The Syndicate (Timewaves Book 1) (35 page)

“I’m so sorry,” I said for the umpteenth time that night.

Charles managed a small smile. “Yes, well, death is a part of a life, is it not?”

“Yeah, I guess so.”

Several more minutes of silent reflection passed. I spent the time trying to find a tactful way to ask Charles why he was so interested in my locket if Tessa was dead. It wasn’t like I could help him find her, even if the locket around my neck had once hung from hers.

“I did not know Tessa well,” Charles said finally, as though there had been no pause in the conversation. “But she was instrumental in relocating me to the DuPrees, and for that I owe her a great debt of gratitude. One I can never repay. She gave me a new life. A second chance. The freedom to become a man of my own making. I would very much like to do something for her in return. Or, as is the case, for her family.” The object in his pocket made a jingling noise as he again indulged in his nervous habit. Staring out over the Seine, Charles continued speaking, seemingly embarrassed to have shared such personal information with me. “It was silly of me to think that you and Tessa might have been acquainted at one time.”

“It’s not silly at all,” I told him quietly. “She saved your life. That sort of thing leaves a lasting impression. Wanting to meet and speak with someone who knew her is understandable. When someone disappears from your life, you grasp at every thread of information about that person that you come across, no matter how farfetched it might seem. It’s a way of keeping them alive and with you always.”

Charles stared deep into my eyes, a small sad smile on his perfect lips.

“You have lost someone close to you.” It wasn’t a question.

“Yes.” I spoke the one word before I’d given any thought to the ramifications of divulging such a sensitive detail about my real life.

“Who?” Charles asked, his gaze holding mine captive.

You have no idea what a loaded question you just asked….

For several long seconds, we simply stared at one another, neither of us blinking. Memories flooded my mind—the countless nights I’d spent with my head tilted back, neck craned, eyes glued to the heavens, while I selected the two perfect stars to call Mom and Dad. Then, I thought about the leads I’d followed to trace my necklace’s origins, and how they’d ultimately fizzled. Finally, I thought about Molly and Gaige, and how amazingly supportive they’d both been from the moment they’d heard my tale of woe.

Supportive, however, was the key word. Because neither my partner nor my best friend knew the loss of a parent firsthand. Charles did.

Suddenly, I had an overwhelming desire to tell him the truth. Not that I made my living traveling through time to steal objects for absurdly wealthy clients; I wasn’t stupid. But I could tell him
some
version of the truth. One that wouldn’t conflict with my cover story.

“My parents,” I swallowed around the lump forming in my throat, “disappeared when I was four. James Prince, the man in Baltimore, is not my biological father. I was also adopted.” My free hand, the one not linked with Charles’s, flew to the locket at my throat. “This necklace belonged to my mother. My
real
mother.”

Pain swam across my companion’s expression, raw and undisguised. Now that he knew we shared a grief that few others could truly appreciate, it seemed as though Charles no longer felt the need to hide behind stoicism.

Tears pricked the backs of my eyes, and I tried to turn away before he could see.

Charles did not draw me to him, as Gaige or Molly would have done in the same situation. He did not tell me it was okay to cry. He did not spout flowery platitudes meant to comfort, but inevitably sounding hollow. Instead, he squeezed my hand tightly, just once. Just to let me know he was there to listen when I was ready to continue. It was the exact response I needed. His uncanny ability to read me endeared him to me all the more.

I’d planned to let the topic go. I
should
have let the topic go. But fifteen years of repressed bitterness, anger, and heartache were clawing their way to the surface. I couldn’t stay silent any longer.

Once my eyes were dry, I faced Charles again. Tone brusque, I picked up the story. “I was found wandering the streets as a child, and taken to an orphanage. This necklace is all I had with me, other than the clothes I was wearing.” My brain screamed at me to stop talking. My heart, longing to tell my story to someone who would understand, compelled me to go on. “My earliest memories are from there, the orphanage. I don’t remember anything at all about my parents—what they looked like, what they sounded like, what they smelled like. I don’t remember my life before the orphanage at all. And I still don’t know the circumstances that led to me wandering the streets alone at four years old.

“Mrs. Prince, my adoptive mother, volunteered at the orphanage. I guess something about me appealed to her. Eventually, she brought her husband to meet me, and then they adopted me.”

To his credit, Charles didn’t immediately begin firing off questions. Instead, he waited patiently, gently rubbing the side of my hand with his thumb in a soothing circles.

“Stassi, I am so sorry,” he said finally. “I feel so foolish for prattling on about losing my parents, when you never even knew yours. I can’t begin to imagine how awful that would be.”

The insensitivity of his statement, though definitely unintentional, made me cringe. Charles blanched. The horrorstruck expression that followed was oddly comical, and I actually giggled.

“I cannot believe—”

“Please, don’t apologize,” I cut in. “I know what you meant. And please don’t feel sorry for me. Like you, I consider myself lucky to have found such an amazing adoptive family. Or, rather, I guess I should say, to have been found by such an amazing adoptive family.”

The smile I gave Charles was automatic and genuine. I did have an amazing adoptive family. Gaige, Molly, and, in a roundabout way, Cyrus were my family. I loved Molly and Gaige more than I could imagine loving a blood sibling. And I respected Cyrus, who was always looking out for me, like he was really an uncle.

“I even got a brother as part of the package,” I added when Charles didn’t say anything.

“So Gaige is not truly related to you?” Charles asked, a hint of something dangerously close to jealousy in his otherwise bland tone.

“No. But I promise you, my affection for him is only sisterly. And he feels the same way about me.”

Charles relaxed. “Good to hear.”

Chimes from an unseen bell tower began to ring out, signaling the hour.

“Goodness, is it really so late?” Charles asked. “I should get you home before that brother of yours comes after us. Our walk along the Seine will have to wait for another evening, perhaps one where we get an earlier start.”

I fought a losing battle to hide the grin his comment elicited.

We resumed strolling back in the general direction of the restaurant as I told him about the friendship between Gaige and me. Though I changed many of the details—swapping out the island for Baltimore, and the future for the present—much of what I told Charles was true.

Then, feeling especially brave, I also told him about Cyrus. Sure, I said his name was James Prince, and that he was a shipping magnate instead of the head of an international crime syndicate. But the underlying truth was there. Feeling bolstered by my ability to deftly swap out incriminating details for those of my cover story, I even told Charles about Molly.

It was oddly liberating, letting someone in without fearing rejection. That was probably why I didn’t stop talking once I started.

By the time we were nearing
La Coupole
once more, my date knew more about me than anyone in any time, save my two closest friends.

“My adoptive family has been very supportive of my desire to find my birth parents,” I found myself telling Charles. “That’s actually a lot of the reason Gaige and I came to Europe. A jeweler here in Paris made my locket.”

Immediately, I knew I’d said too much.

I FELT CHARLES
stiffen beside me. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw undiluted interest in his expression.

“Your biological mother was French?” he asked, excitement palpable in his voice.

“No, she wasn’t. I do know that she was American,” I said gently.

Surprisingly, this did not have the dampening effect I assumed it would. I also wasn’t sure whether it was true. I figured my parents were American, since I was found in Tennessee, but they could have been born anywhere.

“Did the jeweler tell you that?” Charles asked.

“Oh, no, he was exceptionally unhelpful. He recognized the locket as one of their pieces, but had no record of it being sold or commissioned. Although, he did have sales records for several other pieces of jewelry with sapphires surrounded by this same patterned design.” I traced the gold filigree around the stone with my fingernail.

“Who is this jeweler?”

“Matthieu Bonheur, of Bonheur’s Jewelry.”

Charles abruptly stopped walking. His expression turned to utter disbelief.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“Do you mean the Bonheur’s near Sylvia’s bookstore?” Charles asked.

“Yeah, that’s the one. It’s got the five-leaf clover on the sign, which is the same insignia stamped into the gold on the back of my locket.”

“So it is,” replied Charles, though I had the distinct impression his mind was a million miles away. After several moments, he snapped back to the present. “You said there were sales records for other items of a similar design?”

I thought carefully about my next words. I couldn’t very well tell Charles that the same person had commissioned at least three pieces of jewelry over the course of four hundred years, all of which bore an uncanny resemblance to my locket. Even being a time traveling bandit myself, the idea sounded farfetched.

Ultimately, I decided to gloss over the specifics. Hopefully, Charles was too distracted with his own thoughts to realize I was only giving him a fraction of the big picture.

“And did this jeweler actually show you the receipts for these similar pieces?” Charles was asking.

“Yes,” I lied. Then, anticipating his next question, I added, “There wasn’t another necklace. I’m sorry, Charles. There was a broach and a pair of cufflinks. There was also a third receipt, but it was badly stained and faded, and I couldn’t tell what the item was supposed to be.”

“Could it have been a pocket watch?”

The question caught me by surprise.

“I don’t know. I guess it could have been. It could have been anything, honestly.”

Charles’s hand was back in his pocket. This time, when he withdrew his hand, it wasn’t empty. One glance at the item cradled in his palm, and the real reason for Charles’s obsession with my locket became crystal clear. Suddenly, my stomach felt incredibly hollow.

“I should have mentioned it earlier. It was never my intention to deceive you, I swear. I just, well…,” he trailed off, apparently at a loss for words.

He wasn’t the only one. My mouth, though hanging open, seemed incapable of forming coherent speech.

The brilliant blue sapphire gleamed up at me enticingly from the gold disk in Charles’s hand. I had to suppress the urge to grab the watch and run. Instead, I settled for running my fingertip over the filigree surrounding the stone, tracing each loop and swirl that was so like the design on my necklace.

“Where did you get this?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.

“From Tessa.” He paused while this nugget of information registered. A million questions floated through my head, though I was unable to focus on any single one. “She gave it to me the day she took me to the DuPrees’ home.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Me neither,” Charles admitted. “I truly do not know the significance, if any. But this must be one of the other pieces made by Bonheur.”

Sure enough, when I flipped it over, I found a perfect five-leaved clover stamped on the back of the watch.

“It could be a coincidence,” I hedged, knowing full well that it wasn’t. The odds of such a thing were…well, they were as astronomical as me randomly encountering another person with one of the pieces J. Jacobson had commissioned.

“You do not believe that,” Charles stated flatly. “Neither do I. Is it not more likely that this pocket watch is the piece on the stained receipt? You did say that it was badly damaged, and that the item could be anything.”

“Yes, but all the receipts looked so old, and your watch appears to be nearly brand new.”

“As does your necklace,” he pointed out.

“True,” I conceded.

It was something I’d frequently wondered about with regard to the locket. I wasn’t particularly careful with it, and yet the gold never scratched, became dull, or showed any sign of normal wear and tear.

“Perhaps Bonheur treated the gold with some sort of protectant?” suggested Charles.

I had no answer. At least, not one I was prepared to give Charles. If J. Jacobson was a runner, as I strongly suspected, then it was possible he or she had alchemist connections. Which meant it was also possible that the metal wasn’t gold, but rather an element unknown outside the ancient and magical order.

I hadn’t even considered that until this moment.

How had Tessa come to be in possession of such a precious artifact? And why did she gift it to Charles?

Supposing my many assumptions were true, how my mother came to own the locket was less of a conundrum. Even before I was born, there had been a thriving black market for historical artifacts. She could have purchased my necklace from any number of merchants specializing in illegal goods.

“Did Tessa say anything when she gave you the watch?” I asked, completely ignoring Charles’s comment about Bonheur treating the gold.

“No,” he said, looking ill at ease. “I have always assumed that it was a family heirloom, since it appears to be quite valuable. But now, I am not so sure. It never occurred to me to ask Tessa where it came from.”

“J. Jacobson,” I whispered, the name slipping out unintentionally.

“Sorry?”

“J. Jacobson,” I repeated. “That was the name on the commission orders Matthieu Bonheur showed me. If this watch really is the item on that damaged receipt, J. Jacobson is the one who had it made.”

Charles’s gaze was alight with hope.

“We need to find him. We should visit Bonheur’s, together this time. Perhaps Matthieu will recognize the watch, and be more forthcoming with information about this J. Jacobson character.”

“Not likely,” I scoffed, recalling the jeweler’s hesitancy to tell me anything about my locket.

I felt Charles’s disappointment as keenly as I’d felt his excitement. Which was why, despite the huge warning lights flashing in my head, I told him about Worchansky.

“There is someone who might have information for us,” I began tentatively. The current of optimism surging inside of Charles was palpable. “I do have the name and address of the current owner of the cufflinks: M.L. Worchansky.” And then, because the light in Charles’s eyes was reaching supernova levels of brightness, I quickly backpedaled, “But he might not know anything more than what I’ve already learned.”

“It is just as likely that he does,” Charles countered. “We should pay him a visit immediately. Perhaps he even knows Tessa’s family. Maybe they are related. As I said, I would really like to do something nice for her relatives to repay the great kindness that she showed me. How is tomorrow? Are you free to call on this Worchansky gentleman?”

His enthusiasm over the prospect of meeting Worchansky eclipsed the enthusiasm he’d shown for me on our sham date.

“I’ll have to look at my calendar,” I said curtly.

I had no right to be annoyed with Charles for using me. But I was.

You are a big old hypocrite,
I lectured myself.

Charles leaned forward, bending down so our foreheads touched. Because I didn’t want to come across like a petulant child, I forced myself not to pull away from him.

“You do know that my interest in you far exceeds my interest in your jewelry, correct?” he asked.

“Do I?” I replied cheekily, not swayed by his sweet talk.

“The moment I saw you sitting at that table, I wanted to know you. Everything that has happened since is simply a fortunate twist of fate. Even if I had never seen your locket, I still would have been desperate to spend more time in your company.”

My next breath came out as a shudder. Okay, maybe I was capable of being a
little
swayed by his words.

When Charles’s lips found mine, my ability to think rationally took a tumble. Down a very large hill. Without a single boulder, tree, or donkey to slow the descent.

Charles’s hands slipped inside the jacket, locking around my waist and drawing my hips closer to his. Next thing I knew, my fingers were running through his silky hair. The kiss was soft but insistent. His mouth tasted like champagne.

Cold hands found their way to the small of my back, just above the waistline of my dress. Slowly, tenderly, he followed the line of the jeweled strap upwards, his touch growing warmer and warmer the longer his skin was in contact with mine. My body responded automatically, moving impossibly closer until nothing but thin fabric separated us.

I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been kissed like that. Maybe never. I didn’t want it to end. In that instant, I was a normal girl kissing a normal boy at the end of a, relatively, normal date.

When we finally broke apart, we were both breathing heavily. I looked into his eyes. The gold flecks seemed more prominent than before, as if his desire had brought them to the surface. But there was something else there, too—affection. The way Charles was looking at me left little doubt that he’d truly meant what he said about his interest in me surpassing his interest in my locket.

Charles ran a thumb over my bottom lip, his long fingers skimming my cheek with a touch as light as the flutter of butterfly wings. I closed my eyes and concentrated on the feel of his skin on mine. I didn’t think about how wrong this was. How pissed Cyrus would be if he found out. How, in several days’ time, I would disappear from Charles’s life forever.

Cupping my jaw in his hands, he brushed his lips against mine, then lingered for one final kiss.

“I should get you home,” Charles said softly.

“That’s probably a good idea,” I agreed, though the last thing I wanted was to return to the townhouse just then. Without his lips on mine, causing my hormones to muddle my thoughts, I also knew it was best for both of us to let that kiss be the end of our night.

Charles rode in the cab with me back to the townhouse. The driver was only too happy to accept an exponentially larger fare to wait while Charles walked me to the front door. My body and mind were at odds. One hoped for another kiss, while the other urged me to make a clean break before this went any further.

The decision was out of my hands, though. No sooner had my heels hit the sidewalk, than Cyrus appeared in the doorway. No doubt, he’d been watching through the curtains.

“There you are, Anastasia,” Cyrus said in greeting, though his focus was solely on Charles. My boss scanned the other man from head to toe appraisingly.

I had a decent command of my facial expressions. If I wanted to convey how I was feeling, I could. If not, my face could appear as a mask. But Cyrus was
the
master. With a single look, he managed to express curiosity verging on disapproval, but absolutely no further insight into the thoughts swirling around in that busy brain of his. It was irritating.

I shot my boss a withering glare for his use of the unnecessarily formal name.

“Hello, Uncle Cyrus.”

I was about to make formal introductions, when Charles stepped forward and held out his hand.

“Hello, sir. Charles DuPree. It is a pleasure to meet you.”

Cyrus took the other man’s hand and shook it firmly, playing up the protective role a little too much for my liking. “The pleasure is all mine,” he said in a flat tone, before turning to me. “It is late, Anastasia. Why don’t you come inside?”