The Art of Stealing Time: A Time Thief Novel (5 page)

Peter’s round, startled eyes gave Gregory pause.

“Did I just rant?” he asked.

“Yes.” Peter looked thoughtful. “Interesting. Very interesting. You don’t . . . uh . . .”

“Of course I do. She’s got a magnificent ass. But that is neither here nor there.”

“I don’t know,” Peter said as they continued forward toward the rides. “I think it’s pretty here. But I suppose your interest in the woman whose life you saved—again, I feel obligated to point out at the risk of your own life, your job, and possibly my job—being present at the park at the same time as the Owens female doesn’t necessarily mean they’re related. She dragged you across the park?”

Gregory laughed at the incredulity expressed in Peter’s last sentence. “She did. She was trying to be subtle about it, too, so I didn’t want to hurt her feelings by letting on I knew she was doing it. So I simply allowed her to pull me where she wanted me.”

Peter gave him an unreadable look, started to say something, stopped, then finally shook his head and spoke. “We haven’t known each other for long—obviously, I knew of you and the other members of Lenore Faa’s family—”

“Of which you’re one,” Gregory interrupted. Although Peter and Lenore, their grandmother, had somewhat made their peace, it was clear that Peter still didn’t feel that he was truly a member of the family. And given his past, and their uncle’s and a cousin’s actions of late, Gregory didn’t blame him one bit. But since they had started working together, he felt it important to remind Peter that he was, in fact, part of the family.

“Yes, thank you, of which I’m one.” Peter grimaced slightly before continuing. “Regardless of the length of time I’ve known you personally, I feel obliged to discuss something that could have an impact on your career.”

“What have I done wrong now?” Gregory asked wearily. Part of him couldn’t help but wonder if being a member of the Watch was going to be worth all the sacrifices he was making.

“Don’t make that face,” Peter said, pointing at him. “I know what you’re thinking.”

“I doubt that you do.”

“Then you’re fooling yourself. You’re thinking that you’re a Traveller, renowned through the centuries for your ability to manipulate time and lightning, and that it goes against your nature to deny access to both powers as you have been asked to do for the last few months.”

“I understood the rules of the Watch when I joined,” Gregory said carefully. Then he added with a wry smile, “All right, you knew what I was thinking. I only admit it because I know damned well that you think the same way. You just have better control over yourself.”

“And that’s exactly what I wanted to talk about—control. I don’t question your dedication to the job at hand, and yet despite your desires to the contrary, you let a woman you hardly know haul you all over the place. You have to ask yourself why you did that, and whether you’re allowing your emotions and desires to rule your mind. I’m sorry to say that if so, it will affect your future as an investigator for the Watch.”

Gregory was silent while he struggled with his inner self, hating to admit that his cousin was absolutely right, and yet the truth was that he did feel resentment toward the loss of his natural talents. Why was he expected to deny his true nature, when other members of the Watch were not? Oh, he was used to being persecuted for who and what he was—Travellers had always been outside of society, both mortal and immortal—but the demands placed on him by the Watch had been more onerous than he had imagined.

And yet the reason for his being there with Peter was compelling, and one that he knew was right. Travellers as a whole were an insular group, not mingling with outsiders unless such contact could not be avoided. Over the last few centuries, they had withdrawn even more into their own society as the mortal and immortal worlds had grown more fearful of their powers. The mortals saw them as Gypsies, Romany folk whom they were unable to distinguish from the similar—but quite separate—Travellers. The members of the Otherworld were little better, viewing Gregory and his kind as thieves and worse.

“I don’t know what to tell you,” he said slowly, knowing in his heart that he couldn’t go back to his life of just a few months ago. Too much had happened since then; he had seen himself and his family through his cousin’s eyes, and he knew that he had to make a stand against the old way of life. “I can swear to you that I’m devoted to the job. To the Watch. To the idea that Travellers must be held accountable for their actions. But at the same time that I fully agree that our people must cease reveling in their status as outcasts, I recognize that it is our very nature to do so. To go against nature itself seems impossible at times. Perhaps you are able to control your need to use your powers because you are . . .”

“Mahrime?” Peter asked, his eyebrows rising slightly.

Gregory’s shoulder twitched at the word. “Mahrime” could mean simply an outsider, one who was not a Traveller, or when applied to one of their own people, someone who was unclean. Tainted. Impure. “I was going to say that you and Kiya have distance, growing up outside of the Traveller society, whereas I do not. To us, acting in accordance to our true selves is as natural as breathing.”

“You don’t need to lecture me about that. I’ve had ample proof that Travellers go blithely about their way regardless of who they hurt or how many laws they break.”

“And I don’t condone either. I’m simply trying to explain that what you see as impulsiveness is my way of coming to grips with this new way of life. It might be easy for you to not steal time as you go throughout your day, but I assure you that I’m aware every time I pass by a mortal of the potential to steal just a few seconds.”

To his surprise, his cousin gave him a swift, rough hug. “I know it’s hard fighting what is an automatic reaction.”

Gregory’s expression caused Peter to laugh. “Where did that come from?” he asked when the laughter died down.

Peter made a face and nodded toward the carousel. “Kiya. She says I need to hug more. She thinks it’s good for me to be more open with my emotions. She is probably right.”

“Possibly, but if she convinces you that you need to kiss me next, I warn you that I have a mean right hook.”

“Noted. Now—”

“Well, well, well. What a coincidence finding you here.” The voice that drifted through the blare of music was filled with suspicion. Gregory turned to see its source, his fingers tightening when he beheld a slight woman in a smart cherry red wool suit coat and skirt. The light flashed off the lenses of her glasses as she eyed first him, then Peter. “Two Travellers? How very interesting. You wouldn’t happen to know the location of my client, would you?”

“Who’s this?” Peter asked, sotto voce.

“Reclamation agent,” Gregory answered out of the side of his mouth before turning to face the woman, who now stood with her hands on her hips. “Good evening. To whom are you referring?”

“That woman who died on the rocks a couple of days ago. The one you were standing over.” Her eyes narrowed. “The one who was stolen from me a few seconds later.”

Gregory spread his hands in a show of innocence. Employment with the Watch prohibited him from lying except in the most dire of circumstances, and while he might have been inclined to play a little fast and loose with that rule in private, he couldn’t very well disregard it in front of Peter . . . especially coming on the heels of the grand speech he had just made about his dedication to the job. “I have stolen no woman, dead or alive.”

“Of course you haven’t. But have you seen her? Do you know where she is?”

He chose to answer the second question, since he could do so truthfully. “I have no idea where she is.”

“Odd,” the woman said, giving them both another once-over. “According to my sources, Owens was seen coming to this park in the company of another woman and a mortal.”

He exchanged a startled look with his cousin.

“Owens?” Peter asked. “What is your interest in her?”

“I just told you. She owes me a soul!”

“Are you saying that the woman who died on the rocks a few days ago was Owens? Magdalena Owens?”

“Yes, of course. Although I thought her first name was something else. Oh, it doesn’t matter. She’s the one, all right.” The woman made an impatient gesture. “I don’t have time for this nonsense. I have to find that woman and take what she owes me.”

“I don’t know for certain,” Gregory said with a nonchalance he was far from feeling, “but I suspect that she’s not going to want to give up her life just so your records will balance. Or whyever it is you are pursuing her.”

“Look, I have a job to do, one simple little job: I collect the spirits of those who’ve passed on. I’m responsible for those spirits, and when someone goes and gets herself resurrected”—here she gave them both a very stern look—“then I can’t go back to my boss and say, ‘Oh, well, that one got away.’ I mean, he’s Death! He’s just not going to understand! Plus it does throw the books out of balance, and the accountants get all pissy if you mess with their books. You wouldn’t know how to resurrect someone, would you?”

Gregory smiled a grim, grim smile. “I have no knowledge of resurrection at all. I believe that is the purview of necromancers.”

“Mmm.” She eyed Peter, then made a dismissive noise. “Very well. But I expect to hear from you if you see her. Drat, who’s this calling?” She moved away a few steps to answer her phone.

She could expect all she wanted; he had absolutely no intention of turning Gwen over to Death’s minion. Not when she was wanted by the Watch.

“She lied to me,” he said to Peter in a soft voice. It hurt to say the words, and he couldn’t understand why that was. Yes, Gwen—Magdalena—had betrayed his trust, but it wasn’t as if he’d invested any time or emotion in her. So why did it feel like he had? “She lied to my face. Looked me straight in the eye and said she wasn’t Magdalena Owens.”

“It’s been known to happen,” Peter said, his gaze on the reclamation agent. “I’m sorry to hear it, but on the other hand, it explains a lot. And will make it easier for us to catch her. Now we know exactly what she looks like.”

Gregory ignored the sense of foreboding that settled over him with those words. He didn’t like to contemplate what the Watch would do to Gwen (as he still thought of her) when they turned her over. Most likely she’d be banished to the Akasha, the place of punishment from which no one escaped. He hardened his heart. He couldn’t allow sentiment to taint his duty. Gwen had broken the laws, those governing both mortals and immortals, and she had to pay for her crime. The fact that she was a barefaced liar was just proof that she wasn’t to be trusted. “I won’t let her fool me again, that’s for certain.”

“Bah. I must go scour the park before the others get here.” The reclamation woman tucked her phone away and glanced around with distaste.

“Others? What others?”

“The mortals. The ones chasing her. I ran into them outside some psychology place yesterday.” She gave a little shrug. “They said something about a debt she owed them, but I didn’t pay much attention. The debt she owes my boss is much greater, and naturally takes precedence.”

“Naturally,” he said, thinking furiously. Someone else was chasing Gwen? A mortal someone? It didn’t surprise him—anyone who would kidnap a mortal certainly would have no qualms about double-crossing other mortal beings. But still, the idea that people other than him—and the annoying reclamation agent—were tracking her filled him with unease.

“I wouldn’t like to meet them in a dark alley—and I’m immortal,” the woman finished, flicking a piece of lint off her sleeve.

That didn’t bode well. Not for them, and certainly not for Gwen.

“Do you know the names of these other people—” Peter started to ask, but he stopped when the police scanner squawked to life. The first few words were lost in the noise of the carousel, but a man’s voice suddenly spoke with unfortunate clarity. “—Owens seen heading toward the Cardiff Shopping Centre. Units are in pursuit.”

Peter didn’t hang around to ask his question again. He simply ran for the carousel, gesturing at his wife.

“The game’s afoot!” cried the red-suited woman. She spun around, racing off into the night without another word.

Gregory swore at the timing of the police scanner, swore at the unknown people who were so threatening that even Death’s minion quailed at meeting them, and swore at his own stupidity for allowing a pretty woman to fool him.

By the gods, things were going to be different from here on out. He’d be damned before he believed a single word that came out of Gwen’s delicious mouth.

“L
eft. Go left!”

“If I go left, we’ll end up in the bay,” I said through gritted teeth, my hands gripping the steering wheel so tight it hurt. I spun the wheel and we took a corner on what felt like only two wheels, a municipal sign pointing out the location of the Cardiff mall.

“Your other left!”

“That would be right, Mom.”

“Of course I’m right, I’m looking at Mrs. Vanilla’s drawing. She has it all mapped out.”

The wail of sirens behind us grew louder as another police car shot out of a side road, fishtailed wildly for about five seconds, then did a three-point turn and fell into place behind us. About five blocks back, two other cars raced toward us. They were closing fast. I figured we had a matter of seconds to make the mall and get into Anwyn before the mortal police got too close to avoid.

“A slowing spell! That’s what we need,” Mom Two said, and rolled down her window.

“Mom Two!” I yelled as she thrust her torso out the window, facing backward so she could cast her spell. “Get back in the car. The mall’s straight ahead!”

The words of her spell were whipped away on the wind, or drowned out by the siren as the nearest police car, with a burst of speed, zoomed up almost to our bumper, but I had no doubt that she was fully intent on buying us a little time. I grabbed her belt with one hand while slamming my foot down on the accelerator, forcing my mothers’ car to its limits as it shot across the last intersection, tires squealing when I swerved to avoid traffic, and into the mostly empty parking area outside the mall.

“Get back inside the car!” I bellowed, my eyes scanning the front of the mall. My mother had sworn that the Krispy Kreme—and I had a moment of mentally shaking my head again over the fact that someplace as mythical and renowned as the Welsh afterlife had an entrance in a doughnut shop—was open twenty-four hours.

Sure enough, at the far end of the mall there were a few cars outside a lit storefront.

“Done! I think that should help us,” Mom Two said as she pulled herself back into the car. I glanced in the rearview mirror. The police car had stopped, the driver banging his hands on the wheel in frustration.

“You could have been killed,” I chastised Mom Two as I spun around a barrier and headed for the lights. We rocketed past a security patrol, who instantly flipped on his lights and started to follow. Luckily, there wasn’t much traffic, since most everyone was still at the park or at home, so I blatantly disregarded proper driving lanes as we hurtled toward the entrance of the doughnut shop. “OK, as soon as I stop, I want everyone out and into the store. I’ll decoy the police away—”

“No!” Mom shouted, clutching the back of the seat. “You must come with us.”

“It’ll be safer for you if I lead them away from Anwyn.”

“No!” she repeated, and tugged on the headrest in an annoying way. “You have to come to Anwyn, too.”

“The police aren’t after me. I’m sure they don’t know who’s driving this car.”

“It’s not the police you need protecting from, Gwen,” Mom Two added. “It’s the woman in the red suit.”

“That’s right! She’s looking for you. And you know what that means!” Mom said, tugging on the headrest.

“No, I don’t, because neither of you would give me a good explanation of just who this mysterious woman is, or why she is after me.”

“It’s better if you don’t know,” Mom Two said with a knowing look.

“You don’t know who she is, do you?” I asked with sudden insight.

“I don’t know her name, but that doesn’t mean I can’t sense danger when it’s near. There.” She pointed, and for a second I was confused as to whether she was pointing out something dangerous. “That’s the entrance to the Krispy Kreme.”

I glanced behind me. The security car was close, but not so close that the occupant could physically grab us. Two police cars were heading straight for us, however. I didn’t have the time to argue, so I simply yelled, “Hold on, everyone!” and slammed on the brakes.

The tires squealed in a satisfyingly dramatic fashion as we slid to a stop right in front of the doors. I flung myself out of the car and yanked open the door behind me, running around the car to help Mom Two get old Mrs. Vanilla out.

The security guard hit his horn and slammed on his brakes, but he was too late. Mom Two and I more or less carried Mrs. Vanilla into the doughnut shop at a full run, my mother holding the door open for us.

“Where is it?” I asked as soon as we were inside, frantically scanning the interior. A couple of people sat in brightly colored booths, while behind a long glass counter an employee stood frozen in surprise, a pot of coffee in his hand.

“I’m not sure exactly,” my mother started to say, but Mrs. Vanilla began squeaking loudly and kicking her legs. We set her down and she bolted, moving amazingly fast for an old lady. Around the counter filled with doughnuts she dashed, and into the back area.

We didn’t wait. We ran after her, the electronic
ping
of the door chime letting us know that the security guard was hot on our heels.

Mrs. Vanilla scurried past the doughnut-making equipment, heading straight for a door to what must be a storage room. I prayed to every deity I could think of that it was, because if it wasn’t, we were going to be in a serious world of hurt.

Mom Two threw open the door and without a look back, dashed inside, followed by Mrs. Vanilla and my mother. I hesitated for a second. The security guard appeared behind me.

“I so hope I don’t see you in a few seconds,” I told him, then turned on my heel and leaped through the open doorway into the storage room.

Only it wasn’t a storage room.

I fell with a loud
thwump
onto soft, daisy-spotted green grass, getting a good mouthful of it before I managed to roll over onto my back.

The stars sparkled overhead, like so many glittering diamonds scattered on an indigo cloth. They looked so close, I wanted to reach up and touch them, to let their cold, brilliant light cleanse me of all impurities.

I sat up and spat out the bit of grass, half a daisy, and a very surprised potato bug. I looked around. Although the moon was high in the sky, a quarter moon that was as bright as a full moon, closer to earth a reddish haze hung over the land, like smoke from an odd sort of fire.

Directly in front of me were the three shapes of my two mothers and Mrs. Vanilla, the last of whom was being supported by the former.

“You guys are OK?” I asked, getting up. “I guess I owe Mrs. Vanilla an apol—”

The words dried up on my tongue as Mom Two shifted, allowing me to see beyond her.

A semicircle of men in plate-and-mail armor stood looking at us, each of them holding a drawn sword.

“Oh, hell,” I said on an exhale of breath.

“Anwyn, not hell, I think,” Mom Two corrected.

As she spoke, the ranks of men swept aside like a human parting of the Red Sea. Through the opening strode a woman, tall, pale, and slender. She was clad in a black leather bodysuit and had daggers strapped to either hip. Her eyes were a dark shade of green, and she had long black hair with green extensions that matched her eyes.

She looked like she belonged on the set of a martial arts movie. “Who are you?” she demanded as she approached, making an impatient gesture toward us.

I pushed my way in front of my mothers. I wasn’t abnormally courageous, but I had no intention of letting someone who looked like she could kick Jackie Chan’s ass get pushy with my moms.

“My name is Gwen. These are my mothers. The old woman is Mrs. Vanilla. Who are you?”

“Holly,” she snapped, her gaze raking us all over for the count of three. She turned, and with an imperious wave of her hand at the nearest guy in armor, added, “Arrest them. They’re spies.”

“What?” I shrieked as the men moved in. “Wait, we’re not spies! This is Anwyn, right? The afterlife? The happy bunnies and sheep and lovely rolling green hills place?”

Two men grabbed each of my arms and more or less frog-marched me toward an array of sharp black silhouettes. I looked over my shoulder to see my mothers being escorted as well, but they didn’t appear to be in distress.

“You all right?” I asked my mother, who was immediately behind me.

“Of course. You were the only one who fell coming through the entrance.”

“No talking,” the man on my left arm said, his voice gruff, if muffled, behind his steel helmet.

I bit back the words I wanted to say to him, instead focusing my attention on where we were being led. The black shapes resolved themselves into tents, of all things. Small fires dotted what could only be called an encampment, with at least a hundred (and probably more) tents of differing sizes arranged in orderly concentric rings, with larger tents in the center and the smallest on the outer ring. There were a number of dogs roaming around, all of which appeared to be of the same breed: that of a medium-sized hound that looked like a cross between a beagle and a greyhound.

A few men and women were present as we moved through the camp, some of them wearing armor like the guards, others in what I thought of as Renaissance Faire clothing—lots of leather jerkins, cotton tunics, and leggings that were bound by thin leather cords. It had the feel of a medieval military camp, which just confused the dickens out of me.

“What is a military camp, a
medieval
military camp, doing in the middle of Anwyn?” I asked loudly so my mothers could hear.

“Anwyn is the place of legends. Why shouldn’t there be a medieval army here?” I heard Mom Two say before she was told to be quiet. My own guards squeezed my arms in warning as we continued to trek through the tents. A small army of dogs fell into place at our heels.

In the center of the camp was a massive tent, at least three times the size of the next-largest one and flying a couple of fancy banners. I couldn’t make out what was on the banners when we were marched past the big tent, but it definitely looked like the prime accommodation.

It was not, needless to say, our destination. The guards—they couldn’t be anything but soldiers, given the armor and the way they obeyed the woman named Holly—stopped in front of a silver tent.

My hopes of a structure from which we could make an easy escape were dashed when the tent flap was pulled aside to reveal two tall iron-barred cages. They weren’t small—the two of them filled the entire tent—but they were very much a prison.

“Right. I am not going in that,” I said as one of my guards released my arm in order to open the door to one of the cages. It was about seven feet tall, and probably a good twenty feet wide, containing what looked like a couple of camping beds, two wooden chairs, and a small table. “I am not a spy, no matter what stabby girl says. I refuse to be caged like an animal.”

“Enter,” the guard said, flipping up his visor to give me a good glare.

“Like hell I will.”

He made like he was going to pull me into the cage, but I didn’t go through three years of self-defense classes to put up with being stuffed into a box. I dug my feet in, shifted my weight, and flipped him over my hip, heavy armor and all. He hit the ground with a loud crash and a grinding of metal, the dog nearest him managing to scramble out of the way just in time, but before the other man could so much as shout, I was on my nearest mother’s guard, trying to find a point of vulnerability that I could exploit.

Here’s the thing about armor—face on, there’s not a lot there to exploit. With little choice, I did what I could to disable him before intending to move on to the next mother-guarding man.

“This is intolerable!” I yelled as the door-holding guard ran over to pluck me off Mom’s guard, whom I was beating on the head with his own helm. A couple of dogs leaped about excitedly while I was hauled off the man, who now had a cut over one eye that ran in gruesome glory down his face. I tripped over another dog, apologizing as I did so. “Sorry, doggy, but this mean guard jerked me and made me step on you. Look, buster, I don’t hold with people abusing animals, so stop dragging me over the top of these dogs. Boy, there are a lot of them, aren’t there?”

I didn’t have time to continue, since my two guards threw me bodily into one of the cages, slamming the door behind me. I heard a key turn in the lock as I picked myself up and ran to the steel-barred door in an attempt to wrench it open.

Two dogs sat outside the door, panting and clearly hoping I would continue the fun romping game.

“Gwenny, dear, are you hurt?” my mother asked as she, Mom Two, and Mrs. Vanilla were placed in the matching cage. The guards didn’t manhandle them, I was relieved to note. Although there was a space of about six feet between our cages, I was comforted by the fact that they were nearby, and as safe as an unjustly incarcerated person finding herself in the Welsh afterlife could be.

“No. Just very, very pissed. Hey, you, plate boy. My mothers are old, and Mrs. Vanilla is really elderly. Give them some food and water and blankets and stuff.”

The guard said nothing, just lit a torch inside the entrance, and left, letting the tent flap drop as he went.

“Bastard,” I muttered, and began to prowl the cage to look for weakness. The dogs accompanied me. “Sorry, guys. I’m not going to play right now. Maybe later, OK?”

Oddly enough, the dogs seemed to understand, because they both turned and wandered out of the tent, leaving us alone. A few minutes later, another guard appeared, this one minus his helmet but with his arms full of blankets, with two carefully balanced jugs on top. A second guard carried a couple of long flat metal platters bearing bread, cheese, and what looked to be some sort of smoked meat.

I wasn’t surprised to find a fresh company of hounds on his heels, evidently very interested in the food.

The guards passed the food through the bars to us, ignoring my pleas to be taken to whoever was in charge so that we could clear up the situation. Thankfully, they shooed the dogs out before them when they left. So it was that a half hour later, fed, hydrated by ice-cold water that was actually very good, and with the warmth of a thick woolen blanket around us, we all settled down to get a little sleep.