The Syndicate (Timewaves Book 1)

by Sophie Davis

  “Ancient history,” I parroted.

  Which was precisely the problem. Our detainments were now a part of history. It was impossible to know what ripple effects would originate from this incident.

  “You vouched for him?” I asked, for lack of something better to say.

  If I just kept talking, I wouldn’t have to think about the potential fallout from this mix-up.

  Charles squirmed uncomfortably. “Well, yes, I did.”

  “That was very generous of you,” I replied absently. “What precisely does that mean?”

  He patted my back. “It is nothing more than a formality. I declared that I know him and assured the police of his veracity. Simply put, I swore on my reputation that your brother would return tomorrow. He will be released any minute now, and then we should get you both home.”

  “Home,” I agreed.

  I wanted to go home. My real home, on the island, not the alchemist townhouse. I wanted to see Cyrus and have him fix everything. Because that’s what my boss did. He could dispatch a cleanup crew to fix this mess—it was their area of expertise, after all. They mended history after runners broke it.

  When Gaige finally emerged from the interrogation room, I jumped up and squeezed him with all of my might. As long as the two of us were together, we could get the hell out of Paris and return to Branson. Though a glance at Charles brought an immense amount of guilt. Would he get in trouble for vouching for someone who then disappeared? What would his punishment be?

  Charles wanted to ride with us back to the townhouse, to be sure we made it home safely. He only backed down when Gaige promised him that Ines and I were in good hands, and we would be returning directly to the townhouse. With a promise to see me the next day, Charles held my gaze as he brushed his lips gently across the back of my hand. Another pang of guilt came with his kiss.

  “No more surprises,” Gaige declared as soon as we were in the backseat of the Rolls, Jacque behind the wheel. “We send another message through tonight, and leave in the morning if we haven’t heard back by then. Ines, we need you to go speak with the forger. Tell him to prepare our papers, just in case.”

  As though Gaige’s declaration had summoned it, one hell of a surprise was waiting in the living room of our Parisian home.

  THIS SURPRISE WAS actually a good one. A really good one, in my opinion.

  Cyrus was sitting on the couch when we walked through the front door. He stood as soon as we entered.

  “You came!” I exclaimed, crossing the living room and throwing myself at my boss.

  “Stassi, what’s wrong?” Cyrus asked, his voice thin and strained.

  At first, he simply patted my back awkwardly. When I didn’t immediately move away, Cyrus squeezed me tightly against his chest. That was when I realized the error of my ways. Since physical displays of emotion were unusual for me, not to mention the fact that Cyrus was my boss, I’d never shared more than a handshake with him.

  “Oh, shite. I’m so sorry, Cyrus.” I scrambled backward, feeling mortified. Running a hand over my mussed hair, I scrambled for an eloquent excuse. Nothing came to mind so I simply repeated, “I’m sorry.”

  Cyrus reached out and took both my hands between his.

  “It’s okay, it’s okay,” he assured me, worry creasing his brow. “But you need to tell me what happened, Stassi. What’s wrong?”

  Refusing to meet his gaze, I mumbled, “Everything.”

  My boss chuckled softly, easing the tension in the room. “When did you become the drama queen? Hmmm? That’s usually Gaige’s role.”

  “Thank you for coming, sir,” Gaige said from behind me. His lack of a snarky response to Cyrus’s jibe about being a drama queen showed just how serious the situation was.

  Apparently, Cyrus agreed. He appeared alarmed by my partner’s somber mood.

  “Clearly, I am missing something. Stassi is shaking and,” he placed one finger under my chin and forced my head upwards, “it appears she’s been crying. You,” he nodded towards Gaige, “are wearing the same expression as when I told you the canteen would no longer being carrying grape milk. Did something happen?”

  “Isn’t that why you’re here, sir?” Gaige asked, sounding perplexed.

  I heard the front door open again. Ines rushed into the room, out of breath.

  “I woke Pierre, he is starting on your papers at once. I also had the transport—” Ines abruptly halted when she saw Cyrus. Her authoritative air immediately vanished, replaced with a deferential tone in her voice. “My apologies, sir. I did not know you were here. It is an honor to meet you, my name is Ines Callandries.”

  “Cyrus Atlic,” my boss said, extending his hand to shake hers.

  “I-I know, sir,” Ines stuttered. “You are the Founder of the syndicates.”

  Cyrus merely nodded in response to the alchemist as he gently guided me to the sofa and gestured for me to sit. Ines and Gaige joined us. The alchemist was noticeably ill at ease.

  Expression weary, Cyrus ran a hand down his face and sighed loudly.

  “So, the reason I am here,” Cyrus started, picking back up with Gaige’s question before Ines’s entrance. “Well, it seems we have a situation…. A missing runner, to be exact.”

  “Missing runner?” Gaige and I replied in unison.

  We exchanged uneasy glances as my chest tightened. Ines lit a cigarette with trembling hands. Our boss studied us each in turn, then reached for a leather portfolio sitting on the coffee table.

  “I’m afraid so. Bane Montgomery, head of the Montgomery Syndicate, paid me a visit today. One of his runners took vacation leave about three weeks ago, but never returned.” Cyrus flipped open the folder and withdrew a glossy headshot. The man looked to be in his mid-twenties, with black hair and smoky gray eyes. “Do any of you recognize him?” He held the photo up to each of us in turn.

  I shook my head. Gaige stared thoughtfully at the photograph, then mimicked my gesture.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” he finally said. “The guy doesn’t look familiar.”

  We all turned to Ines. Her skin had gone from pale ivory to a shade of green most could only achieve with heavy stage makeup. I felt a fleeting pang of sympathy for the customs agent. All of this had to be nightmare for her, too. A rogue runner wreaking havoc in the city on her watch didn’t look so good.

  Apparently Ines was still uncomfortable in the presence of such greatness—if I didn’t see Cyrus on a regular basis, I’d probably react the same way—because she managed only a jerky headshake as she continued to suck on her cigarette.

  Cyrus sighed.

  “Ah, well, it was worth a shot.” He set the picture on the coffee table before continuing. “His name is Lachlan Shepard, and he’s been a runner for the Montgomery Syndicate for five years. Besides a couple of minor infractions, he’s never caused any real trouble. Until now, that is.”

  Lachlan Shepard’s personnel file was visible inside the leather folio, but Cyrus never once consulted the printed pages as he spoke.

  “When he failed to return from vacation, Bane had a lengthy talk with Shepard’s partner about his trip plans. Bane discovered that Shepard is here, now. If his partner is correct, Shepard is in clear violation of Mandate 4.43,” Cyrus continued.

  Mandate 4.43 was the one about not performing unsanctioned runs.

  Along with an awesome salary, beautiful island home, and the chance to touch history, one of the perks of being a runner was the ability to vacation in time periods that interested us. There was some fine print in the mandates about how many time tourism trips a runner could make, and even finer print outlining inter-syndicate travel—trips made outside the territory of the runner’s home syndicate. Both the runner’s boss and the head of the syndicate whose territory the runner wished to visit needed to approve the request. Judging by Cyrus’s angry tone and fierce expression, I was guessing Lachlan did not ask his permission to vacation in the Atlic territory.

  “Whoa,” Gaige whistled. “What’s the penalty
on that?”

  “Without question, he’ll receive an unpaid suspension and a sizeable fine. Shepard will also be on probation for the foreseeable future. Depending on the circumstances and situation, exile is another possibility.”

  “How did he enter the area?” Ines spoke up. “We would have known if he came through customs.”

  “We believe he used the catacombs,” Cyrus explained, referring to the endless miles of tunnels beneath the streets of Paris. “There are pockets of prima down there, so it’s not unlike jumping through an actual gate. Many of the passageways are deserted; he could have come through without anyone the wiser. Or, there is always the chance he free jumped. If that’s the case, it is even more imperative that I locate Shepard immediately. He may be suffering from extreme time sickness and in need of medical attention.”

  When none of us responded to this, Cyrus glanced between us again.

  “You guys don’t know anything about this, do you?” he asked.

  “No, sir. This is the first we’ve heard of another runner being here,” I answered.

  “So then what has you all worked up?”

  Eyebrows raised in question, I looked to Gaige for the answer. My partner wrung his hands in his lap, clearly reluctant to tell our boss about his predicament.

  “Have you heard of the Night Gentleman?” I started. “The serial killer who modeled his murders after a comic book character named Fantômas?”

  “No,” my boss replied uncertainly. “When and where was he active?”

  “Now,” I said plainly. “Here.”

  “There are no serial killers operating in this time and location,” Cyrus said, his tone definitive.

  My stomach dropped. Cyrus’s statement confirmed the fear that’d been lingering in the back of my mind. The Night Gentleman wasn’t a part of history as we knew it.

  “This is not possible. You must be mistaken, Cyrus,” Ines said, her high-pitched giggle a mixture of stress and disbelief, as if our boss was playing a joke on us.

  “I am certainly not mistaken, Ines,” Cyrus replied, his tone deadly serious. “We make it our business to know about each and every killer who has ever been active in our territory. Because they are unpredictable, we actively avoid crossing paths with them. There has never been a man named the Night Gentleman killing in Paris.”

  Silence descended on our group.

  “Do you think Lachlan might be the Night Gentleman?” I finally asked, giving voice to the theory we were all probably considering.

  “Surely not,” Ines declared.

  “The timing fits,” Gaige suggested. “The killer has been active for two or three weeks now. Lachlan’s been MIA for three weeks. The math works out.”

  “And it would really help us out,” I added. “If we know who’s actually killing people, you’re off the hook.”

  “What do you mean?” Cyrus asked with confusion.

  “Um, well…I am the chief person of interest for the murders, sir,” Gaige replied uneasily. “That’s where we’ve been all night, at the police station answering questions. Technically, I’m only free right now because a member of society vouched for me.”

  Cyrus leaned back on the couch and crossed his arms over his chest.

  “Start at the beginning,” he demanded. “Now.”

  Between the three of us, we told Cyrus everything we knew about the Night Gentleman and the reasons Inspector Dipstick suspected Gaige was the villain. Recounting it to him only bolstered my belief that the evidence was flimsy and circumstantial. My boss listened with a blank expression, quietly digesting the information.

  “This certainly is a snag we hadn’t anticipated,” Cyrus said calmly when we were finished telling our story. He turned to Ines. “All of this needs to be handled with the utmost efficiency and discretion, do you understand? This situation is strictly need-to-know.”

  Ines nodded.

  “Good. Pierre—that is the document specialist at this customs station, correct?”

  Ines nodded again.

  “I need him down at customs as soon as possible. If he has an apprentice, it might be good to call him in as well. I need several documents completed by morning.”

  “I will go wake Pierre immediately,” Ines told Cyrus.

  “Thank you, Ines. I also need you to contact your connections at local hotels, to see if any of them have a Lachlan Shepard registered. There’s a good chance he’s using an alias, but we have to start somewhere. Check with your police contacts, too, just in case Shepard was arrested. Or, heaven forbid, found dead. As soon as I finish speaking with Stassi and Gaige, I will be down to meet with Pierre and give him specific instructions.”

  Ines bid us all farewell and left to go about the tasks Cyrus had assigned her.

  “We’ll see what, if any, leads the alchemists turn up tonight regarding Shepard,” Cyrus told Gaige and me once Ines was gone. “I’m going to have Pierre make a time-period-appropriate replica of that photo.” He pointed to the picture still on the coffee table. “That way, I have it to show around, if need be. I’m going to have my passport and travel documents made out in the name ‘Cyrus Shepard’ so that I can pass myself off as the kid’s father. It should help in getting some otherwise reluctant hotel staff to talk.”

  “Do you really think he might be using his own name?” I asked dubiously.

  Cyrus shrugged. “I sure as hell hope so. It’ll make tracking him down a lot easier. But that’s tomorrow’s problem. Right now, you both look like you could use some sleep.”

  “I sure could,” Gaige agreed. My partner stood and stretched. “Night, boss. Night, Stass.”

  I followed suit, thinking sleep was exactly what I needed. Cyrus remained seated, the portfolio still open in his lap. I hesitated for moment.

  “Is there something else bothering you, Stassi?” Cyrus asked.

  “Well, actually, I was just wondering how Molly is doing?”

  Cyrus smiled. “She’s Molly. I stopped by your place before leaving. In one breath, she told me she would never make another run. In the next, she asked if she could come here with me.” He laughed softly. “Said she was worried about you being away from home for so long.”

  It was my turn to laugh. “Yep, sounds like Molly.

  We heard the soft click of Gaige’s door closing. Cyrus’s expression turned serious.

  “Stassi, you wanted this assignment pretty badly. Is there something you aren’t telling me?” He didn’t sound angry, merely interested.

  My hand flew instinctively to my necklace and my fingers closed around the locket.

  “No, sir. I loved Paris when I came for training, and I’ve always wanted to come back. This assignment was the opportunity I’ve been waiting for.”

  The lie came easily, since it was rooted in truth.

  Cyrus studied me for a long moment. “Well, you’ll tell me if there is anything I can help you with? I’m already here, after all.”

  “Of course,” I agreed, forcing a smile. “Goodnight, Cyrus.”

  “’Night, Stassi.”

  Just as I reached my room, I heard him call up to me.

  “Don’t worry about Gaige. We’ll get this all straightened out in the morning.”

  I prayed he was right, yet something told me things would get a whole lot worse before they got better.

  I SLEPT LATE the next morning. Cyrus was gone by the time I finally dragged my exhausted self downstairs. Gaige was sitting at the formal dining table, drinking coffee and reading the paper. An uneaten plate of toast, bacon, and hardboiled eggs was pushed off to one side of him, right next to a bouquet of red roses.

  “Coffee’s in the kitchen,” Gaige called without looking up from his paper.

  “I take back every mean thing I’ve said about you in the last week,” I said, stifling a yawn. I pointed to the flowers on my way to the kitchen. “Are those for me? You shouldn’t have.”

  “I didn’t,” Gaige called after me. “They came by messenger first thing this morning. I
have a bottle of 2312 Damiani Merlot that says lover boy sent them.”

  “I think you mean I have a 2312 bottle of Damiani Merlot,” I shot back.

  “Exactly. And if I’m right, I’ll be drinking it with my first meal back on the island.”

  “That wine was a gift from Molly. So, no, I’m not betting with you—you’ve probably already read the card and know who sent the flowers. I assume by ‘lover boy’ you mean Charles DuPree. If so, you should be the one sending him flowers, since he did stake his reputation on you showing up at the station today.”

  “Dudes don’t give other dudes flowers, Stass. I’ll send him some scotch—that’s a manly gift.”

  I added sugar and cream to a lukewarm cup of coffee, then joined him in the dining room. Gaige plucked a thick manila envelope from the bouquet and tossed it across the table to me. Anastasia Prince was scrawled in bold black strokes across the front. The seal was still intact.

  “‘I’m sorry’ are the words you’re looking for,” Gaige deadpanned, turning back to his newspaper.

  The front page of the paper was facing me. Once again, the prominent front page headline was about the Night Gentleman.

  “Whatever,” I grumbled, sliding my nail along the flap to break the seal.

  Inside was a note written on cardstock the same color and quality as the envelope. Smiling, since I figured the flowers had to be from Charles, I began to read.

  Roses are red, violets are blue.

  Fire is cleansing, yet deadly, too.

  Will you find me, before I find you?

  All the best,

  Mitchell T. Baylarian.

  I threw the note on the table, like a potato too hot to hold. Gaige’s head shot up, surprise evident in his dark gaze.

  “Was he too forward? Too kinky? Did he say he wants to lick your face?” Gaige teased.

  “What? Eww. No. It—it’s not from Charles,” I stammered.

  My partner’s expression turned serious. “Who is it from?” he asked, his voice low and a little intimidating.