Taylor didn’t know what she would do if they found him, either. Brody had made his intentions clear. If she sought him out, it would be the same thing as begging. A part of her didn’t care. If there was even a chance, she would beg and sell her soul to get him back.
Only there was no chance. Brody had been specific. No negotiations. No compromises.
Marit sighed and picked up her coffee. “Nothing. He’s not here.”
Relief touched Taylor.
“They’re both hidden,” Veris said, his tone bitter.
He didn’t finish his thought. He didn’t have to. Taylor could finish it for herself.
They were both hidden, because they were together.
Time became Taylor’s ally and her enemy. Time marched on. It was relentless. It had no regard for her personal desire to withdraw from the world and shore up her soul.
The twins had graduated high school and were shopping for colleges. They weren’t in a rush—they would start in the second semester or next September.
Taylor toured the twins around the country, checking out university campuses and comparing notes. As a nearly tenured professor, she could advise them on what to consider. Those jumps did not take up all her time, though.
Marit, who had learned more about life at ten years old than most adults could pack into a lifetime, was content to stay at home and wait for her fate to find her. While she waited, she helped Sydney with her mapping project. Marit was the busiest of the jumpers in the family. She would leave in the morning and return before dinner, the perfect nine-to-five executive, except the dinner conversation was always bizarre and interesting.
Taylor got pulled back into taking an interest in life because her children were part of it.
The nights, while everyone still human slept, were the worst. Taylor tried reading. She tried shopping therapy—jumping to wherever a mall was open. She visited Neven and Remi and London often, to coo over the baby and take in the salt-ladened breeze off the Brittany coastline.
She jumped to Granada just as often. Only, like Neven, Remi and London, the three in Granada were building their lives, too. Liberty was five and growing like a weed.
Every week or ten days or so, Taylor would jump to Nial’s world and check in with Benny. The apartment remained empty and no word came.
Taylor considered restarting her research into the life and times of Inigo Domhnall, the subject of her dissertation. When she had first started the research, her intention had merely been to demonstrate that the man rumored to be King Arthur’s appointed poet had actually existed.
Now, thanks to Brody and Veris and the timescape, she knew the man really had existed. She could jump back to the fifth century to do hands-on research. Once she knew what to look for, she could come back to find modern sources which would give her the proof she needed to convince contemporary scholars.
Only, the idea of jumping back to that time period and maybe running into Brody—even the child he would have been back then—made her feel faint. Besides, she couldn’t get back there without Veris to guide the jump and she knew he would refuse.
The other way to get there was to search on the timescape and see if there was a bookmark, which would exist because she had gone back. Taylor’s courage deserted her when she considered this option.
Time travel was something she did with Veris or Brody…or someone else in the family if she must. She didn’t want to travel by herself. If the Veris of old discovered she was contemplating traveling alone, he would explode.
Only, the old Veris was absent.
Veris spent more time reading than ever before. They did not have their extended library here on Martha’s Vineyard, although the sources on-line these days more than made up for the lack. When the concerns of his human life paused, Veris would return to the computer and stay there.
He spent hours staring at the screens and scribbling notes, or typing with a machine-gun rattle of the keys, his big fingers dancing over them at vampire speed.
It made the nights even longer, with Veris tucked away in the upstairs office.
Taylor wanted him. She wanted his company, not just as a bulwark against the extraordinary loneliness which stretched her nights out thin and sharp. She wanted Veris himself. She missed him.
She missed his company and his intellect, which always kept her on her toes. She missed his body and his touch. Veris had never stinted himself in that regard. She might pass him in a corridor and find herself pinned against the wall, his mouth on hers, his hands roaming, his body extracting responses she had not known she was capable of.
She never knew when or how he would next indulge himself. He had once stripped her naked, tied her down and played with her for four hours, bringing her to climaxes over and over. He used toys, his hands, his mouth, more. He had forced orgasms. Teased them from her. And he had not removed a stitch of his own clothing.
And sometimes, he simply kissed her, tearing her attention away from the task at hand, making her hot, making her want him.
Taylor mentally sheered away from recalling how inventive Brody and Veris together had been.
Veris had not touched her or kissed her since Brody left. True to his word, he was kind. He was considerate. He was there for the twins and Marit. Yet he was remote. Taylor knew the longer she let the distance between them remain, the harder it would be to cross it.
After weeks of listening to the sounds coming from the upstairs office, Taylor realized Veris was spending more time typing than reading.
She rarely interrupted his work. That night, though, she was pushed into it by her growing concern and her aching need of him. She tapped on the door and waited for Veris to look up from the screen.
His eyes narrowed. “Something wrong?” In the glow from the monitor, which was the only light in the room, his eyes were very blue.
“No.” She moved around the desk. “What are you doing? Writing a book?”
Veris didn’t turn off the monitor or tab to a different screen. She glanced at the text on the screen. “You are writing a book…” she breathed. She scanned the text. Veris’ medical texts and essays were dense, acronym and jargon-filled treatises which only another doctor wouldn’t fall asleep over.
This was different. She picked out the words, key phrases.
“Time travel,” she whispered.
Veris scratched at his temple. “Sydney is making time travel and jumping pedestrian. I thought…”
“People should be reminded about the dangers,” Taylor finished.
He nodded.
“A handbook on time travel,” she said. “I like it.”
“It’ll never be officially published and it will have a readership of maybe twenty people, yet…” He shrugged.
“Some of your other books have been read by a whole twenty people, too,” Taylor pointed out. “And they were properly published.”
He rolled his eyes.
Now was when he would ordinarily reach for her. Perhaps pull her into his lap and divert her sarcasm.
He remained still.
Her heart stirring uneasily, Taylor shifted gears. “Can I help with anything? Research? Outlines? Editing?”
Veris considered. Then he shook his head. “I’ll need to clean it up before anyone sees it, including an editor. But thanks.”
He turned back to the keyboard, the chair squeaking as it rotated.
Taylor put her hand on his shoulder. Her heart was a wild thing now. She had never had to initiate anything. Brody and Veris had been indefatigable. Now, her fear bloomed large.
She turned the chair, bringing Veris back to face her. She kissed him, her hands on his face, keeping his chin up.
Oh, it was good to kiss him! She forgot her fear and extracted every inch of pleasure from the kiss, instead.
Veris gripped her arms. Gently, he pushed her away.
The kiss broke.
Taylor stared at him, her mind blank.
Veris shook his head.
Her terror swa
mped everything. Taylor shook. Her symbiot was breaking loose again. Her eyes stung.
Tears.
Before he could spot them, before she betrayed her need, Taylor tore her arms from his grip and moved through the dark house to the silent sunroom. She leaned against the wall, gathering herself, trying to relax and let the symbiot recover.
She slid down the wall until she was folded like an accordion.
The shaking didn’t pass for a long while.
Chapter Eight
Christmas, and the winter solstice which everyone in the family celebrated instead of the Christian anniversary, were only thirteen and ten days away, respectively.
Taylor walked to Edgartown, to make her journey take longer. The shops and stores were frantically busy as everyone on the island squeezed in the last of their Christmas purchases.
Taylor had finished her shopping weeks ago. She drifted around the town, window shopping, her mind idle. Most of the people she saw were locals. The tourist trade died after Halloween, although there were a few hardy souls who thought a northern Christmas would be charming.
The wind coming off the Atlantic was salty and cold, whipping up the waves so they crashed against the breakwaters with great sprays of froth. The sky was iron gray, promising snow.
Taylor wondered if it would snow before she walked back home. It didn’t matter either way.
She pushed on the first shop door she came to and went inside. It was the doll store. The Dollhouse, it was called.
For a moment, Taylor considered leaving again. Liberty didn’t like dolls—she preferred toy cars and engines. London’s baby was too small for dolls. Instead, she shrugged and wandered about the shelves. What else was there to do?
It had often puzzled her how such a specialized store could carve out a living on the island, when tourists were all looking for miniature lighthouses and postcards, and fishing boats with Martha’s Vineyard, MA painted on the hull. The Dollhouse had been here for as long as Taylor had, defying her expectation that it would shut up shop and file for bankruptcy at any moment.
It endures. Like me.
A doll in Kelly green velvet, with a Tam-o’-shanter and plaid, sat on the shelf between a teddy bear and a panda. Her heart stirring, Taylor reached for the Irish colleen. As her fingertips brushed the velvet, another hand smacked into hers.
“Oh, I’m so sorry!” the woman said, snatching her hand back. “Please, go ahead.”
Green eyes. Black hair. Pale skin. Human. Taylor had felt the human heat from the brush of her fingers against Taylor’s.
Taylor stretched her mouth into a smile. “No, it’s fine.”
“It caught my eye,” the woman said. “Irish and all that.”
Taylor’s throat closed up. Me, too, she wanted to say. Only now did she realize why she had wanted to pick up the pretty doll.
Brody Gallagher. Irish poet and…gone.
The woman frowned, peering at Taylor. “Are you all right?” she asked with a kindly tone.
It was the concern which unraveled her. Taylor trembled. “No…” she whispered, through the tightness in her throat. “No, I don’t think I am.” She whirled and hurried through the narrow aisles to the door. The bell chimed cheerfully as she thrust it open and hurried outside.
She turned her face into the wind, breathing hard. Calm down, calm down, calm down! She had ridden the edge of her control too much lately. It often felt as though she was in danger of tipping over. She didn’t know what it was like for the symbiot to be completely suppressed. She suspected the effects were not pleasant, not if the aches and pain which tore through her when she only stressed the thing were this bad.
A hand caught her elbow and turned her.
The woman from the store gave her a tiny smile. “There’s a coffee shop next door. Let me buy you a cup.”
Taylor shook her head. “I’m sorry. I’ll be fine. I just needed air.”
The woman considered her. “I think you need something more than air. Come along. I want coffee. You can watch me drink it, if you won’t let me buy you one. Come.” She tugged on Taylor’s arm. “It’s at least warm and out of the wind there, and private, too.”
The suggestion of privacy, a place to pull herself together, coaxed Taylor into turning and walking with the woman to the little café next door. It did a roaring business in summer, selling cold coffee confections loaded with sugar and cream. Now, there was barely anyone sitting in the booths.
The woman pushed Taylor into a booth near the corner. “I’ll be right back. Are you sure I can’t get you anything?”
Taylor shook her head. Even if she could drink coffee, she would be afraid to pick up the cup. Her hands were shaking.
She put them in her lap and stared at the polished hickory tabletop, concentrating on breathing and trying to relax the way Sebastian had coaxed her. The fine edges of control were returning to her when the woman slid into the opposite bench and put a Frappuccino on the table. She bent over it and sniffed. “There is nothing like well brewed coffee to fix the ails of the world.”
Taylor missed coffee but only when she smelled it, like now. It didn’t stir longings—vampires couldn’t have longings or cravings because they didn’t have the physiology for it. “It does smell good,” she admitted. “Only, I would be sick if I tried to drink it.”
“Your loss.” The woman’s smile was mischievous. She picked the cup up and sipped. “Just the right amount of foam, too.” She put the cup down and held out her hand. “I’m Naomi.”
Taylor shook her hand, feeling the heat once more. “Taylor.”
Naomi hung onto her hand. “You’re freezing!”
“It’s a cold day,” Taylor pointed out.
Naomi let her hand go. “If you won’t drink coffee, try deep breathing. A friend of mine who is into transcendental meditation swears by the power of the breath. I don’t know if it heals the way he says it does, although it does calm me down when hell is breaking loose.” She sipped again.
“I find it helpful, too,” Taylor admitted. She drew in a lungful and let it out. “You’re not from around here,” she added.
“I rented a house for the winter,” Naomi said. “You might know it. The green Cape Cod on Beetle Swamp Road?”
Taylor shook her head. “I know the road but not the houses on it. I’ve only been living here for ten years.”
Naomi leaned forward and lowered her voice. “I understand you’re not considered a local until you’ve been here for at least twenty years.”
“It helps if you’re second or third generation native,” Taylor admitted.
Naomi nodded. “So even if I do stay here, then I’ll still be the strange writer woman.” Her smile was rueful.
“You’re a writer?”
“When I can be. I make more money editing, though.” Naomi smiled. Her smile was lovely. It made her green eyes dance. “I don’t make tons, although it’s enough to live on, if I’m conservative. Everyone tells me I’m mad to consider living on the island—it’s too expensive. Only, I couldn’t stand New York anymore…” Her smile faded. Her gaze shifted from Taylor’s face.
Then she hid her face behind the big round cup, pretending to drink.
Taylor stared at her. “Someone Irish…” she breathed, putting it together.
Naomi lowered the cup and rubbed at the fine line between her brows. “It’s been a year but I still… I have moments.” She drew in a breath and let it out. Her gaze met Taylor’s. “I saw the same look in your face.”
“He left you?” Taylor asked.
Naomi’s eyes glistened, then glittered as the tears welled. They trembled on the end of her lashes. “In a way,” she whispered.
Taylor realized the woman meant her partner had died.
The whisper came from nowhere, tearing bloody strips from Taylor’s heart. Maybe it would be easier if Brody was dead, too.
She flinched from the awful thought. With a soft moan, she put her face in her hands, wishing she could cry, too.
<
br /> Naomi leaned over the table and rubbed her arm. “It’s all right. Let it out. There’s no one here to see you but me, and I understand.”
Oh, how she wished she could let it out! It was roiling in her middle, muffling her thoughts, making everything hurt.
Shuddering, Taylor dropped her hands. “I think I’m doing okay, then it just…catches me like this.”
Naomi considered her. “If you don’t mind me saying so, I don’t think you’re doing okay at all. You look lost, Taylor. Is there someone…I mean, someone else, who you can talk to?”
Taylor gripped her hands together. “The one person I might talk to is not dealing with it any better than me.” She grimaced. “They were very close. Veris is…he was so strong, only this…”
Naomi nodded as if she understood. Taylor had spent years picking phrases which let her speak about her relationships without giving away the truth, so perhaps Naomi did understand.
“And this friend…Veris, did you say? If he is a strong man, he probably doesn’t know how to talk, to vent. Most strong men never had to, until their legs are taken out from under them. Then they’re helpless, with no idea how to deal with it.”
Taylor considered it. Brody was the one who knew how to talk, to express what he was feeling. He knew Veris so well, he knew what he was feeling, so Veris never had to explain. Taylor, too, had learned to read Veris.
“It’s almost as if you’re saying I need to help him talk to me,” Taylor said slowly.
“I suppose I am saying that,” Naomi said. “Maybe, help each other?” Her smile came back, the little mischievous one. “Although, every strong man I ever knew—and I’ve known more than my share of them—they all had to be hit with a mallet to crack them open.”
Taylor put her fingers over her mouth as a smile tried to form.
“There,” Naomi said. “That’s better.”
Taylor dropped her fingers. “Smiling feels like…”
“Betrayal?” Naomi asked.
“Letting go,” Taylor admitted.
“It isn’t,” Naomi said. “He’ll always be here.” She touched her chest. “Although life won’t let you opt out. It insists you live it. You may as well live it to the full, hmm? As long as he stays right here.” She touched her heart again.
Kiss Across Tomorrow (Kiss Across Time Book 8) Page 7