Page 127 of Eternal Surrender

“What about the past, present and future bit?”

I glanced at the note. “Still working on that.”

“So this is Fabian’s way of using code?”

“Just in case his message didn’t reach us. Or if it got into the wrong hands.”

“Does he have enemies?”

“Fabian’s one of the oldest of my kind. He’s sought after.”

“Why does he want to see me?”

“Not sure.” I shot her a look. “Consider this a privilege. This is where history gets interesting.”

I wanted to tell her I had fallen for her. That I loved her. That Jadeon had always loved her, and that the more outrageous part of me, Orpheus, was quietly, hopelessly obsessed. Of course he was. She looked like Sunaria in ways that went far beyond the physical.

I wanted to reach for her hand. For a moment, I did. Her palm turned into mine, warm and trusting, and I closed my fingers around it.

We didn’t speak. I just held her like this, letting the silence say what I couldn’t, that I cared for her deeply, that I wanted the best for her, and that, even though I could never be the one for her, no matter how much I wished it otherwise, I had fallen deeply and irrevocably in love with her.

“What do you want from me?” She whispered it.

I pulled my hand away from her, pining the warmth of her touch, and gripped the steering wheel, trying to find the words to tell her my feelings.

My silence was deliberate, shrouded in wisdom, a shield to keep her safe.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Screams echoed down the long, black corridor.

The strobe lighting made us blink. When the axe swung dangerously close and the man wielding it let out a maniacal laugh, Ingrid nudged up closer to me.

We were standing with a crowd of twenty other people and that made it fairly easy to dissolve into the background of the London Bridge tour group.

Trevor, our young cockney guide, made a sweeping gesture and said, “Those who dare to enter London’s Tomb will find the secrets to its past.”

Together the crowd meandered after him through the brass gates, seemingly enjoying the first part of the tour.

Trevor jangled a large bunch of keys, continuing. “In the year 60 BC, Queen Boudicca gave the order for the bridge to be burned down.”

I whispered to Ingrid. “She was Queen of the Brittonic Iceni tribe.”

“Once her command was given,” Trevor’s voice boomed with rehearsed passion, “the slaughter ensued. Bodies were laid to waste across the city, and others could be seen floating down the river. The stench of death reached every part of London.”

My gaze slid to Ingrid’s stilettos, the tips of her shoes resting upon a faded terrazzo tile, upon which a faint hourglass was etched. I took Ingrid’s left hand and held her back, waiting for the last tourist to disappear around the corner.

Ingrid followed my gaze and knelt, tracing her fingers over the etching.

I knelt beside her and pointed to the drawing’s lower compartment, symbolizing where the sand gathered. “Past.”

Ingrid gestured to the upper compartment. “Future.” Her forefinger slid to the thinnest part. “Present.”

Together our eyes moved up to the brick wall.

“Excuse me!” the cockney voice reached us.

We stood to greet the young woman with Staff printed on the front of her black shirt.