Madman's Dance (Time Rovers #3)(167)

The funeral went as any other. The priest spoke of redemption, of God’s paradise even for a woman who had tempted others onto the path of sin. As the sun vanished behind the buildings in the distance, Cynda saw no paradise, no redemption—only a man who had lost his way.

Through it all, Defoe remained silent, his eyes fixed upon the grave. When the customary shovelful of dirt plummeted downward, striking the coffin with a dull thud, he shuddered. On impulse, she took hold of his hand, gripping it tightly. He looked at her, confused, before returning his gaze to the coffin.

It was nearly dark by the time the local mourners departed. Cynda looked around for the gravediggers. They were nowhere in sight.

“I asked them to wait until we left,” Anderson informed her, divining her thoughts. His eyes tracked over to Theo. There seemed to be tension between them.

“You two know each other?” she asked as she rolled back the veil.

“We just met,” Anderson said. Theo didn’t reply, but she could tell by the set of his jaw it hadn’t been a pleasant meeting.

Wordlessly, Defoe knelt by the open grave, dismantling a rose. Petals floated downward and settled onto the coffin, mingling with the clods of dark dirt, burgundy against brown.

When he was finished, he raised his head, like he’d just caught a scent on the wind. His eyes were lit with that strange fire. It’d had been there as Adelaide had bled to death in his arms, and then at Effington’s party.

“You’ll help me, won’t you?” he pleaded, his voice raw. “I need to get her back.”



“She’s gone, Harter; we can’t change that,” Theo told him gently, his words catching on the emotions. “I am so sorry, my friend.”

The fire in the grieving man’s eyes grew stronger. “Then I’ll do it. I can go back and kill him. I can save her.”

“That will not work, Mr. Defoe,” Anderson replied patiently.

It was only then Cynda noticed the band on Rover One’s wrist. She glowered at Anderson. “What is that?”

“It keeps him from shifting. If it wasn’t there, he’d go Virtual on us and disappear.”

“You told me he’s not your prisoner,” Theo barked.

Anderson frowned. “He’s not. If I recall correctly, you did something similar for Miss Lassiter when she was incapable of keeping herself safe.”

Theo bit back an oath.

Thick sobs rebounded off the headstones in the still night air. Cynda held Defoe as he descended into his private hell, her own tears triggered by his. What if it had been Theo in that grave? Would she change history to save him?

Yes.

“I loved her,” Defoe confessed between strangled sobs. “We were going to have a house in Paris, a small garden. It would have been perfect.” He rambled on, his words gathering momentum. “It can still happen, still be right. I’m the Father of Time. I can fix anything!”

Except death.

“Harter,” Theo began.

“I will make it right,” Defoe retorted. “I have to. I don’t care what happens.”

“You can’t,” Theo said softly.

His friend glared up at him. “You don’t want us to be together,” he raved. “You’re jealous because she loves me, and no one ever loved you.”

Whoa.

“We should go,” Anderson said, opening up his interface.



“No. This won’t work,” Theo announced. “When we finish here, he comes with me. I’ll try to find a way to mitigate the Transitive effects and restore his sanity.”

Cynda’s gut told her that would be a mistake.

“I’m sorry, Theo, but I don’t agree,” she said. His expression turned to hurt, like she’d stabbed him in the back. “There’s too much going on we don’t know about. Let Anderson take care of him. He’s given us his word he’ll keep Defoe safe.”

“Why should I trust him?” Theo asked. He spoke in anger, but his eyes were filled with indecision. “You’re just guessing these people are on the level. You have no idea.”

“Theo, I—”

“Will you trust me?” a voice asked. A figure now stood next to Anderson, clad in navy. She rolled back the light veil.

The woman from Bedlam, the one who had given her the piece of paper with her name on it. This was no shifter en mirage. Just in case Cynda had any doubts, the blue arachnid on the woman’s shoulder gave her an enthusiastic wave. Her own delusion returned it.

“You look good,” her Mr. Spider announced. “A little gray, a little heavier, but it suits you.”

He was right. The few wrinkles at the corners of her eyes spoke of contentment.

“Is she for real?” Theo asked, his eyes riveted on the newcomer. “I mean…”

She knew what he meant. “Yes, she is.” Cynda shook her head at the newcomer. “I should have guessed it was you at the asylum.”

“You should have,” her future self chided back, “at least once your mind was back online.”

“Why did you leave me there? You knew what would happen.”

“We had multiple time threads in play so I had to let them go forward. I knew you were in danger, but I just had to hope you’d survive. For both of us.”