Madman's Dance (Time Rovers #3)(125)

The man who threw her in the Thames. She’d always remember that face.

Cynda found Morrisey kneeling at the woman’s side, carefully pressing a Dinky Doc into Adelaide’s neck. He stiffened when the readings appeared. He reset the device, fumbling with the settings, then touched it against her neck again. Adelaide’s pain eased. Behind them, Cynda heard the butler shouting for someone to send for a doctor.



“How bad?” Defoe demanded, frantic.

Morrisey shook his head. “It hit her heart.”

It took Cynda a few seconds to process what he’d said: Adelaide was bleeding out with every beat. She knelt next to their hostess, taking her hand.

Rover One fumbled for his interface. “I’ll take her home. We can heal her.”

Cynda took his arm, though he fought her. “No. Don’t waste the time you have left.”

“Listen to her,” Morrisey said, his voice breaking. “She’ll die before you get there. Be with her at the last. I never had that chance with Mei.”

“Damn you,” Defoe shouted. “Leave us be!”

Cynda didn’t move, but continued to hold the woman’s hand. It grasped hers reflexively. Morrisey tried to pull her away, but she shook him off.

“If you are touching her when she dies,” he warned, “you will become one of us. Is that what you want?”

No.

Cynda retreated, shaking from the adrenalin churning inside of her. “What about him?” she asked, indicating Defoe.

“He’s already a Virtual.”

“But it has to do something.”

“It will, but I doubt you’ll get him away from her,” Morrisey whispered. He sank onto a chair, his face ashen. It was only then she noted the thick line of blood running down his scalp and onto his face.

She grabbed a linen napkin from a small serving table and pressed it onto the wound.

“Hold this,” she said. A trembling hand rose and did as she asked. A quick treatment with the Dinky Doc reduced the bleeding. His color improved.



Their eyes met. His were glistening. She knew it had nothing to do with the injury. She wet her handkerchief and gently began to remove the blood from his face.

Though she tried not to listen, she heard Defoe’s loving whispers and Adelaide’s faint responses.

“We shall go to Paris, my love,” he said, his voice thick and quavering with emotion. “We will buy a small home and you shall grow beautiful flowers. We will travel, you and I—”

“Malachi…”

“You are the only one I have loved, Adelaide. All the centuries, you’re the only one. You cannot leave me.”

A thick cough. “I know…love you.”

Defoe kissed her. There was a faint murmur from her lips and then she fell silent, draped over his arms like a sleeping angel. A shudder ran through him as Adelaide Winston no longer drew breath.

Cynda’s head bowed in grief. Morrisey pulled her close, their tears intermingling.

Suddenly, Defoe was on his feet. The bloom around him vanished, along with the image of Malachi Livingston. Now it was his features.

“I will find him!” he shouted, breaking the unearthly silence. “I will stop him!”

“You can’t,” Cynda said. “Her death is embedded in the timeline now.”

He wasn’t hearing her. “I know what he looks like!” he crowed. “I can do it.”

“But he’s not—”

“Harter, no!” Morrisey called, but his friend was gone, the characteristic transfer halo hovering in the air near Adelaide’s body. It wavered for a second, then vanished.

The butler gaped, dumbfounded. “I’ve never seen a shifter like that.”

There was a hammering on the front door, then the sound of running footsteps. The butler crossed the room, opening the door a slit. He shut it instantly.



“It’s a constable,” he said. “The maid must have sent for him.” He gestured to the far door. “I’ll tell him you’d already left before this happened. That’s all he needs to know. Go on!”

It took Morrisey to pull her out of the room. Cynda could only stare at their hostess. Even in death, Adelaide Winston was beautiful.

They halted a few streets away to examine his wound.

“It’s stopped bleeding,” she told him. She sounded calm, but inwardly she was a mess. The bullet might have killed him. Only a few inches and…

“It makes no sense…she let him in the house…clearly trusted him.” Morrisey’s words were coming out in a rush now. “Why would the Lead Assassin kill her?”

“It wasn’t Satyr. He shifted right after I nicked him. He was the guy who claimed to be my brother and took me out of Bedlam.”

Cynda hailed a cab. The jarvey gave them a concerned look, what with the fresh blood on Theo’s collar, but wisely didn’t comment.

Once they were on the way to the hotel, she squeezed Theo’s hand reassuringly. He stared ahead, like a blind man. He was letting the loss overwhelm him, burrowing headlong into the memories of his own lover’s death.

She had to get him talking. “What will happen to Defoe? He was touching her when she died.”

Morrisey blinked a couple times, but didn’t answer.