by Brenna Todd
Adrenaline rocketing through her, she quickly sat up, and crawled to the woman's side, her locket bouncing against her chest.
"Oh, God!" she gasped, looking down at the woman's face. Nausea rose in her throat. It wasn't the angry red splotches that ringed the woman's throat like some sort of obscene necklace that brought on the urge to retch. Nor her vacant, open-eyed stare. Erin had seen death in many grisly forms. But none had been as revolting, as horrifying, as this. It was something she could never have imagined in her worst nightmare: she looked at the woman and saw her own face staring up at her.
"Oh, God," she whispered. "Della?"
No! Della had died before Erin was born! Sometime in the twenties, hadn't Chuck said? She swallowed convulsively, her mind numb as she checked for a pulse, a heartbeat, any sign of life. But there was none. She brushed her palm over Della's lids, closing the woman's eyes and swallowing again as her gaze took in the glamorous twenties-style gown and long strands of colored beads. Her feet were shod in elegant, T-strap heels, and her stockings were silk. She had the short, boyish haircut that had been in vogue in the twenties—not much different from the style Erin wore now. But her features— nose, mouth, eyes—were what riveted Erin's attention. Until she heard the door open again.
Footsteps echoed menacingly in the hallway.
The murder was never solved... found her body in a cave on the estate. Erin remembered the tour guide's words and vaulted into action. Della's murderer had come back for the body. He was going to hide it in the cave. Though her mind should have reeled with the implications of that theory, Erin's survival instinct kicked in. She jumped to her feet and took off in the opposite direction.
ERIN SLID TO THE FLOOR and buried her head in her hands, wanting so much to give vent to tears of frustration and exhaustion. With every twist and turn of the hallway, with every new door she'd tried, she'd come no closer to finding her way out of the maze.
This had to be the system of tunnels J.B. had had excavated beneath the Munro mansion, but her mind refused to accept the rest of this "nightmare." That couldn't have been Della Munro back there.
But what if it was? If she accepted where she was, and the woman's identity, wouldn't she have to accept when she was? According to Della's date of death—
When she was? Oh, God. Erin squeezed her eyes shut. She'd lost her mind. She was actually entertaining the thought that she had traveled through time!
Rising from the floor, she decided to prove herself wrong. There had to be an explanation for how she had ended up here, for what she'd witnessed. And she would find it, by God.
Another half hour passed. She'd come to three more doors... three more locked doors. Exhausted now, her legs weak and trembling, she turned yet another corner and saw a set of concrete steps. At the top was a door.
Oh, please, she prayed, let this be the one. She urged herself on until finally she was grasping the metal railing, lifting legs that felt like they were moving in molasses. Halfway up, she stumbled and lost her footing, then fell down the hard steps. Her forehead connected with the concrete and she cried out in pain.
Her shins stung, and there would be bruises on her arms and torso. Checking her ribs, she was relieved to find none were cracked. Blood trickled from a goose egg that was swelling on her forehead.
She rose to her knees, then crawled up the stairs. Hope and desperation gave her the strength to stand, and she opened the door.
A blast of music assaulted her ears. What on earth? She moved through the doorway and glanced around her. An enclosure of bricks and mortar. Was she where she thought she was? The fireplace that Betty had stood inside? Ducking her head, she peered out into the great hall. The music came from a party that was in full swing; a party straight out of The Great Gatsby—and the one in her vision.
The men were dressed in suits with high, stiff collars, the women in satin and bugle-beaded gowns. A live band blared jazz from one corner, and blue-gray clouds of smoke from cigarettes and cigars drifted above the guests' heads.
"Della!"
Erin's gaze swung to the woman who had shouted. Decked out in a sleeveless satin gown and a long strand of pearls similar to the ones Della had been wearing, the woman handed her cocktail to the waiter standing next to her and rushed forward, the long feather in her glittery headband bobbing and a puzzled look in her eye.
"It is you, goose! Wherever have you been? For heaven's sake, we've wondered when you would— Oh, good Lord, you're bleeding!"
The woman grasped Erin's arm. "Come out of there," she said, staring at Erin's denim shirt and jeans in consternation. "What in heaven's name have you done to yourself?" She glanced back over her shoulder. "You," she instructed the waiter, who was gaping at Erin along with several nearby guests, "close your mouth and get J.B. over here!"
More heads turned. Conversations stopped. Several women edged forward, eyeing her clothing.
"She should probably sit...or something. Don't you think?" the woman asked the others, but no one answered. The waiter, dumbstruck, still hadn't moved. "What are you waiting for! Didn't I tell you to get J.B.?
"Really, dear," she commented, turning back to Erin once the servant had fled, "you might think about dismissing that one. Della, I'm not one to tell another woman how to run her household, but—"
Erin's head pounded. Her legs felt on the verge of collapse. She shook her head at the woman and dragged a shaky hand through her hair. "I'm... uh—" oh, this was just too bizarre! "—not who you think...."
Her words trailed off as the bevy of women surrounding her suddenly parted and a man elbowed his way through.
"J.B., there you are! Just look at Della! Ronald and I were wondering where she was—hadn't seen a trace of her since we arrived two hours ago—and I looked up and there she was in that monstrosity you call a fireplace, wearing these...these field hand's clothes! And look at the blood on—"
"Step aside, Leila."
His voice, sharp with anger, sliced through the woman's chatter. Her mouth snapped shut and she backed away quickly.
Erin blinked. God, it was really him! J.B. A younger, vital J.B. with thick, wavy blond hair and smooth, taut skin stretched over high cheekbones. The faded blue eyes that had once elicited her pity were now icy blue. And the scar! It was there, next to his eye. Amazing! What the devil was going on here? Was she dreaming? Was she hallucinating after that bump on her head? But no, that had been after she'd seen Della.... Oh, God.
J.B.'s hand encircled her upper arm none too gently, and he jerked up her chin with a forefinger. His eyes, hard with fury, examined the lump on her head. "Where the hell have you been?" he ground out. "And I'll have an explanation for these clothes!"
Explanation? Explanation! Her incredulity fled and anger streaked through her. Erin yanked her arm from his grasp. An explanation! Yeah, she thought sarcastically, I could use one, too. Which line do I stand in for one of those!
J.B. lifted a brow, momentary surprise in his gaze. Then his expression tightened and he reached for her arm again.
"She's hurt, J.B," a masculine voice intervened, and Erin glanced up. "You can see that."
"Oh, my God. It's you!"
Erin had never fainted in her life until today, but felt dangerously close to plunging into unconsciousness a second time. Her light-headedness burned off quickly, though, and her heart kicked with excitement. I found you, she almost said aloud. You're... here!
Oh, this was too unreal, she thought, examining his familiar features. They were just the same as they'd been in her vision. A lean, sun-weathered face, stubborn jaw, and eyes that were deep-set and pure black. Brows just as dark formed a vee at the bridge of his nose, and his eyes told her he was certain she'd lost her sanity. Hell, she probably had. No, not probably; of course, she had! Either that, or it was all a dream. One hell of a dream. She thought she saw a shift in his expression... imagined she saw a sharp glint of awareness in his eyes. She felt a surge of excitement at that and recalled the emotion she'd felt earlier,
on the steps of the mansion. There was a connection here... something between them.
"Are you forgetting yourself, Waite?" J.B. demanded, jarring Erin out of her reverie. "She's my wife."
Waite! J.B.'s partner in Munro MacKinnon? The one Betty had said was rumored to have been Della's lover? The thought evoked sudden and inexplicable jealousy.
His jaw clenched. "Don't take that tone with me, J.B. When have I ever given you reason to distrust me?"
The moment was tight with tension, both men sending out masculine vibes, like two stallions taking each other's measure. Then J.B. seemed to remember Erin. He looked down at her. "You were forbidden to go down there. I'll hear your explanation later, after we've seen to your head. Let's go"
She was propelled forward by his hand at the small of her back, but not far, because she stiffened, instinctively bucking the order by digging in her heels. Erin didn't know what had happened to her, how she had ended up here—whenever the hell this was—but it wasn't in her nature to blindly follow commands. "No, I'm won't go anywhere with-"
"No? What is wrong with you?" His voice snapping with impatience, he swept his gaze over her jeans and denim shirt again before glancing at the guests who still hovered nearby. "I said now!" he muttered with more force.
"No! I-"
"You're hurt, Della." Waite stepped closer. His brow was furrowed, but his tone was soothing, persuasive. She watched, dazed as he lifted his hand toward her forehead, then winced when he grazed the bump. "See?" he said, lowering fingertips red with her blood into her line of vision. "You should go with J.B."
She swallowed, aware of the injury but more aware of the man who looked down at her, his expression urging her to obey J.B. Can you take me? she wanted to ask, but she realized that would only make matters worse.
Glancing away, breaking eye contact so she could concentrate, she made a decision. Yes, she thought, telling herself it wasn't his counsel she had decided to follow, but her own. She needed to think; figure out what had happened to her, and how she would get out of here, get home. Clearing her throat, she faced J.B. It felt strange, acting as though she were someone she wasn't, but Erin couldn't begin to fathom what might happen if she were to explain who she was... and what she had witnessed in the tunnel. "I... yes, J.B. Take me to... my room."
He wasn't pleased it had taken Waite's persuasion to convince her, it seemed, but he said nothing, merely nodded and led her through the crowd with brisk steps.
The great hall hadn't changed much, she noted distractedly. It was remarkably similar to the way it had looked on the tour. The walls were hung with priceless tapestries and canvases painted by world-renowned artists.
Then she saw the portrait and her footsteps faltered. She blinked, surprised again at the rendering of Della, astonished anew by the uncanny resemblance. Della, whose fate had been sealed by a man with a beard.
But even more surprising was the peculiar ringing in her ears that grew louder as she and J.B. approached the portrait. She almost wrote it off to her fall down the steps, then realized it wasn't a ringing noise at all.
It was humming. The same humming noise she had heard just before she had touched the portrait in her own world. Was this... a way back? Could it be that simple? she wondered, cautious hope stirring in her chest. But why not? If it was the "door" she'd entered to get here, logic said it was the door she would use to exit. With each step she took, the humming grew louder and her hope became stronger. As J.B. steered her toward the doorway beside the portrait, Erin broke away.
"What the—?" J.B. muttered disgustedly. He followed at her heels. "Della, you're testing me, woman." He reclaimed her arm just as she was reaching toward the canvas.
She shrugged out of his grip. "In a minute. Just give me one minute." But he frowned again, shaking his head and attempting to restrain her. "One minute or you'll have to drag me out of here, I promise you. Do you want that kind of scene?"
Erin seemed to have pushed the right button.
"All right," he said, teeth clenched. "One minute."
She didn't waste a moment. Lifting her hand to the portrait and sending up a short prayer, she closed her eyes and waited for the sensation of light-headedness. It didn't come. In fact, the humming ceased abruptly when her fingers made contact. She opened her eyes and saw that nothing had changed. Damn it!
Confused, Erin stepped back. Then the humming started again!
"Della, this is enough. I demand that you stop this.. .this whatever you're doing and come with me now."
She ignored him, intent on the portrait. Then she saw it and remembered. The locket! How could she have forgotten! She waved off J.B., fumbling inside her collar for the piece of jewelry. She hadn't just touched the portrait, she'd touched the locket at the same time. It was the key, she was sure of it, and—
Oh, dear God...the locket was gone. Gone? But she remembered having it on in the tunnel. Remembered it slapping against her chest as she'd crawled to Della's side. How could she have lost it between then and now?
"You've had your minute," J.B. said, breaking into her thoughts. "For God's sake, you're hurt."
She looked at him, then slowly lifted her fingers to the bump. "That's it," she whispered. "When I fell..."
Wheeling around, she made for the fireplace again.
"Della!"
But Erin didn't slow down. Not for J.B. or her exhaustion, not for the people in her way. Adrenaline and purpose sent her pushing and jostling, tripping and cursing her way through the crowd, until she was within yards of the fireplace. Yes! Her goal in sight, Erin elbowed past the last group of party guests, nearly sprinting the final few feet... only to be brought up short when Waite MacKinnon stepped into her path. She pitched straight into his arms.
"God." He grasped her upper arms, setting her back from him.
"Let me go," she said, short of breath. "I have to—go back down there—"
"Della!" He gave her a slight shake. "Are you drunk?"
"No! I'm not Della," she whispered heatedly, without thinking. "And I'm not drunk or sick! I just need to get back into the tunnel."
"You're going nowhere, Della, especially into that tunnel," J.B. said, rage painting his face in fiery splotches. He swung her around to face him. "You've finally done it, haven't you?" he stormed, clamping her arm in an inescapable hold, then dragging her through the crowd. "You've finally pushed me too far."
CHAPTER FOUR
STREAMS OF MORNING sunlight tickled the edge of Erin's slumber. As the bonds of sleep slowly unfurled, she heard whispered tones, female voices, coming from her radio. Snuggling deeper into the warmth of her bed, she fought waking. The most bizarre dreams had chased through her sleep all night, and now her head ached fiercely.
The morning disc jockeys' voices grew louder, and Erin shifted, pulling the pillow over her head. Becoming aware of dull aches in her arms and legs, she groaned. Strange. She'd done nothing out of the ordinary lately; in fact, these days she rarely did anything more strenuous than walk from one room to the next, fetching medication for Pop.
Pop! Erin sat up quickly, winced and clutched her head. Then she opened her eyes to the strangest sight.
Roses. Little pink roses and fussy trailing ribbons that decked the walls of her bedroom.
She blinked, then looked down at her lap. They were on her sheets, too. And the spread. She swept a hand across the fabric. These weren't her sheets and bedspread, nor did she recognize the wallpaper or retro furniture scattered about the room. Antique chairs and an old-fashioned floor lamp, a dressing screen with Art Deco panels. Everything in the room looked as though it had come from one of her mother's favorite antique shops.
She frowned, her gaze coming to rest on a wall next to the bed that formed an alcove of sorts, blocking out the rest of the room. Her head throbbing, and thick with grogginess, Erin lifted her fingertips to her temple and found a bandage on her forehead.
Bits and pieces of the crazy dreams from last night came at her. A maze... She had run
through a maze and fallen down stone steps. She had stood inside a massive fireplace. People in funky 1920s costumes had danced through, and she remembered a teenage boy sitting in an antique car. Bizarre.
Hearing the women's voices again, she glanced around the room, searching for the radio. But there wasn't one. She scooted to the end of the bed, peering around the wall. Her eyes widened when she saw two women who stood next to an open closet. Dressed in black maid's uniforms, complete with white aprons and mobcaps, they were folding her jeans and shirt.
Erin looked down at the nightgown she wore, not remembering putting it on, not remembering ever buying one like it—not remembering anything. What was going on here? She squeezed her eyes shut, searching her fogged and pain-dulled brain for a clue.
"Shh!" she heard one of the maids say, her accent thick with Irish brogue. "Do you want her to hear you? She might be awake, you know!"
"Della Munro? Before lunch?" Erin heard the other woman's cynical laughter. "That, dear Annie O'Brien, I would love to see."
Della Munro.
Oh, God.. .Della Munro. The fog cleared and dread washed through Erin. Technicolor images, too real to be nighttime illusion, flared in her mind. She saw it all again, in crisp, sharp detail. She remembered the portrait, Della and the man who had strangled her, the party, J.B. and Waite, her lost locket. They hadn't been dreams, after all. But how—?
One of the maids turned slightly, and Erin ducked behind the wall.
"She has a good excuse for it today, I'm thinkin'. Have you forgotten that bump on her head?"
"And have you forgotten where she was when she got it, Annie? The tunnels. You know why she was in the tunnels. She was going to meet a—"
"Stop it, now! I told you I won't be listenin' to any more of the terrible things you say about the missus. I don't understand why you dislike her so. None of the other servants seem to. And she's a married woman, Edith, she wouldn't—"
"The others don't know what I know about her. And I'll tell you this, being married might mean something to folk like us, but not to the people who live in this palace. You're so green. Married, not married. Doesn't matter to them that have no morals. For pity's sake, you've heard the master half raised the girl before marrying her. These aren't decent, God-fearing people we're working for, Annie."