Race to World's End (Rowan and Ella Book 3) Page 6

  Ella watched Halima’s eyes fill with tears. She tried to remember the last time she had seen the woman moved so emotionally. She hugged her tightly. “I couldn’t ask for a better, more loving mother for him.”

  Halima sniffed and reached into her pocket for a handkerchief for herself. “Does this mean you’ve made your decision?”

  “What else can I do, Halima? I have to find him. I have to at least try. I just pray, like I’ve never prayed for anything before, that I come back to Tater. I will not do to him what my mother did to me.”

  “You will come back.”

  Two days later Ella stood at the Cairo Airport with Halima and Tater. In her valise was a selection of outfits and jewelry. The jewelry she intended to sell as she needed money. After two more visits to confer with Olna on the specifics of deliberately crossing over to 1825—and then back again to 1925—Ella wore her mother’s necklace, which had propelled her on her two previous trips through time. The flat gold medallion of the necklace was no bigger than Ella’s thumbnail and featured a unique insignia of two hearts intertwined with what looked like the letter V. Ella had been told it was designed by a long-dead ancestor. It was all she had of her mother.

  She also packed Rowan’s uncle’s dog tags, which had special significance for him and would help in his return to 1925. Olna believed that for those individuals who had a propensity for traveling through different times a sacred or beloved talisman coupled with strong emotion was the key to managing it.

  The plan was for Ella to fly to Casablanca, where she would immediately change into period clothing and, clutching her valise and wearing her mother’s necklace, transport herself to 1825 Casablanca. If Rowan washed ashore anywhere nearby—Algiers or even Tripoli—or if he was rescued or shanghaied, word would eventually come of it to Casablanca. Rowan was a handsome, six-foot-four white man with crystal-blue eyes. He stood out in a crowd—especially in 1825.

  “I worry about your accent.”

  Ella turned to Halima who, for all her assurances that everything would be fine, had clearly been secretly weeping all morning. “I’ll be fine. It’s not my American accent so much as forgetting to use formal speech. It doesn’t come naturally to me.”

  “Please be careful.”

  “I will.” Ella knelt to give Tater a kiss on the cheek. “I won’t be gone long, little guy,” she said, forcing her voice to sound light. “You’ll be a good boy for Halima, right?”

  “Musket-turds!” he crowed.

  “Yeah, well, I’m working on that.” She tried to memorize his features and burn the image of them into her brain. “The Three Musket-turds.” She stood and scooped him into her arms, holding him until he began to struggle to be put down. “I’ll be back, darling,” she said, her voice starting to choke with the urge not to weep.

  “You must board, dearest,” Halima said, tears streaming down her face.

  Ella set Tater down and, still holding his hand, hugged Halima to her. “Thank you, Halima for everything,” she said. “Take care of my boy. Take care of yourself. I love you.”

  “I love you too, dear one.”

  “Love you, Mommy!” Tater called as he grabbed Halima’s hand and began tugging her away.

  “Love you, too, baby,” Ella said as she collected her valise and walked to the waiting plane, her throat tight and aching with emotion.

  After ten hours and one stop to refuel and pick up mail, the flight to Morocco was sufficiently terrifying enough to comfortably distract Ella from what awaited her on the other end. During their brief stop in Tunis to refuel, Ella excused herself from the confines of the small aircraft long enough to empty the contents of her stomach in one of the handy airsickness bags—something she’d never come close to needing to do in her entire life.

  So relieved to finally alight safely in Casablanca, Ella bolted from the airplane, her valise clutched to her chest, and began plotting the return trip to Cairo by car. (Halima had regretfully informed her there was no train service as yet serving North Africa.) The airport, while small by London or Paris standards in 1925, was bustling and crowded with Europeans and Muslims.

  Ella straightened the heavy cotton peplum of her summer suit with a sharp tug and focused on finding a taxi to the Majestic Hotel. The idea was to be near one of the luxury hotels that had been there in 1825 so that she didn’t cross over only to find herself waking up in an opium den or someone’s living room. As soon as she stepped out of the airport and felt the heat of the city street blasting her in the face, she felt herself wilting. She needed a bath, a fully functioning ceiling fan and, ideally, a vodka tonic.

  She wasn’t ready to visit 1825 just yet.

  The thought came to her that Rowan probably wasn’t ready for 1825 either. She stiffened her spine and waved to the first taxi she saw. A black Ford screeched to a stop in front of her.

  “Where to, Mademoiselle?” the Arabian driver said as he climbed out of his seat, clearly intent on grabbing her luggage.

  “The Majestic,” Ella said, hugging her bag in a clear intention to hang onto it herself. The man shrugged and jerked open the door to the back of the cab. Ella looked around for the first time since she’d emerged from the Casablanca Airport. In many ways, it didn’t look that different from 1925 Cairo. She knew the French were in charge at the moment—part of the main reason she felt comfortable using Casablanca as a jumping off point—but she also knew there were problems.

  Problems—as in, an ongoing revolution.

  “Things quiet lately, I trust?” she asked the driver, then cursed the fact she’d forgotten the English accent she was supposed to affect.

  She watched him glance at her through the rear-view mirror.

  “Of course, Mademoiselle,” he said, his eyes darting to her breasts before returning to a view of the road ahead.

  As she watched the city streets streak by, Ella tried to will herself to regain her composure. She had spent much of the flight—when she wasn’t willing herself not to throw up—trying to convince herself that everything was going to turn out fine. She would find Rowan. Unhurt. They would return together to their son.

  Spit. Spot. No problem.

  The taxi pulled up to a huge stone building that showed a strong Arabian design. At first, Ella wasn’t sure it wasn’t a mosque. When the driver didn’t bother getting out to open her door for her she knew she was in trouble. If the taxi driver thought she was a hooker, what was polite 1925 French-Moroccan society going to think?

  She paid him and quickly exited the taxi.

  She shrugged it off. She wouldn’t be in 1925 Casablanca long enough for it to matter. As tired as she was from her trip, she knew the exhaustion and the emotional upset of leaving Tater could only serve to help her in the process of her upcoming trip to 1825. As much she longed to go inside the Majestic Hotel for a hot shower and a cold drink, she needed to use her discomfort to her advantage.

  God willing, there would be a bath and a beer somewhere in 1825.

  She walked up the steps of the hotel, nodding at the doorman. She knew there would be toilets for the guests that were separate from their room facilities and she prayed they’d be located in the sumptuous marble lobby. Fortunately, the lobby was busy this afternoon. A family of Europeans sat drinking tea. From the sequined headbands on the teen girl, Ella assumed they were English, although probably the Spanish and the French enjoyed the same fashions in 1925.

  She walked purposefully past the ornately tiled walls and stucco pillars in the lobby as if she knew where she was going and expected not to be questioned about it—an old ploy she’d mastered during her time in Heidelberg in 1620—and pushed open the large wooden doors that signaled the entrance to the Ladies room.

  Don’t think. Just do it.

  She entered the first stall and sat down on the closed lid of the toilet. God knows where she’d find herself in 1820, but she could only hope if the area was still used as a bog of some kind that it was at least covered. She peeled off her mid-calf skirt, drop
ping it on the floor, and unbuttoned her blouse. She’d argued with Olna about keeping her panties and bra and, in the end, had agreed to give up her bra for the corset contraption that would keep her breasts from flopping around—but she’d keep her panties.

  Hell, if anybody gets close enough to see my underwear, I’m probably screwed anyway. Most likely literally.

  She pulled on the dated underclothes she’d packed, stopping once to allow a patron use the stall next to her without all the grunts and panting she knew she was making trying to pull the corset into place, and then fastened the long cotton dress the best she could in the back. She was already sweating with the exertion and tried not to think of how uncomfortable wearing the gown was going to be in 1825 without ceiling fans to mitigate the swelter.

  She stuffed the clothes she’d shed into the trash receptacle in the stall. Halima had cut her hair in a rough shag before she left Cairo. She pulled on a snood to make it look like she had hair, and she had a couple of turbans in her valise that she would wear once she was in place to hide the fact her hair was shorn. She noticed her hand was shaking as she repacked her suitcase.

  She turned and sat on the lid of the covered toilet, her small valise wedged tightly in her arms against her chest, and reached into the top of her dress to touch her mother’s necklace.

  Use the discomfort, she reminded herself. Use your fear!

  The chain and tiny amulet at the end of it instantly felt warm to her fingers and she was gratified. Something was already happening. Somehow, whatever it was that enabled her to do this—to travel among the centuries—was already poised and ready.

  She closed her eyes and brought dear Tater’s face to her mind and instantly was stabbed with a longing and a grief that bowed her shoulders. She gripped the necklace tighter and felt her arms and neck begin to hum and vibrate and she concentrated on giving herself up to the feeling. When she did, the vibrations increased and a shrill buzzing sound penetrated her ear and permeated her from her head to her feet. It felt like the floor was moving, buckling, dissolving…

  I’m coming, Rowan, was her last thought before the nausea and the darkness came for her.

  6

  In the end it didn’t take long.

  With the island only a half a mile wide at its longest, it took only two terrifying days and nights, hiding in the bushes, running when the sound of the pirates’ screams and taunts got closer. Unless they gave up the hunt—something he knew wasn’t likely—he knew once they found evidence of him living on the island, it was always just a matter of time. Exhausted and sleep deprived, Rowan found a bush in the deepest point in the interior of the island. His initial intent was just to rest and to wait. When he saw the men—he always heard them—he would creep away.

  But they finally split up.

  And he fell asleep.

  Rowan woke to the sensation of many harsh hands grasping his arms to pull him free of the brambles. He didn’t bother fighting them. He’d had two days and nights to consider if finding him meant his immediate death. Or worse.

  The terror and agony of attempting to evade them, coupled with the fact he was starving, had left him defeated and weak.

  “There ye are, ye bastard!”

  “Oy! Look at the size of ‘im! Fecking giant!”

  “He’s a white man. Drag ‘im around and let’s get a look at ‘im.”

  Rowan waited for the knife or the bullet that would end this nightmare. It was no use attempting to escape—he was too weak to do it and there was nowhere to go. He hung his head as if willing himself to descend into unconsciousness. There was nothing he could do now.

  The rough hands settled him on his knees in a clearing. Rowan was already bare chested and barefooted, wearing only jagged pieces of his trousers. Amid the babel of the pirates’ raucous voices—many of them in a language Rowan didn’t recognize—he heard one deep, booming voice rise above the others as it approached.

  “Check ‘im for weapons.”

  Rowan felt harsh hands plunge into his pocket, where they found his lighter.

  The lighter Ella had given him.

  He shook himself out of his stupor and made an attempt to stop the man. When he opened his eyes, he saw the tall pirate that he’d seen on deck was standing before him, regarding him. Seconds later, he felt an explosion of pain at the back of his head that flung him seamlessly, mercifully, into blackness.

  It wasn’t long enough.

  He jerked violently into consciousness with the onslaught of freezing salt water that seemed to consume him, threatening to drown him, coughing and clawing at the water to break the surface. Within moments, he realized he was not in the ocean, but lying on a moving wooden deck, the river of seawater that had been thrown in his face beneath him. He opened his eyes just before the bucket was also thrown at his head and he attempted, ineffectively, to avoid it.

  He felt the blackness creeping up to take him again.

  “Oy! Whydja do that? We’re to get him on his feet, not knock ‘im out again!”

  Rowan felt a hard kick to his side and he instinctively folded up to protect himself. He felt himself plunged into a stomach-buckling nausea as he was jerked to his feet.

  “Look alive, mkubwa. Captain wants to see you.”

  Rowan opened his eyes and saw that he was indeed on the pirate ship. Each side of the narrow ship featured six small cannons jutting out of the gunwales. There was a small staircase of eight steps that led to the quarterdeck with the pilot wheel—and the tall pirate Rowan had briefly seen on the island.

  He allowed himself to be half dragged up the steps. At the top, he turned his head to see if the island was visible. It wasn’t an option for him, he knew, but it might tell him how long he’d been out.

  They were surrounded only by ocean.

  “So our guest has awakened, I see,” the captain said. He stood before Rowan wearing a long black coat over a white blouse and dark, loden-colored trousers. His high boots were black and looked new.

  In his hand, he tossed and caught Rowan’s lighter.

  “Interesting device you have here, giant,” the captain said. “I wonder if you know what it is?”

  Rowan glanced at his lighter and forced himself not to grab for it. He gave his captor a baleful look and didn’t respond.

  “Let me put it another way. Where did you get it?”

  When Rowan still didn’t speak, the captain looked at one of the men holding Rowan. “Ask our friend what language he speaks.”

  The man, a slim black man who had called him mkubwa, stepped in front of Rowan and slammed his fist into his stomach. Rowan groaned and began to collapse but the other man holding him was now joined by a second who held him up and his arms back.

  “I speak English, you bastard,” Rowan growled.

  The captain stopped throwing the lighter in the air and looked closely at Rowan. Without another word, he tucked the lighter in his pocket and dismissed the men with a wave of his hand. He turned to face the large oaken helm.

  When two men dragged Rowan back to the lower level, a small thin man with long greasy hair directed them to position him in front of the main mast. Rowan could tell this was another man-in-charge, although nowhere on the level of the captain.

  The man stood in front of Rowan with his hands on his skinny hips. He was short, his chest concave and weak. He wore a green headscarf over dreadlocks that hung to his shoulders and were coated in whale oil. He peered into Rowan’s face and nodded. “White. Big as a bullock. English. Got people looking for ye, arsehole?”

  When Rowan didn’t answer, the man shrugged. “Me name’s Mr. Toad,” he said. “I’m Quartermaster on the Die Hard and I will own ye body and soul for the rest of yer stay with us. Savvy?”

  Rowan nodded, his face set in a scowl.

  “That’s fine. Now. What work do ye do?”

  Rowan looked over the little bastard’s shoulder to the endless waves and white caps of the Atlantic Ocean.

  Somewhere over there, beyond the
re, had to be North Africa and Egypt. But nowhere, anywhere, would he find Ella and Tater. No matter how hard he looked.

  “I am talking to ye, ye motherless bastard. What is it ye do? Can ye navigate? Cook?”

  Rowan felt his eyes glazing over and he dragged them back to the little man in front of him. He could see sadism nearly radiating off him in waves. He was an evil little man looking to make the world a little more miserable for everyone in it.

  “It’s a long way where we’re going, so it is,” Toad said, “and we won’t have any what won’t work. So I’ll ask ye again and I know ye understand me. What work do ye do?”

  Rowan looked at the man and spoke flatly. “None I’d be willing to do for you.”

  Toad smiled immediately and Rowan saw the delight reach his eyes as well as his mouth. “Oh, wrong answer, mkubwa. Wrong fecking answer.”

  With a gesture to the men holding Rowan that was imperceptible to him, Toad took a step back and, without looking, reached for the coiled horsewhip that was hung by the ratlines. Rowan was spun around and his face was smashed into the side of the main mast. The men wrenched his arms over this head and lashed them to the mast.

  When the first lash hit—a white-hot trail of agony that ignited all his senses and awoke every nascent hint of dread in him—Rowan jerked violently in an attempt to escape it. The next and the next and the next lash followed quickly, brutally, crisscrossing his back in a demonic network of pain.

  As Rowan closed his eyes to the torture, he tilted his head upward and looked at his hands tied to the pole. Just before he passed out, he saw that his wedding ring was gone.

  Rowan opened one eye when he heard the scurrying of rodent feet near his face. The movement startled the rat but it didn’t run. For a moment, Rowan and the vermin just regarded each other. Finally, jerking away from the beast, Rowan succeeded in sending it scampering and he watched it disappear into the wall of the wooden jail.

  He was sorry now he did that. He was sorry he moved. He was extremely sorry he was awake. His back was a latticework of undulating agony. Now that he thought about it, it was the pain that wakened him, not the sound of the rat. He positioned himself on his side, careful not to touch his back to the wall. The brig was dark, the wooden slats of the floor wet and slimy, the odor of the place a combination of death meets diarrhea and rotting food.