Thief of Hearts (Elders and Welders Chronicles Book 3) (25 page)

“It means that
he
,” Simon said, pointing at Rowan, “is causing the hailstorms in the
desert
in
June
, and the earthquakes, and the sandstorm that is nearly the size of the whole bloody continent. It is the reason that the sheikh—who must also be a time traveler, by the way—knew about the earthquake in Cairo weeks in advance, not to mention the exact answer Rowan would give to the question of what year it is.”

“Because he is from the future,” Hex scoffed.

“I’m not crazy,” Simon insisted.

“You
sound
crazy,” Hex retorted, but she didn’t seem convinced of her own words. Her hand finally dropped from Rowan’s shoulder, and he felt cold all over from the loss.

His first instinct was to ignore Simon’s ramblings the same way he’d ignored the sheikh’s note and the Swede’s poisonous insinuations. But how could he do so now when there was the possibility, however farfetched, that he was causing people to die? That he could cause the destruction of the universe?

Though that last one was still hard to wrap his head around.

“I have proof,” Simon said, returning to his galvanometer, which was still humming away on the table. “I’ve been working on this since we left the desert the first time. I didn’t get to finish it in time to observe the tomb, but I expect the readings there will be similar to Rowan’s.”

He held out the goggles to Hex. She took them hesitantly and placed them over her eyes.

“I have hooked up the galvanometer’s electrical current into the lenses,” he said, flipping the metallic lenses into place and fiddling with the device. “It will essentially stretch the palette of light visible to the human eye to include the entire electromagnetic spectrum.”

“English,” Hex reminded him wearily.

Simon huffed and flicked a switch on the device that made it hum even louder. “You’ll be able to see ultraviolet light, infrared light, and radio waves through the lenses, that sort of thing.”

Hex peered at Simon through the lenses. “You look like a yellowish sort of light,” she said skeptically.

“Yes. That is a normal human heat signature. Now look at Rowan.”

She turned her head and gasped, her whole body freezing in shock. She ripped the goggles off and shoved them back at Simon, her face drained of color. She didn’t look at Rowan as she crossed the cabin to a porthole window and propped herself against it.

Rowan’s heart sank to his toes. “What did you see, Hex?” he demanded.

Hex just shook her head, still unable to turn to him.

“The problem is she didn’t see anything,” Simon finally answered him. “Where there should be something—
you
—there is absolutely nothing. A complete absence of light. A vacuum.”

“Yet I am here,” he insisted. “You can see me now. Touch me.”

“You
shouldn’t
be here,” Simon countered. “I can barely understand it myself, but all the laws of physics deny that you truly exist in this moment.”

Rowan rose from his seat unsteadily and moved toward the device. “Let me see,” he demanded.

Simon balked. “If you touch the device, it will most likely malfunction.”

Rowan took the goggles from Simon anyway. The galvanometer wheezed, sparked, and then went dead.

Simon scowled at him and snatched his goggles back. “See? This is why we have had so many electrical problems with you aboard the ship. You nullify energy because you’re
ripping a hole in the universe
.”

“Hex,” he breathed, sounding a bit desperate even to his own ears. “Is that what you saw? Do you believe what Simon is saying?”

“I don’t know what to believe,” she said shakily, still avoiding his eyes. “I still say we can’t trust the cryptic note of a stranger, no matter what you’re saying, Simon.”

“The sheikh is not a stranger,” Rowan admitted. “He’s like me, Hex. I saw his eyes that night we escaped. They’re like mine, like the Swede’s.”

“And you didn’t think to say anything?” she cried.

“Why would I have said anything about it to you?” he asked her gently. “You always made it perfectly clear you wanted nothing to do with me.”

She winced, and something like regret flitted over her features. But she didn’t contradict him. How could she, when he was only speaking the truth? “What makes you think he’s any better than the Swede?” she finally said.

“He didn’t try to kill me, for one,” he said dryly. “He saved my life and yours.”

“He could still be manipulating you,” she insisted.

“Of course he’s manipulating me,” he retorted. “He’s been doing that from the moment we met him. If anything, I need to know why.”

“I don’t like it,” she said, then fell silent.

Eventually, she dropped her arms to her sides and tilted her chin up at a determined angle, as if steeling herself. She glanced at Simon.

“There is a sandstorm standing in our way. It will be nearly impossible to get close enough,” she began reluctantly, and Rowan didn’t know whether to feel relieved or disheartened at her swift turn-around. She was considering staying on their present course, which meant she believed Simon deep down despite her denials.

And damn it, so did he. What Simon was suggesting sounded impossible. But if it wasn’t—and the past month had taught him that the world was full of things that should have been impossible—then he was responsible for the destruction of half a city. The very thought left him heartsick, for who knew how many lives had been lost.

Simon nodded grimly. “We’ll have to risk it, Hex.”

“And Helen?” she asked.

“She’ll be waiting for us, safe and sound, when we return.”

“
If
we return,” she countered, her eyes filled with worry. “That storm is liable to tear the
Amun Ra
apart.”

SHE FOUND HIM
on the ship’s deck, staring up at the passing stars. It was a clear night over the Mediterranean, the smell of the sea thick in the air, and he was leaning against the railing, powerful body outlined in the moonlight, his dark, silky hair ruffling in the gentle breeze.

She felt something ease inside of her at the sight of him, something she’d held tight since she’d looked through Simon’s goggles and seen nothing, just a giant, Rowan-shaped
emptiness
. But looking at him now…well, he’d never looked so beautiful to her, so real.

He didn’t turn around at her approach, though he must have heard her. His rigid body language told her how little he wanted company.

Her
company in particular, no doubt. She’d made a right hash of things. But then again, that was an area in which she’d always excelled. After they’d decided to return to the tomb, he’d left the lab without once meeting her eyes. She’d have to be blind not to notice the hurt in his expression every time she’d mustered the courage to look at him. She’d treated him very shabbily indeed.

“We should reach the tomb the day after tomorrow,” she said, settling in beside him, ignoring the way he stiffened even further, as if bracing for a blow.

He flexed his hands against the railing and continued to stare off into the night sky. “If you are unwilling, I will find another way there,” he said tonelessly.

“No,” she said firmly. “I won’t let you do this alone. We’ll figure this out, Rowan. Together.”

The carefully measured look he gave her made it clear that he doubted her. And she couldn’t blame him for that. She’d never given him much indication that she wanted anything to do with “together” when it came to him. But she did, damn it, and that was entirely the problem. He’d disarmed her from the very beginning. She’d just tried to protect herself the only way she knew how.

She was beginning to suspect she’d made a terrible mistake.

“You said my name,” she said softly into the salty air, her chest tightening with anxiety. “When you came out of the tomb, you said my name.”

He studied her intently in the moonlight. “But I’d never met you. Had I?”

She winced at the suspicion in his voice. But she’d expected no less. She’d not exactly presented herself as the most honest person in the world. “No. You’d never met me,” she said. “At least, you’ve not met me yet.”

“Do you think I know you in the future?” he asked softly, turning his head back to the stars.

She shrugged. “It sounds insane, I know,” she allowed.

He was silent for a long time. Then he said, softly, “I hope I do.”

“What?”

He gave her a tentative smile. “Know you. In the future,” he said. “Or wherever I came from.”

Something melted inside her at his words. Oh, he was dangerous, all right. So very dangerous, and she had been right to keep her distance all along, for he could do real damage to her heart.

Could?
Who was she fooling? He already had. She’d rejected him so she could avoid all of these messy feelings, but it seemed those messy feelings had been there already, for her heart felt as if it were cracking in her chest whenever she so much as thought about him.

She’d assumed, perhaps foolishly, she’d have time to sort through her feelings, but it seemed that time was the one thing she did not have.

A day and a half, at most. And then…

Well, she had a fairly strong suspicion that things were not going to end well.

She’d known from the moment Simon had opened his mouth that Rowan would leave her the same way he’d come into her life: abruptly and inexplicably. But she’d been subconsciously bracing herself for it long before that. It was why she’d kept pushing him away.

Perhaps the inevitability of his loss had struck her first when the Swede had spoken his poisonous words. Or before that, in the palace library when he’d hurled Vasily across the room with impossible strength, once again reminding her of his otherness.

She must have known it on some instinctual level even when she’d cast him away a month ago. Even then, she’d sought to guard her heart; even then, she’d known he was dangerous. Too brilliant, too strange, and entirely impossible…and so damn beautiful with his open, earnest, and entirely too
noble
heart.

It had been too short a time for her to feel so strongly, but nothing was ordinary about Rowan. Why should falling in love with him be any different? Follow any conventional rules? She had seen his true mettle just hours after their first meeting when he’d taken a bullet meant for her with no expectation of survival himself. Just hours, and already she’d known he was the best man she’d ever encounter.

Loving him was inevitable.

But she’d be damned if she told him any of this. It would only make things harder for the both of them when the time came.

While she could deny herself the words, she couldn’t deny her body’s corresponding need to seek him out. And damn it, she’d have these few remaining hours with him, if nothing else. She didn’t care how selfish she was being.

She put her hand over his and edged a little closer, until their sides were pressed together. He radiated heat like a furnace, and she soaked it in, along with the scent of spring that always seemed to cling to him, verdant and clean. At first he stiffened, but gradually he relaxed, shifting so that he could wrap an arm around her shoulders and tuck her against him even closer.

She sighed in satisfaction at his surrender.

“I wish I could hold you like this forever, Hex,” he whispered into her hair. She wasn’t sure if he meant for her to hear the words or not, so softly were they spoken, but she had, and her heart wrenched painfully. She turned into his embrace and wrapped both her arms around his torso, silently wishing for the exact same thing.

IT WAS ALMOST
dawn. Already the first hint of the approaching storm danced in the air of Hex’s cabin, minute particles of sand seeping in through the closed doors and windows, pirouetting in the soft morning rays. Next to him, Hex coughed lightly from the dust and stretched languorously on top of rumpled sheets, naked and warm and fragrant, before fitting herself once more against his side. As if she belonged there.

He wasn’t complaining. They’d not spoken much since she’d led him back to her cabin the night before. At least not out loud. But it certainly seemed as if Hex had decided not to push him away any more. She’d not let him out of touching distance since.

Again, he was not complaining.

But his contentment was overshadowed by what the next day would bring. He knew that part of the reason why Hex cleaved to him was because she was scared of what was to come, but he hoped her feelings went deeper. His certainly did, but he knew better than to voice them aloud, especially now. For not only was Hex as skittish as a colt, he might very well be forced to leave her forever, if Simon’s outlandish predictions proved to be true.

He just wondered if Simon were insane—if they were all insane to believe such a harebrained theory.

“I hope we’re doing the right thing,” Hex said, as if reading his mind. She ran her forearm over his chest in a gentle caress, static electricity sparking at each pass, and he closed his eyes and concentrated on memorizing the feeling. He wanted to remember it long after this moment was lost.

“Yet you trust Simon,” he finally managed to say.

“Implicitly.”

He hesitated, not knowing whether to bring up the subject at all. But his curiosity won out. “He said he owed you a debt.”

“Did he?” She sounded surprised.

“Was he lying?” he asked.

She frowned. “No. It’s just something we don’t discuss.”

He tried to shrug off her obvious attempt to dismiss the subject, but he couldn’t help the small part of him that was still irrationally irked by her relationship with the other man. He felt her eyes on him and turned his head to find her smirking.

“You’re jealous,” she accused.

He rolled his eyes and tugged at the ends of her hair playfully. “I am not.”

“You’re definitely jealous. But I swear we’re just friends.” She pushed herself up by one elbow and studied him soberly. “I would tell you about the debt, but it involves talking about…well, about my hands, and it’s not exactly a pleasant memory for me.”

He slid his hand down the skin of her right forearm and over the tattered black leather glove that she still refused to remove. He could feel her stiffen against him. He knew she preferred it when he pretended like her Welding hands didn’t exist. But he had so little time left, and he couldn’t bring himself to ignore a single part of her. To him, her hands were just as beautiful as the rest of her.

He entwined their fingers together and raised their joined hands between their bodies. He felt her slowly relax beside him when he made no move to take off her glove.

“These hands saved your life yesterday,” he reminded her gently.

She sighed, and he could almost feel her capitulation. “It’s a long story.”

“It is a long journey,” he reminded her.

She buried her head in the juncture between his neck and shoulder, hiding her expression. “Not long enough,” she whispered.

His heart clenched, and a knot lodged in his throat. He too closed his eyes to hide his tumultuous emotions. He didn’t know how he was going to leave her. Yet he was beginning to doubt that he’d ever had any choice in the matter.

It was a long time before he was able to speak without choking on his sorrow. “Tell me.”

She nodded, then turned on her back and stared up at the ceiling, as if contemplating where to start. “Since I could walk,” she began, “my father trained me in the family business.”

A long story indeed. And no doubt quite unpleasant if Hubert Bartholomew were involved. “What was that?” he asked, though he had a fairly good idea.

She looked loath to answer him. “Thieving. Pickpocketing, housebreaking, confidence games,” she finally admitted. “The latter was my father’s specialty, but I was particularly good at housebreaking. I could climb higher and faster than an adult and sneak into smaller, tighter spaces. We did very good business between the two of us for a while.”

Her eyes landed on everything in the room but him, and her expression grew defensive. “It was the only life I’d known since the cradle, and without thieving, I would have died on the streets long ago. I don’t feel guilty for doing what I had to do to survive, so you can save your moralizing…”

“I’m not judging you, Hex,” he interjected softly, covering her flailing hand with his own, drawing it back to his chest.

She jerked her eyes to meet his, and she looked surprised at whatever she read on his face.

He smiled wryly. “I’ve met your father, remember? I’m a bit shocked you survived at all.”

She snorted and rolled her eyes. “So am I.”

“What of your mother?” he asked carefully.

Something raw contorted her features, but only for a moment. If he’d blinked he would have missed it. She undoubtedly wanted him to, but he was beginning to know her all too well.

“She left after Helen was born, moved back to Baltimore and her family,” she explained. “She was sick with the same illness that Helen now has. She wouldn’t have lasted much longer, the way we lived.”

“She didn’t take you with her?” Rowan asked in surprise.

Hex’s expression shut down completely. “I made Hubert money, and that was all he really cared about. He would have come after her if she’d taken me. She had enough to deal with, between the baby and her illness. I never blamed her for it.”

Rowan managed to hold his tongue, but it was a near thing. He felt a burning anger toward the woman who had sacrificed her own child to a man like Hubert Bartholomew. But he knew Hex wouldn’t want to hear anything against her mother. It was obvious she’d loved the woman.

He
would have never abandoned a child, no matter the circumstances.

Though what if he had inadvertently? What if he had children out there somewhere but just didn’t remember them? A family, despite what the Swede had said? The idea made his righteous anger shrivel and his skin crawl with shame. What right had he to judge anyone?

He’d thought that he would remember if he had a wife, at the very least, but now he wasn’t so sure. He’d not even known what
year
it was. He’d made love to Hex without any sort of certainty he was truly free to do so. What sort of man did that make him? What sort of man did it make him that he didn’t care?

Hell and damnation, how he hated his broken mind. Hated it more than ever.

“What is it?” she asked him.

He shook his head and moved his hand down to touch her inner wrist—one of the softest spots on her body, he’d discovered—trying to muster up an encouraging smile. Even if he had a family out there—a wife, even—he didn’t want to give Hex up. Perhaps
he
was the one in need of a moralizing lecture, yet how could he mourn what he couldn’t even remember? And if Simon were to be believed, how could he mourn something that hadn’t even happened yet?