Madman's Dance (Time Rovers #3)(93)

“Did Theo discover who was the Ascendant at this point in history?” he inquired.

She shook her head. “He’s working on it. He said something about going to some special archive collection.”

“That sounds right. A lot of the Transitives’ history is not in electronic form. How about the membership of the Twenty?”

Cynda dug the pendant out from under her bodice, pulling it over her head. Clicking it open, she pressed her thumb against the picture of her parents. Nothing happened.

“Index finger on the back,” her delusion called out from near the cake. He was holding a small piece between two legs.

Thanks.

Once the device had acknowledged that she had legitimate access, the photo vanished and the dial lit up.

“Morrisey’s doing,” she explained in response to Defoe’s mystified expression. “He gave me a database of images so I can look through them every night and refresh my mind.”

“He’s known for those sorts of gadgets,” her companion observed with a smirk. “Sort of like Q in the old James Bond movies.”



“Who?”

He grimaced. “Never mind. It was before your time.”

She put the pendant near her mouth. “List Twenty,” she murmured.

Names began marching across the tiny screen. “Let’s see. We’ve got a Jackson, Marshall, Hyde-Smith, McClelland, Winston, Rivers, and Baron-Reid. That’s all he could—”

“Do you have a full name for Winston?” he asked, his voice suddenly brittle.

“Sure.” She addressed the device. “List particulars for Winston.” The screen lit up, filling with information. “Adelaide Winston, age twenty-eight. Born—”

Defoe’s cup slammed down onto the saucer, his eyes distant. He wiped his mouth with a napkin.

Whoa. I hit a nerve.

“You know something about her?” Cynda ventured.

“It appears she’s one of the Twenty,” he replied brusquely, as if that were the only answer. His eyes snapped back to hers. “What do you intend to do next?”

“Try to get back to the middle of October, I guess.”

“Don’t bother. I suspect you won’t be allowed.”

Her mouth dropped open. “But that screws up everything I planned!”

“So?” he chided. “You’re a Rover. Think on your feet for a change.”

Jerk. He’d been cranky ever since she mentioned the Winston woman.

“Well, maybe I can call in a few favors. Flaherty has to come forward and save Keats.”

Defoe snorted. “You’re a fool if you think he’ll do that.”

That did it. No one called her a fool, even the Father of Time Travel.

“So what are you going to do, then?”

He closed his interface and tossed money on the table, not bothering to answer. “Let’s get out of here.”



Right before they made their transfers, Cynda dug out the business card from the hotel. “I’m at the Arundel at Victoria Embankment.” He didn’t write any of it down. That she envied. As she started to say goodbye, he triggered his interface and was gone.

“He’s a piece of work,” her delusion said.

“Yeah, he is.”

The moment the transfer stabilized, she checked the interface. November fourth, the day she’d checked into the hotel. She made a beeline toward the closest newspaper boy, exasperated she had to use newsprint as a means to verify the date. Both the paper and the technology agreed. At least that was a start.

“Time for Plan B,” she muttered. Whatever the hell that is.

~??~??~??~



So many times he’d been in this room awaiting Adelaide’s arrival, always with a mixture of elation and heady desire. Tonight was different. She had never mentioned she was a member of the Twenty, never indicated she had a loyalty to anyone but herself. Likewise, he’d only shown her Malachi Livingston’s form, not his real one. More than once he’d wanted to bare his soul, tell her he was really Harter Defoe, a man from the future. He’d never been able to take that leap of faith.

Neither of them had been totally honest, and that made it worse.

The door opened and she hurried into the room. Adelaide never hurried in any fashion.

“Malachi?” When he did not offer his hand in their special greeting, she halted abruptly. “Is it truly you?”

Only then did he take her hand and make the sign in her palm. She returned it.

“Thank heavens,” Adelaide said. “No one has heard from you in over a week. I was so worried.”

“I was indisposed,” he responded coolly, stepping back.

“Even your assistant, William, was concerned about you, as well. He came calling the other day to ask after you. Where have you been?”



“Recuperating—someone tried to kill me.”

Horror filled her face. “He said he’d—”

Defoe held his tongue, forcing her to speak.

Adelaide regained her composure. “Only this morning, I learned that the Ascendant has ordered your death, for no apparent reason. I urged the Lead Assassin to slow the process so I might have time to warn you.”

“I was injured almost a week ago,” Defoe informed her with a frown.