is a way to change it, to make sure it doesn’t happen in our timeline. If this world is a result of someone else’s critical decision, then you can do nothing to stop it.”
London tried to glare at him. “I didn’t want you to answer it logically.”
Neven tried to smile and failed. “Sorry.”
The tears blurred her vision and ran before she could check them. They seemed to come out of nowhere.
With a soft sound, Neven pulled her against him and wrapped his arm around her. “This isn’t our world,” he reminded her softly, his voice rumbling in his chest, which pressed against her shoulder. “We’re only visiting. We can go back home and hug them both and never return here.”
“D-did you get all the markers?” she whispered, for there were ten other markers which cataloged the world, in addition to who was President of the United States in that time and place.
“I did,” Neven said softly. “We can go back straight away. I just wanted to…to take a breath.”
> “It’s just…” London gave a great sniff. “No Jason,” she added, feeling foolish. She shrugged. “He was never born, here.”
Neven took a deep breath, as if he was about to speak, but didn’t.
“What did you find?” she coaxed him, sensing his hesitation.
Neven shook his head. His gaze shifted away from her. “You’re not here, either,” he breathed.
London felt the jolt down to her core. “I never existed?”
“You did,” Neven said, his voice even. “You were murdered by Kristijan Zoric, five years ago.”
Her chest ached. “It wasn’t me,” she reminded Neven quickly. “It was a different version of me, just as you are a different version of Kristijan.”
“That’s what I told myself. So I looked up the Duc de Sauveterre, in the late eighteenth century.”
London held still.
“Denis Remi de Sauveterre was beheaded, alongside his father, in 1793,” Neven said heavily, “in the last months of the Reign of Terror.” He brought his gaze back to her. “We’ve never looked for Remi in the past, in any of the other worlds.”
“Because he was here, which says he survived,” London said, her spine flexing as cold fingers played over it. “We shouldn’t be doing this to ourselves,” she added. “This is a different time. A different place. It means nothing to us personally.”
“Does it?” Neven asked, his tone bleak. “You’re mourning the loss of Jason who never existed. I…I’m sick at the thought of what I did to you in this time.” He hesitated. “Kristijan is still alive, too.”
London jumped. “Of course he is. There’s no…” She closed her eyes. “Remi is not here to deal with him.” She turned her face against Neven’s shoulder. “Let’s go home,” she breathed into his coat.
Neven tucked his fingers beneath her chin and lifted it, so he could look at her. “Before we go, I wanted to ask…” He paused. Swallowed. “I can’t help thinking about last night. About the…about Remi’s wish. I feel like I…”
“This is how he feels about his children,” London finished. “This helpless, sick feeling. He thinks it is his fault.”
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