Madman's Dance (Time Rovers #3)(130)

“Look!” Morrisey exclaimed, pointing.

The south bank of the Thames was aglow, fire advancing along the docks toward Southwark.

“Both sides? That’s not possible!” Unless Flaherty double crossed us.

“They’re coming!” someone shouted.

With a clatter of hooves, a line of mounted men advanced from the west. Cavalry. Orders were shouted for the crowd to disperse. When no one complied, the soldiers drew their swords and pistols. Frightened screams erupted, followed by the bellows of outrage.

“The ’ell with you lot. We’re not leavin’,” one man called, brandishing a club.

“You started this! We’ll finish it, you bastards!” another shouted.

Cynda grabbed Morrisey’s arm, dragging him away from their exposed position. She knew what a mob felt like right before it took on a will of its own. This one was teetering on the edge.

“What are you doing?” he demanded.

“Saving our butts,” she said.

When the volley of gunfire erupted a heartbeat later, they threw themselves to the ground. Morrisey wrapped his arms around her, pulling her tight against him. A crisp order echoed in the air, followed by another volley.

Cynda pulled herself away from her companion and stole a look back toward the square. A pile of writhing bodies lay at Lord Nelson’s feet. The wave of survivors surged back against itself, trampling the weaker ones in an effort to escape. There was a tangle of legs and arms, squeals of agony.



Cynda pulled Morrisey to his feet. “Run!”

Ducking between charging horses, they finally fled the open ground and down a side street.

“Let’s get out of here,” she ordered.

He acted as if he hadn’t heard her. “This can’t be happening,” he said, and then began to cough from the smoke.

“Interface!” she shouted. He pulled it out in slow motion, his eyes never leaving the melee in the square. She snatched the watch, set it, then jammed it into his hand. He vanished.

A blaze of sparks flew down on her, stinging her face and arms, burning into her dress. Hands quaking, she set her own interface. The last thing she heard was the shrill keening of a woman mourning her dead husband.

~??~??~??~



Thursday, 8 November, 1888

Arundel Hotel

Someone was stamping on her skirts, calling out her name. Cynda curled up tighter, the sorrow so strong she thought it might crush her.

“Jacynda?” a voice called near an ear, followed by a deep, racking cough.

“Theo?”

She found herself on the floor of the hotel room, in his arms, his smoky face inches from hers. His scalp wound had opened up again, bright blood trickling against blackened skin. He looked as destroyed as she felt.

They embraced, hard. When they broke apart, he studied her anxiously.

“Are you injured?” he rasped.

Cynda responded by trying to cough out a lung. She felt something cold against her neck. Dinky Doc. Her breathing eased.



“You, too,” she advised.

He reset the device and then treated himself. A few breaths later his wheezing diminished.

“We have to stop this,” she said, trying to rise.

Theo caught her arm, helping her up. “I’ll let Klein know what’s happening,” he said. “You get some rest. We’ll figure out what to do.” When she opened her mouth to argue, he put a single soot-covered finger on her lips. “Please, just do what I ask.”

She didn’t protest as he led her to the bedroom. When he offered her a wet cloth, she cautiously washed her face, wincing at the petite burns. He was doing the same in the basin, stripped down to his trousers, braces hanging free. As he cleaned himself, she kept removing smoky clothes until she reached a final petticoat and her onsie. Then she leaned back in the chair, eyes still stinging. They kept opening and closing of their own free will.

There was at least four or five miles between Whitechapel and Trafalgar Square. In one week, it’d turned to ruin. Her mind began to shut down, overwhelmed at the enormity of what they faced. “I have to stay awake,” she murmured.

“You won’t be able to. I gave you something to help you sleep. Just don’t fight it.”

“You what?” she asked groggily.

“Never mind.” With Theo’s urging, she crawled into the bed. He jammed her interface under the pillow.

“Theo…”

“We’ll stop this, I promise.”

She felt a lingering kiss on her forehead.

“Don’t go anywhere without me,” she murmured. “It’s too dangerous.”

Then there was oblivion.

~??~??~??~



“I refuse to accept this. Until those explosives are found, you are still with Scotland Yard, do you understand?” Chief Inspector Fisher insisted, his back to Keats. They were alone in his office and though the initial reunion had been poignant, his superior’s attitude had changed the moment the sergeant had handed in his resignation.



“The men don’t want me here,” Keats replied, expecting this argument. That was plain enough. Only a few had come up to him and shook his hand, signaling their pleasure at his acquittal. The rest had pointedly kept their distance, as if his misfortune might somehow be communicable.