Sunder (17 page)

“I was just asking. Don’t get pissy with me just because you’re stressed.” Reyna rolled over in a pouty huff, but Gabriel paid her no mind as he continued to hastily dress. They had been married for 15 years, and for eight of those he had been Vice President of the Jaramillo-Diaz council. She knew damn well there were things he couldn’t tell her, things she should know better than to even ask about. So he was not about to fall for her innocence act.

“I don’t know when I’ll be back, but it probably won’t be until tomorrow night at the earliest.”

“Can’t wait,” she said, the covers doing nothing to muffle the snark.

Pain in the ass.
Gabriel contemplated turning on the lights in the bedroom simply for spite—but then decided against it.

Even with the almost non-existent traffic of the early morning, it would take him at least 45 minutes to get to the depot. For once, Gabriel was glad of the long commute. It gave him just under an hour to gather up the moxie to confront the most powerful man in the country.

***

A solitary tear blazed down Alfredo’s cheek. Out of instinct, he wiped it away hurriedly, but he needn’t have bothered; Shannan was still unconscious, her hair trailing over the edge of the cot like twisted tendrils of silk. They were alone together in the darkened cell, and there was no one to see him cry, no one to hear the horrifying words that had just come out of the crucifix he held in his hand.

Alfredo had not initially been in the room as the extraction team stripped Shannan from her dark ages dress and replaced it with a too-short inmate smock—she was entitled to her privacy after all. He had been sitting quietly in the hall, allowing the medic to apply liquid stitches and a bandage to his forehead, when a booming voice summoned him into the cell.
Sir, isn’t this one of ours?
The largest man, the one who had carried Shannan, held out the crucifix, its unblemished silver almost glowing against the black glove it rested upon.

Of course it was one of “ours.” Alfredo had designed those beacons himself, and this one was Isabella’s. Shannan had said as much. He had sent the extraction team away, told them not to return unless he called for them. Once they were gone, Alfredo gently sat on the end of the cot next to Shannan’s bare legs.

Why had he pressed down on Jesus’ feet? What had he been hoping to hear as he twirled that crucifix in his fingers? Isabella’s voice, of course. He had been hoping for a message from his daughter. But he had heard something else entirely:

Hello Izzy.  I bet you’re wondering where you are.  Well, I’ll be nice and tell you. You are in your own personal Hell… 

An image of Isabella’s terrified face flashed through his mind—how she must have looked when she heard that recording—and he choked back a sob.  He had sworn that Isabella would never again be afraid, not after seeing her mother die like that. He had failed so completely to shield her from that trauma, and afterwards she was never the same.

But this time it’s different.
As Alfredo took in a long, deep breath and rested his head on the concrete wall behind him, he quelled his racing mind with the knowledge that, despite Etienne’s best laid plans, Isabella was coming home. He was going to save her…he would make it better. It would all be like a bad dream, and when Isabella came home to him, nothing—not even God Himself—would ever make her afraid again.

Having Shannan sleeping next to him calmed much of the anger coursing through his veins. She was the key to setting his life right; she had everything he needed.

Which reminds me…

Alfredo bent slowly to the side, retrieving his phone from his pocket without bumping Shannan off the narrow cot. After selecting the number for the Intel agent in charge of interrogations, he held the phone to his ear.

“Yes, Agent Esposito, it’s Councilman Jaramillo. What is the status of the prisoner?” The voice on the other end of the phone assured him Etienne was stable and would soon be ready for another round of questions.

“No need. I have acquired another information source that is much more promising. Danforth is no longer useful.”  He assured Esposito that yes, he had understood Alfredo correctly, and yes he was sure Danforth had outlived his usefulness. He hung up with a satisfied look on his face.

Next to him, perhaps in response to the click of his phone as he signed off, Shannan stirred.

That’s right, sweetheart. Wake up.

14

The darkness smothering Isabella from all sides was completely terrifying. Her eyes were fully adjusted, but her arms remained stretched in front of her face to avoid being scratched by the branches. These woods (perhaps the same woods in which the real Bishop of Wessex had met his end) provided cover, but they could also be dangerous.

There was no sound in the trees. The whole natural world was asleep… or maybe it had all gone silent because of her presence. Fatigue gnawed at her eyes, and now that the adrenaline of her flight from Shaftesbury was waning, all she wanted to do was sleep.

The branches stopped hitting her outstretched arms, and as she bent to feel the ground beneath her feet, Isabella felt grass rather than crumpled leaves and twigs.
This will be my bed then
.  She sat gingerly down, shifting her skirts so they were smoothed out beneath her. The empty buzz in her head cleared, and her mind played back the events of that night—the paralyzing fear when she saw Garrick barreling towards her, Emilio’s look of barely suppressed panic as she turned her back on him. Then she was running—running for her life. Her heart beating so fast she thought it might explode, the sour taste in her mouth—the mouth that was completely dry—gaping open and violently gasping in every breath. She ran until any hint of Shaftesbury was gone. But now she was sitting, it was quiet, and the weight of her plight fell upon her like rock-hard hail.

She felt sick—sick like she had never felt before, and it had nothing to do with her hours-long run. She was alone. She was being hunted. Whether found by the warriors of Shaftesbury or stumbled upon by a group of Danes, her journey into the past was very likely to end in her death.  Dead like Emilio. Was it her fault?

How had it all come crashing down when she was
so
close to salvation?  Even as she asked these questions, Isabella knew the answers didn’t matter. A good man’s life was over, and as he was Agency Intelligence, any family he had would never be told how, when, or why he died—only that one day he didn’t come back from a mission. How hollow those words would sound to his wife, his children, his mother. A good man would be given a traitor’s burial in an unmarked grave with no one to mourn him and, more importantly, no priest to give him Last Rights.

A thousand years from now, Emilio would be given a Requiem Mass at Cathedral de Santo Domingo, and perhaps to God, Earth’s linear time did not matter—for He could see all things. But Emilio was dead now, and Isabella could not stomach his passing without even one plea for his soul.

“Father,” she whispered softly, rising to her knees, “please receive Your faithful son, Emilio Bernal, and forgive his sins so that he may enter the gates of heaven as one who has loved You perfectly.” She paused to wipe tears off her face, keeping her head bowed in both reverence and shame. It had been more than a decade since she had prayed—really prayed. So many times at Mass, she would just zone out and let the Latin go past her. The rosary sessions she attended with the Catholic Women’s Association were just for show. She had her life completely under control then, and had little use for God. But now she needed Him like she had never needed anything. She needed Him to clean up
her
mess.

“And I ask that you protect me and aid me in my journey home. You have been just in Your punishment of my husband. Please be kind and allow me to return home.”

In the quiet of the forest, it was almost as if God was waiting for her to continue.
Makes sense. He hasn’t heard from me in a while.

“What I have done demands penance, Lord.” She sobbed out. “I want to go home! It’s all I want! But I know I will never get there if You don’t wish it. So please Father, tell me what I need to do to be forgiven. I promise to You here and now I will stop fighting Your plan for me. I will go where You lead me. I will do as You ask.” A distant memory of a Bible passage helped her end her prayer. “Here I am Lord. Send me.”

The last of her tears fading away, she sat back down and sighed. She only had the vaguest of ideas of how to get to East Anglia, and in order for her to arrive in Thetford, she would need to get directions from someone. Once again, she was a woman traveling alone in a countryside overrun with Saxon and Viking warriors. The thought that she may be brought back to Shaftesbury filled her with fear, but it may be what God designed. Her own decisions had only resulted in tragedy every step of the way. So tomorrow, Isabella Jaramillo would see where the day would take her. She would see what penance God had planned.    

***

Something hit the back windshield with a crashing thud.

“They’re outside Isa!” Mama screamed at her from the front seat. “We have to get out!”

Another crash from the back windshield, this time so forceful that glass sprayed all over the back seat, cutting her legs.

“Mama, help me please!”

“Run home, Isa! Run home and stay there!” Mama looked wildly over her shoulder and then kicked open her door, frantically running out into the dark.

“They’re out there, Mama, come back! Please don’t leave me alone!” She was trying to shout so Mama would hear her, but it was no use. There was something wrong with her voice and it just came out as a strangled whisper.

They were coming for her.

She pushed on the lock button on the door frame and heard the satisfying click as the locks engaged on all four doors. The windows revealed nothing but a perfect blackness and there was no more pounding. But they were out there somewhere. She leaned her head against the window, trying to make out something in the dark—only to feel the door give way to the pressure from her forehead.

But I locked it!
She pulled on the door handle, frantically trying to get the latch to close, but it wouldn’t catch; the latch was broken. Sobs choking her throat, she held tightly onto the door, trying to keep it shut with her own strength. She had to keep them out!

As her grip tightened on the door handle, her legs started to get very cold. She knew before she even looked down that the car was filling with water—dark red water. They had pushed her into the pool! They were waiting for her to jump out of the car so they could get to her!
Please God I don’t want to die!

Thrashing wildly, Isabella screamed as she came out of the dream. The stab of adrenaline propelled her to her feet and pushed her backward in a retreat from the ground she had been sleeping on. As her raspy breathing rattled in her ribcage, she became acutely aware of the fine sheen of sweat over her body that only magnified the effect of the chilly morning air. All was quiet around her—the birds gone silent from the outburst of the human intruder. The morning had brought fog with it, and the grey clouds around her seemed a perfect setting for her situation.

Was the dream a warning?
The tears maintained their grip on her eyes, and she realized the dream may very well have been God’s response to her prayer. Maybe he was telling her that she was as good as dead no matter what she did. If that was the case, should she even bother with the journey to Thetford?

The fog was thick, so her vision didn’t extend very far into the woods. She could see only as far as the clearing, and the sun was completely obscured, leaving no hint of which way was north.
I can’t go anywhere!
With a disgusted grunt, she plopped back down to the ground, her skirt wrapping around her folded legs.

She took a lengthy inhale with the intention of letting it out as a sigh, but her annoyed exhalation seemed to come out in slow motion as her eyes focused on the ground surrounding her. A strange calm caressed her body, and for an instant—she felt the breath of God on her face.

A perfect geometric circle of mushrooms surrounded her. The tightly-packed spores formed a veritable phalanx between her and the trees; they were not loose and spotty like the vague oval Saoirse had shown her back in October. Had these mushrooms been there last night, she would have had to trample on them to get to where she laid.

They sprung up around me as I slept.
The tightness in her chest released, her breath slowed to normal, and Isabella stood once more to get a better look at the perfectly-formed circle.

Seeing the beautiful ring that surrounded her, all her fear of the future melted away. The dream had been only that—just a dream, a manifestation of her fear. But that terror was gone now, as she realized that her life was not to be over just yet.

“If I were a pagan, I’d reckon some fairy folk had taken a liking to you.”

The unexpected voice from behind startled her, but Isabella was not afraid. She had no reason to be afraid—not anymore.

The words that had so suddenly pierced the silence were in English. Not Saxon.
English.

Turning around slowly, it took her a moment to recognize the lanky and (as always) unshaven form of Selwyn leaning casually against a tree. The fact that he was armed did not escape her.

Still calm from the effect of the fairy circle, Isabella sought a logical opening for what was no doubt going to be a long conversation.

“My name is Isabella Jaramillo, and I come from 2114 Miami, Florida. I was sent here against my will,” she said with a nervous smile.

“I’m Daniel Edwards from 2073 Leeds, England. I came here on purpose.” Selwyn said with no smile at all.

He dislodged himself from the tree and walked slowly, almost menacingly toward her, stepping over the toadstools and into her fairy circle. He stopped in front of her, and though he was the same height, looked down on Isabella with pursed lips.

“You’ve made a right fucking mess of this, haven’t you?”

“Trust me,” she said with a wavering voice, “I never meant for any of this to happen.”

“Have you got the baton?” he asked crossly, not breaking eye contact. “I searched all over the tanning shack and I couldn’t find it.”

“Yes,” she mumbled, pulling the baton out of her waistband. “I had no idea he had it. He certainly knew better.”

His glare softened with a shadow of relief as he took the baton from her and placed it into his own waistband. She understood why he wanted it. The fear of a local blacksmith finding this modern weapon was a very real concern. A 22
nd
-century telescopic baton with a Taser function could provide a lot of new ideas to a clever craftsman, and the timeline could be altered by his new inventions. Luckily, it was metal rather than plastic, so Selwyn could easily melt it down. In the momentary silence, Isabella wondered what Cædda must have thought when he felt the lash of that baton. What had he thought it was?

“So what now?” she shrugged her shoulders at him, trying to change the subject. “Are you here to take me back?”

Selwyn fixed his icy blue eyes on her, and, for just a moment, Isabella wondered if he had come there to kill her.

“Sit down, Isabella,” he said in a seemingly exhausted tone.

Of course it would make sense that he would be tired. He had been up all night looking for Emilio, then had been in that awful fight that had taken his life, and likely Selwyn had spent every second of the intervening time looking for her.

“How did you find me?” she asked, cautiously taking a seat on the hard-packed earth.

“The beacon puts off trace amounts of radiation,” he groaned out his sentence with the effort it took to lower his creaking joints into a cross-legged sitting pose on the ground across from Isabella. “I have a solar-powered Geiger counter,” he said pointing to his leather wrist cuff. “It’s in my interest to be able to detect and summarily
avoid
all travelers.”

Her first stab of curiosity was at how long it took to charge the concealed Geiger counter given the lack of sunshine in England, but that gave way to a different, more pressing question.

“Why are you avoiding other travelers? And how is it that you’ve been living here?” She vaguely recalled Garrick making some drunken comment that he had been Selwyn’s “sworn brother” for ten years. There was no mission in the history of the Agency that had lasted more than three years.

Selwyn, or Daniel, or whatever his name was, shifted his eyes downward, his normally aloof manner evaporating.

“I came here to escape the law. Very few travelers come here for research, so it’s a fair assumption that any traveler I encounter will be here to collect me.”

When Isabella did not respond to his admission, Selwyn continued.

“I was a professor at Warner, tenured. After a row with my husband, he fell over the bannister and died. I was accused of murdering him. The case wasn’t going well for me—for various reasons—so I decided to flee to where they would never find me. Nathan was my only family, so I had nothing to stay for. One of my GA’s helped me to escape into the past. It was really the only place I could go that they wouldn’t find me.”

Isabella stared at him, mouth hanging open. She spoke English fluently, having been raised fully trilingual. And yet, she assured herself, she must have misunderstood him just now.

“I’m sorry, you were a professor where, and you murdered who?”

Selwyn’s forlorn expression darted into one of confused irritation. “Warner University for Temporal Travel, the sole authorized education center for time travel. I suppose they’ve opened more schools in your time, but surely you know it. And I didn’t murder my husband; I told you it was an accident.”