Page 34 of The Devouring Time

As we walk, Adrian glances over his shoulder frequently. “Are we being followed?” I ask.

“I hope not.” He sighs. “Usually, I’m the one doing the following. I’m not used to being on the opposite end of things.”

Hopefully Irvin was the only one trailing us to begin with, though I doubt our luck is that good. Either way, it doesn’t take us long to reach Cleo’s apartment building. We take the stairs to avoid being seen by the elevator operator, letting ourselves out on the fifth floor.

Cleo’s apartment is much nicer than mine, though only a bit larger. Persian rugs lay scattered artfully on the floor, an elegant vase of lilies stands atop a marble-topped table, and mirrors in gilded frames give an illusion of spaciousness. She even has a telephone, tucked into its own nook not far from the door.

As Adrian closes and locks the door behind us, I look around at the inviting furniture and wince. “I don’t dare sit down with my clothing like this.”

Adrian grimaces his agreement. “Pass me your suit coat—that will take care of the worst of it. I’ll grab a sheet from the linen closet and put it over the couch so we don’t get soot everywhere.”

I do as instructed, then help him spread the sheet. When I sit down, the cushions give gently beneath me, and I’m unsure I’ll be able to get up as easily.

Adrian passes a hand over his hair. “You hungry?”

“Yes.”

“Let me see if Cleo has anything to eat in her kitchen. Then we’ll talk.”

He vanishes into the kitchenette, rummages around audibly, then calls, “Cleo still doesn’t cook—there’s just bread and cheese. Is a toasted cheese sandwich all right?”

My stomach growls as if to remind me of its emptiness. “It sounds wonderful.”

Not long after, the delicious smell of frying bread fills the apartment. I join Adrian at the small dining table—spreading a towel over the cushion before I sit—and he slides a sandwich, a half-empty package of Hydrox cookies, and a bottled root beer in front of me. “Welcome to Chez Evans.”

I tuck into my sandwich with gusto. “Excellent,” I say through a mouthful of cheese and bread.

“Only the best for you.” Adrian winks at me, and heat rises to my cheeks. He’d rolled up his shirt sleeves to cook, exposing strong, brown forearms, and I’m suddenly aware we’re completely alone and likely will be for a while.

I clear my throat and take a gulp of root beer to wash down the toasted cheese. Before long, only crumbs remain of the sandwiches, and we’ve put a dent in the cookies. “We need to talk,” Adrian finally says. “If you don’t mind doing the dishes, I’ll get some paper so we can write down what we know. If we get our thoughts out in front of us, maybe we can make sense of all this.”

I doubt any of this will make sense no matter how we look at it…but Adrian is the investigator, not me. I collect the plates and bottles, scrub them in the small sink, and set them to dry. By the time I’m done, Adrian has returned to the table with a legal pad and pencil. “I had a notebook,” he says when I take a seat next to him. “Unfortunately, it was in my bag when we fled the Fosters.”

“We could go back and ask them to return it.”

It draws a chuckle from him. “I’m sure they’d return it. Cannibals are known for their polite behavior.” He positions the paper so we can both see it clearly. “So, what do we know?”

“Magic is real.” I can barely believe my own words, yet the evidence is undeniable.

His full lips press together unhappily. “I hate to think of the implications, but yes. Magic seems to be real.” He writes Magic in a strong, clear hand. “What else?”

“You’re the investigator—shouldn’t you be making the list?”

He glances at me, and his mouth softens. “I want to hear your thoughts, first.”

I try to order them, though with little success. “There seem to be two groups involved. The…cult…that Hart, Davis, Myers, and others belong to. Irvin seemed to represent another group opposed to them and determined to kill me.”

“He called me a Timekeeper.” Adrian wrote the word down, then listed Hart, Davis, Myers, and Gabrielli underneath. “I’m guessing that applies to their cult, given the symbology they use. The hourglass, Chrono-Flav, the reference to horology…the dagger shaped like a clock hand.”

A chill races over me. “They killed James. Why?”

“I don’t know. They were expecting him to show up at Hart’s Leap that day, not you. But if he was involved with them, he would have gone to the meeting himself…unless he suspected something was up. Did you see his mother’s broken leg with your own eyes?”

“No. But I can’t believe he would have thrown me to the wolves so callously.” Perhaps it’s foolish, but I still cling to my hope that James was simply an innocent victim like me.

Adrian doesn’t reply immediately, just continues to scribble on the paper. Then he says, “These Timekeepers are connected with bootlegging and Vince Vitali.”

“And people like Barney Foster are losing their ability to act independently after drinking bootleg liquor.” I wrack my brain—what had Davis said? “He referred to ‘Chrysalis’ when talking about Chrono-Flav production. Moths create a chrysalis when they transform from caterpillars to adult moths, so that ties back to the Timekeeper symbol again.”