Of Risk and Ruin (Time Walkers Tales

Book 1) E.B. Brown

Visit to download the full and correct content document:
https://ebookmass.com/product/of-risk-and-ruin-time-walkers-tales-book-1-e-b-brown/
More products digital (pdf, epub, mobi) instant
download maybe you interests ...

Kneel (The Ruin of Serpents Book 1) Lily Wildhart

https://ebookmass.com/product/kneel-the-ruin-of-serpents-
book-1-lily-wildhart/

Sorcery's Kiss (Demon Tales and Fairy Games Book 1)

Kayleigh Sky

https://ebookmass.com/product/sorcerys-kiss-demon-tales-and-
fairy-games-book-1-kayleigh-sky/

Ruin My Life (Nasty Bastards MC Book 1) Hayley Faiman

https://ebookmass.com/product/ruin-my-life-nasty-bastards-mc-
book-1-hayley-faiman/

Seashells Tell No Tales (Suamalie Islands Book 1)

Amanda Tru

https://ebookmass.com/product/seashells-tell-no-tales-suamalie-
islands-book-1-amanda-tru/
Trapped: Brides of the Kindred Book 29 Faith Anderson

https://ebookmass.com/product/trapped-brides-of-the-kindred-
book-29-faith-anderson/

King of Ruin: A Dark Mafia Romance (Soulless Empire

Book 1) Sasha Leone & Jade Rowe

https://ebookmass.com/product/king-of-ruin-a-dark-mafia-romance-
soulless-empire-book-1-sasha-leone-jade-rowe/

Queens of Ruin: Chronicles of Mahon Book Two Brenda

Murphy

https://ebookmass.com/product/queens-of-ruin-chronicles-of-mahon-
book-two-brenda-murphy/

Worth The Risk (Eternity Series Book 1) Jennifer J

Williams

https://ebookmass.com/product/worth-the-risk-eternity-series-
book-1-jennifer-j-williams/

The Book of Doors Gareth Brown

https://ebookmass.com/product/the-book-of-doors-gareth-brown/
O F R IS K A N D R U IN
A Time Walkers Tale

E.B. Brown
 Copyright © 2024 E.B. Brown

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual
persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including
information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

Of Risk and Ruin

Copyright © 2024 by E.B. Brown
All rights reserved.
For information: http://www.ebbrown.net
After all, what was the worth of a belief if it were so easily changeable? Conviction meant nothing if it was only
spoken for our own benefit.

UNKNOWN TIME WALKER

 CONTENTS

Title Page
Copyright
Epigraph
Prologue
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
 Praise for the Time Walkers series:
The Legend of the Bloodstone - 2013 Amazon Breakthrough Novel Award, Quarterfinalist
A Tale of Oak and Mistletoe - 2013 RWA/NYC We Need a Hero Contest, Finalist
"Time travel and romance converge in this tale of star-crossed love" - Publishers Weekly on The Legend of the
Bloodstone
"This was beautiful! Time Travel at its best!"- Romance Novels in Color
"Absolutely consuming" - Amazon reviewer
"I love this series. I didn't want it to end!" - Amazon Reviewer
"I can easily see where this story could be a fantastic movie." - Amazon Reviewer
"My complaint with this book is I couldn't stop reading this one and the next one in the series which resulted
in late nights and tired mornings!!" - Amazon Reviewer
"An epic historical saga in brilliant cinematic technicolor" - Amazon reviewer
 PROLOGUE
Sophia
1676

I never imagined the end would be so easy. After a lifetime of wanting more, of trying to make moments stretch into hours, and
days and weeks stretch into months and years, the finality of it all was, curiously, a relief.
I ran my fingers down the front of my shirt until my flattened palm rested on my abdomen. The rise and fall of my ribs
gave assurance that I was still there, still drawing breath, yet the arrow protruding from my side reminded me that breathing
was a limited resource. The oil lamp on the console table flickered, casting a soft white glow that danced down the hallway,
taunting me with the promise of warmth as coldness seeped into my veins. I leaned against the wall, clutching my belly when a
sharp pain surged. The spasm was blessedly short this time, but still, I closed my eyes and slid down the wall, panting through
the pain until it passed. I felt the sticky warmth of blood seeping through the layers of my clothes onto my fingers. The wound
was deep, I could feel the tip on the arrow clear through the skin on my back, and I did not have the strength to call out for help.
Without modern medicine, I knew it was a mortal wound.
Letting go was easy, otherworldly; it was the holding on that kept us human, I think. When my time came due, it was the
desperate grip on those mundane things that I thought back on. Making the bed every morning, washing the dishes before I left.
Grabbing a cup of coffee from the curbside vendor in the morning before work. Sitting on a bench in a museum, gazing at
priceless art. Christmas lights—multi-colored or white. Silly choices like taking a taxi, or walking a few blocks in the city.
So much time lived and wasted on senseless tasks. A hundred years from now, would those choices matter to anyone?
In the end, it was what happened in between those tasks that consoled me. Much of my twenty-first century life was forgettable,
yet it led me to the right destination, I imagined. Even if I had never traveled to the past, still, the end would happen. No, I
would not change it. I would not change one moment. That was the crux of mortality.
As I sat there in the hallway with my limbs growing numb, contemplating these things, and listening to the silence, the
thud of footsteps made me open my eyes. And suddenly, despite my solemn reflections, I panicked. When I heard the thick shout
of my attacker, searching for me, I was not brave. I was not grateful. I still wanted more life.
Mortality made it so very final, yet being mortal was a necessary evil. And I was unquestionably, absolutely, mortal.
I am not ready. Not yet.
 1
Nicholas
Eastern Settlement, Greenland
circa 1002 AD

The bellow of the Gjallarhorn rumbled through the air, and the resultant roar of the gathered men made the ground shudder
beneath his feet. As Nicholas ducked and lurched backward, the damp earth shifted, causing him to nearly lose his footing, but
he managed to remain upright. It was only a slight movement, but enough to help him avoid the blow of the ax aimed at his head
before she struck again, and he scrambled and fell onto his backside. Although the edge of the weapon sliced through his linen
tunic and he could feel the warmth of a new wound upon his skin, Nicholas knew he was lucky.
Freydis Eiríksdóttir never left an opponent standing. The daughter of Erik the Red was not known for being an
honorable loser.
“Finish the Traveler!”
“Make ‘em bleed!”
Nicholas closed his eyes to the shouts of the spectators. Ah, to Hades with the men! Camaraderie among Vikings was
fleeting; he knew that well from his years living among the Norse. Only the strong were worthy of loyalty. If a man could not
wield a sword, he had no hope for respect, his prospects no better than the thralls or criminals. As a Blooded One borne of the
lines of the Five Northman, and a rogue Time Walker to boot, he understood the hierarchy.
As a mere lowly man lying in the mud at the feet of one of the most powerful Viking women in history, however, his
only thought was one of survival.
He supposed his best chance at keeping his head firmly attached to his shoulders was to stay still. Even Freydis would
reconsider pummeling a defeated opponent—he hoped.
The breath left his chest, and he uttered a groan as Freydis slammed her foot into his sternum. He wanted to upend the
wench and plant her on her head, but a display of his superior strength would only draw more attention. All he could do was sit
there like a fool and wait for Freydis to put him in his place.
Mud seeped around him, emitting a sucking noise when he lifted his head and turned onto his side. From one half-
opened eye he could see Freydis standing above him, a wicked grin stretched across her face.
“A good fight,” she announced. “Give the Traveler some mead. I might still have use for him yet.”
A helping hand from a friend twisted at the neck of his tunic and yanked him to his feet. Amidst the jibes from the other
Norsemen, Nicholas nodded and grudgingly grinned. He had not intended to fight with Freydis. His plan was to earn the trust of
the Vikings and discover which among them were Blooded Ones, like him, yet as he sat in the shadows of the mead hall, it only
served to bring him to the fierce leader’s attention. Her intellect was as stunning as her visage, her jade eyes flashing an
unspoken fury beneath the mantle of red hair that fell upon her shoulders. She raised a brow and uttered a laugh, watching him
over the brim of her mead horn as she sipped the potent brew.
“You stupid swine,” Olaf said, slapping Nicholas on the back. Nicholas grimaced at the Norseman. “Do you wish for a
quick death, my friend, or do you care to see another day?”
“I did not provoke her,” Nicholas replied. He took the cup of mead offered by another man, the liquid numbing the
wounds in his mouth and sending a pleasant warmth to his belly. Olaf, a hulking beast of a Norseman with a thick blond beard
shielding his face, laughed as he shook his head. An affable fellow compared to the others, Nicholas formed a friendship with
him on one of the first of his visits to Greenland. Nicholas hoped their friendship would yield more, however—namely,
knowledge of any Viking Blooded Ones living at the settlement.
“Oh, you did. You canna keep to yerself like you do, lurking in the shadows, pretending you do not see her. Stay in the
light, or else she thinks you mean her harm.”
Nicholas nodded. Freydis was a cunning leader. As dangerous as it was to integrate into the Viking culture as a
stranger, Nicholas found himself more entwined in the history of the people with each visit. Nicholas earned his nickname
“Traveler” due to his frequent comings and goings and by cultivating trust with the men, and until now, he had managed to stay
out of the way of their impulsive leader. If he had a lick of sense in his head, he would leave Greenland and find another place
in time where Blooded Ones knew the Auld Ways. Yet every lead he discovered in other centuries turned into a dead end; the
Vikings at the Eastern settlement were his last hope. And this time, the knowledge he sought was nearly in his grasp.
“Will she be there tonight?” Nicholas asked, taking a long swig of mead. He wiped the back of his hand across his
mouth, clearing the dampness from his sore lower lip.
Olaf shook his head. “No. Only the Volva. No others.” A witch. The Norseman glanced over one shoulder, then slowly
turned the other way. His eyes flickered to those around them, and he cast a scowl at Nicholas. “Mind your tongue. We need no
others to question what business we have with the old Seer. Or why I am taking you to her,” he added.
Nicholas nodded. They continued to imbibe with the others until the full moon climbed into the night sky, casting an
eerie glow among the stone paths winding through the village. Nicholas felt the excitement rise in his chest once they left to
walk to the Volva’s longhouse, the anticipation rousing him so much that he found it difficult to keep a slow pace next to Olaf.
Nicholas had lost track of how many times he traveled to, or how many places he had been since he left his home in the
seventeenth century seeking out the Auld Ways of his kind. The Dark Ages, the Elizabethan times, the fall of the Roman Empire,
the First and Second World Wars—he’d been there, searching, chasing clues to connect with Blooded Ones like him, ones that
would help him harness his power without restriction. He was a rogue, a breaker of the rules, a Time Walker of the lowest
order. He felt no compulsion to obey the laws of the Blooded Ones, nor did he feel any respect for the powerful blood that
strummed through his veins. He considered it nothing more than a curse, as a means to an end, and he was willing to corrupt
that power and steal ancient secrets if it meant getting what he wanted.
In the silver glow of the moonlight, Nicholas strode through the dense forest, his heart pounding with each step. Beside
him walked Olaf, their breaths forming ghostly plumes in the frigid night air. They were on a mission of utmost importance, a
journey into the unknown that held the promise of life beyond death itself.
The path was shrouded in mystery and ancient tales. Nicholas had heard whispers of a Viking Seer who resided in a
remote longhouse deep within these woods, a custodian of secrets and ancient wisdom of the Blooded Ones. Legends spoke of
a magic elixir, a potion said to grant the living the power to avoid death if consumed. Nicholas could scarcely believe such
tales, but he was willing to go to any lengths to secure it. His mind was haunted by the specter of death, by the memory of his
brother’s life slipping away next to him. He could not bear to give up trying to save Alec. Changing the death of his brother had
been his sole purpose for so long, he could not recall any other meaning for his existence.
Olaf, a loyal and stalwart companion, had agreed to take him to the Volva. The forest was a labyrinth of shadows, and
the night seemed to whisper ancient incantations. Every rustle of leaves and hoot of an owl made the fine hairs on Nicholas’s
neck stand at attention.
As they approached the Viking Seer’s longhouse, a flicker of firelight danced through the cracks in the wooden walls.
Nicholas swallowed hard, his throat dry with anticipation. He couldn’t afford to falter now.
Olaf stayed outside when Nicholas entered the longhouse, its interior cloaked in a dim, mystical ambiance. At the far
end of the room, an old Viking woman sat before a crackling fire, her eyes filmed milky white with age and sight. She wore an
intricate fur lined cloak adorned with symbols and runes, and the air around her felt heavy, simmering and dangerous.
Nicholas stepped forward, his voice steady. “Great Volva,” he began, “I seek your guidance and the secret of
preventing death itself.”
The old witch turned her blind eyes toward him, her expression inscrutable. “Preventing death, young one,” she
croaked, her voice like the rustling of leaves in the wind. “It is a path fraught with peril. Tell me, why do you seek such
knowledge?”
Nicholas’s gaze was unyielding. “My brother deserves to live,” he replied, his voice raw. “His fate is my fault. I would
do anything to change it.”
“To change it, you say?” she replied. She sniffed the air, as if tasting the scent of him, and she smiled. “Oh, so you’re
that Blooded One. You are from a future time, and your kind no longer have these powers.”
“They have powers in my time, but they will not use them. They have rules on how to wield our power. I am an outcast
from them.” Nicholas had no choice to be honest with the witch. He knew it was his only chance.
The Seer nodded slowly, as if weighing the depths of his resolve. “Very well,” she said, her voice carrying the weight
of centuries. “The elixir you seek is real, but it comes at a great cost. It is not mine to hold, so I will glady pass it to you. Are
you prepared for what that means, young one?”
Nicholas stared stonily at her. “I am,” he declared.
She laughed then. “Will you not ask what it will cost you?”
“It doesn’t matter. I will bear it,” Nicholas replied. He meant it with every bone in his body, but she was not content to
simply remain silent.
“Better then, for you, that is. The payment will come due when you have gained what you wanted. It is how the magic
works. I am glad to be rid of it. Here,” she said, pushing a small bell-shaped bottle across the wood table. It was secured
tightly with a cork, the contents a thick crimson-black liquid that sloshed inside the glass.
“Will it prevent death?” Nicholas asked.
She nodded. There was a hint of a grin edged on her lips, and her eyes seemed to reflect the dance of the firelight. “Oh,
yes. It will prevent death.
She lifted the bottle and placed it in Nicholas’s outstretched hand. “Remember, mortal,” she intoned, “power is a
double-edged sword, and the price of such knowledge may be greater than the gift. Choose your path wisely. And tell your kind
to stay away; we have no need of their secrets here anymore.”
As Nicholas joined Olaf and they left the longhouse, the elixir clutched tightly in Nicholas’s hand, the weight of his
success settled upon him like a lead in his belly. He had risked everything for this moment, and finally, one more piece of the
puzzle to save Alec was in his grasp. Years of travel, of detachment from life and all of those he loved, and finally he was that
much closer to the end.
Under the watchful gaze of the moon, he bid farewell to Olaf. The secret of life and death was within his grasp, but at
what price?
It did not matter. No cost was too great. He owed that debt, and it was one he meant to pay, be damned his own
salvation or damnation.
 2
Sophia
Philadelphia, 2014

There was nothing special about the man in the museum standing in front of the painting, and any other day I might have passed
him by without a second glance. Unfortunately for him, I’d had a massively terrible day with yet another dose of bad news, so
by the time I noticed his odd behavior, I was already teetering on the edge.
All I wanted to do was finish up my day and go home, curl up under a blanket by the fireplace with a book and a nice
glass of merlot, and feel the warmth of the flames engulf my scattered thoughts. In fact, I had already donned my grey wool pea
coat and sneakers and tucked my work badge away in my pocket, all ready to go. Before I could accomplish that mission, I
needed to complete the methodical task that usually soothed my restless mind: a visual inventory of the Emry Collection, a
display of art and artifacts in the Arms and Armor gallery at the Philadelphia Museum of Art. As an associate curator, the
display was not only my professional responsibility, but a personal one as well. If anything happened to the painting on the
wall or the jeweled dagger in the glass case, the consequence would be devastating to my family. Or so they continuously, and
to my utter annoyance, reminded me, in any case.
I saw him stare at the painting, his lips set in a thin tight line. His cropped brown hair was longer in the front, wayward
strands shielding his forehead. Dark eyes fixated on the exhibit piece. His brows were furrowed, his nostrils flaring slightly,
and his sculpted chin was clenched, as if he had some sort of connection to what he gazed upon. It gave me the impression I
was intruding on a private moment, so I intended to turn away and leave him to it, but then he pulled a silver flask from inside
his leather jacket and took a swig.
For the love of God, was the guy really drinking in the museum? Smack in the middle of the display I was
responsible for?
And then he flinched and boggled the flask. He was quick, snatching it before it hit the floor, but a splash of liquid hit
his jacket, rolling off the smooth black surface onto the edge of his formerly clean white shirt and onto his pant leg and boot.
It was what he muttered under his breath that startled me and sent the little hairs on the back of my neck to stand at
attention.
“Ah, maluwète,” he said.
Damn him? Was that a form of native Algonquian? Although I had to admit I was not the foremost expert in my family
in ancient languages, I had a knack for retaining some keywords. Excited utterances, common phrases, and swear words, to
name a few, were seared into my brain.
When I uttered a low scoffing giggle, he scowled.
“Nice catch,” I said. I pushed a wayward section of hair away from my face, tucking it behind my ear as I surveyed
him. I offered him a crushed-up napkin from my pocket, thrusting it towards him, which he pointedly ignored. I continued to
remain there, unsure of how to get the guy away from the display without causing a scene. I watched him as he attempted to
clean the mess away. He wiped at it with the closed knuckles of one fist, letting loose a few other curse words. Pamunkey?
Powhatan? More expletives, in what I was now almost sure was a dead language.
“For Pete’s sake, stop that, you’re just smearing it around,” I said. Despite the glowering annoyance on his face, I used
the napkin to dab at the stain. He turned his head slightly away, and I noticed him swallow.
“I’m fine, thanks,” he said. He uttered a brief sigh, letting his hands fall to his sides. His gaze flickered to the painting
on the wall and his eyes fixated on it once more. He let out a slow breath, the skin on his throat flushed red.
I ignored his dismissive tone. I bunched the napkin into a ball in my hand. I couldn’t resist taking a sniff and
immediately frowned. Rum? Vodka? Definitely hard alcohol. What sort of man browsed museum collections like he was at a
tailgate party and spoke in dead languages?
“Umm, you can’t drink in here, you know,” I said.
“What are you, the museum police?” he replied.
“I work here, but no, I’m not the police,” I shot back. “I just happen to care about all this old stuff, and if you’d have
been a few feet closer to that priceless painting, you would have splashed your rum all over it!”
One of his brows lifted, giving an arrogant tilt to his scowl. He tucked the flask into his inner jacket pocket.
“It’s whiskey. I don’t drink rum.” Crossing his arms over his chest, he took one last glance at the painting and turned
away.
“Whatever it is, you don’t need to be spilling it in here,” I said, my tone a bit softer, trying to temper my growing
annoyance. I bit down on my lower lip. I didn’t intend to behave so short with him, and I was ashamed that my personal
frustrations carried over to my work. His eyes briefly focused on my lip, and then his gaze shifted, meeting mine. At that
moment, we both seemed to deflate somewhat. I let out a slow breath, and his shoulders relaxed.
“My apologies,” he said, his words throaty and low. He patted his pocket where the flask was stowed. “I assure you, I
will follow the rules. No need to watch over me.”
I let my lips curl into a hint of a smile, shrugged, and rolled my eyes skyward with a little sigh, hoping to convey a
lighter mood. “It’s no big deal. I go overboard sometimes, I guess. I was just trying to help.” I meant to leave him to his
business then, yet the words continued to spill out. “Hey, are you okay? You’re staring at that thing like it’s possessed.”
The man nodded and turned back to the painting. I took that as a sign to part ways, but then he spoke.
“It’s Squatter’s Hill. He painted it in the fall, not long after the leaves turned. It took a long time to make enough yellow
to finish it,” he said softly.
“How do you know that? We don’t know who the artist is—it’s not even signed,” I said.
He reached inside his jacket but then dropped his hand, turning away from me and the painting.
“I know it because I was there,” he replied.
He turned away and left the Arms and Armory gallery before I could process his words. I stood there, stupidly staring
at the painting for a long moment, trying to convince myself to let it go. A wave of deja vu tickled my skin, skimming over my
flesh until all the fine hairs on my arms and neck stood at rapt attention. His words echoed in my mind, muddled together in an
unsettling swirl.
He was there? What was there? And how did he know how much yellow it took to finish it? The painting was over
three hundred years old. The artist was unknown.
It was time to go home, my workday was finished. I needed to go home, to revive, to regroup. The rational me knew
what to do; it was the irrational part, however, that won the battle.
I followed him. I left the Arms and Armory gallery the most efficient way possible, finding him in my sight when I
reached the gilded copper Diana statue in the Great Stair Hall. I stood there in front of the statue, catching my breath while he
walked briskly past the giant tapestry-laden columns and left through the East exit. How fitting that the Goddess of the Hunt
should bear witness to my nonsensical pursuit of the stranger, I thought.
Shoving his hands into his pockets, he made his way out the East exit and jogged down the long art museum stairs,
giving a nod to the statue of Rocky Balboa he passed at the bottom as he turned left. I followed, glad that the descent down the
famous staircase was much easier than the climb. He reached the bottom and threaded his way through the onslaught of
pedestrians on the busy city sidewalk.
A piece of paper from his pocket fluttered to the ground. I scooped it up, noting that it was a ticket to one of my private
tours scheduled for the next day.
“Hey!” I called out.
He paused briefly but did not stop. I wasn’t one to be dissuaded so easily. I jogged to catch up with him despite his
quickened pace, slowing to a brisk walk when I reached his side.
“Hey, I was calling you. Didn’t you hear me?” I said, a bit breathless.
He kept walking. He cocked his head slightly to the side and glanced at her, raising a brow.
“Look, I said I was sorry. I’ll never drink alcohol in your precious museum again. Christ, you really take your job
seriously, don’t you?” he replied.
“You dropped this,” I shot back, my words punctuated in a staccato rhythm. When I grabbed hold of his sleeve and
pulled him to a stop, he looked down at the ticket I held in my hand.
“Yours?” I asked, one brow arched.
The man took the ticket and shoved it into his pocket.
“Thanks,” he grunted. He turned to resume his business, but I stubbornly held on until he relented. He ran a hand over
his face, squeezing his temples and shaking his head. He looked like he was engulfed in exhaustion, an emotion that resonated
with me, so I took a chance.
“Hey, would you like to grab some coffee? My shift is over and I usually sit down and decompress before I go home,
but it would be nice to have some company,” I said. “I promise I won’t mention the drinking thing again. Scout’s honor.”
I held up two entwined fingers, lifting them in front of my face, and he smiled when I peered at him from the cover of
my own hand.
“And you’re a Girl Scout too?” he replied, the hint of a grin making an appearance. He let out a sigh, looking down at
his feet for a moment and shaking his head. “Must be my lucky day.”
I let go of his sleeve and let out a laugh. “Nah, not a Girl Scout. Just sorry for giving you a hard time earlier. I’m not
usually so…”
“Bossy? Annoying?” he answered.
“I was going to say pushy, but I guess I deserved that.” I extended my hand. “I’m Sophia.”
He looked down at her hand for a long moment before he clasped it. His grip was polite at first but tightened in
response to my firm handshake.
“Nicholas,” he said. “Nicholas Neilsson.”
We sat down in a booth in the crowded diner and made small talk for a while. I tried not to show the span of chaos ricocheting
inside my head, tried to play it cool, but from the moment he said his name, I feared losing control. I told myself his name was
not uncommon, that there surely were thousands of men named Nicholas Neilsson. The chances that he was the Nicholas
Neilsson were next to nil.
I spoke quickly, sometimes stumbling over my words, the motion of my lips failing to keep up with the urgency of the
thoughts in my head. He did not interrupt me, watching politely as I talked. My fists lay on the table, clenched and white
knuckled, and when I stumbled over my words, my lips pursed into a tight bow, and I felt a flush rush up my throat. I kept
talking as if my life depended on it—knowing that actually, it might.
“… I’ve lived here most of my life, I suppose, except when I was away at college, but that was just New York City, so
it’s not like it was far away,” I informed him. I drained the last of my second cup of coffee and he immediately refilled it from
the carafe, a smile edging his mouth.
“Oh,” I said, pausing to glance down at my cup. “I’m sorry. I’m prattling on like an idiot. Caffeine has that effect on me,
I guess.”
“Really, it’s okay,” he replied. “I’m a good listener.”
I raised the cup to my lips, watching him over the brim as I sipped. When I was finished, I set it carefully on the saucer
and placed both of my hands flat on the table, releasing a long, slow breath of air. His dark eyes softened.
“Now you’re just being kind, but seriously, I know I’m talking your ear off,” I said. “Despite what it looks like, I’m a
pretty good listener, too.”
Nicholas took a gulp of his coffee and leaned back, laying one arm over the length of the booth seat. He shrugged,
shaking his head.
“My life is not nearly as interesting as yours, Sophia,” he replied. I shivered at the way my name slid off his lips, laced
with the hint of an accent that I could not place.
“What you said in the museum… what did you mean? You said you were there. What kind of story is that?”
“Yeah, uhm, I get lost in my work sometimes,” he replied as he sat forward. “It was just part of a story. I’m a writer,
you see. That’s why I was there—doing research.”
“Oh, that’s interesting,” I said, not believing a word of it. “What do you write about?” He was clearly trying to deceive
me, of that, I was certain. The hope that he was some normal, attractive man with a particular affinity for ancient languages and
seventeenth-century American art flew out the window. Whoosh.
“History, mostly. Well, that, and time travel. It’s pure fantasy, boring stuff, really.” He made a low snorting sound of
dismissal. I leaned forward and refilled his cup to prompt him to continue.
“Are you kidding? That’s fascinating. What are you working on now?” I replied.
Nicholas shared his story. He slipped into the tale as if he recounted a memory instead of fiction. With each word he
spoke, I fell deeper entranced, paralyzed by the truth of his identity.
The hands on the old-style clock above the aluminum countertop showed half-past three. Inside the diner, the lights
were slightly dimmed, and we were the only patrons left. I lost track of how many cups of coffee we consumed, too engrossed
in listening to fantastical tale he weaved. He confessed the adventures of his life in seventeenth century Virginia, intended as
fiction – yet I knew it was all true.
“…I was there in 1677 when the Pamunkey signed the Treaty of Middle Plantation with the English. Everyone was
there to see the Weroanasqua, the Pamunkey Queen, and wow, she was something else. Legendary, really. When Cockacoeske
walked out of the Assembly she stayed on the highest step beside the Governor, more regal than any ruler I’ve ever seen—and
I’ve seen a lot—and she watched her warriors present the first offering to the English. I stayed in the crowd and my father
never knew I was there. I thought I should see it, though. I still stop by to watch sometimes over the years…the Pamunkey kept
their promise, they still honor the treaty every year to this day.”
I reached out and placed my hand over his. I knew his tale was a compilation of truth and deceit, but I could not stop
him. Yes, I had been warned about him, but a warning meant nothing when the moment arrived. I couldn’t shake the thought that
my knowledge of him had been tainted, that he was not the devilish menace the tales portrayed him to be.
Nicholas shifted his eyes to mine. I let his words sink in, compelling myself to remember every detail in case I never
saw him again.
“It’s an amazing story. I’d love to read it someday,” I said softly.
I saw his throat contract. “Yeah, I’m still working on it. It’s not quite finished. I think I’ve found a way to fix some of
the mistakes. I guess time will tell.”
We spoke of fictional things for some time, until the sunrise intruded over the city and patrons filed into the diner for an
early breakfast. Later, when we parted ways and Nicholas hailed a cab for me, I wanted to grab his hand. His mere presence
felt like the stuff of legends I feared I may never taste again.
And I had no idea how I would deal with the consequence of hearing the tale he confessed to me in a Philadelphia
diner.
 3
Sophia

It took me some time to work it out in my mind, but by the end of our late-night coffee date when I settled down in the seat of
the cab, I had to admit exactly who Nicholas was. I was a bit ashamed of myself for not wanting to believe it was him, but I
never truly believed the ancient tales or that anyone would actually come looking for the dagger. For the most part, I figured my
father was just making a mountain out of a mole hill, as he was prone to do, and the chance of some rogue Time Walker
appearing was next to zero.
Yet, Nicholas Neilsson was in Philadelphia, and he had clearly set his sights on the Emry exhibit. Was it the painting
he wanted, or was it the dagger? The painting had clearly evoked some sort of emotion for him, yet his interest was intent
on the dagger as well. I bent my forehead into my hands and rubbed my eyes for a moment, then let my fingers slip back over
my hair where I simply clamped on, as if the pressure might cause the fog in my brain to disperse.
Nicholas. Freaking. Neilsson. He wasn’t just any random Time Walker. Nicholas was a Blooded One of the old lines,
sprung from a combination of ties to several of the most powerful families, but it wasn’t just his lineage that made him so
notorious. He possessed his own unique abilities and had mastered time travel in ways that even the elders of their kind could
not explain. I recalled a time as a child when I overheard my father and some of the others discussing the exploits of a man who
recklessly traversed through time, changing events that should not be changed because of his own personal vendetta, and they
did not view him in a favorable light. As I grew older, my father only mentioned Nicholas once, with strict instructions that I
should immediately report the sighting and stay far away from him.
I recalled the warning quite vividly, every syllable enunciated painstakingly by my father, but I also held onto my own
childish curiosity of the man who caused so much distress to the elders of my kind. Although it was no secret what he was
capable of, I was not privy to the details of what motivated him or what he meant to accomplish. I was told he was a menace,
an anomaly, a danger to all whose path he crossed. Sitting and talking with him for hours had opened my eyes to an unsettling
truth; my father, and the others of my kind, had willfully kept me in the dark. They had used me. Despite being accomplished
and educated, and despite the years of work I dedicated to the cause, they didn’t view me as an equal. If they had trusted me
with the tiniest bit of insight into Nicholas Neilsson, maybe I wouldn’t have been so damn startled by his appearance. My
research work, my job at the museum, everything I had dedicated my adult life to was nothing more than a means to an end for
them; I had no doubt I was the bait in a trap meant for Nicholas. They knew he would come searching for the Emry collection,
and they left me there guarding it like a piece of Swiss cheese, teetering on the end of mousetrap.
My phone vibrated in my pocket. I pulled it out, a groan escaping my lips when I read the message. The cab driver’s
eyes shifted in the rearview mirror and I quickly avoided eye contact. It was a string of text messages from none other than my
father. I kept him on mute more often than not, too busy to entertain his constant barrage of controlling behavior disguised as
concern.
Where are you?
Why aren’t you calling me back?
I spoke with Dr. Howard. You missed your appointment.
There was no way I was getting into it with him after the day I had. For the first time in weeks, I felt vibrant. Hopeful.
Eager to see what the sunrise the next day would bring. I wasn’t going to let my father distract me. Finally, the opportunity to be
more than just an amenable sidekick to my family was deliciously in my grasp. And for once, I wasn’t going to step meekly
aside and let the elders handle everything.
I swiped the ignore button on the phone and put it back in my pocket. I knew what I was supposed to do, yet I wasn’t
quite ready to turn Nicholas in. Was it so wrong to want to know more about him, to know exactly why he came to view the
Emry exhibit? Or why he seemed so unsettled when he saw the painting on display? A Time Walker of his caliber surely would
understand that as much as they all tried to hide any trace of their kind from history, random bits and pieces of their existence
would slip through.
Evidently, there was much more to Nicholas Neilsson than anyone knew. He confessed his intent to right a wrong he
had done to his family, and his sincerity blazed clear and strong when he spoke of his love for them; I could feel it in my heart
that his intentions were good. Why then did my father believe Nicholas to be such a danger?
My father was going to raise hell over it all, but I was past the point of caring. In fact, I was more angry at him than
anything, and in all truth, I now likely knew more about the rogue Time Walker than my father or uncles. Nicholas was
intriguing, fascinating, and unapologetically determined to carry out his plan. And for once, I was going to break the rules and
deal with Nicholas in my own way. Hell, at the rate I was going, maybe someday I’d have an infamous nickname too.
After all, what did I have to lose? I had my own demons to deal with, and the fragility of my future could not be
ignored. I was a Blooded One, a descendant of one of the Five Families, but unlike others in my life, I was unquestionably
mortal, an unfair fact that haunted me since the moment my father finally admitted what I was. My timeline was destined to have
an early end, no matter what path I chose to travel.
Yes. It was time. Life was meant to be lived; and I intended to make my mark on history in some small way before it all
went to pieces.

IT WAS NO surprise that Nicholas was early for the tour. I made my way through the grand foyer, concealed mostly by the
wide granite pillars I walked behind and the hooded wool coat I purposefully wore. I knew he would be there waiting, and I
didn’t want him to spot me before the tour began. It wasn’t that I had anything to hide, rather the opposite; I wanted to surprise
him, to show him I was not just some scatterbrained history geek. He had revealed so much of himself during our coffee shop
session, yet I deliberately held back a fair amount of key info from him. Namely, that I was the expert he came to see – Dr.
Rene Wyndham, or rather, Dr. Sophia Rene Wyndham, to be exact. And of course, he would realize that I wouldn’t let him take
anything from the exhibit without a fight.
I smiled to myself when I reached the information desk and let the hood slide off my head, casting a sly glance at
Nicholas, who was leaning against a curtain-draped pillar a few feet away. His eyes widened at first and he straightened up,
but then his brows narrowed a bit, and I could nearly see the gears in his head spinning madly when I placed my coat on the
back of a chair. As I smoothed my blue sheath dress neatly into place, his gaze raked over me, a glimpse of uncertainty piercing
his shield. Not intent on making him suffer, I approached him and offered my hand, as businesslike and professional as I could
manage while suppressing a smirk.
“I’m glad you decided to do the tour today, Nicholas. I didn’t get a chance to mention I’m the one you came to see,” I
said.
He uttered a low gruff laugh and gripped my hand a few moments longer than was necessary.
“Dr. Wyndham?” he replied.
I nodded. “Sophia Rene Wyndham. I use just my middle name professionally.” Glancing behind him, I could see the
remainder of the tour group gathered. I frowned, wishing I didn’t need to give the tour and that I could just get Nicholas alone
again to talk. Would he even want to see me again, or had I merely caught him off guard in a weak moment?
Well, I had no choice but to slog through it. I disobeyed my father, broke one of the most important rules I was blood-
bound to follow, and I had to make it worthwhile. One way or another, I was going to get what I needed from Nicholas – and
I’d use every weapon in my arsenal to do it.
 4
Nicholas

By the gods, what had he done?

The shock paralyzed him as the flesh and blood consequence of his actions shook his hand and stared boldly back at
him. Of all the women in the world that he might have poured his guts out to, he’d picked the one woman he needed desperately
to hustle in order to get at the dagger. The awkward interlude was blessedly brief, and Sophia turned away to guide the tour
group up the Great Stair Hall. Even the gleaming golden statue of Diana the Huntress Sophia pointed out could not distract him.
Nicholas followed at the rear of the pack, decidedly numb while he considered how to recover and regain the upper hand.
Did she think he was a nutcase, some tragic confused author who couldn’t distinguish between fantasy and reality? Or
was she just a kind-hearted soul who was genuinely interested in him? Thankfully, he recalled he had not disclosed exactly
what happened to his brother, or what he intended to do with the dagger in his “fantasy novel.” It would make things
exceedingly difficult if she suspected he intended to steal a museum artifact. Of course, he had to consider all options and
angles; she wasn’t going to give him access to the dagger without a very good reason. Certainly, if they developed a friendship,
she might allow him a private examination of the artifact, but he needed more than that.
The only way he was going to get his hands on the dagger was by stealing her museum access card and keys, which
would require cultivating a much more intimate relationship than he anticipated. After sharing her space and looking at her
over coffee for hours, however, he had to admit he was intrigued by the notion. There were far worse ways to achieve his
goals, and the Gods only knew he’d committed a boatload of sins over the years. While the thought of a heated liaison was
devilishly appealing, the reality of deceiving her caused him to pause. Would he go that far? Could he go through with it?
“If everyone could please file in to 349, we’ll view the Arms and Armor gallery. Here we have a few unique pieces on
loan from a private collection.”
Sophia waved her hand to escort the guests inside. Nicholas was already fixated on the items, taking in the position, the
accessibility, and the risk of exposure. It was not first ancient artifact he’d stolen, and it was never easy. He noted two security
guards lingering nearby. One was no older than a newly licensed teenager, his navy blue uniform baggy on his lean frame, his
ear pods blaring and his demeanor that of someone clearly uninterested in keeping anything secure. The other guard was a
picture of happy retirement, listening intently to Sophia and nodding along with her dialogue, yet blissfully unaware that a
potential art thief was standing in his midst.
“...it was donated by an anonymous benefactor on the condition that it remain on limited intervals of display with the
painting,” Sophia explained. She clasped her hands together at her waist, facing the dagger enclosed in a glass case. “We have
been unable to determine the origin of the dagger, however we know it is a Norse styled weapon forged as early as the tenth
century and was acquired by one of the early settlers of Virginia, likely in trade with maritime merchants. The benefactor
indicated that both the painting and dagger were discovered during the renovation of a home in the Old City section of
Philadelphia. A letter found with the artifacts authenticated them as surprisingly tied to the Bacon’s Rebellion era. We believe
the Emry family acquired the dagger when they lived in Virginia during that time; the painting is from the same time period, but
we don’t know how or if it is connected to the dagger. The items were subsequently passed down by the Emrys through their
descendants until about the time of the civil war, after which they were rediscovered in 1990 here in Philadelphia and retained
privately until placed in our care five years ago.”
Nicholas felt the inevitable rush of anger ripple over his skin, licking at those old wounds. No matter how many places
he traveled to, no matter how many events he altered in the natural course of history, those wounds stayed with him like a
parasite, a succubus, haunting him and unwavering in the task of torture. Seeing the painting of the very spot where his brother
lost his life was abhorrent. The revelation that the dagger was tied to that time period and the Emry family was an interesting
twist. It didn’t change the fact that Nicholas needed it, but it was still a curious development.
“What kind of stone is that on the handle? And what do the markings mean?” a curly-haired teenage girl asked, peering
into the glass case. Sophia crossed her arms and her lips thinned into a line before she spoke.
“Well, the greenish black stone embedded in the hilt is a bloodstone. At the time many of these weapons were made, the
bloodstone was thought act as a guide to send warriors on their true path. Some even claim that bloodstones were created from
the blood of Jesus Christ at the time of his crucifixion.” A few gasps arose in the crowd, and Sophia paused before she
continued.
“There are several bloodstone weapons in museums around the world, and they’re not just daggers. We’ve seen
swords, axes, spears, bows, and even simple pendants all forged in the same manner. Most of the weapons have symbols
carved or embedded into the metal; Norse runes are popular, but there are also markings from other languages. The marks of
this dagger, for example, are a combination of Norse runes and seem to be carved over ancient Latin, as if the weapon was
repurposed at some point in time. We do not know what every rune means, but we believe this particular combination of marks
is intended to protect the bearer in some way. It’s a unique find considering what little knowledge we have, and there are more
mysteries about them than confirmed facts. Nevertheless, they are an unusual find tied to the Rebellion era, which, of course,
keeps someone like me up at night trying to link it all together.” Sophia paused amidst laughter from the group.
Unwilling to let loose his simmering anger, Nicholas turned and walked away. Yes, he needed to hear what Sophia had
to say, and he needed to start laying on the charm, but he needed a moment to get a hold of himself before they spoke again.
The Rebellion era. It was an innocuous descriptor, so vague that without further explanation, the listener might gloss
over the reality of what it meant. It started in the mid-1670s in Virginia with Nathanial Bacon’s Rebellion. Unsatisfied with
how the Governor William Berkeley handled Indian relations, Bacon amassed hundreds of colonial landowners to his cause to
protect the English from hostile Indian tribes. His cause escalated to a vendetta, aimed at the friendly Indian tribes who
occupied prime farming lands. Even tribes allied to the English could not escape, with the Pamunkey people suffering a
devastating attack and the Queen, the Great Weroanasqua Cockacoeske, nearly losing her life. To Nicholas, however, it was
much more than an account in a history book. It was his life – and the end of the life of his brother.
By the time Sophia ended the tour, he was certain of what he needed to do.
He would get the dagger and commit the ultimate sin of his kind – killing a man to change the course of history.
Honorable Time Walkers knew their actions could cause ripples in time and taking the life of a human always had immense
implications for years to come. Although time would frequently try to correct itself, as some events would find a way to
survive no matter how much one tried to change it, most Time Walkers respected the power and refused to abuse it.
Except Nicholas no longer had a choice; he spent countless years shifting events, chasing legends and lore, and every
damn time the threads of time stitched themselves back together. Even a purported magical elixir that he’d traveled to ancient
Greenland and risked his life to obtain failed to change his brother’s death. There were events that were destined to happen,
constants which could only be delayed. Although Nicholas did not understand why the death of a young boy in seventeenth
century Virginia should be such an impactful thing to the world, it was one of those events that refused to budge. He saved Alec
more times than he could count, yet it was never long before the boy met his end in another horrific way. This time Nicholas
needed something stronger, an insurance policy, one might call it.
Killing Nathanial Bacon was an act that truthfully could be achieved with any lesser of weapons, but the dagger was
important for one unique reason; the runes inscribed upon it held a powerful spell, one that prevented time from resetting itself.
Legend says it was created by the ancient Blooded Ones, blended from the blood of the most powerful of their kind. He
witnessed the power during his stay in the tenth century, when the magic of the dagger was used to restore the life of a Viking
King and prevent time from taking him later in other ways. He traced it back further in time to when a Roman centurion handed
it over to a powerful Blooded One, shortly after the death of the White Christ. Nicholas witnessed the power with his own two
eyes; it was his last hope at permanently saving his brother from the hands of death. He’d been tracking the source for years,
jumping from one clue to another throughout time, and finally, the dagger was in his grasp.
It was his last chance. Nicholas felt the changes in his body, and he could not ignore the fact that somehow, in some
basic biological way, time travel had altered something in his body. He was well aware of the toll the magic could take on a
man not only physically, but mentally. His own mother once lingered on the brink of irreparable psychological damage from the
effects of time travel, but thankfully, Nicholas was able to go back in time and intervene, and she recovered without lasting
effects. Nicholas, however, was different. Not only had he lost track of precisely how old he was, but events of time had also
recently become very muddled in his mind; it was increasingly difficult for him to distinguish what event happened on what
timeline, or how something he changed became permanent or reverted back to its prior state. He knew he needed to stop
jumping through time and allow his body to rest. Yet that same truth was the very reason which desperately compelled him to
save Alec before his options ran out.
Nicholas would need to be precise in his travels since he could not risk running into another living version of himself.
One of the biggest annoyances of time travel was the fact that two hearts cannot both beat for one soul. If one was physically
close to another version of himself, a physiological battle ensued between the two bodies, each fighting to survive. It felt like a
freight train hammering away inside the chest, the heart racing until one succumbed to a fatal arrhythmia. He’d never let it go
that far, of course, but he’d had many near misses. He tested the rule over the years, since he was known to break every rule of
time travel anyway, and it remained one that presented a problem. Nicholas was with his brother Alec when he died as a child,
so it was impossible for Nicholas to simply go back to that day and stop it, or to even go anywhere close to Alec on that day.
And there was only one last unalterable way to save Alec; kill Nathanial Bacon, and irrevocably change the course of
history.
Yes, the act would have extreme consequences, but he had already tried other ways to change things without success.
Killing a person in order to save another and changing the course of the natural timeline was about one of the worst
transgressions a Time Walker could commit. His kinsmen would never forgive him; his life was as good as over, as he would
have nothing to return to. It was the only way – the last resort – and it would be his final penance for the wrongs he had thrust
upon those he loved.
“Hey, you’ve been shockingly quiet over here. I thought I’d get at least a question or two from you,” Sophia said. The
tour group dispersed, and she joined him where he stood apart from the exhibit.
 He smiled wryly, trying to relax as he met her curious gaze. “You’re a talented woman, Dr. Wyndham,” he replied.
“You covered everything as far as I could tell.”
“I’m not buying it,” she replied. A twinge of unease pricked him. Was she going to call him out over the story he
claimed to be writing?
“Oh, no?” he said evenly. She smiled, and he was both relieved and intrigued to see her eyes flicker downward and her
cheeks flush in response.
“My presentation hardly compares to what I know goes on in your brilliant mind,” she continued. “The depth of your
creativity is an entirely different beast compared to my academic musings. I study historical artifacts and have theories; you
create entire worlds that are much more believable than anything in real life.”
He didn’t know if she was teasing him or truly flattering him, but he enjoyed it, all the same. He eased back into the
comforting cadence they shared in the coffee shop, recalling how pleasant it felt just to share his truthful thoughts. Gone was the
barrier of judgement. He allowed himself to let go again, not entirely sure if it was only part of the game or for sheer selfish
delight.
“I’m no doctor, and I don’t consider myself an expert in anything,” he said. “Just curious, though – why didn’t you tell
me you were the one I came here to see?”
She uttered a soft snort, rolling her eyes and shrugging her shoulders. “You didn’t ask my last name. So I didn’t
volunteer.”
“Well played, Dr. Wyndham.” He grinned, shaking his head. Her display of coyness delighted him. “I enjoyed spending
time with you last night. Would you think I was pushy if I asked you to join me again?”
“Considering I was the one who tracked you down and asked you out, I’d say yes to that,” she quickly replied. “I’d love
to join you.” Her hazel eyes flickered downward and then back up to meet his, that hint of shyness prevailing once more, and he
was captivated by her.
He nodded, trying not to let his smile widen too much lest he look like an infatuated adolescent fool. “Then I am one
lucky man.”

THEY DECIDED ON dinner and a movie, which seemed like a reasonable outing a twenty first century woman would enjoy.
He had little experience with wooing modern-day women, and as for the most part he didn’t take time to interact with them on a
personal level. On his visits to his Uncle Connor at various points in time they typically met at the local bar, and although
women showed interest, he did not engage. His visits to the future usually served a purpose; he traveled to the future to test the
waters after he’d changed something insignificant in the past. Other times he visited Connor hoping to glean a bit of forbidden
information or get his opinion on some rumor he’d heard in another century about their kind. Connor was one of his best
sources, unwilling as he was, so Nicholas spent plenty of time cajoling his help on his journey over the years. Spending time
with Sophia simply for the sake of getting to know her – and ultimately gain her trust – however, was entirely a new concept.
They met at a pub in Old City and sat at a high-top table. He needed to clear the air, so once they each had a drink and
ordered their food, he dove in.
“I really need to apologize to you for last night. I think I said a lot of crazy stuff. It’s no excuse, but I was sleep
deprived and on a writing bender. I guess it’s part of my method. I hope I didn’t come off as some unhinged fool,” he explained.
She took a sip of her draft beer, eyeing him over the rim of the glass.
“Truthfully, I’d love to hear more about your story. I’m dying to know how it ends.”
It was his turn to laugh. Was she pulling his leg, or was she that open minded? Not that it mattered. She had a brilliant
mind, analytical yet still whimsical. He’d take what he could get with her.
He was careful to steer the conversation in other directions. After all, he needed to gain her trust, and although he did
have an egotistical confidence in his own appeal, he needed to make it more about her. He inquired on most of the requisite
topics, covering her favorite restaurants, things she liked to do in her spare time, and then her family. She became somewhat
careful at that point, dismissing the topic with a shrug.
“My mother passed away when I was a child; my step-father raised me. Well, him and, of course, my aunts and uncles,”
she commented, seeming to add the last bit as an awkward afterthought. “They all work in the same business as my father, so
they’re around a lot.” He raised a brow at her confession.
“Sounds like conflict?”
She nodded. “Yeah, that’s why I moved to the city. I love my family, but it’s too much to deal with when they’re all
under one roof. They like to say they’re ‘protective,’ but it’s just a synonym for interference, if that makes any sense.” She
scrunched her nose, as if the memories had an unpleasant stench. “I guess I’m not being entirely fair. They’re all good people.
It’s difficult for them to allow me to live my life how I want. They just have trouble understanding that I’m an adult, if that
makes any sense.”
He nodded. He wondered if he had made a mistake by prodding her. It was important to know what he was up against
in his game to win her over, but something about the undertones of her story unnerved him. He held no claim to her, and his own
underlying spike of possessiveness caught him off guard, but he wanted to shield her from it all. Things were getting
complicated.
“And what exactly do you want, Sophia?” he asked abruptly, surprising even himself with his own bluntness. He could
not suppress the urge to know the answer. Did he even stand a chance at making her fall for him?
“Well, right now I just want to be on a date with this guy I met in the museum,” she shot back.
He grinned, allowing the door on his ego to swing wide open. “So we’re dating? Is that what we’re doing?”
“Well, it sure seems like it, I suppose. I mean, yeah, we’re on a date. Dating,” she agreed. Her cheeks were flushed
again. She took a long sip of her beer and averted her eyes, focusing on the paper placemat menu for a long moment.
Nicholas was done for. She was utterly, completely enchanting – and genuine. For all the honor he might still have as a
man, he knew he should call it off. Yet he would not. He needed to be in her presence like kindling needed a spark. He could
not stop what he started.
Later, they sat together in a nearly empty movie theater. He liked the way she felt leaning shoulder to shoulder with him,
her warmth against his skin. Again, he lost all sense of time and purpose and enjoyed the simplicity of a moment with her,
savoring every second, afraid of doing anything to harm the tendrils slowly entwining between them. He did not dare put his
arm around her or even try to place his hand on her knee. Hearing her steady breathing made him content; there was no place in
time he would rather be.
Against his basal nature he remained a perfect gentleman the entire evening. In fact, he wanted to warn her she should
be more careful with strangers when they shared a cab ride to her townhouse and she allowed him to walk her to the door. He
should have told her she was too trusting and too beautiful to let some random guy know where she lived, yet he did not. When
the cab pulled away from the curb, they stood next to each other, both wordless. For once in his life, Nicholas had no witty
comment to impart, so he nearly sighed with relief when she breached the delicate silence.
“I had a really nice time tonight,” she said, her words more of a breathy whisper than anything. His throat tightened
when he looked down at her, close enough to catch a tinge of that sweet floral scent she wore. He could see the fine lines at the
corner of her eyes when she smiled, a hint of all the laughter and joy she had known in her life, and it took all the strength he
had to keep his hands off her. By the Gods, he wanted to kiss her senseless.
“As did I,” he replied. “Thank you for –”
She placed her lips softly on his cheek, and he lost the power of speech. It was a tentative peck, a sweet thank you. For
a moment he was paralyzed, his brain reeling, the need for more of her touch burning in his bones. Instinct took control and he
wrapped his fingers in her golden hair and tilted her chin, holding her lips to his cheek for a few more stolen seconds, standing
on her doorstep and oblivious to all else.
As quickly as it began, she dipped her head and stepped away, a smile curved on her pink mouth.
“Thanks again, Nicholas,” she said softly. “I’ll call you tomorrow if that’s okay?”
He swallowed hard, nodding. “Of course,” he stammered. “That would be great.”
She went inside and closed the door without a backward glance, leaving him stupefied on the sidewalk. He heard the
deadbolt click into place and her porch light went dark.
It was impossible to admit he was not in control. She was the one in charge, giving just enough but throwing up a firm
boundary to reel him in. Despite feeling as if he had been played, he was in awe of her, admiration for her dampening the
realization that he was losing sight of what he came to Philadelphia for.
Just what was she up to? And how had she reduced him to a sputtering, senseless, mess with a simple kiss on the
cheek?
 5
Sophia

It was bad. It was very, very bad. What had I gotten myself into?
I locked the door and turned off the porch light. My back slumped against the door, and I let my knees give way, sliding
down until my backside was on the floor. Inside my chest my heart pounded like a jackhammer and all I wanted to do was
know what more of him would feel like. If I had an ounce of sense in my head, I would have let him in, had my way with him,
and regretted nothing when it all came crashing down. Be that as it may, I clearly did not have any sense, and instead ended the
evening as any careful young single woman should do.
How many women had he pursued before in other times, how many women had he known in his travels? Jealousy was
not a favorable trait, yet it swelled inside me as I thought of him with anyone else. It was only a brief connection, a peck on the
cheek, yet it was everything. Surely, what had just happened between them was no common thing. Could he possibly be so
good at deception, or was I just a fool who had been expertly swindled?
It was clear he wanted something from me, and it was only a matter of time before I discovered exactly what. He
wanted more than just the knowledge in my head, which I offered up freely like a plump pig on a platter. The only notion that
made sense was that he was after the dagger, but the question was why? Why would a Time Walker of his caliber need that
particular dagger when he could access any number of weapons anywhere in the world at any time? From the little I knew of
him, his exploits through time were too numerous to count; it was said he was dangerous, a menace to everything their kind
held sacred. I should be afraid of him instead of trying to match him in deception. Yet fear was the least of my worries when it
came to Nicholas.
I dragged myself up off the floor and made my way to my bedroom, where I promptly shed my clothes and pulled on an
old white tee shirt to sleep in. Placing my phone on the bedside charger, I climbed into bed. I knew I should simply roll over
and go to sleep, but before my good sense could scream a million warnings inside my head, I snatched the phone up and pecked
out a text message.
I had a great time tonight. Thanks again.
I hit send.
And waited painfully, holding my breath, until three little dots appeared to show he was responding.
Best night I’ve had in a very long time. You’re an amazing woman, Sophia. I hope we can do it again soon.
Biting into my lower lip, a little giggle escaped me, totally uncharacteristic and wholly juvenile, but I was giddy and
warm suddenly and I decided to embrace it. After all, what did I have to lose?

THE NEXT MORNING I grudgingly visited my father’s house before I was due at the museum. It was a meeting I had been
putting off, and I was even more reluctant to engage with my family once Nicholas crashed into my life. Yet I knew they were
likely losing their patience with my lack of participation in family business matters, so I considered the visit a dose of good
will. Perhaps, if I played along, they might leave me to my work—and they might not catch on to the fact that I was entangled
with one of the most dangerous Time Walkers of our kind. I needed more time. Time to think, time to figure out what Nicholas
wanted, and time to consider if Nicholas was the solution to my increasingly urgent problem.
The moment I turned onto the familiar road leading to my father’s sprawling estate in Chester County, a mix of
apprehension and determination welled up within me. The cherry trees lining the long winding driveway were in full bloom,
their delicate blossoms forming a fleeting pink canopy overhead. Each petal seemed to whisper secrets of the past, reminding
me of the family business I had been avoiding for far too long.
My father’s estate loomed in the distance, a grand tribute to old money and aristocratic taste. The residence had an
almost gothic air, with its aged stone façade and towering spires that seemed to touch the heavens. The wrought-iron gates
creaked open, revealing the crushed stone driveway to the house. Security cameras tracked my every move as I navigated the
serpentine path, each curve winding its way towards a confrontation I was reluctant to face.
A fleet of expensive cars adorned the circular driveway surrounding a fountain, showcasing opulence, and serving as a
testament to the prosperity that surrounded my family. My nondescript sedan felt out of place among the sleek lines and
polished surfaces. I noted most of them were there; a streamlined black Jaguar that belonged to Uncle Julius, the sensible silver
Porsche Cayenne that Uncle Ronan favored, and even Dr. Howard’s impeccable Genesis GV80 were parked around the
fountain. As I shifted into park, I took a moment to compose myself, glancing at my reflection in the rearview mirror. I could
almost convince myself that I was ready for the charade awaiting me within those imposing walls.
Exiting the car, I was met with the crisp scent of cherry blossoms carried by a gentle breeze. The air seemed charged
with a strange energy, and I couldn’t shake the haunting feeling that the estate held secrets far older than the trees that adorned
it. After all, I had been told that Blooded Ones lived there over two hundred years; my father was the current caretaker, or
Primary Keeper, as the elders deemed him, charged with running the property and keeping it accessible as a gathering place for
their kind.
I stepped out of the car and squared my shoulders, adjusting the collar of my jacket, and made my way towards the
massive front door.
The butler, a stoic figure in a perfectly pressed suit, opened the door with a practiced nod. His eyes fell sharply on me,
seeming to pierce through the façade I had meticulously constructed. I nodded in return, feigning a confidence I didn’t entirely
feel.
“Miss Sophia, welcome back,” he intoned with formality that only intensified my discomfort. “Your father is in the
study, awaiting your arrival.”
“Hi Leonard,” I replied. “And the others? I’m guessing they’re all here too?”
If he had not been so skilled at remaining level and composed, I was certain he would have rolled his eyes at me.
Instead, he curtly nodded.
“Your Uncles are here, of course.”
I offered a tight-lipped smile, my mind racing to concoct a plausible excuse for my sudden return. As I walked through
the cavernous halls, the echoes of my footsteps whispered a reminder of the secrets my kind carried. The study door loomed
ahead, a portal to the family matters I had been avoiding.
Pushing the door open, I was met with the familiar scent of aged leather and mahogany. Although the others were in the
room, I focused on my father, a man of stature, who sat behind an ornate desk cluttered with papers and artifacts that spoke of a
lineage steeped in mystique. He was unnaturally youthful, eternally fixed at the pinnacle of physiological health, as all
immortals were, a fact which distressed me when we appeared in public, and onlookers assumed he was my thirty-something
brother rather than my father. He looked up, a mixture of surprise and pleasure flickering across his face. The others fell
strangely silent. I could feel their stares boring into my back.
“Sophia, my dear, what a pleasant surprise,” he greeted, rising from his chair.
“Father,” I replied, suppressing the tremor in my voice. “I thought it was time I paid a visit.”
His eyes tightened ever so slightly, and I could sense his curiosity. He gestured to the plush chair opposite his desk, and
I took a seat, my gaze never wavering.
“Glad you’ve seen fit to join us, Sophia. Your absence had been noted,” Julius interjected. I tried not to scowl, but I
was sure the disdain was blazing on my face when I glanced at my Uncle Julius, who was leaning against the fireplace mantle.
His disapproval was evident. I noted his typical business attire, black trousers and crisp white button-down shirt, a blood red
tie knotted at his bulging neck as if it held in check the arrogance strumming through his veins. His black wavy hair was slicked
back neatly, a modern touch to an otherwise ancient entity. He was one of the oldest of our kind, a veritable relic, and his
traditional views frequently clashed with my own. He met my gaze, his chiseled jaw tight as he took a long draw on a cigar.
“In case you have forgotten, I have a career. I get up and go to work every day, unlike the lot of you,” I snapped back.
Julius exhaled, the smoke curling in front of his face. “You choose to behave like a mortal. Your choices do not exempt
you from your responsibilities to this family!” Julius growled.
“I am a mortal! How else would you expect me to behave?” I shot back.
I stood up to defend myself further when my father lifted a hand and stepped between us.
“That’s enough. Both of you,” father said, voice raised and even. I slowly lowered back down in my chair. When he
was satisfied we would obey, he sat down. “We’re all pleased to see you, Sophia. You’ve missed a bit, but I’m sure you’ll
catch right up.”
I felt the heat swirling in my chest. Julius had a way of pushing my buttons, and I was irritated at myself for allowing
him to get under my skin. I heard a murmur of agreement from Ronan and Dr. Howard, noting that Julius kept sullenly silent,
like a chastised teenager.
As father began to discuss the family affairs, my mind wandered to the reason for my return. Nicholas, the elusive Time
Walker, haunted my thoughts. The encounter with him had been exhilarating, a secret I couldn’t afford to share. My family,
influential as they were, had no inkling of what I intended to conceal from them. In my entire life, I had never strayed, never
disobeyed. There was no reason for them to suspect my behavior was anything other than my normal desire to be independent.
I nodded along to my father’s words, realizing that I was becoming a master of disguise in my own right. The
determination to shield my secret burned within me, a flame that refused to be extinguished. The ticking of an antique clock on
the wall seemed to underscore the urgency of the charade.
The conversation veered into familiar territory – alliances, business ventures, and social obligations. My responses
were measured, carefully crafted to divert attention from the truth I harbored. As my father spoke, his words became a distant
hum, drowned out by the pounding of my heart. He discussed plans for the annual holiday masquerade Gala, which I had no
plans on attending, but I played along, nevertheless. It was indulgent, grossly opulent, and completely out of touch with the
times, yet the elders insisted on keeping the archaic tradition alive. Father turned over the lead to Ronan, who was traditionally
in charge of the festivities.
“This year we expect our junior members will take on more responsibilities,” Ronan announced. His gaze flickered
briefly to mine, and he winked. Ever the peacemaker, burly Ronan always managed to break through my façade. With his
tousled brown hair and twinkling blue eyes, he tended to bring out the best in others, even when there was tension among us.
He liked to remind us that we were all part of a chosen family, and despite our different family lineages and ties, we made a
commitment to live peaceably together. The annual masquerade was his pet project intended to celebrate alliances, and it was
unlikely he would allow me to miss it.
I smiled ruefully back at him and shook my head with a little snort.
“…Catherine Bystrom is handling the menu and catering, and Rose Sturlsson volunteered to arrange entertainment—”
“A Sturlsson?” Julius interrupted. “Are you out of your bloody mind, Ronan? Since when do we consort with their
line?”
Ronan raised a brow, but did not give Julius the attention he sought. “We’ve developed alliances with more than one
Sturlsson over the last two hundred years, Julius. Surely you won’t hold the fifteenth century against them for eternity? We do
not hold honest Blooded Ones accountable for the crimes of their ancestors. Now then, as for security, Sophia will be the
contact for the evening. I’ve already distributed her information to the team.”
I uttered an audible groan at that point and slumped down in my seat, eliciting a smile from my father. I recalled Ronan
bending my ear about it months ago, but apparently he considered that conversation an acceptance of his proposal. Now that it
was presented to the Keepers, they quickly voted, and before I could object, I’d been roped back in to performing family
business.
When the discussion finally concluded and the men prepared to finalize their business, I rose from the chair, my
expression a mask of false contentment. I checked my watch, mindful that I had a thirty-minute drive back to the city.
“Dad, I’ve got to get to work. I’ll talk to you tomorrow,” I said, kissing him lightly on the cheek. He nodded,
preoccupied, and quickly patted my hand.
“I’m glad to see you, Soph. Do you have time for dinner this week, when the house isn’t so full?” he asked, tilting his
head toward the others.
I sobered somewhat at his hopeful tone. I knew he was hurt, that he was aware I had been pulling away from the family
for some time. I did not want to cause him pain, yet I did not know how to reconcile protecting his feelings while I was so
entrenched on a path of deceit to everything he had ever taught me.
“Sure. I’ll figure something out and let you know,” I replied. He smiled, acceptance in his eyes. I gave a quick wave to
the others and made my exit, leaving the study. As I made my way into the hall and reached for the door, I heard footsteps
behind me.
“Sophia?” Ronan called out. His tone was quiet, careful. I paused, hand on the knob, and turned my head when he
approached.
“I’ll do the security thing, it’s no big deal,” I began, assuming he wanted to solidify my position on the Gala. I was
surprised when he placed his hand over mine on the doorknob, covering my fingers with his large hand. He was unnaturally
warm, and I panicked, snatching my hand from his.
Ronan had a special talent for sensing emotion, for deciphering the nonverbal cures that emanated from others. I
recalled watching him practice his gifts when I was a child, in awe of the way he simply placed hands on a person and knew
their innermost secrets. Ronan did not touch others without reason; when he placed his hands on another, he intended to make a
discovery.
My eyes met his, my heart thudding loudly in my ears.
“Did you have a visitor at the museum, Sophia?” he asked. I didn’t want to swallow, or shake, or show any inkling that
he was correct. How much could he have read in that momentary touch? Did he know about Nicholas?
“I don’t know what you mean,” I said softly, each word enunciated. His eyes held mine for what seemed like an
eternity.
“We are your family. You need not fear having truth between us.”
“I’m not afraid of any of you. I have nothing to hide,” I replied. I put my hand on the doorknob again and pulled,
breaking his steely gaze and walking through the door.
I jumped into my car and gunned it out of the driveway. I took a deep breath, bracing myself for the challenges that lay
ahead as I gripped the steering wheel. The secrets I carried threatened to unravel at every turn. The estate, with its iron gates
and watchful guardians, stood as a silent observer to the unraveling drama that would unfold within its hallowed halls.
I steeled myself for the days to come. The narrative of deception had been set in motion, and I, the reluctant protagonist,
was determined to play my part until the final act. As I plunged into the depths of family obligations and secrets, the echoes of
my encounters with Nicholas reverberated in the shadows, a clandestine melody that underscored the consequences of my
actions.

AT WORK LATER in the morning I kept occupied and brushed off my complicated family issues. My belly did flip-flops every
time my phone buzzed in my pocket, knowing it was Nicholas. To my delight, he was intent on convincing me to leave work
and join him, be damned adult responsibilities. I laughed at the absurdity of it all, how he truly had no qualms about taking me
away from my work to simply spend the day with him. It was clear that he wasn’t accustomed to the word “no”, nor was he
likely to accept anything less than what he wanted. After allowing myself to be distracted for most of the afternoon, I ended up
rescheduling my late afternoon meeting and cleared my schedule.
Yes, I would give Nicholas what he wanted. The rational, calculated voice inside my head insisted it was part of my
plan and that I was the one in control; it was just a means to figure out exactly what he was up to, and what event in the natural
timeline Nicholas intended to change. Yet the other voice was still there, piping up now and then, reminding me that the way he
looked at me was something I hadn’t felt in a very long time. I was bone tired of the seriousness of life, of the finality of my
own timeline. I was ready to embrace something more, as fleeting, and as frivolous as it might be.
Spruce Street Harbor Park along the waterfront was the agreed upon meeting place. I idled near the beer garden and
leaned against the railing, looking out over the river. Music from a live Margaritaville cover band hummed between my ears,
the easy rhythm serving to quell my apprehension.
“Hey you.”
I smiled at the sound of his voice, feeling the weight of his shadow behind me when he approached. He placed his
hands on the rail, his pinky finger snug against mine, and he leaned slightly over, turning his head to meet my gaze. I felt like my
skin was on fire; I prayed I wasn’t blushing like a schoolgirl.
“You found me,” I replied, suddenly tongue tied.
“Of course. You’re right where you said you’d be.” He moved his hand, slipping his fingers over mine with a gentle
squeeze. “It’s good to see you again. Are you hungry? We can grab a bite to eat if you want.”
His eyes were wide, careful, as if he thought I might reconsider our date. Little did he know, I had already jumped in
headfirst, full throttle, one hundred percent all in on getting to know Nicholas Neilsson. I nodded, clenching his fingers. I
pulled him away from the rail and tilted my head northbound.
“Sure. There’s a little bistro down the way, we can get a table by the river, if you want,” I suggested.
“Sounds great,” he agreed.
We walked down the asphalt path along the river, our hands entwined. I could smell the scent of fresh soap when I
leaned into his shoulder, clean and minty and entirely delicious. Our connection was careful, almost awkward, and he seemed
to be gauging my response to his every move. By the time we found a table and the waitress took our order, my heart was
pounding in my ears and every word he spoke seemed like it came through an echo chamber and straight to my gut.
“Wine?” he asked, raising a dark brow. I nodded, entirely too fast of a response, but I was desperate to take the edge
off. I didn’t need to look like a witless, stammering fool.
He leaned back in his chair, staring at me as if his eyes could see through the layers of my soul. I steadied myself and
met his gaze with even measure, telling myself I needed to get a handle on my raging hormones and commit to using our mutual
attraction to my own benefit; I needed to find out what Nicholas was up to. Handling the Nicholas situation was the only
opportunity I might ever have to take on a position of respect and independence within my family, and I didn’t intend to muck it
up.
I watched as he filled my glass halfway with a dark red wine. I took it from his hand with a smile and placed it to my
lips, eyeing him over the rim as I took a sip. He was more cavalier with his consumption, taking a quick swill and swallowing
it down, his eyes locked on mine.
“So how was your day? I hope I didn’t disrupt your plans,” he said smoothly. The corner of his mouth twitched a bit, as
if he meant to laugh, but he kept it under control and maintained that steely gaze upon mine waiting for my response.
“It was busy, as usual. But I was glad you invited me out. Things have been a bit hectic. My father was in rare form
today, he’s not happy I haven’t been by to see him. It’s nice to just let loose a little and ignore it all,” I confessed. It was more
heartfelt than I intended, but damnit, somehow, I felt the need to bare my soul to him. No, he didn’t need to know my deepest
fears, but letting out a tiny piece of that truth felt like a little burst of relief.
He leaned forward at my words, taking my hand across the table. I liked how it felt; his skin was warm, his touch firm,
reassuring.
“What makes you tick, Sophia Wyndham? I can’t imagine you’d ever back down from anything. What is it that you’re
trying to ignore?” he asked.
“I could ask the same of you, Nicholas Neilsson.” I mimicked his jesting formality and smiled, averting my gaze from
his. I swirled my wine and focused on the red liquid, taking a generous swallow instead of a delicate sip before I returned my
eyes to his. “I have the same issues anyone has, I suppose. Sometimes it’s just nice to ignore my responsibilities. I’m sure your
family gives you as much grief as mine does.”
He chuckled. His fingers loosened on mine and he leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest.
“Ah, well, mine is more of the opposite. My parents are happy when I’m not there to complicate their lives. It sounds
like your father, however, wants to be part of yours.”
I nodded. “Yeah, he does,” I admitted. “I know he means well. He just tends to be a little overbearing, to put it simply.
He’s an investor in my work, so it’s difficult sometimes to separate our work life and personal life.” I squinted, twisting my
lips into a frown. “I’m sure you don’t want to hear about my angsty relationship with my father.”
To my surprise, he grinned and shrugged his shoulders. “I’m a good listener. I thought we established that already.”
“Well, what about your family?” I asked, trying to turn the table on him. Was I gaining his trust, or was he merely toying
with me? A part of me felt that his curiosity was genuine; another part wondered if I was only a pawn in his ultimate game.
“My family is not exactly supportive of my career path,” he said, his words slow and punctual. I was surprised at the
sudden change in him, from teasing and light to guarded and intense. His brows creased and his eyes met mine again; I could
see the cords along his throat tighten.
He reached forward abruptly and picked up the wine bottle, topping off my glass and then refilling his own.
“Why,” he asked, “Do I find myself telling you my deepest secrets?”
I weighed his words for a moment. Our eyes locked, the unsaid louder than the silence.
“Maybe you just needed someone to listen,” I replied.
“No, Sophia. Not just someone,” he said softly. “It seems like it needed to be you.”
The waitress slid a platter of food onto the edge of the table, balancing it with one hip to pass over our plates. Nicholas
reached to help the server, smiling in an apologetic manner since he ordered the bulk of the meal in comparison. Once we were
alone again, I picked at my salad, and I noticed Nicholas made short order of his steak. It was an interlude I needed, an attempt
to steady myself for what I meant to do.
I was no femme fatale, but I was no fool. If the power of a woman could be gauged by the way a man looked at me,
well, in that moment I was the most powerful woman in the world. His eyes smoldered across the table, radiating a heat that
made me flush from my belly and up my throat to my cheeks. I was on the verge of getting him to reveal his plan – if I could
manage to keep my wits about myself instead of losing myself in the moment.
We worked valiantly on the bottle of wine, the conversation turning to more mundane things and light banter. I rattled
on, trying to ignore my nervousness. He entertained me with his sarcastic assessment of what it might be like for someone from
the past to live in present day Philadelphia, from cell phones to ride shares and stock market trading, and I picked apart his
story and teasingly informed him that he didn’t know what he was talking about. Laughter eased the tension, coming easily with
each sip. Soon my master plan was nothing more than a vague nagging in the back of my mind, and I let the purpose of the
evening slip away as I lost myself in enjoying him.
“You know, you’re kinda funny, for a guy who’s so serious all the time,” I laughed.
“You’re the one cracking all the jokes. I feel like it’s my duty to humor you,” he replied with a grin. “One might say
you’re not as uptight as the museum police I encountered the other day.”
I giggled, and he laughed out loud when I uttered a little snort. In that intimate space, our words became the threads that
wove our connection, binding us together in a dance of wit and desire. Our conversations were a tapestry of playful banter and
heartfelt confessions, the magnetic pull causing my guard to dissolve.
The glow of the daytime sun retreated by the time we finished the bottle. Although the city nightlife was awakening
around us, I did not object when Nicholas ordered a car to pick us up.
“Come on, let’s get you home,” he said, holding out his hand. I gladly took it, not minding how he entwined his fingers
in mine and did not let go, even when we were seated in the back of the car.
“Would you like to come up for a bit? I’m not ready to call it a night yet,” I said. The stereotypical end-of-date phrase
felt utterly fake as soon as it left my lips, yet I couldn’t come up with anything better when we arrived at my house. I took a
deep breath, certain I’d come off way too strong.
“I would love to,” he quickly replied.

I stood there, at the threshold of my house, my heart pounding in my chest as I invited Nicholas inside. The flickering
candlelight danced upon the walls, casting a warm glow. We had just shared a meal, the flavors still lingering on my tongue, but
it was more than the food that had left me intoxicated. With every sip of wine, my inhibitions dissolved, and the air became
charged with electric energy.
As he crossed the threshold, a wave of anticipation washed over me, mingling with the awareness of him. Nicholas’
eyes, dark and intense, seemed suddenly very serious, and I couldn’t help but wonder what lay hidden behind that gaze.
The survivalist in me urged caution, knowing his goal was to manipulate me; my soul fought back, ignoring that
warning, burying it deep until I convinced myself Nicholas was sincere.
I murmured something about showing him the rooftop deck and he quickly agreed, wrapping his hand around mine as I
led him up the narrow back staircase. The rooftop was my secret haven where the night sky stretched out before us like a
canvas painted with stars. As we settled into a cushioned rattan couch, I flicked on the radio and the melody of a modern
country song filled the silence, its bittersweet notes tugging at the strings of my senses.
The male singer’s voice crooned with a deep ache, a lament that resonated thickly in the night air.
“A good song,” Nicholas spoke, his voice soft against the backdrop of the melody. His eyes held mine, his gaze fixed
upon me as if searching for answers.
I nodded, my voice momentarily lost in the whirlwind that stirred within me. “One of my favorites.” I felt my cheeks
flush; it sounded silly, but it sounded true.
We both fell into a comfortable silence, each lost in our own thoughts and the haunting strains of the song. The lyrics
danced through the air, weaving a tapestry that mirrored the tangled web of our situation. In that moment, the world around us
faded, and it was just him and me, two souls caught in the ebb and flow.
“So, tell me, Sophia,” Nicholas finally broke the silence, his voice laced with a hint of mischief, “what is it about this
song that speaks to you?”
I laughed softly. “It’s haunting, I suppose. I can feel the ache for something more, something deeper in the lyrics.”
He nodded, his eyes never leaving mine. “I couldn’t agree more.”
As the song reached its crescendo, our words trailed off. In that moment, there was no need for grand declarations or
profound revelations. We sat there, side by side, entwined in a delicate but delicious game.
The weight of the wine settled deep within me, wrapping its tendrils around my senses and coaxing me into a sleepy
haze. I leaned against Nicholas. He sensed my fatigue, pulling a soft blanket around us, cocooning us in its warmth and
shielding us from the cool night air. We remained there, nestled under the covering of stars, the world around us fading into
insignificance. I didn’t know what it was about him that drew me in so deeply, yet I gave in to dozing off with very little fight.
For the first time in so long, I felt at peace.
“It’s getting late,” he softly said sometime later. His weight shifted beside me, and I felt his fingers brush my cheek.
Nicholas was getting up to leave, his touch slipping away. The realization brought a twinge of longing, a reckless urge
to hold on, to remain in the moment forever. I did not want it to end.
I blinked away the remnants of sleep, my gaze meeting his. The effects of the wine weighed heavily upon me, casting a
veil of drowsiness over my senses. My fingers closed instinctively around the fabric of Nicholas’s shirt, clinging to it as if it
held the answer to the unspoken questions that danced between us. If he left tonight, would I ever see him again? Or would he
disappear, leaving me to wonder over the years if he was only a figment of my imagination?
I held onto his shirt, my fingers entwined in the fabric. I lifted my chin, meeting his gaze.
 6
Nicholas

Every muscle and fiber in his chest tensed when her fist closed on the collar of his shirt and she raised her eyes, her lips
dangerously near to his. He knew he was a bastard, that she was softened by the wine they consumed, but he could not stop
himself. With a careful touch, he let his hand slide slowly up her arm, brushing her shoulder and her throat with his fingertips,
until his palm settled to cup her head. She was entirely eager, uttering a sigh as he caressed her lips with his thumb.
“Are you going to kiss me?” she whispered.
She was shaking, and so was he. He bent his head to hers, his mouth brushing lightly across her cheek. He knew an
honorable man would let her go; the struggle between that man and himself, however, could not be resolved. Instead, he let his
lips linger for a long moment, his fingers tightening in her silky hair, and then raised his eyes to hers.
“When I kiss you, I will need much more time,” he said, his throaty response verging on the loss of control. “But right
now, I think you need to sleep.”
He could not use her. He could not deceive her. He would not take advantage of her when he’d deliberately plied her
with wine. He needed to go, to clear his mind before it was too late to turn back. If he kissed her, he was afraid he would never
stop.
The lines above her brows crinkled at his admission. Her objection was fleeting, and thankfully she wrapped her arms
around his neck when he slid his hands beneath her bottom and lifted her from the couch. Her acquiescence made the path to
her room utter torture; with the way she burrowed into him and curved to his chest, and the feel of her even breathing upon the
bare skin of his neck, it took everything he had not to lay her down on that bed and join her.
The glimmer of moonlight illuminated her room through the open drapes, which he left as they were instead of
searching for a light switch. He released her legs, letting her slowly sink to the floor, yet he held his arms around her until he
was certain she was steady.
“Sit down, I’ll take off your shoes,” he murmured.
“I’ve got it,” she replied. He felt her shift, one foot to the other, pushing her shoes off her feet with her opposing heels.
Proudly tossing each one across the floor with a flick of her toe, she smiled up at him. “I can take care of myself, you know.”
“Oh, I know,” he agreed. He did not agree at all; he wanted to take care of her. He wanted to see her like that, wine-
drunk and silly sweet, looking at him as if she meant to pull him down in bed beside her, every day and every night for all his
days. She felt like forever, and he craved it.
With a swiftness he failed to anticipate, she grasped the edge of her dress and smoothly lifted it over her head. It
fluttered to the floor in a heap at their feet. The air seemed to leave his lungs at that moment, standing inches away from her,
and every inch of his flesh tingled in response.
A shimmer of light caressed her curves, illuminating the pale blue lace camisole and panties she wore. He could see the
pulse throbbing in her neck, her long loose hair framing her face and her chin lifted as if in challenge. The vision of her there in
front of him was one he knew he would never forget; no matter where he traveled, no matter how his tale ended, it was Sophia
standing in the moonlight that would forever haunt him.
He swallowed hard and averted his gaze. She might regret her brazenness in the morning, and he did not want to take
advantage of that. Without touching her, he pulled the edge of the comforter back and nodded towards the bed.
She lowered herself down and pulled the coverlet to her waist. “Thank you,” she said.
Nicholas went one step further, tucking the bedding up to her chin. When he bent to her, it was inevitable, the way he
needed to gently press his lips to her forehead, yet he managed to take that one last taste before he turned away.
“Goodnight, Sophia.”
He shut the door behind him.
With quick strides he left her bedroom, putting distance between them in hopes to douse the raging burn strumming
through his veins. His insides felt tight, strung as taut as a bow, the implications of what he meant to do swirling madly through
his thoughts.
What was he doing? It had taken him years of work and hundreds of attempts at changing time to arrive at that moment.
Finally, after all the horror and loss, the solution to saving his brother was within his grasp. When it was all over, Nicholas
meant to return to his own time, resume the life he never fully lived, and make amends with those he loved who suffered so
much because of his sins.
So what exactly was he going to accomplish with Sophia? She was from another time, an innocent pawn in his quest.
No, he was not the most honorable of men, but even he had his limits. Sophia did not deserve to be a casualty, to be used, and
he damn well knew it. Yet with every moment they spent together he could feel their connection growing deeper. He had no
right to know her, to seduce her, to love her —or to take her heart with him when he left.
As he made his way to the door, his knee made contact with a console table against the wall. He muttered a low curse
and bent to rub his knee, noticing the tray sitting on the tabletop.
On the small round tray was a set of keys, a phone charger, a tube of lip gloss—and a badge attached to a key fob
engraved with the logo of the Philadelphia Museum of Art.
No. He wouldn’t do it. When the dagger went missing and security realized Sophia’s key fob was used to access it, she
would lose her job. Even worse, all she had worked for, her reputation, her academic position, it would be gone.
Nicholas picked up the badge and key fob, closing his fingers around it. His plan was always to get the dagger, fix
things, and go home.
A random utterance his mother once used came to mind.
“Nicholas, what is the matter with you? You’re determined to have your cake and eat it too, aren’t you?” she
admonished him.
Nicholas grimaced at the memory and dropped the badge and key fob back onto the tray. The wisdom in his mother’s
words was undeniable—and for the first time in his life, he knew the risk was not one he was willing to take.

DAYS PASSED BEFORE he returned to the museum. He waited until near closing time, taking care to avoid any staff
members, and most importantly, Sophia. As much as he could not bear to compromise the life she built for herself, he was even
more reluctant to face her. He knew he was a coward for leaving her without an explanation, yet what could he say?
“Well, Sophia, the truth is, I’m a Time Walker and I’ve been building your trust to get into the museum to steal that
Bloodstone dagger. Yes, the one you wrote your thesis paper on, the same one. You’ll lose your job, and you’ll hate me, but
it’s been the entirety of my existence since the seventeenth century, so that’s that.”
No. There was nothing he could say to soften that blow, no explanation he could give to have his ends justify the means.
Nicholas had used dozens of people in his quest to save his brother, many of them just as undeserving of his manipulation as
Sophia. For the first time, things felt different; the truth of what it would mean to Sophia made him feel dishonorable. Lower
than the dirt beneath his feet.
The irrecoverable truth was impossible to deny. He could not steal the dagger before it arrived in Sophia’s care, lest he
risk altering the course of her life; he could not bear the thought of going forward in time to when Sophia no longer existed. Of
all the things he had done, all the lives he had manipulated, he was suddenly faced with altering her life.
He would not—could not—do it.
If it took another hundred tries, he would find a way. A different way. One that had nothing to do with Sophia.
The exhibit was illuminated with a dimmed glow, the Arms and Armor gallery blessedly empty save for a lone security
guard, head dipped down and engrossed in the cell phone in his hands.
Nicholas took it all in. He catalogued every detail in his mind, every rune mark, every etching, the rub marks and
indents, the shape and setting of the bloodstone in the hilt. He made note of every alcove in the gallery, every secluded nook
where one might hide, and the routines of the predictable security guards. When he was satisfied that he had committed it to
memory, he turned to leave. He did not look at the painting on the wall, as that tragedy was forever burned into his soul,
walking past it without a glance.
He accepted that this Bloodstone dagger, in this time, was a dead end for him. There would be other relics in other
times, other legends to pursue, perhaps even another magical elixir that might be the answer he had long searched for. It was
over, and he could no longer bear to linger.
He passed through the winding corridor of exhibits out to the Great Stair Hall balcony where he swiftly passed the
statue of Diana and made his way down the stairs. The curtain draped granite columns at the East entrance faced him and he
was ready to pass through when he heard her voice.
“Nicholas?”
He hesitated, but only for a moment, barely shifting his eyes to the left where she was standing by a pass way with
another museum employee. The subtle movement was enough to see the confusion etched on her face, her wide eyes and
hopeful gaze shaming him into what he meant to do.
Enough was enough. It was better for her to be angry at him for leaving, for avoiding her calls, for ghosting her as a
modern man might do. She could forget him and move on. He would not make her a casualty in his journey, even if she was the
only hope he had left. There had to be another way. And he would not stop until he found it.
He kept going, the joy and peace he felt in her presence left behind as shredded remnants in his wake.
 7
Nicholas

After leaving Sophia, the dreams came more frequently again to him in the lonely darkness of night. Inside the chamber of his
mind he was trapped, unable to run away from reliving the memory of that day.
Uncle Chetan had started a large funeral fire on the hard-packed clay in the common space and many Neilsson family
members had joined him. His attire spoke of respect for the ancestors, those great warriors of old, as his skin was streaked
with dark slashes of mourning paint, and he was decorated with all the finery he owned. His breech cloth was adorned brightly
with white and yellow shell beads in the pattern of the crested sun, his legs covered by fringed deer hide leggings greatly worn
at the knees. He stood straight and proud, his gazed fixed on the fire, a fur mantle gracing his wide shoulders. Atop his head he
wore a deer skull head dress with forked antlers protruding towards the sky, and an attached cape of deer hide trailing down
his back. When he held out his hands, his twin sisters came forward, dressed plainly in their cotton shifts, barefoot and
unadorned, their long dark hair streaming down their backs.
The girls took Chetan’s hands and they began to dance, letting their great-uncle lead the way. Nicholas was paralyzed
for a moment looking at them, lost in the swirls of their bright white gowns as they twirled in the mourning dance around the
flickering fire. Soon others joined the dance, even Grandfather Winn and Nicholas’s uncles, Dagr and Malcolm, and he could
see that the women had gathered as well. Nicholas sat watching them, perched on the wide porch stairs and accompanied by
Mary Elizabeth, who quietly held his hand. His face was pale and drawn, his lips tightly sealed into a thin line, his eyes devoid
of any acknowledgement of the dance. His sister kept him anchored, as she had become his protector since it happened,
shielding him from the others who demanded more of Nicholas.
A shadow outlined in the glow of dusk at the side of the house appeared. It was his father, Daniel, emerging from the
rear yard. His gait was slow, his pace a bit staggered, and he paused before he approached the others by the fire. In his hands
was a shovel, which he gripped in both fists. Nicholas could see the smeared dirt on his breeches and the way his chest heaved
as he took in a gulp of air, his shirt parted and open at his neck. The line of his whitened knuckles stood out in stark contrast to
his dark skin, flexing atop the grip of his fist where he clutched the wooden handle of the spade.
He had prepared the ground to receive his son.
Nicholas closed his eyes, unable to bear the weight of his father’s gaze. In the shadow of firelight, he clutched his head
in his hands and wept.
No. No. No!
“No!” the words bellowed forth from his dry throat in the empty hotel room as the dream broke and he sat straight up in
bed. Slick sweat beaded on his skin, stinging his eyes when he rubbed his face. He shook his head, willing the memories to
fade.

That evening he went to meet his uncle Connor. It had been some time since he’d seen him, and in all truth, Nicholas enjoyed
his company. There were few things that comforted him of late, and he was eager to find some distraction from reality. They
met in the street near the hospital and ended up seated at a corner bar. It was not long before Nicholas was several beers in,
and both men were feeling no pain.
“You know you should be in 1656 by now, right?” Nicholas took a gulp of his beer, eyeing the waitress as she refilled
their whiskey shot glasses. “What’s keeping you from leaving? Is my mom being difficult again?”
“Yeah, she’s not thrilled about it,” Connor said. “She’s been in a funk since her twenty-first birthday passed. She knows
we need to go, but I haven’t pushed it too much.”
Nicholas nodded. He had a pleasant buzz going, making his limbs feel a little bit weightless and enabling the
conversation to flow without a filter. He was aware that Connor had read some of the passages in the Book of the Blooded
Ones about his own death in the past, and he was frankly shocked that his uncle was still determined to follow through with his
plan to return to the past.
“Well, you can’t hardly blame me for delaying it,” Connor continued. “I know how my story ends, but it’s still difficult
to accept that I’m the one who has to set it in motion.”
“Do you ever wonder what it would be like to throw it all away? To forget what we know, to ignore those things we
know to be true? I do, sometimes. I want to just go back, tell my father what I’ve seen…make them understand why I’ve been
away from them for so long. To have a life, grow old with a woman,” Nicholas said softly. Sophia’s face flashed through his
mind. There were so many reasons to stay away from her. Yet walking the world without her became more torturous with each
step. The futility of his life hit hard in his gut. He shook his head, clearing the image of her memory, and took a long swallow of
beer.
Connor laughed at Nicholas’s whimsical declaration. He took a swig of his drink, pointing on finger at Nicholas in a
way that reminded him of his grandfather Torquil. His tousled blond hair fell over one blazing blue eye, echoing the Norse
ancestry that ran rampant through his veins. Connor was a warrior, no doubt, yet he was brave in his own way, a loyal soldier
in a time far removed from the era of heroes and villains that once plagued their ancestors.
“I’d like to see my father once again,” Connor agreed. “It would be good to sit with him, to talk to him. I don’t
remember much what he was like, only that he was strong, and that I felt safe when I was with him.”
Nicholas nodded. “Oh, aye,” he said, slipping back into that hint of an ancient accent. It seemed fitting, though, so he
did not mind it so much. “He was a good man. I wish I had known him, too, when I was still innocent of all this…this chaos.”
“Why do you do it, then?” Connor replied. Nicholas did not take offense to his question. From another, he might have
taken it as an accusation, as yet one more man standing in judgement of all he had done. From his uncle, however, Nicholas did
not feel that sting, so he had no qualms over sharing his thoughts on the matter.
“For him, I imagine,” he said quietly. “To right the wrongs I have done. It should have been me that day at Squatter’s
Hill. I should have been on the bay mare. It is my fault, and I cannot strike it from my thoughts. No matter where I go, to what
time, to what place…it is always there. And I am so weary of it.”
Connor downed the remainder of his draft beer and placed the empty glass on the table. The waitress swooped in and
replaced it with a full beer, giving Nicholas a side-eyed glance at his empty shot.
“Another?” she asked. He nodded. Once she left and came back with a fresh shot of whiskey for each of them, Nicholas
stared at it for a while before he let his question run loose.
“And you?” he asked. He picked up the shot, downing it in one practiced motion. The harsh burn was enough to singe
the hair off his ass, causing him to wince at the cheap spirit and shake his head. “Why do you do it? You could say the hell with
all of it, screw your blood-born destiny. You could put an end to it now, forget what your family has demanded of you, and
pretend it’s all some fairytale. Your sister would be safe…and you would live a life here, in this time.”
Connor took his time with the whiskey, nursing the shot somewhat until he resigned himself to the task and threw it
back. He placed it on the table, tracing his finger over the rim.
“Some of us are meant to be sidekicks in this story. Sure, I could deny my duty and betray everything I believe to be
true…but then what of my sister? And what of you, nephew? If I don’t go back, my sister will not live, and you’ll never be
born. If I make that choice for my own selfish reasons, I’d be erasing her future—and yours. I’ve grown fond of you, despite
you being an utter ingrate. I can’t end your existence before it starts. And who knows? Maybe it’s not all set in stone. I’m
holding out for a happy ending.”
Connor lifted a toast to Nicholas, and they clanked their glasses together.
“To honor. And destiny. They’re pretty much the same thing, after all,” Connor announced.
“True story,” Nicholas agreed.
They carried on like that for some time. Eventually, Nicholas did not recall why he had come to see Connor in the first
place, and when he traveled through time to return home, he simply laid on his back in the front field and closed his eyes to the
dark evening sky.
He felt the glass vial of the ancient elixir in his pocket and removed it, popping the cork off with his thumb. He
grimaced when he downed the remainer of the bitter contents, nevertheless pleased with himself. Connor had not even noticed
when he slipped drops of the elixir into his drink. Although it had not worked to save Alec, he figured it was worth a shot for
Connor.
What did it matter, anyway? If destiny was already decided, then there was nothing much left for him to live for.
 8
Sophia

I sat down at my father’s desk in his office, settling back into the chair with my legs neatly crossed. I placed my clasped hands
on my knee, my back stubbornly straight in the high-backed tufted leather chair. It was something I did often as a child, play-
acting that I was him, the one in charge, until he gently but firmly shooed me away with excuses that I should focus on “other
things.” I closed my eyes to the memory, tilted my head back, and let the breath slowly exit from my lungs.
Despite the newfound understanding of what those moments in my childhood truly meant, I had more important matters
to work through. Namely, the fact that Nicholas had a golden opportunity to steal my museum key fob, yet he did not. Even
worse, he ghosted me. Being ghosted by a Time Walker was a whole different level of burn; I had the nagging feeling that he
had not only left me, he had left my time. It had been weeks since I’d seen him, and his cell phone was no longer in service.
And it infuriated me.
“Been a long time since you’ve tried to take over my job, Sophia.”
I opened my eyes at the sound of my father’s thick voice. He was staring curiously at me, his light eyes shadowed by a
crinkled brow. His blonde hair was uncharacteristically ruffled, and I was surprised to see he was dressed in jeans and blue
tee, a flannel shirt hanging open and untucked on his solid frame. It was a stark contrast to his usual polished presence, but I
didn’t want to ask what he’d been up to dressed so outdoorsy. I took a moment to remind myself I had more important matters
to address, and I had every right to take my place at the table. It was my birthright, just the same as his.
“I’m not here to take over your job. But it’s time to make some changes,” I replied. “I want access to your library. I’ve
earned that, at least.”
His bemusement faded. He sat down in one of the wing chairs in front of his desk, his eyes flickering to my clasped
hands and back to my face. I hoped he could see my resolve, that I looked more confident than I felt. I’d never fought him on
matters of the Blooded Ones, nor refused to obey the rules set before me.
“What is this about? Why the sudden interest?” he asked.
“It’s hardly sudden, Dad. My career revolves around protecting our secrets. I keep track of artifacts all over the world,
I bring them to you when I can. I based my reputation on the Emry collection. I’ve worked my tail off to get where I am in my
profession, and you treat it like it’s just a tool for you to use. Yet you’re holding things back from me. I’m tired of being in the
dark. If you want me to continue my part, I want to be in. All in. An equal.”
“There is nothing in my library that will change who you are. Did something happen with Dr. Howard? Is that why
you’re so upset?”
I scowled. I didn’t expect him to bring that up, but there it was, the underlying truth I had been trying to avoid for
months before Nicholas sauntered into my life.
“Dr. Howard doesn’t have any answers for me,” I replied, the words gritted out in tight punctuation. “Nothing has
changed.”
He slumped a bit, his shoulders sagged.
“There is still time. Technology advances every day. Julius is certain he’s close to a solution—”
“No. I’m not going to be a lab rat for Uncle Julius or Dr. Howard. I don’t want to be immortal like you. I just want to
live a long human life. Is that too much to ask?”
I bowed my head and swallowed hard when he stood up. He placed his hands gently on my shoulders, his guttural voice
bringing frustrated tears to my eyes.
“Why won’t you let me help you?” he asked. “Have I lived such a horrible life, have I been such an awful father to you?
I know I’m not perfect. I know our lives are different than most people. Immortality doesn’t have to be a curse, Sophia. It can
be managed. We can still live a good life.”
“Of course you’re a good father,” I said. I wrapped my arms around his neck and hugged him, feeling dampness from
his cheeks on my neck. My determination crumbled and a wave of hopelessness once again washed over me.
“Please let me help you,” he said. I shook my head against his shoulder and gently disengaged from his embrace.
“So you can make me immortal and then someday have to hunt me down and kill me? I won’t risk that. You cannot ask
me to put that on you, on any of you. I know what mother’s death did to you.”
He sighed, his eyes glistening. “We don’t know it would happen to you. We don’t understand why the Madness strikes
some immortals and not others.”
“That’s the thing, Dad. You don’t know if I’d eventually turn into a psychotic, dangerous, delusion threat to humanity.
You don’t know if you’d be ordered to eliminate me. Immortality is not an option to fix this. That’s why I want access to your
library. I want to study the Books of the Blooded Ones. I’m a Blooded One, a Time Walker. There must be another way. I’m an
adult, I know what I’m getting into. I want to try.”
“You know I cannot allow that.”
 It was the eternal dilemma, one my father or uncles could not fix. The facts were unchangeable:
I was a Blooded One. The blood in my veins held the power of time travel and other unimaginable abilities.
I would die before my twenty-ninth birthday, despite that power.
And immortality, the ultimate gift granted and controlled by my family, was not a solution for me.
I met his gaze. “You know you cannot stop me. I will figure it out on my own, or you can help me. If you need to discuss
it with Julius and the others, go ahead. I already know when my timeline ends. I deserve a chance to understand why. I deserve
a chance to change it.”
He grimaced at that. It was something we avoided, the truth of how I discovered I would live an abbreviated life. It
was written in one of the Books of the Blooded Ones, a passage I was not meant to see. Although our kind were powerful, and
some even immortal, the records we kept were not stagnant things. Dozens of volumes housed the history of our lineage, our
history, our legends, our secrets – and our future. The Books, however, were best described as fluid, changeable. Some events
could be altered, and once changed by a Time Walker in some manner, the Books reflected the change. Other events were
irrevocable, called constants; a constant would find a way to happen, to correct itself, no matter how many times a Time
Walker interfered.
Shortly after I accepted the position as an associate curator at the museum, I discovered that the Emry exhibition would
be my primary responsibility.
“It’s an incredible honor, Dr. Wyndham,” my supervisor assured me. I nodded numbly. I knew exactly where the
artifacts came from, and it was no random honor bestowed upon me, a brand-spanking new grad employee. It was my
family, interfering in my life, controlling me, once again.
I went home that evening, seething. The house was empty, and I recalled being furious my father was not even home to
brief me on his interference in my professional life. In his empty office, I made a rash decision to engage the book-pull
mechanisms to access his private library. Push in the third book from the left, third shelf from the bottom; pull back second
book from the divider on the sixth shelf; press the gargoyle head on the fireplace behind the desk. Open sesame. It was that
decision that changed everything. That day I read ahead in my own timeline and discovered my own inevitable early end.
“Sophia, be reasonable. There is nothing in the Books that will change things. You’ve already seen too much,” he said.
“It may not be irrevocable. There are Time Walkers who have changed things, things that stayed changed. I’ve
dedicated my life to serving this family. I deserve a chance to make my own future.” I turned my back to him, staring at the
fireplace surrounded by books, knowing what I needed was right behind the façade. “Tell me what is so special about the
dagger, Father. And the painting. I’ve been guarding them since I stepped foot in that museum. Why?”
“Sophia—”
I swung around, cocking my head. “No. If you don’t trust me enough to tell me, I’m finished. I will walk away from this
– this life. I will never look back. I may not be meant to live a long life, but I’ll be damned if I spend it bearing the brunt of this
family’s burden. I wouldn’t be the first Time Walker to take control of their own destiny.”
There was a long silence between us, the sound of our breathing seeming to echo off the library walls.
“Ronan was right. Someone came to see the exhibit, didn’t they?” he finally said. Damn Ronan. Of course he shared
his suspicions with my father. My lips twisted into a bow, and I knew my cheeks flared pink. I was not a good liar, and he
knew it.
“I just want to understand. Maybe it can be changed,” I whispered.
“It was Nicholas, wasn’t it?”
I raised my chin, refusing to make any motion to acknowledge it. How could I make him understand, when he and the
others already had their opinion of Nicholas set in stone?
Father sighed, raising his hands and running his fingers through his golden hair in that manner he often did when he was
thoughtful. He was measured in his response, careful, as if he meant to temper the fire in my eyes and bring me back to earth.
“Whatever he has said to you, Sophia, he cannot be trusted,” he finally said. “He is reckless, single minded in his
purpose, without conscience for the consequence of his actions. He will read you like a book, tell you what you need to hear,
and then he will take what he wants and disappear. It’s what he’s done for centuries. He’s broken every law of our kind. Do not
let him make you question where your loyalty lies.”
I refused to admit any details, stubbornly confronting him in return.
“What does he want? Why does he do it? And why haven’t you stopped him?” I asked.
“He is responsible for the death of his brother, Alec Neilsson. Alec was a child when he was killed. Nicholas wants to
change history for it. He is obsessed. Some believe he is unhinged. We cannot locate him to stop him. He’s manipulative. And
very dangerous.”
I shook my head. I didn’t understand why that fact would make Nicholas public enemy number one. “Why would it be
so awful if he saved his brother?”
“Because the only way to save his brother is to kill the man who killed him.”
“The man’s a murderer. He deserves to die,” I immediately shot back.
 “Yes,” he said quietly. “Nathanial Bacon is a murderer, and he did deserve to die. He did get the death he deserved, but
the timing of it cannot be changed. The way it happened must not be altered.”
Nathanial Bacon. The leader of Bacon’s Rebellion, the man who was responsible for the deaths of countless Native
Americans, who instigated the uprising that would spearhead the enslavement and extermination of the First People? It was
Bacon who killed Alec Neilsson—a child. Yes, my graduate studies focused largely on that period of history, and his
elimination would wipe out a huge chunk of my educational experience. It was price I was willing to pay; history would be
better if Bacon never existed.
“Bacon’s death would be a betterment for history. He attacked and killed hundreds of people. He and his rebels burned
Jamestown to the ground. He died in late 1676. If he died sooner, so many lives would be saved.”
He approached and took my hand, squeezing it gently between his own. His face crumpled, his gaze pained when he
stared back at me.
“Nathanial Bacon cannot die any sooner than his recorded death,” he said slowly. “Both the death of Nicholas’s brother
and Nathanial Bacon’s death are irreversible events. They are constants. Nicholas has tried countless times to change it. He’s
written letters, he’s even sent others to stop his brother from leaving the house that day. Sometimes it works—for a time.”
“What does that mean?”
“Even when he succeeds at changing that day, death comes in another way to his brother. And Bacon, well, Bacon
meets his end the same way. It is one of the certainties of using time travel; the laws of the universe simply will not allow some
events to be altered. Every time Nicholas changes things, he alters other timelines, other lives. He’s not just changing the death
of his brother. It is never as simple as saving one person. The consequences ricochet through generations, affecting humanity in
unimaginable ways. That is why The Keepers watch over each other, why we vow to stop Time Walkers like Nicholas. I’ve
dedicated my life to ensuring that those of our kind do not abuse their power.”
“How can saving a boy change anything significant? Why doesn’t Alec deserve a chance to grow old? And Dad, think
about that before you answer me,” I warned him. “I’m asking the same question about my life.”
“Alec is not meant to live to adulthood, for many reasons. Bacon is meant to die in 1676, no sooner, no later. They are
tied to the historical timeline in infinite ways. It’s why you need to reconsider accepting the offer. Immortality is the only way
to defeat death, Sophia.”
“So you would give me immortality. Why not give it to Alec?”
“You know we cannot do that. It is not our way. The Keepers alone decide who will be entrusted with immortality. It is
an honor—and a great responsibility.”
I dropped his hand. I shook my head when he reached for me, swiping at him to keep him at bay.
“But you’re a Keeper, and you would bend the rules for me. You called in a favor to grant me immortality. Do you enjoy
playing God? I’m seeing why Nicholas refuses to play by your rules. You’re no better than him. You’re a hypocrite. You just
believe your actions are somehow more righteous.”
I felt the sting of my fingernails digging into my palms. I knew what I had to do.
“Sophia,” he said. I cut him off, shaking my head.
“There is another way. I’m going to find it. I will never be like you,” I said evenly.
“Nicholas cannot help you. Don’t be foolish, Sophia. He will use you and discard you. He will not help you. He is
incapable of seeing any path but his own,” he replied.
No. No. I couldn’t accept that. If I admitted that Nicholas, a Time Walker of unspeakable power, could not change
the death of his brother, what hope was there for me? I would not concede defeat. Was my mortal life any less worthy than the
brother that Nicholas so desperately wanted to save?
I left the house, my vision swimming in a daze. My phone began ringing with my father’s ringtone as soon as I sat down
in my car, so I powered it off and gunned it into drive, spewing gravel in my wake.

It was a certainty that they would come looking for me, so I carried through the motions of my hastily conceived plan.
Nicholas was my only hope. Yes, he had ghosted me, but I was willing to do whatever it took to locate him.
I dumped out the contents of a crossbody linen knapsack, leaving a mess of suntan lotion, hair styling tools, and a
crumpled black bikini from my last summer vacation on a pile on my bed. I rummaged through the antique steamer cedar chest
below the bedroom window, removing a small journal. It contained notes I’d managed to commandeer throughout the years. A
few rules on time travel, mostly covering the ones that would get one killed. A handful of basic marks, directions one might
call them, various symbols of Norse, Greek, Scottish Gaelic, and other languages, which when used singularly or combined
would “steer” a Time Walker through time. I had no idea if it would be enough, but I had nothing left to lose. There was no
experienced Blooded One to guide me, to show me the way to safely bend time. I was going to have to wing it.
In the false bottom of the steamer chest was one more item I needed. I pried up the thin board, the spike of a splinter
jammed into my nail only a momentary impediment. Sitting on a piece of crumpled velvet was the pendant I needed: A raw
Bloodstone, set in copper, hanging from a thick rawhide lanyard. It was dark green, nearly black, with flecks of bright red
scattered on the front surface. Long ago I’d made my own, styled in the ways of the Norse Blooded Ones. I placed it around my
neck.
I pressed play on my phone message indicator and put it on speaker phone, tossing it onto my bed. I knew they were
tracking me through the device, so it would stay right there on the bed until I returned. My father’s voice resounded, pleading as
the message played.
“…you have no idea what he is capable of. If he gets the dagger, he will try to kill Bacon as soon as he arrives in
Jamestown in 1674. We cannot allow him to do that, Sophia. Please call me. Please don’t shut me out. I don’t know what he’s
told you, but he cannot be trusted.”
I hit the stop icon and turned the phone off.
There was only one person that could help me, and now that my father, in his frantic effort to contain me, had revealed
what Nicholas would do, I was even more determined to help him—and just maybe, I could convince Nicholas to help me in
return.
I dressed in a sensible pair of khaki jeans and a white button-down cotton shirt. In the kitchen, I packed the satchel with
a few non-perishables. I was reluctant to introduce plastics into an earlier time period, so I wrapped some beef jerky in paper
towels and I used brown bags to store trail mix; at least that packaging would deteriorate if buried. They were high calorie
foods which would hopefully sustain me enough to find Nicholas. After all, once I found him, surely, he wouldn’t let me starve.
I swallowed hard, staring at the contents of the bag for a long moment. No, he wouldn’t let me starve, but he was going
to be furious. In fact, if what my father and the others said of Nicholas was true, then he might be downright murderous when
he discovered I had deceived him. A flash of self-preservation surged, imploring me to consider the possibility that Nicholas
was dangerous, that he would see me as a threat. Yet I quickly pushed that notion aside. I had to hold onto the glimpse of the
man behind the allegations against him. I refused to believe the worst of him.
I left my phone, my wallet, and all of my personal belongings behind before I left for the museum.
Once I swiped in at the employee entrance, I went straight to the storage room down the hall from my office. There,
recently catalogued and ready for display, were a handful of seventeenth century replica clothing. I was particularly interested
in the dresses, and after sorting through them, I found one that looked like it would fit. It was neither regal nor extravagant,
more of a daily dress a working woman might wear, so I decided that would be my best bet. The white linen shift and plain
blue skirts were not too cumbersome, and the bodice slipped easily over my chest. I figured the more layers, the better. I
expected Nicholas would be near Bacon well before the rebellion broke out. I knew that Bacon purchased 820 acres of land at
Curles Neck in Henrico County in August of 1674 and subsequently built a home for himself and his wife. Summer was likely
to be mild and I knew I could remove layers if needed, but fending for myself until I secured a safe place to stay warranted
extra protection. Furthermore, I could not guarantee I would go exactly to where I intended; I had to prepare for any sort of
weather.
The gown thankfully had a hidden zipper with built in stays, making it fairly easy to dress. I looked into an antique
mirror propped up against the wall. The gown seemed suitable, but my hair was not. I quickly wrapped it into a low bun,
secured it with an elastic band, and pulled a white starched cap over my head, tying it beneath my chin. It was itchy and
uncomfortable, but it would have to do.
I opened a small wooden chest marked “3059. Virginia colony,” and pulled out a small velvet bag. Inside, silver coins
jingled, heavy in my palm. I opened it, swiping my hand through the pile of loose coins in the chest, and I filled the velvet bag
as full as it would hold. I took a second one and did the same. The two bulging bags felt heavy in the skirt pockets, but like the
layers of clothing, extra coins would surely benefit my task.
I was ready, but there was one last task I needed to fulfill. I made my way through the dim corridors to the Arms &
Armor Gallery where the Emry Collection was on display. A spotlight shone down on the glass case, reflecting in a spray of
sparkles as I approached.
I released the latch and raised the lid, taking the dagger into my hand for the first time in years. It was heavy, solid,
almost warm as I clasped it. Knowing more of what magic it contained was euphoric, addictive. I wanted to know it all. If
Nicholas Neilsson was convinced the dagger held the secret to saving his brother from death. If a dagger could be that
powerful, then there must be other relics, in other times—one that might help me finally solve the problem of my own short
lifespan.
It was a question I was determined to answer. I finally had a bargaining chip when it came to others of my kind. I was
ready to make a deal.
Locating a rune mark from my journal, I found the one that was meant to take you to a specific person in the past. I
wrote the rune hastily on my skin with a sharpie marker and pricked my thumb with the blade until a thick drop of blood
beaded on my skin. I returned the knife to the display and locked it; I could not risk losing it somewhere in time. It was my
insurance policy on getting Nicholas to return me to the future. I would make a deal to help him save his brother, and in return
Nicholas would save me. Only then would I give him the dagger.
Hastily shoving the journal in my satchel, I lifted my hand to the bloodstone pendant at my neck. I smeared the blood
from my thumb over it and closed my eyes.
“Take me to him,” I said firmly. “Take me to the Neilsson man who wishes Nathanial Bacon dead.” I’d read it helped
the magic if you spoke a specific command, an extra bit of insurance, if you will, so I made it known exactly where I needed to
go—or rather, who I wanted to go to.
And then my bones turned to rubber, the floor beneath my feet disappeared, and my mind collided with the past and the
present. It was a vacuum, pulling me down, sucking the air from my lungs, until I was gasping and begging for mercy to make it
end.
 9
Nicholas

He kept the ballcap pulled down low, and with the addition of dark sunglasses he was fairly unrecognizable. His dark hair had
grown out since he last saw her, tousled beneath the hat. It was enough. After all, it had been weeks in Sophia’s timeline since
he left. He was sure she’d moved on from whatever it was they started.
At a safe distance behind her, he waited for the pedestrian light to flash before he crossed the busy Philadelphia city
street. Enveloped by a thick crowd, he felt like a lemming, moving along with the others, content with the normalcy of a
repetitive schedule. She was still in his line of sight, but it wouldn’t matter if he lost her; he’d returned to her time and been
watching over her, and her routine remained constant. She was making an evening visit to the museum, as she did on occasion.
Was it penance, or simple self-torture? Most days he did not know the difference. Although only weeks for Sophia, it
had been two years of his time since he last saw her at the museum, two long years since he turned away and did not look back.
He traveled to other times during those years, chasing hints that might help him get back on track to save his brother, but none of
the leads panned out. Even worse, he remained scattered, distracted. He needed to get Sophia out of his system, yet he did not
know how. All of the clues he found through time, all of the solutions he traced forward from historical records, all pointed
straight to one end: the dagger—and Sophia.
He imagined that she went through some stages of loss over the way he left, and he did not blame her for hating him. He
deserved it. In fact, he hoped she did hate him. If she hated him, she’d forget about him. Her life, her career, all the things she
worked for would remain unaffected.
Today was another day, and he had yet another chance to uncover where exactly Sophia got her hands on the Bloodstone
dagger. He held onto the hope there was a way to briefly remove it and return it without affecting her timeline.
He stayed safely out of sight and watched her make her usual path to the museum, but then diverted from his plan of
mere observation from afar and followed her inside.
Why not? He reasoned. He wouldn’t risk her career by stealing the dagger during her lifetime, but he might find a new
lead on how she acquired the artifact. It was an irritating mystery to him. He never had any trouble tracking down other
Bloodstone items, but this one, the dagger he desperately needed, seemed peculiarly shielded throughout modern time, almost
as if it was spelled. And even if he could find out how it ended up in the museum, how could he borrow it without affecting
Sophia’s timeline?
These were things that rarely bothered him, and just the fact that it was bothering him made him even more irritated.
Perhaps he was losing his focus. Perhaps he should just forget Sophia, just turn around and never visit her again.
What he should do was thrown out the window. Two long years of watching her, waiting to stumble upon an answer
while enduring the crushing temptation to crash back into her life, was about to come to an irrevocable end.
Nicholas trailed behind Sophia, his heart pounding with a mix of anticipation and unease. The dimly lit corridors of the
museum concealed his presence as he carefully stayed out of sight, observing her every move. He couldn’t help but feel a surge
of conflicting emotions coursing through his veins.
As he watched Sophia weave through the exhibits, a wave of longing washed over him. He desperately needed to
unravel the mysteries that tethered them together, to discover the solution that had eluded him for far too long. The air crackled
in palpable tension, an invisible thread pulling him closer to the depths of their intertwined fates.
Nicholas couldn’t escape the weight of his own guilt. The choices he had made, the paths he had walked, all seemed to
lead back to Sophia. His gaze followed Sophia’s every step, tracing the contours of her face, etching the lines of her profile
into his memory.
Nicholas remained resolute. Being so close to her was like a drug, tempting him with the excruciating thrill of the high,
of the possibility of simply being in her presence, then sending him crashing down when he could not reach it. He could not
stop himself from going back, again and again, watching her, studying the things she studied, learning to love the things she
loved.
Nicholas felt his heart quicken as Sophia disappeared into the artifact storage room, the heavy door closing behind her
with an ominous finality. Hidden from sight, he strained to catch any glimpse of her movements, his mind blurred in a
whirlwind.
The room seemed to hold its breath, echoing with a silence. Nicholas couldn’t shake the growing unease that gnawed at
him, an insidious doubt clawing its way into his thoughts. What was Sophia doing in there? When she emerged, the sight of her
dressed in a seventeenth-century-styled dress only deepened his intrigue.
A conflicted battle raged within him, torn between rational explanations and the nagging suspicion that something far
more extraordinary was unfolding before his eyes. He reasoned with himself, attempting to dismiss his doubts as mere
coincidences or innocuous activities. Perhaps she was simply preparing for a historical museum tour, his mind offered as a
plausible explanation.
 Nicholas couldn’t ignore the subtle signs, as if he were missing something, beckoning him toward a truth that
shimmered just beyond his reach. He knew he should leave her alone, he should leave her timeline and never look back—but
he was in too deep to stop.
He trailed Sophia through the dimly lit gallery, her footsteps echoing like a haunting refrain, and his, carefully subdued
behind her. The air was thick, the weight of her intentions hanging heavily in the space between them. Each step brought him
closer to the truth, yet the answers remained just beyond his grasp. What was she doing? And why did he feel like he was
missing an important part of the truth, something that felt just beyond the reach of his grasp?
His gaze fixed on Sophia as she stopped before the display of the Bloodstone dagger, his breath catching in his throat at
the sight that unfolded before his eyes. Shock coursed through him like a lightning bolt as he beheld her thumb, crimson
droplets staining her pale skin. The sight sent shivers down his spine, the realization striking him with a force he could hardly
comprehend.
Time seemed to stand still as Sophia raised her hand, her blood-soaked thumb inches away from the Bloodstone
pendant that adorned her neck. It was in that moment that understanding washed over Nicholas like a crashing wave.
How could he have been so blind? How did she hide it from him? She was like him—a Time Walker, one who
traversed the boundaries of time, weaving through history’s tapestry with a purpose he couldn’t fathom.
Panic clawed at his chest as he lunged forward, his voice cracking with the weight of his plea. “Sophia, no!” he
shouted. But it was too late. Her final words pierced the air, a cryptic message that ignited a flurry of questions within him.
“Take me to the Neilsson man who wishes Nathaniel Bacon dead.”
Turmoil clashed within Nicholas, his mind a tempest of chaos. The desire to follow her, to discover who she was and
what she wanted, warred with a deep sense of guilt and the knowledge that their paths had become irrevocably entangled. She
was a Blooded One—and he suspected she knew who he was all along.
As Sophia’s last words echoed in the air, Nicholas stepped forward.
“A Time Walker,” he muttered, his frustration emitted to an empty room. “By the Gods, she’s a Blooded One!”
As his infamous reputation was well noted in the recorded annals of the Blooded Ones and bemoaned by their keepers
and historians, Nicholas was a Time Walker like no other. He needed no trinkets, no marks to guide his way. He did not even
need to speak his desired destination any longer, as he discovered years ago that he simply needed to visualize where he meant
to be. Nevertheless, as he was shaken to the core at the thought of where Sophia had gone, he made his command aloud,
begging the Gods to send him quickly to her.
He took an ordinary folding knife from his back pocket and pricked the soft skin pad at the base of his thumb until blood
beaded to the surface. Finding the bloodstone pendant around his neck, he pulled it from his shirt.
“Take me to that day,” he ground out in a choked whisper. “The day a Neilsson will kill Nathanial Bacon. Take me there
now!”
He kneeled, as the position made it easier going through, and closed his bloodied palm around the stone. White hot heat
raced up his arm and imploded within his veins, taking over his sight, his breath, his ability to move, yet his mind remained on
her, on finding her, on arriving in time to save her before it was too late.
Sophia. Hold on. I’m coming for you.
 10
Sophia

As I emerged from the depths of delirium, the world around me shifted, and I found myself standing ankle-deep in a murky
swamp. I felt my stomach lurch and I gave in to the urge, bending over sharply and clutching my belly as the remnants of my last
meal emerged. The oppressive woodland scents of sodden underbrush and rotting logs bore down upon me, wrapping me in a
suffocating embrace as I coughed and wiped my mouth on the edge of my dress apron. My vision swirled. Disoriented, I
surveyed my surroundings, the landscape stretching out before me in a tangled mess of twisted trees and vines.
My heart raced; excitement and dread battled for predominance. This was the moment I had longed for, the chance to
find Nicholas and convince him to help me change my fate. But as the reality of my situation settled in, fear clawed at my core,
gnawing away at my resolve. The weight of regret settled heavily upon my shoulders, a rising unease over my impulsive choice
to venture into the unknown.
I was in the middle of a swamp, utterly alone. How was I going to find Nicholas? Was I even in the right place? Why
would he be in the middle of a swamp?
My clothes clung to my body, soiled by the treacherous journey of plugging along through ankle-deep murky water. I
wiped beads of sweat from my brow, the moisture mingling with the grime upon my skin. Each step forward felt uncertain, the
ground beneath my feet giving way to the suctioning mire of the swamp. The air was thick, a stifling blanket that seemed to
mock my every move.
I had no choice but to move forward and make my way to dry ground. With cautious determination, I pressed on, my
senses alert to every rustle of foliage and distant croak of unseen creatures. The swamp whispered its secrets in a symphony of
eerie sounds, a chorus of uncertainty that heightened my unease. I fought against the entangling roots and grasping branches,
struggling to find my way to firmer ground.
Minutes stretched into what felt like hours as I navigated the treacherous terrain, my breath ragged and heavy with each
step. The swamp seemed to conspire against me, its watery tendrils snatching at my ankles, threatening to pull me into its murky
depths. I knew I needed to find shelter on dry land – by the height of the sun in the sky I guessed it was midday, and the thought
of spending the night in a swamp sent a shudder to the very marrow of my bones.
After what felt like an eternity, a faint glimmer of hope emerged—a clearing bathed in sunlight. My exhaustion was
dimmed by exhilaration as I quickened my pace, my eyes fixed on the distant respite. But my hopes were just as quickly dashed
as figures materialized at the edge of the clearing.
Three men clad in tattered garments, their demeanor cloaked in suspicion, approached. I heard them speak in low
voices to each other, but I could not make out what they said. A knot formed in my stomach as I recognized the hardened
features of colonial men. Were they militia? Or something else? At least I could be fairly certain I was in the seventeenth
century, as I noted their early colonial attire fit what I expected them to wear, but wariness surged through my veins.
Their eyes settled on me, and I imagined they were not accustomed to encountering women slogging through the marsh
in the woods. My voice was level as I spoke, my words a delicate balance of feigned confidence and politeness. I could sense
their suspicion. I straightened my back and lifted my chin.
“Hello,” I said, tensed with caution.
In that moment, I regretted the impulse that had driven me to traverse naively through time. Did I really think I’d end up
standing next to Nicholas, as if I had any skill with using the damn Bloodstone? The weight of my choice pressed upon me, its
consequences looming large. I told myself the men had no cause to harm me; there was no reason they should not let me go on
my way.
As the men moved in tandem and surrounded me, I tried to steady my breathing and gauge their intent. The swamp
echoed the sounds of my unease, its murky waters mirroring my rising tension.
I stood before the trio, awaiting a polite greeting in return. They did not look particularly dangerous, but neither did
they give off a welcoming aura.
One of the men stepped forward, tall and solid, his voice laced with suspicion. His dark hair was mussed under a
broad brimmed wool hat, his facial hair thick and shielding a square jaw. His accent was thick and throaty. “Who are you,
miss? And how do you find yourself out here alone?” he demanded, his gaze flickering briefly at my feet, then returning to my
face. I steadied myself, meeting his stare. I had to say something reasonable, something believable, and the first thing that
sprung to my mind was a half-truth.
“I... I am just a traveler,” I replied, my voice quivering ever so slightly. “I’ve lost my way I’m afraid.”
The men exchanged glances, their eyes narrowing.
The first man appeared intent to continue his inquiry but was interrupted brusquely by one of his companions, a shorter
man but one equally stout. He was coarser than the one who questioned me, but his suspicion and ire seemed even more intent.
“And how did you come to be in these parts? We don’t take kindly to trespassers,” the second man growled, his hand
drifting toward the hilt of a blade on his belt.
My mind scrambled, searching for answers that would satisfy them and convince them to be on their way. I spoke with
measured precision, my words a delicate dance of half-truths and careful omissions. “I’m on my way home. I mean no harm to
anyone.”
The second man’s eyes flickered with suspicion, his voice laden with menace. “What is your name? And where is your
home? Looks like you came from Indian town. Are you one of theirs?”
I shook my head, denying the implied accusation.
“No, no, I’m just off track, I’ll be on my way,” I stammered.
“What say you about the attacks on our kind? Are you a supporter of the settlers, or do you side with those savages who
seek to crush us? I’ve heard they keep English women among them. How do we know you are not aligned with them? She could
be a rouse to distract us, Jacob,” the man added, casting a sharp look in the first man’s direction.
Jacob cocked his head, shaking it in disagreement. “Give her a chance to explain. She doesn’t have the look of one of
theirs.”
My throat tightened. I mustered all my composure, my voice steady and my words chosen carefully. “I am unaware of
the intricacies of your conflict. My only desire is to find my way back to the comforts of home. I thank you for your concern.”
The men exchanged glances once more. I glanced beyond them toward the clearing and picked up my skirts, giving them
a nod as I moved to pass them.
The lack of civilization weighed heavily upon me, the absence of familiar comforts magnifying my vulnerability; there
was nowhere for me to go, and Nicholas was nowhere in sight.
“Please, I must be on my way. I’ve simply lost my bearings. I mean no harm to you or your cause.”
The second man’s expression hardened, his suspicion unyielding. “You expect us to believe such convenient lies?” he
spat, his grip tightening around his weapon. “We’ll take you to the Colonel. He’ll know how to deal with you.”
Fear gripped me, threatening to unravel my careful facade, but I forced myself to remain composed.
The third of the men, mounted atop a black horse, dismounted with a thud, his boots sinking into the muddy ground. He
was of a wiry sort, and he looked quick on his feet, much to my chagrin. He approached me, his intentions clear as he reached
out to grab my arm, intent on stopping my attempt to flee.
“Let go of me!” I demanded, my basal instincts kicking in. My screech startled the horse, who snorted and stomped,
pulling away from the man as I twisted away in the opposite direction. The sleeve of my dress tore, leaving my shoulder
exposed, and when I saw the way the scoundrel grinned, I stepped back, eyeing all of them to see who might strike next. I
clutched the torn sleeve, mutely staring at it, denial of my situation no longer and option as panic rose in my chest. Chaos
erupted; the men shouted at each other, suddenly arguing amongst themselves for and against my detainment.
The man who tore my dress lunged again, and this time his hand closed around my wrist. With a swell of adrenaline, I
fought back, my body instinctively resisting the man’s grip. I wrenched myself free, my nails digging into his skin before I
slipped from his grasp. Instead of going for the clearing, I turned and sprinted into the woods, my pulse thundering between my
ears. As much as I wanted to reach the clearing, I was on foot, and my best chance at escape was through the woods where
their horses would be slowed down.
I glanced back once. The men, momentarily stunned by my resistance, swiftly regained their composure and scrambled
for their horses.
Beneath my feet, the ground was treacherous, an obstacle course of gnarled roots and hidden puddles. I leaped over
fallen logs, my soiled clothes billowing behind me, the struggle causing my breath to come in labored gasps.
I was fit, but the weight of heavy wet skirts was a notable detriment. The wood line stretched out behind me, devoid of
any sign of civilization as I fled deeper into the cover of brush. I was utterly alone; there was no one to save me except myself.
Panic gnawed at my every fiber, threatening to consume me as I realized the dire consequences of being captured. What if I
never found Nicholas, and I never made it back to my own time?
As I ran, I could feel the uneven ground beneath my feet, the wetness seeping through my shoes, as if the soil itself were
attempting to ensnare me.
In the distance, the towering trees loomed like ancient sentinels, their branches reaching out like gnarled fingers, casting
ominous shadows across my path. The chirping of unseen insects filled the air, creating a symphony of nature that clashed with
the chaos that ensued.
My legs burned as I ran, my muscles protesting with each exerted effort, but I refused to stop when I could still hear
their shouts.
I had traveled to this time searching for Nicholas, the one person who could potentially change my fate as a Blooded
One and Time Walker. But now, as I fled from the men who pursued me, I realized the extent of my folly. I was ill-prepared for
this treacherous journey to the seventeenth century, my impulsive decision clouding my judgment.
And then, as if the fates conspired against me, one of them emerged from the brush ahead of me and leaped off his
horse, closing the distance between us with alarming speed.
 Before I could react, he tackled me to the ground with a force that stole the air from my lungs. Pain radiated through my
bones as I landed with a thud, the weight of his body bearing down upon me. I struggled against his hold, my voice erupting in a
desperate cry.
“Let go of me!” I shouted, defiant. “Release me!”
He covered my mouth with his hand and I instinctively bit down on his fingers, eliciting a swear from the man, but his
grip remained unyielding, his determination matched only by my own. I thrashed and twisted, adrenaline coursing through my
veins, lending me a strength I never knew I possessed, until I felt the cold blade of a knife pushed up beneath my chin.
“Not another sound,” the man warned. It was the second of the trio, the coarse one, and his eyes lacked any semblance
of kindness.
The wiry man reached our side and I thought he would at least attempt to pull me to my feet, but it appeared I was
sorely mistaken.
“Where is Jacob?” the man detaining me hissed. The other man laughed, sending a warning chill down my spine.
“He’s off the other way, toward the creek. There’s time,” the wiry man replied. My throat contracted, an involuntary
movement, but as hard as I tried to remain still, I failed. I realized we were secluded, sheltered by a bank of fallen trees, and
the two men before me had less than honorable intentions.
In the midst of our struggle, my mind raced, searching for a way out. But as I met the man’s gaze, I saw a flicker of
wickedness in his eyes. I felt his hand fumble with something—his clothes, or mine—and I closed my eyes, praying for the
strength to find a rational solution in the midst of utter chaos. The truth of my situation screamed between my ears. The
numbness of shock washed over my skin. I could not move; I was trapped. I heard a voice echo in my ears, a frantic pleading,
and dazedly realized it was my own mouth forming the words, demanding the stranger let me go.
As I stared into the man’s cold eyes, I wondered if my quest for control had only led me to an early demise.
I knew he could slice my neck with very little effort, but the alternative was one I was not willing to endure. I
summoned the last of my waning strength, pushing against his hold. The world around me faded into a blur as I focused solely
on breaking free. And then, as if the universe conspired to grant me a momentary reprieve, his grip loosened, and his weight
was suddenly gone from my body. I scrambled backward in the dirt on my elbows when I saw why.
My attacker was standing, his head tilted back, his hands clutching his throat. Blood ran between his fingers, and he
was making a sickening gurgling sound. Staring blindly toward the sky, the man fell to the ground. Behind him stood another
man, the knife in his fist bearing the blood of the fallen soldier.
It was a native, his face painted a menacing two-toned pattern which split his features in half, black from the crease in
his lips upward over his brows to his hairline, and a deep crimson red from his lower lip down his throat and chest. He wore
breeches and a loose linen shirt beneath a grey wool overcoat, open at the neck, displaying a tangle of beaded necklaces and
pendants. His dark hair was not long, rather just brushing his shoulders, but what was there was hung loosely at the nape of his
neck. Although I was well versed in the style of weapons men carried in the era, I was still shocked to see the decorated war
club secured at his side and the rifle carried on his back, hanging by a flat leather strap across his body. I briefly glanced past
him and saw the second casualty, the wiry man, who lay motionless a few paces away.
Jesus Christ, I had made a terrible, foolish mistake. I was truly going to die in the seventeenth century.
I scrambled away, wrenching myself upward to stand, bracing my back against a tree until my shaking legs found
purchase. Breathless and disheveled, my eyes locked with his. I wasn’t going to meet my death without a fight.
“You have no reason to harm me,” I said, my voice cracking. I swallowed hard to clear my tight throat. “Please, let me
go. I’ll be on my way. I won’t tell anyone what happened here.” I didn’t know if he understood, but I had to try.
For a fleeting moment, I saw a flicker of perception in his face, a glimmer of acknowledgement. But as quickly as it
appeared, it vanished, replaced by a scowl. When he reached for me with one hand I froze, realizing his gaze had flickered
downward to the Bloodstone pendant I wore around my neck, which was hanging loose from the struggle with the dead man.
He lifted it from my body, his thumb brushing over the rounded edge, and then he released it, letting it fall down against my
chest.
The man’s features hardened, his grip on his weapon tightening. He stared back at me, wordless, his chest heaving.
With our eyes locked, a wave of dizziness hit me, a hint of recognition taunting my consciousness, the strongest surge of déjà vu
I’d ever felt. The voice of survival instinct screamed at me in protest, but I knew those eyes. I knew the curve of his jaw, his
face.
“Nicholas?” I whispered. His gaze narrowed, and I reacted, stepping back. I was wrong. Nicholas was many things, but
I refused to believe he would ever look at me the way the native glared at me. The look in the man’s eyes was pure rage. Be it
the disorientation of hurling through time, or the trauma of the events since I arrived, my mind was befuddled, and I was
stupidly, dangerously wrong.
“Mahtake!”
I heard the shout before I saw the rider approach. The lone remaining soldier reached us, dismounting before his mount
stopped. He left the reins trailing, his hand held out, as if he intended to intervene between myself and the native.
 “Mahtake, stand down! God damn it, stand down!” Jacob shouted. “Do not harm her!”
The native man cocked his head, an arrogant tilt to his gravelly English words when he spoke. “Your companions meant
to do much more than harm her, Captain. Perhaps on your command?” The native stood between us, his glare tempered with
menace which was now blessedly focused on Jacob. I stared at the native, my senses reeling.
“What are you talking about?” Jacob stammered. Clearly, the Captain knew the native man Mahtake, a matter
perplexing to me. “Of course I didn’t order them to do anything other than retrieve her! She meets the description of the woman
Colonel Crowshaw is searching for, that’s all.”
“Then your orders hold little weight,” Mahtake tersely replied.
“You cannot simply murder two of Colonel Crowshaw’s men without recompense,” Jacob shot back. He ran a hand
over his brow, shaking his head. “You know there will be consequences for your actions this time.”
Mahtake growled something in a language I did not understand, hints of phrases I might have been able to pick apart if
my heart wasn’t pounding so hard inside my chest I thought it might burst. The two men conversed, the native man’s eyes
darting to me at several points and the then back to the dead men, who he pointed angrily at. It seemed Jacob understood, a raw
flush surfacing on the soldier’s cheeks when he grasped the gravity of what his men had intended to do to me.
There were undercurrents of something between the two men that I could not decipher, but I was not willing to stick
around any longer to muse upon it. As they continued to bicker, I took a step back, and then another. And then another. When I
turned on my heel to run, however, Jacob noticed my movement, and swiftly blocked my way. He did not touch me, instead, his
demeanor was careful, his motion polite. I stood there, shaking, my fists clenched at my sides.
Mahtake stood behind him, hands crossed over his chest, his eyes narrowed, and a glare etched into his face.
What option did I have? Run aimlessly through the woods? Allow the soldier to take me to God knows where? Or
take my chances with the terrifying warrior who slaughtered two men in front of me?
“Miss, I’ll need you to come with me,” Jacob said.
I shook my head. “No. I think I will be on my way, thank you,” I retorted smartly. I heard what sounded like a snort from
the native man, but I ignored it. “I’ve done nothing to deserve this—this horrific treatment.”
“If you have nothing to hide, then why run? I cannot let you go now, not after this. Not with two men dead that I must
account for,” Jacob said, his voice laced with regret. “Cease this fighting. If you are who you say you are, you will be released.
No harm will come to you.”
I met his gaze, uncertainty mingling within me. Perhaps, he was sincere. I had no way to know for sure, and I was in no
position to argue.
“I suggest you ride with me, of your own free will,” Jacob said evenly. “Mahtake has offered to take you as well, if you
prefer.” The alternative to his offer was clear. I raised my chin, my chest still heaving from the fight. I glanced at Mahtake, who
looked like he might sprout black wings and swoop down with vengeance upon us with little persuasion. He stared hard at me,
his dark eyes causing me a momentary glimmer of confusion. My instinct said I knew exactly who he was, but reality was far
from so easy to decipher. Keeping my gaze, he wiped his bloodied blade clean on the leg of his trousers. I could feel my lower
lip quivering, so I pursed my mouth tightly closed. Wordless, I nodded, and stepped toward Jacob.
He mounted his horse and extended his hand. I took it, allowing him to pull me up in front of him where I settled stiffly
against him.

The wind whipped against my face as I rode in front of Jacob, the Englishman who had detained me. Mahtake followed a few
paces behind us, and Jacob grudgingly mentioned that we were safer in the native man’s company. We traveled out of the
swamp and through the sprawling countryside following the wood line, the landscape rolling by in a blur of greens and
browns. My heart raced, my mind a flurry of questions and uncertainties. Who was this man, and where was he taking me? And
the native man who had killed two rogues in defense of my honor—how did he play into the mess I found myself in?
I stole a sideways glance at Jacob, his dark hair tousled by the wind, his eyes focused ahead with a determined gaze.
There was a heaviness in his expression, a hint of remorse. I had expected hostility, but instead, I sensed a genuine sadness in
his demeanor.
“I must apologize for the way the men treated you,” Jacob spoke, his voice tinged with regret. “There was no need for
things to escalate in such a manner. I am Captain Jacob James Collier.”
His words surprised me, momentarily throwing me off balance. I had braced myself for hostility, but his sincerity
caught me off guard. I turned my gaze towards him, searching his eyes for any sign of deception.
“Why do you insist on detaining me, Captain Collier?” I asked.
Jacob sighed, his grip on the reins tightening. “I have my reasons, reasons that might become clearer once we reach
Gloucester Hall. We are traveling to meet Colonel Crowshaw, and there is something I must share with him.”
Gloucester Hall. The home of Thomas Pate. The mention of the place sent a shiver down my spine, a foreboding sense
of uncertainty. What awaited me there? And why did my presence possibly hold any significance?
“And what might that be?” I pressed, my voice steady.
 Jacob hesitated. “The Rebels are camped at Gloucester Hall, with General Nathanial Bacon,” he admitted, his tone
heavy.
The revelation struck me like a lightning bolt, jolting me with a surge of apprehension. Nathanial Bacon, a name that
held weight in the annals of history. The implications of his presence here sent ripples of unease through my very being. I knew
the place was connected to Bacon; it was historically reported to be the place of his eventual demise from dysentery. My
intention was to find Nicholas, the man who wanted Bacon dead—it was not to embroil myself in a dangerous entanglement
with the notorious rebel!
“Why take me there? What role do I play in this conflict?” I asked, my voice wavering.
Jacob’s gaze softened. “I have been tasked with searching for a woman who is alone, traveling near Pate’s Plantation.
We were instructed she might evade us and that she should be taken to the Colonel if she were discovered. Who are you, miss?
If you would tell me your name, things might resolve much easier.”
I pondered his words, the weight of his honesty settling upon my shoulders. There was something about Jacob that
eased my racing thoughts somewhat. I had no choice but to play along with him, to navigate this treacherous path until I could
figure out a more sensible way to proceed. I made an attempt to steer the conversation away from my identity, and instead
focused on questioning him.
“And who are you, Captain?” I asked, avoiding his question with an inquiry of my own. It was the scholar in me, I
supposed, a protective mechanism. My entire life I had used my research as a means to escape, losing myself in the discoveries
of history instead of facing those things I could not change.
He sighed, his grip on the reins loosening slightly. “I am but a man trying to do the best I can muster in this moment.”
There was an air of intrigue surrounding Jacob, but as much as I wanted to know what the mystery involving the missing
woman was about, I realized the importance of preserving my own secrets.
“And what about you, miss?” Jacob asked. “You are quite skilled at avoiding my questions. I understand why you do
not trust me, but surely telling me your name could pose no harm.”
I hesitated, wrenched by the weight of my own identity. He was persistent, and I suspected he would not relent unless I
gave him some semblance of explanation.
“My name is Sophia,” I admitted, my voice barely above a whisper. “I am not the woman you are looking for.”
I glanced up at him. His expression relaxed, a flicker of understanding crossing his features. He nodded.
As Gloucester Hall loomed on the horizon, I steeled myself for the confrontation that lay ahead. Captain Collier had his
reasons, and I had my own. I would face the consequences of altering the timeline and keep calm. I wasn’t the woman they
were looking for, and as soon as they realized it, they would release me. They had no reason to detain me.

It was not long before we arrived at our destination. My apprehension only heightened when I surveyed the situation; the Rebel
camp was larger than I anticipated. Dozens of tents littered the grounds near the big house, split by a lane down the middle
which led to the wide front porch steps. The scent of boiled meat wafted to my nostrils, punctuated through the brisk autumn
air. Sitting across the saddle with the Captain’s arms around me, I felt beads of warm sweat along my hairline loosen and
trickle down my neck. I was increasingly uncomfortable, and he seemed to understand.
Captain Collier guided his horse clear of the woods and stopped, sliding out of the saddle. He held the animal steady as
I dismounted, yet he remained uncomfortably close, keeping me between the horse and his body as he looked down at me.
“I must know the truth. What is your family name, Sophia? Tell me, now, before the Colonel reaches us.”
Why was my name so important to him? He turned slightly and I glanced past him. A hulking fair-haired man stalked
towards us, his attire betraying his station. His long coat flapped behind him with each stride, his eyes narrowed and focused
on us.
“Sophia! Your name!” Jacob insisted. I shook my head, unwilling to divulge anything that might betray my origins.
“I—I cannot—”
“Just tell me it is not Neilsson!”
I swallowed hard. Neilsson? Daniel’s family name?
“It’s not,” I stammered. “It’s not Neilsson.”
“Captain!” the Colonel barked.
Jacob swung abruptly around. “Yes, sir! Apologies, Colonel Crowshaw.”
Crowshaw’s voice held a note of frustration as he spoke, his words directed at Jacob. “She is not the woman we are
looking for, Captain,” he insisted, his tone laced with exasperation.
Jacob’s eyebrows furrowed in confusion, his gaze fixed on Crowshaw. “But the description, the warning... Are you
certain?”
Crowshaw nodded, his expression somber. “I have met the woman in question, and this is not her.”
Relief washed over me, mingling with a tinge of curiosity. Who was this Neilsson woman they were searching for, and
what had led our paths to intertwine?
 Crowshaw nodded curtly. He eyed me briefly up and down, dismissive, and cold. “See that she is returned to her home
promptly. That is all.” The Colonel shifted swiftly on his boot heel, his curtness a reflection of his impatience as he stalked
away. I felt the air deflate from Collier’s lungs; his shoulders relaxed.
Before the man could walk more than a few paces, Mahtake emerged from the woods. He approached Colonel
Crowshaw, the native guiding his mount in a circle around the Colonel to stop him. They spoke in low tones, casting glances
our way. I could not hear the conversation but was immediately intrigued. Animated, Mahtake thrust a hand in my direction,
pointing, and I could see he argued with the Colonel. The tension was palpable, yet brief.
Crowshaw nodded to the native, a scowl creasing his face. Mahtake guided his horse to us.
“Captain,” I whispered. “What are they doing?”
Jacob’s arm tightened once again on mine. “I do not know,” he replied, his tone tinged with ire. “Mahtake is an Indian
tracker; he is a close confidant of the Colonel. That is why I agreed to allow him to accompany us here. I expect he means to
explain why he killed two Englishmen.”
“He killed them to protect me,” I shot back, more vehement than I intended. I was still fearful of Mahtake, but I was not
dense; for whatever reason, he chose to kill those men to save me. The raw violence that emanated from him was unsettling, but
I no longer believed he wished me harm. If he wanted us dead, we would have never made it to the camp.
As Mahtake moved closer, I felt the weight of his stare. An uneasy twinge nipped at me, a nagging sense of
apprehension.
Mahtake’s voice was roughly strong and resonant as he addressed Jacob and Crowshaw. “I am sure this woman’s
family lives down river, and I assure you, she will be returned to them. I will take her.” When he spoke, I felt that hint of
familiarity again, stronger, yet I held back. Could it be Nicholas? And if he was, why would he not reveal himself? His voice
was quite similar, and although his build and features were shrouded by the face paint and attire, his mannerisms were
distinctly different. Nicholas was cocky and carefree, a veritable modern-day rogue. Mahtake? The way he moved, the way he
emanated confidence, was utterly complex. Raw strength seemed to pour off him, an aura of superiority, causing me to wonder
if it was him, or merely an ancestor that resembled him? Whoever he was, he was lying; he couldn’t return me to my family, no
more than I could run home to them.
Jacob’s brows knitted together in defiance. “I will see to her safety,” he declared, his voice defiant.
“Humph,” Mahtake grunted. “It seems her safety is in question in your care.” Mahtake’s brows furrowed, his eyes
narrowed on the tear in my dress and my exposed shoulder.
A ruddy flush rushed to Collier’s cheeks and he opened his mouth to speak, but Crowshaw lifted a hand to cut him off.
Crowshaw’s gaze shifted between the two men, his features etched with contemplation. “Captain, you know the risks
involved. We cannot ignore the potential dangers and we do not have time to waste. Do not involve yourself with this woman.
It will serve us better if Mahtake will see to her, and we will be relieved of the trouble she will bring.”
I did not care for the way Mahtake moved forward, his eyes narrowed and hostile, nor the way he rumbled something
close to a primal snarl when Jacob moved to stand between us.
It was not Nicholas. It could not be Nicholas.
My heart quickened, panic gripping me as I realized the fate that awaited me. It had not occurred to me that anyone
would seek to detain me, not English militiamen nor a native man. I felt like a fool; despite my knowledge, despite my careful
study, my attempt to control time travel and end up standing next to Nicholas had gone dangerously wrong.
In my fear and misunderstanding, I shook my head. I stepped back, moving away from both of the men. “I’m not going
anywhere,” I announced. “I don’t know this man—I insist I will go on my way alone—”
Mahtake was not a cultured gentleman. He was swift, snatching my hand before Jacob could react. I was not a fragile
flower, but his touch set me on edge and I lost the last remnants of composure I had left. I was exhausted of being treated like a
sack of potatoes by hostile men.
“No!” I shouted. When I planted my heels and balked, he held my hand tighter, and it was then that I realized he held
only my hand, as if giving me an unspoken choice. The others had snatched my wrist with the clear intention of ensuring I bend
to their will. Somehow, Mahtake’s touch was different. I looked down at our entwined fingers, fighting back a swell of tears,
my chest heaving. Slowly, I raised my head and met his dangerously familiar gaze.
He was giving me a choice. He slaughtered two men without a show of remorse, yet he stared down at me, giving me a
choice in a time when women had no voice. I dared not to hope it was anything more, nor that he was anything more to me. I
needed to focus on the here, on the now, and figure a way out of my situation.
“This is no place for a woman to travel on foot. If you go off alone, you will die. You must come with me,” he said
evenly. I could still smell the menace rolling off him, sweat and smoke dousing my senses with his closeness, yet I realized the
focus of his anger did not lie with me. I made my choice. He mounted up and I took a deep breath, taking his hand to swing up
behind him on his horse. I was surprised to feel his back stiffen when I locked my arms around his waist and settled against
him.
Collier joined us, glaring at Mahtake. “I will accompany you. It is unseemly for a woman to travel without an escort
with one of your kind.”
“Your services are no longer required, Collier,” Mahtake replied. Colonel Crowshaw interrupted the quarreling men,
pushing his horse between them like a blockade.
“Captain! Stand down! Ride ahead to Bellefield to prepare for my arrival. Take three men from the camp with you; I
will join you as soon as my business is done here.”
Collier’s jaw was set defiantly tight, the dissent evident on his face, but he nodded wordlessly to his superior. His eyes
met mine fleetingly before he whirled his horse and took off.
Crowshaw looked hard at Mahtake. “Stay here for a quarter of an hour; they will be distracted by then, no one will give
chase. I expect my business with General Bacon to be concluded by then.”
Mahtake nodded. I did not understand the exchange, nor why it was necessary to wait, but I did not question them. I was
numb, reality bearing down on me.
As I watched both Crowshaw and Collier leave, I felt a sinking in my gut, a hint that I was going from one unknown to
another, potentially a much more dangerous one.
I followed Mahtake’s lead, remaining silent while we waited. I did not understand what was happening, but I suspected
Crowshaw was not a rebel, so naturally my curiosity was running in overdrive. What business did Colonel Crowshaw have
with General Bacon, and why had I never seen his name in any of my research?
“The Colonel is not aligned with the Rebels, is he?” I finally asked. I thought he meant to ignore me, as it took him a
long time to consider my question, but he eventually replied.
“Your curiosity will be your undoing,” he said. I clamped my mouth shut. It was clear he was not interested in
conversation.
The required time passed, and we left, riding by the big house as we sought to leave the plantation. Colonel Crowshaw
was correct; it appeared that the soldiers were occupied, and our presence passing through seemed of no consequence. The
sounds of shouts drew my attention, and I turned in the direction of the manor house. Men were slowly leaving their posts at the
commotion and gathering around the entrance.
At the entrance to the house, a dark-haired Englishman crawled across the front porch, his face bloodied and bruised.
He rose up on his knees, looking behind him in pure terror and scrambling frantically with the knife that he gripped in one hand,
stumbling when he tried to back down the stairs and landing in a heap in the dirt in the courtyard. An ever-widening circle
grew around him, but another man, an officer, stepped forward and held up a hand, stopping the others from assisting the fallen
man.
“’Tis not our fight. Leave him!” the man commanded.
The men obeyed. In the shadow of the open doorway another figure appeared, filling the space as if he had risen from
the darkness itself. His wide shoulders breached the span, his eyes standing out like white globes as he stared at the fallen man.
The tall native man stepped forward, his glare fixed on the sputtering man, and he proceeded to walk slowly down the stairs to
meet his prey. His attire portrayed him as a gentleman, a blend of two cultures, a veritable riddle when his task was anything
but polite. His long navy coat flapped behind him as he walked, his tall boots crunching on the gravel. He gripped a knife in his
hand, his intention clear.
“Who are those men?” I whispered. In my heart, I think I already knew, but I needed confirmation. I needed to know the
truth.
“That is Nathanial Bacon crawling on the ground,” Mahtake said, his voice laced with ice. “And that is the Neilsson
man who is going to kill him.”
I swallowed hard. The Neilsson man who would kill Bacon? It was a Neilsson, yet it was not Nicholas.
Mahtake urged the horse into a gallop, taking us away from bearing witness to the imminent death.

I rode with him, not daring to make a sound. Fear coursed through me, my heart pounding in my chest. I couldn’t shake the
unease that lingered, even as the rhythmic motion of the horse beneath me lulled me into a trance-like state. As we rode, I
couldn’t help but notice the way he carried himself, the breadth of his chest, and the warmth of his skin against mine—it was
all so familiar. But I dared not let my guard down. I couldn’t afford to be deceived, and if I was wrong, my inquiry might bring
more danger upon my head. If it was Nicholas, he was silent and angry; if it was not Nicholas, I didn’t know how I was going
to get away.
We traveled for what felt like an eternity, the landscape transforming around us. The dense forest enveloped us, its
towering trees casting long shadows on the forest floor. The air was thick with the scent of pine and damp earth. Mahtake
remained silent, his gaze fixed ahead, his movements fluid and purposeful.
Exhaustion threatened to overwhelm me as the journey wore on. The hours stretched by, each passing moment testing
my endurance. My body ached, and my mind grew weary. I longed for respite, for a moment of rest amidst the unforgiving
wilderness. I had been an avid equestrian in my youth, but what I had endured over the course of the day had zero similarities
to what I was accustomed to.
 Finally, as dawn broke in the east between the trees, we arrived at our destination—a rustic frame house nestled in a
clearing near the river. The sight of respite brought a surge of relief and apprehension. The house exuded an air of solitude, its
weathered walls bearing the weight of untold stories.
Mahtake dismounted gracefully, his eyes finally meeting mine. Beneath the war paint, his gaze softened, the heaviness
leaving his face. And then, in a moment that felt suspended in time, his rigid demeanor slowly faded, and his hands fell away
from my waist. The truth hit me like a thunderclap, leaving me breathless and stunned. It was Nicholas, my Nicholas, standing
before me.
A whirlwind of emotions consumed me—relief, disbelief, and a yearning so profound it threatened to overwhelm me. I
found myself at a loss for words, my mind struggling to process the impossible. Why had he not told me who he was as soon as
we set off? Why let me believe I was in danger? I wanted to say his name, yet I was afraid to speak it aloud.
“I live a very different life in this time. You shouldn’t have tried to find me, Sophia,” he finally said. There was an edge
of coldness in his tone that made my relief immediately dissipate. “What were you thinking?”
I was shaking. Frustration, anger, and sheer exhaustion punctuated my response. I knew what I had done; I did not need
to be chastised for it.
“You lied to me to get the dagger,” was all I could summon, a weak argument at that, and he knew it. A shadow of the
Nicholas I knew surfaced when he emitted a low, bitter chuckle.
“Should we speak of lies? Your skill at deceit rivals my own, I’m afraid. Pot meet kettle, Time Walker.”
He let out a long sigh and ran a hand over his forehead, squeezing it as if it might impart some clarity upon his thoughts.
My fists clenched at my sides, and I felt my anger rise when he stared at me.
“So it seems we are at an impasse. You’re clearly a Blooded One, and although your time travel skills are lacking, you
did manage to find what you were looking for,” he said.
“Clearly, I did not. I was trying to find you—not land in the middle of a hostage situation and Bacon’s demise!” I shot
back.
I was not amused to hear his bitter laugh.
“You ended up finding exactly what you asked for. I was in the museum when you left. You said—and I quote— take me
to the Neilsson man who wishes Nathanial Bacon dead. I am not the only Neilsson man who wants Bacon dead, Sophia.”
I flinched at his accurate interpretation of the situation, but I was too overcome to be subdued. I crossed my arms,
glowering at him.
“You followed me? First you used me to try to get at the dagger, and then you just—you just left! Yet you were stalking
me the whole time, you heartless bastard?” The jilted girlfriend ploy was transparent, as we both knew the gravity of the lies
between us by now. It was petty, but it was all I could muster.
Nicholas approached me slowly, his eyes searching mine. His chest rose and fell slow and steady, as if he meant to
control a raging impulse within. With each step, the distance between us narrowed, and I could feel the magnetic pull that had
always existed between us. It was a connection that remained despite the barriers, defying the boundaries of logic and reason.
“If I wasn’t such a heartless bastard, you’d be dead or even more likely, a pretty toy for those Rebel soldiers,” he said
evenly. “And if I hadn’t heard you utter those words in the museum, I’d have no idea where to find you. I had no intention of
returning to this time yet. I’m only here because I followed you, Sophia.”
My mouth suddenly felt like cotton, my throat tight. I was sickened by the truth of his words. He was right, and I knew
it. Through the war paint on his face, he looked sad in that moment, weary, and when he spoke, I did not object.
“Come inside. We need to talk.”
I nodded and followed him.
 11
Nicholas

He was conflicted on what to say to Sophia. For the first time in his life, he had no quick response, no calculated plan to deal
with a barrier in his way. He was accustomed to removing any threat, jumping along through history to find the answers he
sought, with no regard to the thoughts or feelings of those who stumbled across his path.
Yet, she was different. Sophia could not be removed, changed, or pushed aside. The knowledge that he might cause her
harm by taking the dagger was the only thing in centuries that had given him pause. Sophia. A kind, intelligent, beautiful
woman, innocent of all the chaos he would wreak on her life.
Except that she was far from innocent. She wore a Bloodstone. She was a scheming Blooded One, a Time Walker, and
she likely had been swindling him the entire time he thought he was pulling the wool over her eyes! She had played along with
him, feigning care, drawing out the details of his plan one element at a time.
He was an idiot. A fool. How could he have fallen for her game? He had to admit, she was smart, and he had sorely
underestimated her. But her careless jump through time made him wonder what knowledge she actually possessed; it seemed
she was inexperienced with time travel, to say the least. Not to mention incredibly reckless, which infuriated him to the core
and still left the remnants of ire smoldering in his chest. When she said the words to point her way, he knew where she would
end up—somewhere close to the Neilsson who would kill Nathanial Bacon. His own father, in fact. Daniel Neilsson.
It was pure chance that he found a piece of her torn dress near the swamp and was able to track the men who pursued
her; once he knew where she would appear, he had very little time to gather supplies and his horse. Even more fortunate for
Sophia, Jacob Collier predictably delivered her to Crowshaw, who Nicholas knew would hand her over.
It was not long ago that he visited Samuel Crowshaw, so the Colonel was not surprised to see him. As a Time Walker
with a long history of his own secrets, Samuel had his own reasons for helping Nicholas. Samuel and Nicholas had an
understanding of sorts, and if things were not so complicated, he might have considered him a friend. Of course, Nicholas
would have to offer some details of who Sophia was, but the simple explanation he offered at the time would suffice for now.
Nicholas watched Sophia with Jacob Collier and scowled. He was relieved to find her, but the blood still roared in
his veins at the thought of how close those men had come to harming her. Her dress was torn, she was shaken; she was not
the brilliantly confident woman he knew from the future, rather, a woman regressed into a shadow of herself. What else had
she endured before he arrived? He was glad he took the time to wear paint and assume his alter identity, as Mahtake the
Scout was a much more intimidating figure, and it would do them no good if she immediately recognized him; Nicholas
needed to get her away from Collier. He joined Samuel when they reached the camp and issued his demand in a low tone.
“Tell Collier to back off. The woman is with me,” Nicholas said. His horse snorted and shook its head, chomping at
the metal bit.
“Who is she to you, Nicholas?” Samuel briskly replied.
“A Time Walker. No time to explain. You have more important things to deal with right now. I killed two of your
men.”
Samuel scowled. “Damn it, Nicholas! You brought another Time Walker here? And you cannot kill Englishmen as if
your actions mean nothing—”
“She was on the ground beneath one when I came upon them. Collier lost control of his men. I should have killed
him as well.”
Samuel’s eyes widened. Nicholas could see his jaw stiffen and the whitened knuckles of his fists clench tightly on his
reins.
“Take her then and get her out of here. We will discuss this later!”
The events of the day still burned him as he escorted Sophia into his home. It was a small frame house built next to the
river, fitted with necessities, and bereft of many comfort items. He spent more time there than any other place; it was near to
Crowshaw’s Bellfield Hall, and far enough away from his father’s land at Eastview. When he was there, he lived as Mahtake,
steering clear of trouble and bartering information with Samuel Crowshaw when needed.
Sophia walked slowly towards the fireplace, glancing at the embers of the fire that still smoldered on the bricks. She
lifted her hand, tracing the edge of the wide blue-grey hearth stone as if she were taking it all in, and he imagined that she was.
He knew her well enough to know that inquisitive nature of hers would rise up, taking control. Her thirst for answers to every
notion that popped into her head was her driving force.
It was then that he considered he had taken the wrong approach with her; something needed to change. She was not
naïve, she was a player in the game, and a foolish one at that. He had no idea who her family was, or what she wanted from
him. Without that knowledge, she was no more than an enemy, and despite the raging pull he felt that made him want to ravish
her senseless, he could not forget the deceit between them.
His eyes bore into Sophia with an intensity that demanded answers. “Tell me your family name,” he demanded, his
Another random document with
no related content on Scribd:
 Sunday, September 2. Paris.
The driver assigned to take me to the train, which left from the
next village this morning, lost his way, and we reached the station
just as the engine was sounding the Galli-Curci note that means All
Aboard. There was no time to buy a ticket, and you can’t pay a cash
fare on a train in France. But the conductor, or whatever you call him
here, said I could get a ticket at the destination, Paris; in fact, I must
get a ticket or spend the rest of my unnatural life wandering about
the station.
I found a seat in a compartment in which were a young American
officer, beginning his forty-eight hours’ leave, and a young French
lady who looked as if she had been in Paris before. The young
officer and I broke into conversation at once. The young lady didn’t
join in till we had gone nearly twenty kilomet’s.
Captain Jones, which isn’t his name, called attention to the signs
on the window warning MM. Les Voyageurs to keep their anatomies
indoors. The signs were in three languages. “Ne pas Pencher au
Dehors,” said the French. The English was “Danger to Lean
Outside.” And the Wop: “Non Sporgere”—very brief. It was evident
that a fourth variation of the warning had been torn off, and it didn’t
require a William Burns to figure out in what language it had been
written.
“If there were a boche on this train,” said Captain Jones, “he
could lean his head off without hurting any one’s feelings.”
“Languages are funny,” continued the captain sagely. “The
French usually need more words than we do to express the same
thought. I believe that explains why they talk so fast—they’ve got so
much more to say.”
I inquired whether he knew French.
“Oh, yes,” he said. “I’ve been over here so long that I can even
tell the money apart.”
The dining-car conductor came in to ask whether we wanted the
first or second “série” luncheon. You must reserve your seat at table
on trains here or you can’t eat. We decided on the second, and so
did our charming compartment mate. Captain Jones, supposing she
could not understand English, said: “Shall you take her to lunch or
shall I?”
I was about to be magnanimous when she remarked, with a
scornful glance at the captain: “I shall myself take me to lunch if
monsieur has no objection.”
The cap was temporarily groggy, but showed wonderful
recuperative powers and in five minutes convinced her that he would
toss himself into the Seine if she refused to eat with us. She
accepted, after some stalling that convinced me she had been
cordially inclined all the while.
General polite conversation ensued, and soon came the
inevitable French question: How many American soldiers were there
in France? I have heard it asked a million times, and I have heard a
million different answers. The captain gave the truthful reply: “I don’t
know.”
 “I shall myself take me to lunch if monsieur has no objections”

“This war,” he said, “should be called the War of Rumors. The

war will be over by Christmas. The war won’t be over for ten years.
The boche is starving. The Allies are getting fat. The boche has
plenty to eat. The Allies are dying of hunger. Our last transport fleet
sank five subs. Our last transport fleet was sunk by a whole flotilla of
subs. Montenegro’s going to make a separate peace with Bosnia.
There is talk of peace negotiations between Hungary and Indiana.
Ireland, Brazil and Oklahoma are going to challenge the world.
They’re going to move the entire war to the Balkans and charge
admission. The Kaiser’s dying of whooping cough. You can learn
anything you want to or don’t want to know. Why”—this to me
—“don’t you fellas print the truth?”
“And where,” I asked him, “would you advise us to go and get
it?”
“The same place I got it,” said the captain.
 “And what is it?”
“I don’t know.”
We adjourned to the diner. A sign there said: “Non Fumeurs.”
The captain pointed to it.
“That’s brief enough,” he said. “That’s once when the French is
concise. But you ought to see the Chinese for that. I was in a town
near the British front recently where some Chinese laborers are
encamped. In the station waiting-room, it says: ‘No Smoking’ in
French, English, Russian and Italian. The Russian is something like
‘Do notski smokevitch,’ and the Italian is ‘Non Smokore’. Recently
they have added a Chinese version, and it’s longer than the Bible. A
moderate smoker could disobey the rules forty times before he got
through the first chapter and found out what they were driving at.”
Be that as it may, I have observed that everybody in France
smokes whenever and wherever he or she desires, regardless of
signs. We did now, and so did our guest, while waiting for the first
course, which was black bread baked in a brickyard.
“I would love to go to America,” said mademoiselle.
“You wouldn’t care for it,” replied the captain promptly. “It’s too
wild.”
“How is it wild?”
“Every way: manners, habits, morals. The majority of the people,
of course, are Indians, and you just can’t make them behave.”
She asked whether either of us had ever been in New York. The
captain said he’d passed through there once on the way to Coney
Island. She wanted to know if New York was bigger than Paris. “It’s
bigger than France,” said Captain Jones.
Monsieur was trying to make a game of her.
“Well, anyway,” said the captain, “you could lose France in
Texas.”
What was Texas?
 “Texas,” said the captain, “is the place they send soldiers when
they’ve been bad. It’s way out west, near Chicago.”
The lady had heard of Chicago.
“This gentleman works there,” said the captain. “He’s part Indian,
but he was educated at Carlisle and is somewhat civilized. He gets
wild only on occasions.”
The lady regarded me rather scaredly.
“He lives on the plains outside the city,” continued the captain,
“and rides to his work and back on a zebra. Practically all the
suburban savages have zebras, and the Chicago traffic police have
a fierce time handling them during their owners’ working hours. They
run wild around the streets and in the department stores, and snap
at women, especially brunettes.”
We had attained the potato course. The French positively will not
serve potatoes as other than a separate course. I was about to help
myself to a generous portion when the captain cried: “Here! Better
leave those things alone. You know what they do to you.”
I told him I didn’t believe two or three would hurt, and proceeded
to take three.
“When a half Indian eats potatoes,” said the captain, “he usually
forgets himself and runs amuck.”
Our guest probably didn’t know what a muck was, but it had an
unpleasant sound, and the look she gave me was neither friendly nor
trusting.
“The greatest difference between France and America,”
continued Captain Jones, “is in the people. In America a man
ordinarily takes the initiative in striking up an acquaintance with a
woman. He has to speak to her before she’ll speak to him. This
would never do in France, where the men are too shy. Then there’s a
difference in the way men treat their wives and horses. Americans
use whips instead of clubs. And Americans have funny ideas about
their homes. Private bedrooms and playrooms are provided for their
pets—zebras, lizards and wild cats—and the little fellows are given
to understand that they must remain in them and not run all over the
house, like one of your cows.”
He paused to ask me how the potatoes were acting. I said it was
too soon to tell, but I felt a little dizzy in the head. He suggested it
were better to go back to our compartment, where there were less
things to throw in the event of my reaching the throwing stage.
“On the other hand,” I said, “if I am deprived of knives, forks and
plates, I will pick on human beings, and I usually aim out the
windows.”
But he said he was sick of the atmosphere in the diner. We
asked for l’addition and argued over who should pay it. I won, and
when he had been given his change we returned to our own car,
where mademoiselle demonstrated her fear of my expected outbreak
by going to sleep.
We turned our attention to the scenery, the most striking feature
of which was the abundance of boche prisoners at work in the fields.
“Lucky stiffs!” said the captain. “The war is over for them if they
can just manage not to escape, and I guess there’s no difficulty
about that. Better food than the soldiers, a soft job, and a bed to
sleep in. And wages besides. Every private in the Fritz army would
surrender if the officers hadn’t given them a lot of bunk about the
way German prisoners are treated. They make them believe we cut
off their feet and ears and give them one peanut and a glass of water
every two weeks.”
Paris hove into view, and we quarreled about the girl. The fair
thing, we decided, would be to turn over her and her baggage to a
porter and wish her many happy returns of the day. We were spared
this painful duty, however, for when she awoke she treated both of
us as strangers. And the gentleman who attended to her baggage
was not a porter, but a French aviator, waiting on the station platform
for that very purpose.
“She’ll tell him,” guessed the captain, “that an American soldier
and half Indian tried to flirt with her on the train, but she froze them
out.”
 Captain Jones stuck with me till my exit ticket was procured, a
chore that ate up over an hour. Then we climbed into a dreadnought
and came to this hotel, where I sat right down and versified as
follows:
TO AN AMERICAN SOLDIER

If you don’t like the nickname Sammy,

If it’s not all a nickname should be,
You can pick out Pat or Mike,
Whatever name you like—
It won’t make no difference to me.
Want a Thomas or Harry or Dick name?
Dost prefer to be called Joe or Lou?
You’ve a right to your choice of a nickname;
Oh, Mr. Yank, it’s up to you.
 V
MY ADVENTURES AT THE BRITISH FRONT

Monday, September 3. Paris.

In this morning’s mail was a letter from Somewhere in London,
replying favorably to my request to go to the British front. I was
directed to take the letter to the assistant provost marshal, who
would slip me a pass and inform me as to the details of the trip.
At the A. P. M.’s I was given the pass and with it “an undertaking
to be signed by all intending visitors to the front.” There are ten rules
in the undertaking, and some of them are going to be hard to obey.
For example:
“I understand that it is impossible to arrange for me to see
relatives serving with the fighting forces.”
“I will not visit the enemy front during the present war.”
But No. 6 is the tough one:
“In no circumstances will I deliver a political or electioneering
speech to troops.”
I must pray for strength to resist natural impulses along this line.
Wednesday morning, said the A. P. M., would be our starting
time. And he told us when and where to take the train—“us” because
I am to be accompanied by a regular correspondent, one who carries
a cane and everything.
 Mr. Gibbons, the regular correspondent, informs me I must wear
a uniform, and to-morrow morning I am to try on his extra one, which
he has kindly offered.
Another chore scheduled for to-morrow is the squaring of myself
with the boss of the French Maison de la Presse, who invited me to
visit the devastated territory Thursday and Friday. The invitation was
accepted, but the British and French dates conflict, and I would
rather see one real, live front than any number of broken-down barns
and boched trees.

Tuesday, September 4. Paris.

I reported, after the French idea of breakfast, at the Maison de la
Presse. This is situate on the fourth floor of a building equipped with
an elevator that proves the fallacy of the proverb “What goes up
must come down.” You can dimly see it at the top of the shaft, and
no amount of button pushing or rope pulling budges it.
During the long climb I rehearsed the speech of apology and
condolence framed last night, and wondered whether monsieur
would be game and try to smile or break down completely or fly into
a rage. He was game, and he not only tried to smile, but succeeded.
And his smile was in perfect simulation of relief. These French are
wonderful actors.
I returned thence to Mr. Gibbons’ room for my fitting. His extra
uniform consisted of a British officer’s coat and riding breeches,
puttees and shoes. Cap and khaki shirt I had to go out and
purchase. The store I first selected was a gyp joint and wanted
twenty-seven francs for a cap. I went to another store and got
exactly the same thing for twenty-six. A careful shopper can save a
lot of money in Paris.
Provided with cap and shirt, the latter costing a franc less than
the former, I went to a secluded spot and tried on the outfit, Mr.
Gibbons assisting. We managed the puttees in thirty-five minutes. It
is said that a man working alone can don them in an hour, provided
he is experienced.
“You look,” Mr. Gibbons remarked when I was fully dressed, “as
if you had been poured into it.”
But I felt as if I hadn’t said “when” quite soon enough. Mr.
Gibbons and I differ in two important particulars—knee joints—and
though I tried to seem perfectly comfortable, my knees were fairly
groaning to be free of the breeches and out in the open fields.
“Wear it the rest of the day and get used to it,” advised Mr.
Gibbons.
“No,” I said. “I don’t want to rumple it all up. I want to keep it neat
for to-morrow.” And against his protest I tore myself out and resumed
my humble Chicago garb.
It’s no wonder regular correspondents and British officers are
obliged to wear canes. The wonder is that they don’t use crutches.
We leave at nine to-morrow morning. This means that myself
and puttees will have to get up at four.

Wednesday, September 5. With the British.

The major has a very good sense of the fitness of things. The
room where I’m writing, by candlelight, is the best guest room in our
château and was once occupied by the queen.
The rules of the household call for the dousing of down-stairs
glims at eleven o’clock. After that you may either remain down there
in total darkness or come up here and bask in the brilliant rays of a
candle. You should, I presume, be sleepy enough to go right to bed,
but you’re afraid you might forget something if you put off the day’s
record till to-morrow.
I overslept myself, as they say, and had to get Mr. Gibbons to
help with the puttees. The lower part of the breeches, I found, could
be loosened just enough to make the knee area inhabitable.

“You look as if you had been poured into it”

 We skipped breakfast and reached the station in a taxi without
hitting anything. It was fifteen minutes before train time, but there
wasn’t a vacant seat in the train. A few of the seats were occupied
by poilus, and the rest by poilus’ parcels and newspapers. A
Frenchman always gets to a nine o’clock train by seven-thirty. He
picks one seat for himself and one or two on each side of him for his
impedimenta. This usually insures him privacy and plenty of room,
for it is considered an overt act even to pick up a magazine and sit in
its place. Mr. Gibbons and I walked from one end of the train to the
other and half-way back again without any one’s taking a hint. We
climbed into a carriage just as she started to move. There were six
seats and three occupants. We inquired whether all the seats were
reserved, and were given to understand that they were, the owners
of three having gone to a mythical dining-car.
We went into the aisle and found standing room among the
Australians and Canadians returning from their leave. One of the
former, a young, red-headed, scrappy-looking captain, smiled
sympathetically and broke open a conversation. I was glad of it, for it
gave me an opportunity of further study of the language. I am a
glutton for languages, and the whole day has been a feast. We have
listened to six different kinds—Australian, Canadian, British, French,
Chinese and Harvard. I have acquired an almost perfect
understanding of British, Australian and Canadian, which are
somewhat similar, and of Harvard, which I studied a little back home.
French and Chinese I find more difficult, and I doubt that any one
could master either inside of a month or so.
The red-headed captain remarked on the crowded condition of
the trine. That is Australian as well as British for train. The Canadian
is like our word, and the French is spelled the same, but is
pronounced as if a goat were saying it. Lack of space prevents the
publication of the Chinese term.
One of the captain’s best pals, he told us, had just been severely
wounded. He was a gime one, though even smaller than the captain.
The captain recalled one night when he, the pal, took prisoner a
boche lieutenant who stood over six feet. Fritz was asked whether
he spoke English. He shook his head. He was asked whether he
spoke French. He lost his temper and, in English, called the entire
continent of Australia a bad name. The captain’s little pal then
marched him off to the proper authority, to be questioned in English.
On the way the captain’s little pal made him take off his helmet and
give it to him. This was as punishment for what Fritz had said about
Australia.
Before the proper authority Fritz was as sweet-tempered as a
bloody bear. This puzzled the proper authority, for making a boche
prisoner is doing him a big favor.
“What iles you?” asked the authority when Fritz had refused to
reply to any of a dozen questions. “You ine’t the first bloody boche
officer we’ve tiken.”
Then Fritz bared his grievance. He didn’t mind, he said, being a
prisoner. The size of his captor was the thing that galled. “And for
Gott’s sake,” he added, “make him give back my helmet.”
The proper authority turned to the captain’s little pal. “He’s your
prisoner,” he said. “What do you want to do with the helmet?”
“Keep it, sir,” said the captain’s little pal.
And it will be used back in Australia some day to illustrate the
story, which by that time will doubtless have more trimmings.
“But how about Fritz?” I asked. “When he gets home and tells
the same story, he’ll have nothing with which to prove it.”
“He ine’t agoin’ to tell the sime story.”
We were welcomed at our destination by a captain, another
regular correspondent, and two good English cars. The captain said
he was expecting another guest on this train, a Harvard professor on
research work bent.
“I have no idea what he looks like,” said the captain.
“I have,” said Mr. Gibbons and I in concert, but it went over the
top.
The professor appeared at length, and we were all whisked
some thirty kilometers to a luncheon worth having. Afterward we
were taken to the Chinese camp. Chinatown, we’ll call it, is where
the Chink laborers are mobilized when they first arrive and kept until
their various specialties are discovered. Then each is assigned to
the job he can do best. I was told I mustn’t mention the number of
Chinamen now in France, but I can say, in their own language, it’s a
biggee lottee.
They wear a uniform that consists of blue overalls, a blue coat,
and no shirt whatever, which, I think, is bad advertising for their
national trade. They brought shirts with them, it seems, but are more
comfy without.
The minimum wage is three francs a day. Two-thirds of what they
earn is paid them here, the other third given to their families in
China. The system of hiring is unique. No names are used, probably
because most Chinks have Sam Lee as a monniker, and the
paymaster would get all mixed up with an army of Sam Lees. They
are numbered and their finger prints are taken by an agent in China.
He sends these identification marks to the camp here, and when the
Chinks arrive they are checked up by a finger-print expert from
Scotland Yard. This gentleman said there had been several cases
where the Chinaman landing here was a ringer, some “friend” back
home having signed up and then coaxed the ringer to come in his
place, believing, apparently, that the plot would not be detected and
that his profit would be the one-third share of the wage that is paid in
China. The ringer’s family would be done out of its pittance, but that,
of course, would make no difference to the ringer’s friend. The
finger-print system serves not only to prevent the success of cute
little schemes like that, but also to amuse the Chinks, who are as
proud of their prints as if they had designed them.
We went into the general store, which is conducted by a
Britisher. The Chinese had just had a pay-day and were wild to
spend. One of them said he wanted a razor. The proprietor produced
one in a case, and the Chink handed over his money without even
looking at the tool. Another wanted a hat. The prop. gave him a
straw with a band that was all colors of the rainbow. The Chinaman
paid for it and took it away without troubling to see whether it fitted.
 A block or so from the store we ran across two Chinks who had
been naughty. Each was in a stock, a pasteboard affair on which
was inscribed, in Chinese, the nature of his offense. One of them
had been guilty of drinking water out of a fire bucket. The other had
drunk something else out of a bottle—drunk too much of it, in fact.
They looked utterly wretched, and our guide told us the punishment
was the most severe that could be given: that a Chinaman’s pride
was his most vulnerable spot.
The gent who had quenched his thirst from the fire bucket was
sentenced to wear his stock a whole day. He of the stew was on the
last lap of a week’s term.
We talked with one of the Lee family through an interpreter. We
asked him if he knew that the United States was in the war against
Germany. He replied, No, but he had heard that France was.
Just before we left the settlement a British plane flew over it. A
Chink who was walking with us evidently mistook it for a Hun
machine, for he looked up and said: “Bloody boche!”
From Chinatown we were driven to the American Visitors’
Château, where gentlemen and correspondents from the United
States are entertained. It’s a real château, with a moat and
everything. The major is our host. The major has seen most of his
service in India and China.
He said he was glad to meet us, which I doubt. The new arrivals,
Mr. Gibbons, the Harvard professor and myself, were shown our
rooms and informed that dinner would occur at eight o’clock. Before
dinner we were plied with cocktails made by our friend, the captain.
The ingredients, I believe, were ether, arsenic and carbolic acid in
quantities not quite sufficient to cause death.
Eleven of us gathered around the festal board. There were the
major and his aids, three British captains, one with a monocle. There
was the Harvard professor, and the head of a certain American
philanthropical organization, and his secretary. And then there were
us, me and Mr. Gibbons and Mr. O’Flaherty and Mr. Somner,
upstarts in the so-called journalistic world.
 The dinner was over the eighteen-course course, the majority of
the courses being liquid. I wanted to smoke between the fish and the
sherry, but Mr. O’Flaherty whispered to me that it wasn’t done till the
port had been served.
Mention was made of the Chinese camp, and there ensued a
linguistic battle between the major and the Harvard professor. The
latter explained the theory of the Chinese language. He made it as
clear as mud. In the Chinese language, he said, every letter was a
word, and the basis of every word was a picture. For example, if you
wanted to say “my brother,” you drew a picture of your brother in
your mind and then expressed it in a word, such as woof or whang. If
you wanted a cigar, you thought of smoke and said “puff” or “blow,”
but you said it in Chinese.
Mr. Gibbons broke up the battle of China by asking the major
whether I might not be allowed to accompany him and Mr. O’Flaherty
and one of the captains on their perilous venture to-morrow night.
They are going to spend the night in a Canadian first-line trench.
“I’m sorry,” said the major, “but the arrangement has been made
for only three.”
I choked back tears of disappointment.
The major has wished on me for to-morrow a trip through the
reconquered territory. My companions are to be the captain with the
monocle, the Harvard professor, the philanthropist, and the
philanthropist’s secretary. We are to start off at eight o’clock.
Perhaps I can manage to oversleep.

Thursday, September 6. With the British.

I did manage it, and the car had left when I got down-stairs. Mr.
Gibbons and Mr. O’Flaherty were still here, and the three of us made
another effort to get me invited to the party to-night. The major
wouldn’t fall for it.
 Mr. Gibbons and Mr. O’Flaherty motored to an artillery school,
the understanding being that they were to be met at six this evening
by one of our captains and taken to the trench. I was left here alone
with the major.
We lunched together, and he called my attention to the mural
decorations in the dining-room. It’s a rural mural, and in the
foreground a young lady is milking a cow. She is twice as big as the
cow and is seated in the longitude of the cow’s head. She reaches
her objective with arms that would make Jess Willard jealous. In
another area a lamb is conversing with its father and a couple of
squirrels which are larger than either lamb or parent. In the lower
right-hand corner is an ox with its tongue in a tin can, and the can is
labeled Ox Tongue for fear some one wouldn’t see the point. Other
figures in the pictures are dogs, foxes and chickens of remarkable
size and hue.
“We had a French painter here a few days ago,” said the major.
“I purposely seated him where he could look at this picture. He took
one look, then asked me to change his seat.”
The major inquired whether I had noticed the picture of the
château which decorates the doors of our automobiles.
“When you go out to-morrow,” he said, “you’ll observe that none
of the army cars is without its symbol. An artillery car has its picture
of a gun. Then there are different symbols for the different divisions. I
saw one the other day with three interrogation marks painted on it. I
inquired what they meant and was told the car belonged to the Watts
division. Do you see why?”
I admitted that I did.
“Well, I didn’t,” said the major, “not till it was explained. It’s rather
stupid, I think.”
This afternoon an American captain, anonymous of course,
called on us. He is stopping at G. H. Q., which is short for General
Headquarters, his job being to study the British strategic methods.
He and the major discussed the differences between Americans and
Englishmen.
 “The chief difference is in temperature,” said the captain. “You
fellows are about as warm as a glacier. In America I go up to a man
and say: ‘My name is Captain So-an-So.’ He replies: ‘Mine is Colonel
Such-and-Such.’ Then we shake hands and talk. But if I go to an
Englishman and say: ‘My name is Captain So-and-So,’ he says: ‘Oh!’
So I’m embarrassed to death and can’t talk.”
“’Strawnary!” said the major.
At tea time a courier brought us the tidings that there’d been an
air raid last Sunday at a certain hospital base.
“The boche always does his dirty work on Sunday,” remarked the
American captain. “It’s queer, too, because that’s the day that’s
supposed to be kept holy, and I don’t see how the Kaiser squares
himself with his friend Gott.”
I laughed, but the major managed to remain calm.
The American captain departed after tea, and the major and I sat
and bored each other till the Harvard professor and his illustrious
companions returned. They told me I missed a very interesting trip.
That’s the kind of trip one usually misses.
At dinner we resumed our enlightening discussion of Chinese,
but it was interrupted when the major was called to the telephone.
The message was from the captain who was supposed to meet Mr.
Gibbons and Mr. O’Flaherty and take them to the trenches to spend
the night. The captain reported that his machine had broken down
with magneto trouble and he’d been unable to keep his appointment.
He requested that the major have Mr. Gibbons and Mr. O’Flaherty
located and brought home.
This was done. The disappointed correspondents blew in shortly
before closing time and confided to me their suspicion that the
trouble with the captain’s machine had not been magneto, but (the
censor cut out a good line here).
To-morrow we are to be shown the main British training school
and the hospital bases.
 Friday, September 7. With the British.
We left the château at nine and reached the training camp an
hour later.
We saw a squad of ineligibles drilling, boys under military age
who had run away from home to get into the Big Game. Their
parents had informed the authorities of their ineligibility, and the
authorities had refused to enroll them. The boys had refused to go
back home, and the arrangement is that they are to remain here and
drill till they are old enough to fight. Some of them are as much as
three years shy of the limit.
The drill is made as entertaining as possible. The instructor uses
a variation of our “Simon says: ‘Thumbs up’.” “O’Grady” sits in for
Simon. For example, the instructor says: “O’Grady says: ‘Right
dress.’ Left dress.” The youth who “left dresses” without O’Grady’s
say-so is sent to the awkward squad in disgrace.
Out of a bunch of approximately two hundred only two went
through the drill perfectly. The other one hundred and ninety-eight
underestimated the importance of O’Grady and sheepishly stepped
out of line. The two perfectos looked as pleased as peacocks.
We saw a bayonet drill with a tutor as vivacious and linguistically
original as a football coach, and were then taken to the bomb-
throwing school. The tutor here was as deserving of sympathy as a
Belgian. A bomb explodes five seconds after you press the button.
Many of the pupils press the button, then get scared, drop the bomb
and run. The instructor has to pick up the bomb and throw it away
before it explodes and messes up his anatomy. And there’s no time
to stop and figure in what direction you’re going to throw.
The Maoris were our next entertainers. The Maoris are colored
gemmen from New Zealand. They were being taught how to capture
a trench. Before they left their own dugout they sang a battle hymn
that would make an American dance and scare a German to death.
They went through their maneuvers with an incredible amount of pep
and acted as if they could hardly wait to get into real action against
the boche. Personally, I would have conscientious objections to
fighting a Maori.
Then we were shown a gas-mask dress rehearsal. A British gas
mask has a sweet scent, like a hospital. You can live in one, they
say, for twenty-four hours, no matter what sort of poison the lovely
Huns are spraying at you. We all tried them on and remarked on
their efficacy, though we knew nothing about it.
We had lunch and were told we might make a tour of inspection
of the hospitals in which the wounded lay. I balked at this and,
instead, called on a Neenah, Wisconsin, doctor from whose knee
had been extracted a sizable piece of shrapnel, the gift of last
Sunday’s bomb dropper. This doctor has been over but three weeks,
and the ship that brought him came within a yard of stopping a
torpedo. Neither war nor Wisconsin has any terrors left for him.
To-morrow we are to be taken right up to the front, dressed in
helmets, gas masks, and everything.

Saturday, September 8. With the British.

Two machine loads, containing us and our helmets, masks, and
lunch baskets, got away to an early start and headed for the Back of
the Front. In one car were the Captain with the Monocle, the Harvard
prof., and the American philanthropist. The baggage, the
philanthropist’s secretary, and I occupied the other. The secretary
talked incessantly and in reverent tones of his master, whom he
called The Doctor. One would have almost believed he considered
me violently opposed to The Doctor (which I wasn’t, till later in the
day) and was trying to win me over to his side with eulogistic oratory.
The first half of our journey was covered at the usual terrifying
rate of speed. The last half was a snail’s crawl which grew slower
and slower as we neared our objective. Countless troops, afoot and
in motors, hundreds of ammunition and supply trucks, and an
incredible number of businesslike and apparently new guns, these