Chapter Seventeen
Florence the Floozy
Dark. The place was dark, just the way he liked it, and the miasma of cigar smoke made it murkier still. He stared at the pretty dark-haired girl with the red lips and short skirt, sitting in the corner as he stubbed out his cigar. She carried on laughing and smiling with the man at the table next to hers, she had a cocktail in one hand and cigarette in the other.
He’d chatted her up not a month ago. She’d been drunk then too, but drunks were so easy to figure out and loose drunk women were even easier. For the price of a few drinks, he could always gain all the trust he needed.
Last time, he’d found out what she was drinking, ordered the same, and walked by and bumped hers, spilling it all over before offering up his own. Of course it worked—it worked every time. All women were targets, but he preferred long, dark, straight hair like this one here. Most of the jezebels these days were cutting off their locks. Damn shame, but in the end they all screamed the same way. The feeling returned to his gut and he balled one hand to contain the rage. He was still infuriated about the incident at the bookshop in London. He had been so sure she was in there. He needed a release to take his mind off everything. Returning to the table, he leaned in to whisper in her ear.
“Hey Flo, let’s get out of here!”
Her hose were turned down, just like her morals, and he gently ran his fingers in circles around her knee.
She shook her head and blew him a kiss. “It’s early, Sugar. Besides, I wanna dance. I could use another of these,” she said, tilting her glass to and fro.
He looked at his watch and rolled his eyes. He’d already plied her with enough booze to float a small ship.
Such a young girl trying to play grown-up. He needed to get back soon. “You’ve had enough. Let’s go. Besides, I’ve something to give you.” He took her by the hand, firmly pulling her off the stool. She stumbled at the first step and winked, reaching for the man at the next table. This angered him further and he pulled her to his side, wrapping his arm tight around her waist as she draped over him.
Chapter Eighteen
Ghost of a Man
Gigi roused me from bed in the morning with her curious musings and disappeared after I promised to come find her. Pieces of the nightmare she’d pulled me from slid through my brain and tripped my heart once again. The hall was sunny, but my body was cold and wet. It’s just sweat, I told myself, not swamp water.
God, what kind of a dream was that? My heart slammed against my chest. Another sharp image sizzled through my brain.
Zafira about the age of eighteen, curled up in a window seat, long delicate fingers wrapped around a book, unaware of how the summer sunlight shone on her ebony hair. For an instant, it had seemed she was alone, then I’d sensed another presence. I cringed as Eugene, with eyes black as night, charged out of the closet, knife in hand. He’d picked her up, flinging her over his shoulder. Then the image changed.
There was mud on my feet. We were in some sort of swamp. I could hear Zafira trying to scream, but what came out was a gurgling sound and even that seemed to fade into the wet cloth that filled her mouth.
The edges of the swamp blurred around me and I wondered if I would pass out from the fear. That was when Gigi had wakened me to show off her drawing. She’d quickly left the room, eager to show her mother. I was glad to be alone.
As the sweat dried I began to shiver. For several minutes I just sat there, before shaking the dream loose. I rose and dressed quickly, knowing I’d slept in. It’d been two days since we’d returned from London. Marjorie was still alive, and Eugene was still an enigma.
I hurried down the hall and found Gigi in the center of her parent’s bedroom. She didn’t realize I was there. She was holding her mother’s mirror, admiring the strawberry blonde ringlets that hung past her shoulders.
“You look lovely, Vee,” I said, mimicking the nickname they all had for her.
Startled, she set the mirror down.
“It’s okay. You’re not in trouble. Did Mama just finish unwinding the cloth from them?” I knew the rag-rolling was something Gigi had endured as a child and hated, but it kept her ringlets perfect.
“Mm-hmm, it hurt a lot more this morning. Mama said it's cause I’m tired. How come you don’t have to do it?”
“My hair is straight so it doesn’t get tangled like yours.”
She pouted and then let out a big yawn, stretching her arms in the air.
“You moved a lot last night.”
“I’m sorry—I guess I had another bad dream.”
Her big green eyes widened and a smile peeked at the corners of her mouth, letting me know I was forgiven.
“What are you doing in here?”
She glanced back and forth like the walls had ears.
“It’s okay. I won’t tell.”
“I want to look extra pretty today because I get to go next door to play.” She lifted the carved elephant box off Marjorie’s dresser and swung around, her eyes as shiny as emeralds.
“I know we’re not supposed to,” she said, opening it and picking up the butterfly comb, “but...”
I stepped closer, peering over her shoulder to see the silver hair clip and pearl earrings, but no Purple Delhi Sapphire jewels. The set was probably tucked away in the hidden compartment.
“I know that seems like a good idea, but there’s a good chance you might lose ‘em. So what if we make you a necklace instead?”
“How can you do that?” Gigi asked, suddenly intrigued and I wondered if people made popcorn or paper necklaces now?
A loud knock sounded at the door downstairs, interrupting us, and I wrapped my arms around her, squeezing tight. “You know how much I love you, right?”
“Uh-huh.”
“And you know if anything ever happened to me, I would want you to be brave and strong.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Good, because no matter what we’ll be together again. Now give me the biggest hug you can muster.”
“You’re the best sister in the world, Zafira.”
“No, you are,” I said and tickled her side. She cackled with glee, running out of the room and down the stairs.
“Slow down,” I called, hurrying down the stairs after her. Scanning the front room, I caught movement by the door. My heart stopped beating, then started pounding.
Marjorie stood by the open door, and on the other side of the threshold was a man, one I recognized but at the same time didn’t. His shining black hair was smoothed back and his eyes were dark...much too dark. My pulse kept its alarming pace.
“Marjorie, isn’t it?” Deep dimples bracketed his grin.
Shaking her head, Marjorie said, “Who are you?”
“Eugene’s never mentioned me?”
His eyes cut to mine. “Well, hello there. It seems we meet again.”
The temperature in the house suddenly doubled and my knees went weak. Marjorie shifted her stance, looking from the stranger to me, still perched on the stairs.
“You know this man?” Marjorie’s voice cut through my panic, but the best I could do was mumble. “Zafira! Answer me.”
The man reached out, touching Marjorie’s hand. “Please don’t be upset. I thought I saw her at the General Store when I first arrived in town, but perhaps it wasn’t her.”
Marjorie’s shoulders tightened up and she pulled her hand back.
“Is this a bad time?” he asked.
“Yes,” I blurted, backing up two steps on numb legs.
Marjorie shot me a look.
“How do you know my husband, then?”
“I’m his brother. The name is Velte, ma’am.”
Silence overtook the room.
“Impossible. Velte died years ago.”
“Apparently not, because here I am.” Amusement flashed in his dark eyes and he smiled, softening the sharp features of his face.
“I’ve been searching for my family for a long time. Please tell me Eugene is home.”
She widened her stance, blocking the doorframe. “You’re really his long-lost brother?”
“Yes.”
“What happened to you?”
“I got lost in the crowd, ma’am—shuffled off the boat with some others. There was a death and everyone was asked to leave. I got separated—by the time I got back to the ship, it was setting sail.”
“Why didn’t you tell someone? Surely they would have…”
“I did. Believe me I did. One of the dock workers offered to put me on the next ship to catch up, but he lied. The rest of the story probably isn’t fit for the little one's ears.”
“How awful,” Marjorie said. “Where are my manners? Please come in.”
“No!” I blurted. “I mean—shouldn’t you go to the store? That’s where Eu—Papa is.”
Marjorie looked up at me, narrowing her eyes as if I’d struck a match but as quickly as I’d lit her mind afire, it went out and, ignoring my protest, she waved him in. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s gotten into her. Please come in.”
Failing to suppress his grin, he casually stepped over the threshold and closed the door.
Chapter Nineteen
Prodigal Son
I entered the room carrying sandwiches, as everyone else fawned over the prodigal son’s return. It bothered me that Gigi had never mentioned meeting her uncle and, yet, here he was sitting beside her.
As I approached I felt the same torrent of feelings I’d had earlier on the stairs—recognition, mixed with fear, sprinkled with confusion. He was handsome, as handsome as Eugene, though where Eugene lit up the room with his bright eyes and smile, this man seemed to draw and collect the shadows in the deep, dark pools of his eyes.
“Is Uncle Velte spending the night?” Gigi asked.
My heart pounded as I waited for the answer.
Eugene and Marjorie both looked to Velte.
“I have a room down the street,” he answered.
“Nonsense, you’ll stay here,” Eugene said.
“Thank you, brother, but I’m all paid up for tonight and my things are back there.” His eyes darted toward me. “Maybe tomorrow night.”
I set down the tray with a bang, and Eugene turned to Marjorie. “Why don’t you put the kids to bed? I’m going to spend some time alone with my brother.”
“But it’s not bedtime,” said Gigi, climbing up on Eugene’s lap.
“It is tonight, my dear. Go get a good night’s rest, and I’ll see you in the morning.”
Velte reached out to pat Gigi’s hair and my skin crawled. I grabbed her by the hand, yanking her away.
“Come along. You mustn’t ignore Papa. Let’s brush our teeth.”
I stayed awake until finally I heard the front door close, then I allowed myself to relax. I was sure it had been him in last night’s dream. He had been the one to kill Zafira. And yet the world would think it was Eugene. I pulled the book out from under the bed where I’d hidden it, and opened it, allowing the familiar smell of dust and age to soothe and comfort me in a way only an old book could.. “Now I lay me down to sleep.” I read the poem on page thirty-eight again and closed the book, drumming my fingers against the cover before tucking it back away.
I dropped against my pillows with a sigh. The very thought of what I was up against was giving me palpitations. The shopkeeper had said the spell would only work once, but nothing had happened. Dreaming of Zafira’s death was nothing new to me, unless I’d missed something. I switched the lamp off and scrunched my eyes closed, settling into the darkness in the hopes that a solution would present itself by morning.
Perky breasts jutted into my face, invading my dreams. Images—someone else’s, not mine—tumbled through my mind: metal walls and a girl’s terrified gaze, the smell of seawater and unwashed bodies. The pictures wrapped around me, suffocating me, until some rational part of my brain told me I’d fallen asleep and entered the mind of a sexually frustrated adolescent boy.
The girl pushed away, jumping to her feet as he stumbled back, falling against the metal wall. His blood boiled. She fumbled to fasten the top of her dress where he’d torn it open, exposing much of her breasts. I could hear his thoughts as if he spoke them aloud.
Nobody makes a fool of me.
His mind jumped to the purple stone his father had taken away. He’d felt the power—felt it being stolen from him.
This girl would pay. Something changed—I could feel the calm before the storm. Almost as if his madness had consumed him and he was suddenly pleased, even aroused, by the idea of the chase.
“Go ahead. Run away.” He smirked, “but there’s no where to hide on a ship.”
He followed her through a door, laughing and taunting, growing harder by the second. Her footsteps echoed off the metal walls, mixing with the thrum of the nearby engines, vibrating in his chest, buzzing in his ears.
“You’ll never outrun me at this pace.”
Chest heaving, she turned her eyes to him. Her glare so defiant it could have burned a hole through him.
“Is that so?” she challenged, picking up speed.
“Don’t try to be brave. I can smell your fear.”
The stairs loomed ahead. She was close to her goal.
I could feel his heart dancing in his chest. Like a cat with a mouse. He waited till she was almost up the stairs and then knocked her to the ground, dragging her back into the shadows. She was petite, most likely fourteen or fifteen, with bright eyes that widened as she opened her mouth to scream.
The boy moved fast to straddle her.
Letting loose a roar, he struck her across the face. “Are you afraid now?” he mocked.
“You bastard,” she gritted, breathing hard. Sweat was beading at her hairline. He smirked down at her and grabbed at her russet-colored braids that had been pinned close to her head, tearing them loose. I could feel his desire to beat her face in.
“Such language,” he tutted.
“Please let me go!” she begged, failing to smother her panic.
With a quick shove, the girl clawed at his face and attempted to push herself back up to her feet, but he pinned one hand against her neck, pressing the other over her mouth to stifle her cries. She bit at the knuckles of his hand and he howled, pulling it away and shaking it before he backhanded her across the face.
He waited, almost challenging her to try something else, but she’d learned her lesson. He’d broken her.
She rubbed at her cheek while he contorted his body to lift her skirts. A frightened cry escaped her lips and he turned back.
Tears rolled down her cheeks, but he didn’t care. There wasn’t an ounce of empathy in him.
He gripped both hands around her neck. His thumbs folded over her windpipe and she gasped. I imagined the burn she was feeling as his fingers dug into the muscles. Her legs thrashed and she beat at his shoulders but he held tight, until I could almost hear the snapping of the trachea. She struggled, choking for air. The more she gasped, the more he liked it. Her eyes finally bulged and glossed over and he rubbed at the front of his pants.
“Why are we stopping?” asked a woman’s voice from the hall.
I looked around. Time must have jumped because we were no longer in the same area of the ship. The light was on and only the boy was in the room. The beds were mussed like everyone had been woken and the door was open.
“I don't know. I'll go see. Perhaps we've reached the next port.”
The boy bent down. There was a suitcase and a black leather bag.
He needed to feel the power.
He opened and frantically rummaged through the bag, but couldn’t locate what he was looking for. Sweat dripped from his forehead, landing on one of the sparkly baubles that glittered from within. A woman’s voice grew closer; it was Oma Gretchen, and she was coming back. He reached in, grabbing out two of the larger sized jewels, stuffing them in his pocket. Then he waited until his mother’s back was turned and bolted out the door.
Chapter Twenty
Ann Switzer Gets Her Story
I woke to screams of frustration tearing from my own throat.
“Zafira, honey. Put the elephant down. It’s all right, shhhh, Mama's here.” Marjorie whispered soothing words as she rocked me in her arms. “It's okay. It's over. It was just a bad dream, shhhh.” She fumbled with the blanket, trying to wrap it around me to stop the shaking.
I was disoriented and trembling violently. I looked around the room, trying to get a hold of myself, and realized I’d sleepwalked into Marjorie and Eugene’s room. “I'm okay,” I whispered and drew in long, steady breaths.
Marjorie turned my face toward the moonlight and studied it.
“You’re pale and sweating.” She put the back of her hand to my forehead. “And cold. Maybe you're getting sick.”
Panic set in her eyes.
“No, I'm okay,” I insisted swallowing hard.
“You’re growing up so fast,” she said and paused to take a deep breath. “And there’s something else I can’t put my finger on.”
Gigi sat on the end of Marjorie’s bed, hugging her knees to her chest. She had obviously woken and followed me.
“Oh, Veronika, you must have been terrified waking up to your sister’s screams like that. Why don’t you go downstairs to your father and get a glass of warm milk? Come on, Zafira, I’ll walk you back to your own room.”
Gigi scooted off the bed and disappeared down the stairs.
Marjorie turned her attention back to me as we walked.
“Do you want to tell me about it?”
“No.” That was a lie. I wanted to tell her so badly, but I didn’t know the rules of time travel. How much was I allowed to interfere with destiny?
“That's okay; I know you're probably too scared right now. You can tell me in the morning when it will all seem silly.” She smiled and smoothed my hair, helping me into bed and fluffing my pillow.
She was such a lovely person. No wonder Gigi missed her so much. How could I let her die?
“What if,” I whispered, pulling the blanket all the way to my chin, “I dreamed of a murder and what if it really happened?” I bit my lip, still debating whether or not I was doing the right thing.
Temple of Indra's Curse (Time-Traveling Bibliophile Book 2) Page 6