The Assassin: (Mortal Beloved Time Travel Romance, #2)

by Pamela DuMond

  “Today, Madeline, we practice the way of the peaceful warrior,” Yogi Maharaja said. “Not the path of the irritated Messenger.” He opened his eyes and smiled at me.

  ~ ~ ~

  Ryan drove us back to the city and we hit a Starbucks a few blocks from Chaka’s place. “If you guys needed to talk to the wisest people in history, and could only pick a few—who would you go to and why?” I asked.

  “I’d talk to Martin Luther King, Jr.,” Chaka said. “And then, I’d get ahold of my great-grandfather on my Dad’s side. Saul Silverman was crazy smart and started his own music label.”

  “I’d travel back in time and ask the Dalai Lama about his life when he was a kid,” Aaron said, “Hey, what about visiting the Dalia Lama? He was only fifteen-years-old when China invaded Tibet and strong-armed their country away from them.”

  “I agree with Aaron about the Dali Lama and Tibet’s extensive history of mysticism,” Ryan said. “Not to raise flags, but remember that China considered Tibet to be separatists and revolutionaries. They believed their invasion was justified to return part of their country to them.”

  “That’s just plain wrong,” Aaron said. “Buddhism is a peaceful religion and the Chinese occupation of Tibet is an atrocious crime against humanity.”

  “Agree,” I said. “Besides that’s what every side says to justify violence, war, and cruelty against each other,” I said.

  “Running for office at Preston Academy?” Aaron asked.

  “Right after I drill a hole in my head.”

  “Look, Madeline,” Ryan said. “Where are you drawn? Open yourself up and allow yourself to travel to where you are pulled.”

  “Now?” I asked.

  “Why not?” Ryan asked. “Let’s give it a spin.”

  “We’re in the middle of Starbucks. What if I do something that makes me look delusional?”

  Chaka stopped texting and glanced around. “Then you’ll fit in with the majority of people here.”

  Ryan pulled his wallet from his pocket, flipped it open, took out a bill and waved it in front of my face. “I’ll give you a twenty if you levitate.”

  “You’ll give me a hundred if I levitate.” I closed my eyes, rested my hands on my lap, and touched my fingers together as I silently chanted Sa-Ta-Na-Ma in my head. The shrill pitch of the espresso machines, folks talking on their phones, YouTube videos, the clattering of laptop keyboards, and conversation muted. It all blended into the background, and I felt light-headed, and a little queasy.

  Did I really want to do this in public?

  Suddenly, my soul ripped from my body and it became clear that I no longer had a choice.

  ~ five ~

  I floated in the skies above the city, high above the skyscrapers, as the clouds absorbed me, bathing me in their water droplets. I ascended higher into the heavens so fast it made my head spin.

  I blended with time and heard the chatter of different languages, some familiar and some foreign. Strangely enough, I could understand all of them when I was abruptly yanked back to earth and landed with a thud.

  ~ ~ ~

  “Behold, ladies and gentleman, the lovely lady sitting on stage is completely relaxed. One might think she has fallen asleep,” said a man in a deep theatrical baritone.

  I wish I had fallen asleep. I think I just time traveled.

  My head felt heavy, my chin practically rested on my chest. I didn’t move a muscle except for a few that raised one of my eyelids into a narrow squint. I was wearing a long, royal blue silk gown with a fitted waist, and full skirts that lowered into pleats. My neckline was high and tight, and I feared that I couldn’t take a deep breath without strangling myself.

  “But no, Rose Ashdown is not merely sleeping,” the man said. “Rose Ashdown is under my hypnotic spell and she will do anything that I ask of her!”

  The crowd gasped.

  Right, buddy. Try telling that to my dad when he tells me to clean my room, take out the garbage, finish my algebra homework, and babysit my younger sister all in the same day.

  I was seated in the middle of a stage and the man with the deep voice was dressed in a black suit with long coattails. Lights glared up at me but I spied a packed audience of similarly attired men and just a few women seated in tightly packed chairs situated in rows. I was in a theater, and even worse, it appeared as if I was not only part of the show, but quite possibly the main attraction.

  The man paced in front of me and gestured theatrically to the crowd. “The young lady is in a deep hypnotic trance. But through the power of suggestion, I can communicate with her.” He turned toward me. “Rose Ashdown. Can you hear me? My name is Edwin Butterfield and I now control your actions. Float your right arm up in the air if your answer is yes.”

  I slowly lifted my long-sleeved silken clad arm up in the air as the crowds inhaled sharply and whispered amongst themselves.

  Edwin smiled and practically preened. “The power of suggestion is strong. She is under my command.” He turned to me. “Rose Ashdown, please drop your arm now.”

  I did.

  “Rose Ashdown, please lift up your head and open your eyes.”

  I did, stared out at the awestruck audience, and wondered why I had traveled here. What message did I need to deliver? To whom? What were the people in the audience here for? Entertainment? Hope? Healing?

  “I suggest to the gentlemen in the crowd tonight that you purchase my fliers which will teach you how to hypnotize your spouses and lady friends, making them better wives and mistresses.” He held a stack of fliers high in the air. “These instructional booklets will be available after tonight’s lecture. The price is quite reasonable considering how powerful the effects of hypnosis can be.”

  One man in the crowd stood up and stared at me, then turned his gaze to Mr. Butterfield. “I will not buy your booklet, sir, based on tonight’s performance. It seems like a hoax. What if you are simply a charlatan trying to separate us from our well-earned money? I need more proof.”

  “More proof?” Edwin paced across the stage like a caged panther. He stopped and stared at me. “Rose, remove the pins and combs that restrain your updo and let your hair down.”

  The crowd gasped and it dawned on me this was considered a bit risqué wherever and whenever I was. Which I was starting to think was England in Victorian times. But I did as he asked and dropped the pins onto the floor as my long, thick, brunette hair fell below my shoulders.

  “Is that proof enough for you doubters?” Edwin Butterfield asked.

  “No,” the man said. “Ask Rose to…to…”

  Another man stood up. He was skinny, his spine crooked, and he looked ashen like a cigarette that had been stubbed out. “Ask her if she will remove her right shoe.”

  Oh please tell me I hadn’t time traveled for a guy with a foot fetish.

  “Rose Ashdown,” Edwin gazed into my eyes. “Please remove your right shoe.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  “Because the gentleman asked you to.” Edwin frowned. “Are you still in a deep hypnotic state?”

  I nodded, bent down, and slowly removed my right shoe and mimicked my look when I was called upon to solve an equation in Algebra Two class: a deer caught in the headlights.

  The crowd erupted in cheers.

  “Sold!” the man said. “I will purchase your instructional flier, Mr. Butterfield, and spread the word to my friends who struggle with their women.”

  I widened my eyes to teen scream splatter movie proportions. “Rose has a message for you.”

  “What?” the man asked.

  I threw Rose’s shoe as hard as I could at Edwin Butterfield. It struck him in the face and he stumbled backward. Hopefully I gave him a black eye for all his sexist, anti-feminist, subservient baloney.

  “Rose says you should treat your wives and mistresses as your equals and stop being total jerks.” I stood up, brushed my long skirts and caught the eye of a young woman in the audience who covered her mouth with both her hands and tried to
stifle laughter.

  I think my message was meant for her.

  “Thank you all for coming tonight,” I said. “But I simply must go.” I curtseyed and then raced backstage, chanting Sa-Ta-Na-Ma under my breath over and over until some force ripped my soul out of that body and thrust me back into the heavens. I felt a little seasick until I was sucked back to earth and present day where my soul landed with a screech back in my body.

  ~ ~ ~

  I blinked my eyes open: Starbucks was still here as were my friends who stared at me, their eyes huge. I appeared to be alive in present day, I sat upright, not collapsed in a heap, and my hands looked normal. Like I hadn’t turned into an amphibian, an alien, or a reality show contestant.

  “Where’d you go? What did you wear? Was it magical?” Chaka asked.

  “It was awful,” I said. “It couldn’t have been more embarrassing. At least the girl’s body I zipped into didn’t die this time.”

  “You’re always going to land in the body of someone who’s not completely conscious, and that encompasses a wide range,” Ryan said. “They can be injured, or daydreaming, doing some kind of drugs, or in an altered state of sorts.”

  “Or they can be dying,” I said. “But look, I lucked out this time. No broken leg, no scar, only a tiny headache.” When my arm spontaneously twitched and I knocked over Aaron’s latte. It nose-dived off our table and splattered onto the floor. “Sorry!”

  “Chalk up increased clutziness,” Aaron said.

  “I didn’t witness levitating.” Ryan slipped the paper bill back in his wallet. “No twenty bucks for you.”

  “You owe me a latte.” Aaron dropped napkins on the ground and mopped up the soggy mess with the toe of his shoe.

  “Seriously, where’d you go? What were you wearing?” Chaka asked.

  “Hang on.” I sighed, got up and walked across the shop to the counter. “One latte, please.”

  “Make that a macchiato!” Aaron shouted.

  ~ ~ ~

  I dreamt about Samuel that night. He wore old-fashioned clothes I didn’t recognize. He knelt on the ground under the moonlight and stared up at the night sky. It was almost like he was staring right at me.

  “Please,” he said. “My heart is torn. I do not know what to do. Please send me a message.”

  He looked sad, and exhausted, and I felt so very bad for him. I knelt down next to him, smoothed his hair back from his sweaty brow, kissed his forehead and whispered, “Shh. Shh. Everything will be all right.”

  ~ ~ ~

  The days passed, the weeks flew. Thanksgiving happened. Do you know what vegetarian Thanksgiving was like in my house? The football and camaraderie were awesome; the food was just plain sad.

  I grew tired of football and went to my room and flipped open my laptop.

  I clicked on New Roads Facebook page and scrolled through the photos. I didn’t see any of Samuel until I was over a year back. I opened the page to Loyola University Chicago and looked there.

  I saw him in a candid, smiling on the sidelines of a basketball court with their team. I spotted another picture of him from the side with his arm wrapped around a girl’s waist. I expanded the photo onscreen with my fingers, but the pixels distended, and the image blurred, just like the memories of him when we were together.

  Ryan sent more books on prophets and visionaries to my eReader. I scored As in history, government, PE, Spanish, and squeaked by with Bs in Algebra 2. I hung out with Chaka and Aaron as often as possible. Other than that one dream, I hadn’t heard from Samuel and I supposed that didn’t count as hanging out in present day.

  Lucky for me, I rarely saw Ryan at Preston Academy and when I did, I studiously avoided him. We had an odd alliance. He was handsome, no doubt about it. It would have been odd to go there, but I think everyone that laid eyes on him went there for at least a moment or two. I didn’t know how old he was and frankly, I didn’t even know if he hailed from present day.

  I received daily texts from him with more instructions: Read this. Practice that. Get thee to the track and run a mile today. Pick up the pace and run two miles today. Has your time improved? And then there were the inevitable training dates with times, an address, and his signature, ‘Confirm, please.’”

  When the newest text came in, I recognized the address. It was at the Yogi shrine in Wilmette. I texted back, “Yes.”

  ~ ~ ~

  I shivered as I approached the paddock. Ryan was already bundled up and riding a beautiful chestnut horse around the perimeter.

  “Horseback riding lessons in December?” I asked. “Really?”

  “You don’t know where your next big trip will take you. Could be to the North Pole. Maybe you’ll go to the Caribbean. But I can pretty much guarantee it helps to know the basics about riding a horse.”

  “Fine. Show me.” I opened the gate and walked toward them. “I took lessons when I was young. Before Mama disappeared.”

  “I know,” Ryan said. “She told me.”

  I think my heart just stopped for a moment and I forgot to breathe.

  “You know her?” I asked. “You know my mama?”

  “Yes, Madeline. Why do you think I’m here?” He dismounted from the horse and walked toward me. “She wants you to be trained. She wants you to be strong. She wished she could do that for you, but she can’t come back to you in present day. So she sent me to you in her place.”

  I bit back tears. “Okay,” I said. “Okay. Teach me how to ride a horse.”

  ~ ~ ~

  I hit the books hard for my next history assignment: a twenty-page term paper was due in a few days. I wondered what life would feel like when I could read for fun instead of for school or being a Messenger. I remembered my Sabriel, The Hunger Games, and The Sisterhood of The Traveling Pants days and I missed them.

  My head started to throb and I grew hot and cold all within the span of several seconds. My stomach felt a little queasy, I broke into a sweat and all the little hairs on my arms stood up. Oh crap, was I having a panic attack about my stupid term paper? My heart raced, but this didn’t feel like my normal anxiety. I rested my head on my books and closed my eyes. The room started spinning, I grew very cold, and all faded to black.

  ~ ~ ~

  I was in a field immersed in a chilly fog so thick I couldn’t even see my feet. I wore a simple peasant top; my hair hung loose and bedraggled down my shoulders. I felt sweaty and swiped the back of my dirty hand across my forehead. Men shouted at each other and I heard the clashes of weapons and gunfire. The wind picked up just enough to ruffle my long sleeves and I smelled metal and dirt, blood and fear. I started shaking.

  The top half of a soldier in a strange uniform carrying a rifle materialized through the fog yards in front of me. He eyed me perplexed. “I’ve seen you before. You’re not supposed to be here again,” he said. “In fact, I could swear I saw you get shot!”

  “You must be mistaken,” I said. But I looked down and saw a smallish red stain on my chest.

  I heard a woman whisper, “Come to me, Madeline. Run. Now.”

  And so I ran, chanting, “Sa. Ta. Na. Ma. Sa. Ta. Na. Ma.” I spiraled high into the air as the field below me disappeared from sight and all that remained was the mist.

  ~ ~ ~

  A knock on the door jarred me back to consciousness and I struggled to lift my head off my history book. “Come in,” I said.

  Sophie cracked the door open and poked her head inside my room. “This baby growing business is making me tired and I’m calling it a night. How’s the paper coming along?”

  “Great,” I said.

  “Get some sleep,” she said. “You look wiped.”

  “You have no idea.”

  ~ six ~

  Christmas holiday and New Year’s blew by with the blink of an eye. I finally walked without a limp, I could meditate for up to a half hour, and I could ride a horse. I knew more about mystics and saints and visionaries, rebels, warriors, Messengers, Hunters, and Healers than I ever dreamed possib
le.

  Messengers, Hunters, and Healers were rare breeds of humans that had existed since humans were a blip on the cosmic radar. We were not angels, or demons, and we definitely were not immortal.

  Life was great except Valentine’s Day was looming around the corner and that didn’t thrill me. Once again, I was back at Joe’s Gym.

  “Stop messing around and hit me like you’re a fierce warrior, or a goddess of destruction. Come on, hit me like a girl!” Ryan beckoned to me across the boxing ring.

  I knocked my gloves together. “I am warning you for the last time, buddy. I am so going to hit you like a girl.”

  We sparred.

  “You’re getting better.” He threw a punch at me that I dodged.

  “For the most part I still pretty much suck.” I pitched an uppercut at him but he leaned back and avoided it.

  “I agree.” An old tatted dude with a gleaming head stumbled past us and winked at me. “Your uppercut totally sucks, kid. But I like your moxie.”

  I tipped my glove at him. “Thanks, Rocky.”

  “In another lifetime, perhaps.” He smiled and gimped toward the locker room.

  “He’s right about your uppercut.” Ryan grinned.

  Catching him off guard, I hit him with my best uppercut yet and watched his head jolt backward. “Oh, I don’t know about that. I think I just hit you like a girl.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Ryan’s loft apartment was located in Chicago’s meatpacking district close to Joe’s Gym. It had approximately two thousand square feet of brick walls, twelve-foot ceilings and wood floors, and looked like something out of Architectural Digest.

  “How did you score this place on an archaeologist’s salary?” I asked.

  “It’s not technically mine.” He held an ice bag against his chin, poured milk into a saucepan and set it on the stove.