The Art of Stealing Time: A Time Thief Novel (10 page)

“Kind of. Not really.” At last her gaze met his. “All right, I did, but it was more a lie of omission than anything else.”

“Again, I must point out that this conversation is not appropriate at this time,” Douglas said, gesturing toward the tents behind them. “The battle must commence now, or you will forfeit the fight.”

“I forfeit,” Gwen said, spreading her hands in a gesture of apology. “Sorry about gabbing away at you for so long, but I really am not trained for this sort of thing.”

“A pity,” Douglas said, then turned and put his fingers to his mouth, blowing a loud, piercing whistle. “But perhaps we can change that. You are under arrest. Both of you. Please come with me of your respective free wills, because otherwise I will have to bind your arms and legs, and I understand that being trussed up in that fashion is not at all comfortable.”

“Arrest?” Gregory said, moving to stand protectively in front of Gwen. He held the sword that she had handed to him, and although he was unused to wielding such a weapon, he felt that given the need, he could find it in him to do so. “I am a member of the Watch—”

“Which has no authority here,” Douglas interrupted. “You are clearly in cahoots with this lady, and since she has forfeited the fight and shamed herself before her lord—”

“Hey!” Gwen protested.

“—thereby making her my prisoner, you also are in my charge.”

A thin man in a long black and gold tunic and black leggings arrived in response to Douglas’s whistle. “Ah, Tallyrand. I believe the king would like to meet these two. Can you arrange transport for Lady Gwen and Sir Cover Model?”

“My name is Gregory Faa, not Cover Model,” Gregory snapped. “And if you think I’m going to let you take me prisoner, let alone Gwen-who-isn’t-her-mother, then you’re madder than Gwen’s mother.”

“Oh, you did not just say that,” Gwen said, jerking him around so he faced her. That she was furious was clearly evident in both the dangerous glint in her eyes and the stubborn set to her jaw.

“You have a very nice nose,” he told her. “I even like it when you’re incensed and your nostrils flare, as they are doing now.”

“My mothers are not mad! You take that back.”

“Mothers?”

“Yes. I have two. My mom and her partner, who is my second mom. And I don’t tolerate anyone saying anything bad about either of them.”

“Your mother, or mothers, have kidnapped a mortal woman.”

“Yes, well—”

“They have also attempted to sell magic to another mortal via the lawyer who we met on the cliff outside of Snails-on-the-Half-Shell.”

Her nostrils flared again. It was utterly adorable. “The name of that town was Malwod-Upon-Ooze. I don’t know why you have such a hard time remembering it!”

“You cannot deny that to do such acts, especially given the history of Magdalena Owens, indicates a lack of mental stability.”

She hit him. Right on the chest, the same place she’d smacked him with the gauntlet. “Look, I never said what they’ve done is right. Lord knows I’ve had to spend much of my adult life cleaning up after them and keeping them on the straight and narrow—but they are not insane! They’re simply . . . forgetful.”

He looked at her.

She looked away, a flush darkening her cheeks.

“Even you don’t believe that,” he pointed out.

“I know.” She sighed and met his gaze again. He was pleased to see that her expression had lost its hard, angry edge. “One of the problems with being raised Wiccan is that it’s very hard to lie to anyone, but especially to yourself.”

“You had no problem lying to me.”

“Oh, I had a problem with it. I just figured it was more important to protect my mothers than to shield myself from karmic repercussions. If you had arrested me, I wouldn’t have been able to extricate them from the situation. Which, I’ll have you know, I was doing just fine.”

“My definition of doing fine doesn’t include dying in the act.”

She stared at him with stark amazement. “How do you know I died?”

He hesitated, glancing to the side, a bit startled to find that except for the thin young man in the tunic, they were now alone. Evidently Douglas had gone off to his camp, leaving a guard set to watch them. He smiled to himself. He would have no trouble taking care of the young man when it came time for Gwen and him to leave. But first he had to dance around the delicate subject of the events on the cliff a few days past. “I was there.”

“I know you were there. I saw you. You stopped that lawyer from throwing me over the edge. But how did you know he’d done it before?”

“I was there when you were killed the first time.”

“You were?” She clutched his wrist, her eyes searching his. “So it was the lawyer who did it? Did you see who resurrected me? How come you weren’t there when I came back to life?”

“Yes, in a way, and I was. Just not where you expected me.”

She stared at him in incomprehension.

“I’m a Traveller, Gwen. Do you know what that is?”

“No. At least . . . no. The word seems like it is familiar, but I guess not. Wait . . . yes, I know it. There’s a family who visits the town my moms live in. They’re Travellers. Mom says they used to have a horse and one of those wooden trailers all painted up, but now they just bring camping equipment and hang out on the edges of the town.”

“I suspect they are Romany, not actual Travellers. The Rom frequently use the same word to describe themselves, but I assure you that despite superficial appearances, we are very different from them.”

She eyed his hair. “I suppose you don’t see many blond-haired, blue-eyed Gypsies. So what is the Otherworld version of Travellers?”

“Most of the people in the Otherworld think of us as time thieves.”

Her lips pursed for a moment before relaxing. He had the worst urge to taste those lips. “How do you steal time?”

“Travellers see time as a physical possession. You have so much time. I can take it if I so desire. But we always pay for it.”

“That’s not really stealing, then, if you pay for it.”

He shrugged. “It’s a matter of perception.”

“What does this have to do with me dying? If you stole my time, then I’d have less of it, not more in terms of being reborn.”

He glanced again at the young man next to them, but he appeared occupied with drawing something in the dirt at their feet. “I didn’t take your time. I took someone else’s, and . . .”

“And?”

He didn’t want to tell her, but he’d turned over a new leaf when he joined the Watch, and that meant taking responsibility for his actions. It would be so much easier to lie to Gwen, or rather, to hide the truth from her, but he knew instinctively that she would much prefer the harsh truth than comfortable lies.

And suddenly, her wants had become quite important to him.

“When a Traveller takes time, the people in the immediate vicinity are affected by the loss just as if their time was taken as well. You have to be very close for that to happen. The woman whose time I took was standing right next to you. So when I took her time, it set her back about half an hour . . . and you, as well.”

“You resurrected me by resetting time?” Gwen asked, incredulity in her voice.

“I did.”

“I don’t know whether to kiss you or smite you on the head with that sword,” she said, her face a delightful mixture of emotions.

“I would suggest the kiss. Smiting is never as satisfactory as you imagine it will be.”

“I don’t know,” she said with a dangerous edge to her voice. “I think there might be times when—”

Her words fell to the earth at the same moment that a yawning abyss opened at their feet and they plummeted into it.

“T
hat was totally uncalled for!”

The voice that rumbled above and through me was pissed. Very pissed.

“You could have hurt Gwen!”

“Yeah,” another voice said, and it took a few seconds before I realized that it came from my mouth. I put a hand up to my face to verify that fact, realized my eyes were closed, and opened them.

I was sitting on the floor, propped up against something hard and warm, wrapped in a delicious scent that reminded me of a campfire in the mountains. I turned to look, and my nose brushed Gregory’s chin. “Hello,” I told his chin.

“Are you all right? Do you hurt anywhere? You hit the floor hard.”

“I don’t feel hurt.” Slowly my gaze moved upward until it reached his eyes. They were filled with concern now, the little laugh-line crinkles around the outsides making my stomach feel all warm and happy. “What happened?”

“Evidently that twit in the tunic was a mage. He threw open a portal at our feet.”

I stopped looking at his nice eyes and nicer laugh lines to look around us, allowing him to help me to my feet. We were in a long rectangular room paneled in dark wood and bedecked with various antique weapons arranged in decorative fans and crosses. The floor was black-and-white-diamond marble tile. At one end of the room stood a tremendous fireplace, the kind that they used to have in medieval castles in order to roast whole oxen. The other end had two double doors, while overhead, dusty banners wafted gently in a ghostly breeze. A couple of long benches sat along one wall between suits of armor, while the other wall held a large curved desk with a sign that stated in three languages that tours would be conducted only in the company of an official guide.

No one else was in the room except a white cat that sat on the desk. As I watched, it jumped down and strolled over to us, tail held high.

“Where are we?” I asked, squinting at the sign in hopes it would tell us. It didn’t.

“I have no idea. I wanted to make sure you weren’t hurt before I went exploring. Shoo, cat.”

I looked at him, guilt welling up inside me. “I’m sorry,” I said before I could chicken out.

His eyebrows rose. “For?”

“Not telling you who my mother was. I just—you were with the Watch, and my moms have had so much trouble lately, and the last thing ended up with me being arrested, and then the Watch people released me, but they had this annoying scribe follow me around until I drove her mad and she quit, and the Watch couldn’t find anyone else who would do the job, and then my moms didn’t really believe me when I said that if they screwed up again, they’d get sent to the Akasha, and I died trying to get that lawyer off their backs after I told him that they weren’t going to give him the magic after all, and my moms didn’t believe that, either, and I had to see a therapist who thought I was loopy.”

Gregory frowned. “That was quite the run-on sentence.”

“It was, wasn’t it?”

“It had a lot of meat to it, a lot of things to discuss and think about, and perhaps ask for more explanation about, but right now I believe the more pressing matter is to find out where we are, and why the scrawny mage sent us here. Cat, move.” He nudged the cat, which had decided to plop its butt down on his shoe.

“Aw, don’t be mean to the poor kitty. It clearly likes you.”

“It can like me all it wants so long as it stays out of my way.”

“Not a cat lover, eh? I am.” I bent down to pick it up. The cat gave me a long look, unsure of whether or not it approved of this action, and finally, after some deliberation, sank its teeth into my hand. “Ow! You little monster! Fine, I won’t pet you, then.”

The cat jumped out of my arms, gave me a scornful look, ignored Gregory, and marched over to the nearest bench, where it attended to some grooming of a highly personal nature.

Gregory took my hand and examined the bite.

“Little beast has sharp teeth.” I shot a glare at the cat. It paid us no attention.

“You’ll live,” was all Gregory said before he herded me to a door on our right. I had to admit, I didn’t mind his hand holding mine. His thumb stroked over the bite a couple of times until it stopped stinging. What that simple touch did to my stomach was another matter. “Come. We will find out who is in charge here.”

He flung open the door. It was a bathroom. A man sat on the toilet, holding a computer gamer magazine. He looked up in surprise. Two cats emerged from the room and twined around Gregory’s legs.

“Whoops!” I said, turning around quickly.

“Our apologies,” Gregory said, and closed the door.

“Well, that was embarrassing. How about I get to pick the next door?”

“More cats!” His tone was disgusted. “No, I do not want to pet you. Go away. What did you say, Gwen?”

“I offered to pick the door we open next. Those cats sure do like you. Here, kitty, I’ll pet you if you’re not bitey like Snowball over there.”

The white cat, now sitting with its front feet tucked under it (what Mom Two always called “meat loaf mode”), glared at me.

“I wouldn’t, if I were you,” Gregory said, shooting the cat a dubious look.

This cat, which was mostly white with some orange splotches on it, didn’t seem to mind being picked up. He purred amiably as I rubbed his ears and neck. His buddy went over to fling himself down in a pool of sunlight that glowed on the marble floor. “I told you that I like cats. Dogs, too. Actually, all animals, and they like me as well. I think it’s because my moms are Wiccan. They know that we’re animal-friendly.”

Gregory made a noncommittal noise. We crossed the hall to open the door opposite. It was locked.

“Guess we try the big ones,” I said, tucking the cat beneath my arm so I could gesture to the far end of the room, but before we could reach it, the sound of flushing and water running reached our ears.

“Who the hell are you?” asked the man who emerged. He was in the process of wiping his hands on a towel, which he flung to one side as he stalked forward. He was a little taller than Gregory, had curly black hair, dark eyes, and one of those dashing narrow mustaches that make me think of Errol Flynn and swashbucklers.

“We were about to ask you the same question,” Gregory said in a haughty tone that I had a feeling wasn’t going to go over well with Mr. Mustache.

“I live here. I get to ask questions first. Are you tourists?” He narrowed his eyes at us, answering himself before we could. “No, you’re not mortal. You’re also not deceased, and therefore you have no right to be in Anwyn. You can have that cat, though. Make you a present of it. Be glad to get rid of the beastly thing.”

“We don’t want a cat—”

“Speak for yourself,” I said, chucking the cat under his chin. He purred louder and kneaded my arm. “My moms love cats, and they just lost one to liver disease.”

“—and before I explain myself to anyone, I desire to know to whom I’m speaking.”

The man, who had been making a face at the cat, snapped to attention. “I am Aaron, lord of Anwyn, king of the Underworld, and ruler of these lands. Now, non-mortal,
who
are you?”

“Aaron?” Gregory asked.

“It’s actually Arawn, but no one but pesky people call me that anymore. I’ve gotten with the times,” the king answered with an air of being well-pleased with himself.

“Oh, dear,” I said, unsure of how to greet a real, honest-to-Pete king, no matter how hip he was. Did people still curtsy? I wondered if I even knew how, or if he’d be offended by a bow?

“Gregory Faa.” He bowed, making me swear at myself because I wasn’t quicker off the mark. Now if I tried to bow, it would look like I was copying Gregory, plus I didn’t think I could pull off the move with quite as much panache. Especially not with a cat tucked under my arm. “This is—”

“Gwenhwyfar Owens, Your Majesty,” I said, making a little bob that I hoped would pass for a courtly curtsy. “We were evidently sent here by a mage.”

“Ah?” The king crossed his arms and gave us a considering look. “You can drop the ‘Your Majesty’ business. I’m a man of my people. Why did a mage send you here?”

“That is a very good question,” Gregory said.

I peeked at him out of the corner of my eye. He hadn’t mentioned being with the Watch . . . that was odd. If I were a policeman, I would mention it, whether or not I had authority in that place. And he certainly hadn’t had a problem telling Douglas that. Hmm.

“I’m sure I’ll get a message about it,” the king said, dismissing the subject with a wave of his hand. “You wouldn’t happen to know anything about machines, would you?”

“Machines?”

“What kind of machines?” I asked, tucking the cat more firmly in place as Aaron strode to the door, obviously expecting us to follow him. “I know a little about computers.”

“Such things are unreliable. They are always breaking down.” He must have noticed Gregory pulling out his cell phone, because he added, “I believe you’ll find that your mobile device will not work here. It’s something to do with the static in the air. Now, about your experience with machinery . . .”

“I’m a Traveller, Your Maj—er—”

“Aaron.”

“I’m a Traveller, Aaron,” Gregory said as we left the hall and blinked at the bright sunlight flooding the grass bailey before us.

“Ah? Oh, I see what you mean. Your kind does not do well with machinery. Just so,” Aaron said, nodding, then cocked an eyebrow at me. “Are you a Traveller, too?”

“No, I’m an alchemist.”

“Hmm. Alchemist. Hmm. No, my newest weapon, the Piranha, has no use for that. Now, if you had some way to smooth out a balky gearshift, I could put you to work. But as it is—oh, lord. This is all I need.”

Irritation flitted across his face as a woman strolled out of a small outbuilding. She was dressed in a Victorian artist’s idea of medieval wear, a long silken white gown known as a kirtle, touched with gold shimmering in the slight breeze. Her hair, the same color as the gold trim, hung down to her waist in waves that would have made a shampoo-commercial producer fall over in a swoon. Two orderly lines of mostly white cats followed her, tails standing tall like so many furry staves.

“What do you want? Can’t you see I’m busy?” Aaron snapped before the woman and her feline escort stopped before us.

“No, I do not see that you’re busy. You’re never busy. You simply amuse yourself with a variety of toys and pretend it’s work.”

Aaron bristled. “I am the king of the Underworld! The king of the Underworld does not have toys! He has vitally important machinery of war.”

The woman pursed her lips and tapped her chin. “So that thing you’re always hunched over on that computing device wherein you construct villages and towns isn’t a game?”

“SimCity is a highly intelligent computer simulation. It is a tool, woman, not a game. With it, I can plan out the next stages of development of Anwyn to ascertain the best allocation of funds and labor without having any negative impact on the indigenous population, souls in transit, or the wildlife native herein.”

She smirked. “Which explains why you have statues of yourself dotted about the simulated town and cackle loudly when you send a giant lizard monster to destroy the townspeople?”

“They are virtual townspeople. They aren’t real.”

“But you enjoy destroying them with monsters and tornadoes and virulent venereal diseases.”

Aaron made a disgusted noise. “There are no venereal diseases in SimAnwyn, virtual or otherwise. That’s another program.”

“The fact remains that you enjoy destroying the people of your town.”

“Your facts are erroneous. I reject them. Begone. I am busy talking with these fine people.”

The woman turned lovely, if cold, greenish-gray eyes upon us. “Who are they?”

“I have no idea. Someone that one of the mages at the front sent out. It matters not.”

“It matters to us,” I said, smiling politely when the woman glanced at me. “I’m Gwen. This is Gregory.”

“You are not dead,” she said, as if making a profound judgment.

“No. Although I did die earlier in the week if that makes you feel any better.”

“Hmm,” she said, then turned to consider Gregory. She seemed to like him better than me, a thought that made me narrow my eyes. Did she have to ogle him so obviously? We weren’t a couple, but she didn’t know that. What if we had been?

I glared at Gregory when he smiled in a friendly fashion at her. He caught the edge of my glare and raised his eyebrows. I resisted the urge to kick him in the shins.

“Introduce us, Arawn,” she said, pronouncing his name with a heavy Welsh flourish.

“This is my ex-wife, Constance,” he said with a martyred sigh. He gestured toward the double line of cats behind her. “And her hell-spawn creatures.”

“My cats are beguiling furry little beasts of wonder and delight, although technically they are hell-spawned, but only because this is what many mortals think of as hell. And I am
not
your ex-wife. I do not recognize your divorce proceedings; thus we are still very much married.” She bit off the last few words in a manner that reminded me of the piranha that Aaron had mentioned earlier.

“Only because you live in your own little fantasy world that in no way resembles any form of reality. No, no,” he said, raising a hand to stop her even though she hadn’t responded to his comment. “Far be it from me to interrupt you on your daily torment of the poor, hapless souls who reside here. Stay and talk to the strangers all you like. I have important things to do. The Piranha calls.” And with a curl of his lip (and the slightest hint of an obscene gesture to the feline honor guard), he left.

“You really do have piranha here?” I asked, glancing at the cats. “Isn’t that kind of dangerous for them?”

“It isn’t a real piranha,” she answered with another assessing ogle at Gregory. “It’s what Arawn calls his Velociphant.”

“Do we want to know what a Velociphant is?” Gregory asked.

“No,” she said, then pinned me back with a look that had me straightening my shoulders. “Why did the mage send you to us?”

I slid a look to Gregory. He slid it right back to me, leaving me to stammer, “Uh . . . well . . . you see . . . that is . . .”

She turned to Gregory. I could see that he was struggling with an answer that wasn’t an outright lie, and yet shielded the truth a bit.