The bedroom door opened and Brody hurried it. “We’re here,” he said. “Two days ago. I just checked on my computer.”
Veris looked at his watch. “Twenty-past midnight. Let’s go,” he said, standing up.
“Wait,” Brody said, digging out his cellphone. “I’m going to send Alex a delayed text message. Tell him we made it.”
Veris grinned. “I’m going to change and then I’ll get the old video recorder. They can’t claim that is digitally created.”
“Meet us out the back in five,” Brody said. “We can use my Mustang to get to the warehouse.”
* * * * *
“Isn’t that Gregor?” Taylor asked, pointing at a tall black shadow moving against the side of the big shed across the road from where they huddled in the shadows between a warehouse and a row of commercial shop fronts.
“That’s him,” Brody agreed, bringing the video camera viewfinder up to his eye. The camera started to hum with the soft sound of actual film moving through the guts of it as he filmed.
The side door of the big shed opened and closed quickly.
“He’s inside,” Veris confirmed. “Brody, keep filming. Taylor, you stay out here for the reasons we discussed earlier.”
They couldn’t speak of the reasons aloud, for it would be caught by the video’s soundtrack, but Brody and Veris could move much more silently and faster than she could, which meant they were naturally sneakier than she could ever be. Combined with their ability to see in the dark and with the video camera set to record at low light levels, the camera would pick up everything that happened and so would Veris and Brody. Taylor would just stumble around, blind and slow.
She nodded. “Be careful.” She crouched down against the side of the building, making herself small and insignificant.
Brody was already hurrying across the deserted road, the camera to his eye. Veris followed him, a hand on his back, guiding him. At the door, Veris eased it open and they slid inside.
Taylor wrapped her arms around her denim-encased knees. This didn’t feel like a time travelling jaunt, yet for this first time ever she was actually borrowing her own earlier body, just like Brody and Veris took over earlier versions of themselves. When she got back to her real “now” would she remember being extraordinarily tired two days ago, because her sleep had not been restful?
She rested her chin on her knees. They had stopped travelling not just because of Marit, but because they had become afraid of the consequences. The last time, when Veris had almost been lost to them, had scared all of them so much they had by mutual and unspoken consent found petty excuses and ways to avoid jumping, now they knew what caused the jumps.
Just little, safe leap frogs here and there. Nothing too taxing. Nothing dangerous. Nothing adventurous.
Taylor sighed and shifted her chin, returning to Brody’s almost angry insistence that he come with them.
“So maybe we just hit a big corner…” Had he been chaffing at their avoidance, too?
If Brody and she itched at the absence, then what of Veris, the Viking who had roamed Western Europe for nearly a thousand years before civilization and Brody had semi-domesticated him? Surely he must be feeling some sense of wanderlust? Or was four years, in Veris’ terms of time, a mere inhalation? A heartbeat?
A hand touched her shoulder, then another quickly covered her mouth as she sucked in a startled breath. She looked up, into Brody’s eyes.
“It’s done,” he said simply. He looked fiercely happy. “We got it all. Let’s go duplicate the tape, seal it up and jump home.”
* * * * *
The television production studio was owned by a friend of Brody’s, who sleepily told Brody to knock himself out when he said he wanted to duplicate a tape of one of his song clips and hung up mid-way through Brody’s thank-you.
Veris shrugged. “Send him a bottle of Courvoisier and real French truffles. He’s a gourmand. He’ll forgive you.”
The duplication of the tape took barely ten minutes, for both Veris and Brody were at ease with the professional equipment. Sealing the second tape and dropping it into the overnight vault at the bank took another thirty.
Forty-five minutes after that, they eased around the back of the big house in the Hollywood Hills and crept into Taylor’s bedroom just as the sun was coming up.
Brody threw himself onto the bed, jubilant, as Taylor stretched out, her whole body throbbing with weariness. He rolled on his back and looked at them both as Veris settled next to her and tucked her into his side.
Brody took a breath and let it out. “Thank you,” he told them.
Veris nodded. “Let’s get back home, first. We don’t want the other occupants of the house in this day to wake and find us here before we jump. It’ll cause confusion when we leave and our earlier selves take over.” He looked down at Taylor. “Are you up to it, Taylor? We could stay for a while and let you sleep. We can find a private moment later to jump.”
She shook her head. “I would rather go now,” she confessed. “Get it over and done with. It’s been a tough twelve hours and the next twelve probably won’t be any easier. We should let Alex and the others know we’re fine, too.”
Veris kissed her gently. He didn’t say anything, but she saw it all in his eyes. His pride and love.
She felt Brody’s hand on her hip and looked up. He cupped her jaw, his gaze gentle. “I’m sorry…I’ve been so focused on getting us out of this, I never stopped to think how this was impacting you. How it must have looked to you. More secrets from our dark pasts come to slap you around, hmm?” He grimaced.
Taylor let him draw her into his arms and wrapped her arms around him. “Just take me home, Brody,” she whispered against his neck, as Veris pressed up behind her. Veris’ big arms wrapped around the both of them.
Taylor lifted her mouth up to Brody’s. “Take me home.”
Brody kissed her and she leaned into the jump, taking them all with her.
Chapter Four
The stench and noise told Taylor they hadn’t made it home. She clung to Brody with desperate strength, for they were standing now and the solid strength of Veris was no longer at her back.
“What happened? Where are we?” she asked Brody, now noticing the humid heat around them. It was dim, too, with the drip of water that made her think of caverns. But there were walls in the dimness that looked man-made, even though they curved downwards and gleamed dirty white.
“Is it safe to let you go?” she asked.
Brody was holding her as tightly as she held him. His hair, she realized, was as long, if not longer, than he wore it at home. But it seemed tangled where her hands touched it.
“Not yet,” he growled into her neck. Then, with a deep exhalation, he said, “Dia orainn.”
“Why must god help us?”
He pulled away from her, just enough to look her in the eye. His hair hung matted on either side of his face and, shockingly, his cheeks wore a day’s growth of dark beard. “Because no one else will.” He held up one hand. A three inch thick metal band circled his wrist. “We’re in Constantinople.” He licked his lips and swallowed. “I’m human, Taylor.”
She stumbled backwards a step, almost tripping over something. She turned to look behind her to see what it was and realized it was her own garments. She picked up the hem, as Brody steadied her.
Taylor laid a hand on his chest and felt the heat and quick, steady beat of his heart. It was true, then. Acid fear rushed through her. “But, if you’re human…” She looked around, feeling like the walls were closing in on her. “…then you’re also a slave,” she finished.
There was a sound of steps behind them, echoing on the walls. The flare of light reared against the sloping walls. Brody glanced at the leaping light and back at her. “I am,” he agreed. “And from your clothes, you are most definitely not a slave.”
She glanced down at herself. The garments were softly folded and pleated, sweeping in elegant curves over her arms and pinned at her shoulder
s. What she could see of her hair was curled and felt like it was pinned up at the back of her head to dangle at her neck. There was a heavy necklace at her neck and equally elaborate earrings in her ears that swung with hefty arcs each time she moved her head. A thick bracelet coiled around her wrist, enameled and glittering in the little light showing in the cavern.
Her dress was white, clean and glowing, but the garment over the top was rich with embroidery and dazzling colors. The name for it came to her. It was her stola.
Brody, in contrast, wore a simple tunic, belted at the waist with twisted cloth, and it was far from clean. His only adornment was the metal slave bands on each wrist.
“You have to go,” Brody insisted.
“Go where?” Taylor asked. She looked over her shoulder. The cavern ended in a blank wall.
Brody pointed toward a narrow passage she had not noticed, hidden in the shadows, with even darker shadows showing at its mouth. “That way. I’ll stay here and distract them.”
“Distract who?” Taylor demanded.
“That is the guards who come now,” Brody told her. “They have found me missing from my usual spot and seek to find me.”
“But where is Veris?” Taylor whispered anxiously.
Brody began to shepherd her toward the tiny passageway. “In this time and age? He would be in Britain.”
“Britain?” The word squeaked out of her and she turned to Brody, horrified.
“He will come straight here as soon as he realizes what has happened. He will put it together.”
“But it took you…you said it took ages to get here when they took you as a slave. Months and months, you thought!”
Brody’s lips thinned. “They were transporting hundreds of us,” he said softly. “Veris will be travelling alone and he will let nothing get in his way. Our job will be to survive until he gets here and that is all.” He tried to smile but it was a weak expression. “Once he is here, all we have to do is be within reaching distance of each other and we can jump out of here. There are no other complications, this time. We just have to wait for Veris to get here.”
“But that could take weeks!” she cried softly.
“You! Celt!”
Brody stiffened. “Damn,” he muttered.
The torches, actual hand-held flaming balls of rags soaked in oil, illuminated a handful of men striding toward them. They wore longer tunics – chitons, her contemporary language mind supplied – with dalmatics over the top in various shades and colors and patterns. Most of them were dirty and ragged. None of them wore cloaks – chlamys – and every single one of them had filthy feet inside their sandals.
All of them were heavily armed, with at least a sword and knife apiece. Most carried spears, extra knives and several carried bows over their shoulders.
The leader was a big man with wide shoulders, a heavy gut and narrow eyes that glittered with anger.
“Oh, ho! What’s this? You’ve got yourself a split tail, now, have you?” he said as he planted his feet wide in front of Brody.
Brody remained silent. Taylor realized there was nothing he could say to defend himself. He was a runaway slave, apparently caught dallying with a woman.
She was from the higher classes, if her dress was anything to go by. That might work in her favor. Taking a deep breath, Taylor stepped out from behind Brody, squaring her shoulders. “You dare interrupt me,” she said, mustering all the imperiousness she had heard Tira use and injecting it into her voice and posture.
“By all the holy gods….” one of them breathed.
“My lady Ariadne,” the big man in front said. He gave a stiff nod of the head. “Well, this puts a different light on the matter, doesn’t it?”
Taylor felt her hauteur slip a little. Who the hell was Ariadne?
The big man gave an oily smile. “We wondered who slipped Braenden here out of his chains. It never occurred to me a pretty smile and a piece of gold did the trick.” He grabbed Brody’s wrist. “But we need him back in his cage, rested up for tomorrow’s race if you’ll be excusing us, my lady.”
He yanked hard. Taylor heard Brody’s grunt of pain as he staggered forward and remembered from when she had travelled with Veris back to when he had been human, in old Norway, that Veris had felt pain and all sensations at almost twice the intensity he had felt them as a vampire.
Brody would be experiencing that phenomenon, too.
One of the other guards, the one that had prayed to the gods when he had seen her, stepped forward. He was young, with shaggy blond hair that reminded Taylor sharply of Veris. “I’ll escort you home, my lady,” he said.
Taylor almost laughed. The lad barely came to her shoulder. But he had a flat Roman sword on his hip, a dagger in his belt and another knife hilt peeped from his sleeve, where he held the single torch up to light the way.
And he knew where she lived.
She watched Brody being pulled and yanked along, the guards all holding swords on him.
Survive until Veris gets here. Her heart squeezed hard.
“I am ready,” she told the boy guard, who swept her into the dank passage Brody had been insisting she take in the first place.
* * * * *
Basilides. A dour, Greek version of Robbie Coltrane having a permanently bad day. Brody had no trouble remembering the head guard’s name. It was emblazoned in his mind and came to him almost at once, despite the novel sensations shooting through his body. Pain seemed to be amplified. So did sound. The air brushed over his skin, making every hair stand upright on high alert.
His heart was a runaway steam train trying to cope with it all.
Basilides was having a whale of a good time tugging on the chains they’d threaded back through his bracelets as soon as Taylor’s back was turned. He seemed to salivate as he described all the punishments they could hand out for a runaway.
Brody listened with half an ear. He was too busy dealing with the changes in his body, even though trying to run away was one of the direst crimes a slave could commit.
They were back into the populated areas of the slave quarters. Caging was interspersed with rough wooden bunks. Fire pits with cook pots were added punctuation. Everywhere, guards kept watchful eye upon the slaves in their short, dirty tunics as they went about the meager business of their daily lives.
His memories were fitting back together now he was forcing himself to dredge them up. This was the lowest level of one of the furthest wings of the training facilities associated with the Hippodrome and it was linked to the Hippodrome by an underground passage. For races, the slave chariot drivers that Genesios the Money Lender owned and kept in this basement cavern could simply be herded along the passage to the Hippodrome. They didn’t need to see daylight until they were pushed into their chariot for their race.
A particularly hard wrench on his wrist brought Brody to a halt and a half spin around to face Basilides. “I do believe you were not listening to me, boy,” Basilides said, his face mere inches from Brody’s.
Brody stared at the man. In his memory, in the numerous times over the years when he had dared to probe the memories, Basilides had always seemed to loom over him like a giant. Yet now Brody realized with a start that Basilides was shorter than him by at least an inch, if not more. He could look over Basilides’ shoulder.
He saw a slave sitting up on one of the higher bunks, a concerned look on his worn face.
Evaristus. The unacknowledged leader of the slaves. The man – the vampire – who would turn Brody sometime in the future. Evaristus watched him now and Brody knew he was silently coaxing Brody to back down. To submit. To give them what they wanted so that Brody would live to fight another day. It was an old song Evaristus had long sung. Brody had listened to it for at least fifteen years.
Brody returned his gaze to Basilides’ face. “I was listening,” he replied.
Basilides pushed him to the ground and spat on him. “If we didn’t have a race tomorrow, I’d do more. You might have been sprung by a lady wi
th coin and a taste for bartered flesh, but you still look me in the eye too squarely for a slave. You need humbling.” He pushed his dirty sleeves up his arm. “Bring me the lash!”
Something locked in Brody’s chest, making his heart hurt and his breath wheeze out of him. He looked past Basilides again. Evaristus was clutching the sides of the bunk. Pity etched his features. Fear stabbed into Brody as memories of other times similar to this one returned to him in a rush.
Hands were scrabbling at his back, pulling at his hair. His tunic ripped, then was torn from him.
More hands pulled on the chains at his wrists, pulling him down flat onto the cold, hard, sandy floor. Hands wrenched on his ankles, holding him still and flat.
Memory told him what was coming, but the shock of the first blow drove all thought from his mind except for the agony of pain. A small voice whispered in his mind. Why did Veris not warn me of these feelings?
Then the second blow landed and even the small voice vanished. The pain overrode everything, became everything.
* * * * *
After seventeen lashes, Basilides lowered the lash reluctantly, his chest heaving with effort. “Throw him in the cage for the night. Water rations only. Maybe that will cool his temper and make him biddable for the morrow. If he doesn’t win his race he can have another twelve lashes just for losing the purse.”
The guards holding Brody down loosened their hold on his wrists and ankles, but Brody didn’t move. Blood trickled from his bruised and torn back.
“Throw some water on that mess, too,” Basilides said, pointing to his back. He dropped the lash, stepped over Brody’s still body and walked away.
* * * * *
“Gilmárdal! Quickly! Staunch it!”
Veris blinked, refocusing. He looked down into the open wound in front of him and the ancient instruments inserted into it, then up at the man opposite him.
“Hurry!” the man insisted.
Kiss Across Chains (Kiss Across Time Series) Page 6