Madman's Dance (Time Rovers #3)(150)

“It was deliberate. When I finally came to my senses, I was in 1768, in Bedlam.”



Cynda winced. In that time period, asylum inmates were shackled, beaten, starved, and taunted by gentry who came to see the mad people like caged animals in a zoo.

Satyr’s voice dropped. “I nearly did go insane in that place. I finally escaped—without killing anyone, I might add. I lived on the streets, stealing to survive. Because I showed promise, I was taken under the wing of a professional assassin, who became my patron. He taught me a code of honor. He was my guide to a new world.”

“You imprinted on him.” Like I did Theo.

Satyr looked puzzled. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

“Never mind…go on.”

“I honed my skills during that time, but I longed to be anywhere but the eighteenth century. It was unbelievably filthy,” he said, shaking his head. “I’d about given up hope, when I stumbled across a Time Rover who wasn’t paying attention. I bade my patron farewell and hitched a ride to 1887.”

“You can’t hitch with a Rover,” she argued.

“You can if you’ve got a knife at his throat.” As she opened her mouth to ask the question, he shook his head. “He did as I asked, and so I set him free. I doubt he reported the incident.”

“Got that right,” she agreed. Allowing a crazy to get from one century to another was a career-ending move, especially when the crazy wasn’t supposed to be in the time stream in the first place. “So who was he?”

“I didn’t bother to ask. We weren’t going to exchange letters down the line.”

He had a point. “Were you a shifter, then?”

“Yes, purely by accident. A lucky one, as it turned out. That’s how I found my patron, who was also Transitive. He taught me what I needed to know.”

“You’re a Virtual. You did it twice. I’ve heard that’s suicidal.”

Satyr shook his head. “Only once. I’m not stupid. I was very stunned to realize I could vanish. I think it had something to do with the NMR.”



He took a deep breath and added, “Once here, I applied myself, rose through the ranks of the Seven until I became Lead Assassin. Quite an astounding resume, don’t you think?”

“Almost unbelievable,” she said, cautiously. “This whole spiel could be a lie.”

“It could, but it isn’t.”

For some reason she believed him. “Why did you revert after the NMR? Didn’t you imprint on your shrink?” She had with Theo.

“Walter wasn’t the warmest of people, though he did try to ensure I didn’t come in contact with anything violent in nature. In his self-absorption, he forgot his bookshelves.”

“Walter Samuelson?” she blurted.

“Yes. I would guess you know his brother, the author, intimately.”

“Oh yeah, I know him.” Dalton Mimes, the man who’d put a knife in her chest.

“Samuelson had a selection of his brother’s books. I took to reading them when he wasn’t around. Graphic and extremely violent, every one of them. Mimes is a very sick man, you know?”

She wasn’t going to argue that one. “How many people have you blanked?”

“No one but you.”

The carriage ground to a halt.

“Why only me?” she demanded. “Why was I so special?”

An eyebrow rose. She was baiting the bear.

“I used the device because we need someone on our side,” he said.

“We?”

When those dark eyes met hers, she saw unimaginable sadness.

“I was not the only one they orphaned. When the study was decommissioned, they jettisoned us like some foul cargo into the time stream. Psychopaths, serial killers, the lot. All that mattered was that their failures disappear.”

Cynda’s mind reeled. The questions poured out. “Who did this? How many?”



“The Time Protocol Board was involved. At least a dozen of us, if not more, were turned loose to ravage our way through time.”

Over a dozen Satyrs. No, not like him. He’d adopted a code of honor, of sorts. There was no guarantee the others had.

“Are any of them here in ’88?”

“You’re thinking of the Ripper, aren’t you?” he asked.

“Yes. He’d fit the bill.”

“I don’t think he’s one of ours.”

Cynda sorted through memories. A name surfaced. “You’re Drogo.”

“Yes. We all had our code names. I was named after the patron saint of coffeehouses. Rather ironic—I’ve always disliked the stuff.”

“I found the word on a sheet of paper in Chris Stone’s pocket after they pulled out him of the Thames. Do you know how it got there?”

“No, I’m sorry.” A second later, Satyr’s voice grew rough. “I’ve long had nightmares of what it was like for the others, and what terrors they’d visited on the innocent in whatever time periods they’ve been abandoned. You’re one of us now. You can help right this wrong. Someone must pay for this atrocity.”

Before she could reply, Satyr opened the door and stepped out, surveying their surroundings. As he helped her down the stairs, he leaned close and whispered, “Think like an assassin. It might keep you alive.”