The Art of Stealing Time

SEVEN

The night was long. Hellishly long. That was a better description, Gregory decided somewhere around two in the morning. Not only did he have a sleepless night in which to consider his sins, mostly focused on the fact that he had charged into Anwyn without official permission, but he didn’t even have the deliciously ripe form of Gwen to distract him.

“Blast it all,” he said into the close, dark night.

“You can say that again,” came the soft reply.

He stopped staring at the stone ceiling—which he couldn’t see once the guards turned off the lights for the night—and squinted across the cell. Was it his imagination, or could he make out a dark shape that was Gwen’s cot? “Are you awake, too?”

“No. Go back to sleep.”

“I haven’t been to sleep, so I can’t go back to it.” He hoped she would reply. If she would at least talk to him, then he stood a fair chance of wooing his way onto her cot. Or having her come and “tend” him again. That had been most pleasant, and not a little bit surprising.

“I like your mouth,” he said conversationally, putting his hands behind his head as he once again looked up into the darkness. “It is sweet, and hot, and very enjoyable.”

“We are not having this conversation.”

He smiled to himself. She had refused to speak to him for hours, her breath evening out until he thought she had dozed off. But he had been wrong.

What he hadn’t been wrong about was her interest in him. No woman could kiss him like she had if she wasn’t the littlest bit attracted to him.

“I liked how your tongue touched mine. But it seemed to lose interest.”

He cocked his head, but there was no reply.

“I did enjoy how it twined around mine after that, though. It was very erotic.”

There was a small noise in the darkness, like that of a frustrated woman stifling a sigh into a pillow, followed by the determined rustle of blankets.

“I also very much liked touching your breasts.”

An exhalation of breath. Good. She was listening to him, at least.

“I like that they are . . .” He let the silence build for a minute and a half before there was a sharp sound of blankets being pushed back, and the squeak of a bed frame.

“What?” Gwen demanded to know. “They are what? Horrible? Repulsive? Off-putting?”

“Abundant. And warm. And so very sensitive to my touch.”

“They are not sensitive to your touch,” Gwen said in a huffy tone and from the sound of it, lay back down on the cot.

“No? So the thought of me touching them right now isn’t making your nipples tighten in anticipation?”

“Certainly not!”

“The idea of me nuzzling them, licking them, taking the tips of them into my mouth doesn’t stimulate you in the least?”

“Not at all.”

He smiled. Her voice sounded strangled, and he could swear her breath was coming faster.

“Odd. I freely admit that the thought of your breasts, of touching them, of rubbing my cheeks on them, of tasting them and pressing them against my bare chest makes me hard.” Sadly, that was very much the truth. He shifted on the cot, trying to ease his now strained fly.

She didn’t answer, but he heard the sound of her legs moving restlessly. That thought led to another. “I bet your belly is sublime.”

“You’d so lose that bet.”

“Really? What is it, if not sublime?”

“A stomach. A poochy stomach. If you haven’t noticed, I’m a big girl.”

“Statuesque.”

“Large.”

“An Amazon goddess.”

“Mom Two says plump is in these days. I hope so, because I can’t seem to lose this last twenty pounds no matter how many Zumba classes I go to.”

“I don’t care for women who have no padding on their bones. I prefer my woman with curves, and ample flesh for me to caress.”

She snorted. “You’re worth your weight in gold, then, because most men like skinny women.”

“That is their loss. Would you like me to go over there and show you just how much I appreciate your lushness?”

“No!” There was a whump as she obviously turned over, no doubt giving him her back again. He wondered if she knew that he simply had admired her delectable bottom when she’d done so earlier. Probably it was best not to mention it.

Then again . . . “You have a nice ass, too.”

“Bloody hell, Gregory!” she snapped as the cot squeaked again, followed by the slap of two bare feet hitting the stone floor. He could just imagine her shaking a finger at him. “Stop cataloging my body! I’m trying to sleep over here.”

“You are not. You are trying very hard to not imagine me naked.”

The startled inhalation of breath confirmed that wild shot (literally in the dark). “You are deranged.” She curled up again.

“It’s all right. I’m doing the same. Imagining you naked, that is. I already know what I look like.”

She muttered something under her breath, but refused to rise to his bait.

A thought struck him. “You appear to be shy about things of a sexual nature.”

“I am not shy!”

“You were shy when you kissed me. You touched the tip of my tongue with your own, and then seemed to be overwhelmed with the sensation.”

“That is not shy. That is just . . . circumspect.”

“Since you are shy, would you like me to describe myself?”

“No!” Their silence was pregnant with unspoken thought that quickly became spoken. “I am not interested in what you look like naked. You are the Watch. You want to arrest my moms. You could look like Adonis, and I couldn’t care less.”

Ah, so that was what bothered her. He had had a suspicion that she was feeling threatened by his employment. Unfortunately, he couldn’t reassure her that he meant her family no harm, when the truth was that he fully intended to arrest her mothers. Bringing in criminals who posed such a threat to the well-being of the Otherworld was likely going to be the only way he could salvage his career after he’d disobeyed orders.

He decided to set aside that problem for the moment. It wouldn’t be resolved then and there, and he wanted to have Gwen fully on his side before he had to make the arrest.

Thoughts of how he could present his case to her filled his head, and he didn’t realize how long he’d been quiet thinking that over until she interrupted his thoughts.

“Well?”

“Hmm?”

Her voice was disgruntled. “Aren’t you going to tell me anyway?”

He chuckled to himself. She truly was a joyful contradiction. He was certainly no stranger to women, and knew full well what effect his appearance had on them, but Gwen’s refusal to be lumped in with those women amused him. And entertained him. And most dangerous of all, intrigued him.

“I’m six foot one, blond, and have blue eyes.”

“I can see that for myself, thank you. Oh, forget it. It’s not like I want to know.”

“My tailor would tell you that my waist size is thirty-four and my inseam is thirty-two. My shirt size—”

“I am not going to be knitting you a sweater!” she burst out, interrupting him. “I don’t need to know your shirt size.”

Silence fell. It lasted thirty seconds.

She sighed. “Fine. What is your shirt size?”

He told her. She muttered under her breath again.

“If I came over to your cot, would you strike me in any way?”

“Yes. Possibly. Almost certainly.”

“I’ve been wounded already tonight.”

She chewed that over. “I wouldn’t punch you in the face, but I don’t want to kiss you again.” The words choked to a stop, and she quickly corrected herself. “I don’t want you to kiss . . . dammit!”

He wiggled his toes in delight. She wanted so badly to lie to him, to deny the attraction, and yet her own moral code wouldn’t allow it. He began to think that perhaps a few weeks in her company might not be enough.

“Just . . . stay over there! I’m going to sleep now. And no, I don’t want to hear you describe your body anymore. I’ve had enough.”

He let her be, partly because he had believed her when she said earlier that she hadn’t had much sleep, but mostly because he wanted to study the problem of how to overcome her objections to his position with the Watch.

The lights came on sometime around six a.m., and an hour later breakfast was served.

The guard raised his eyes at the two of them lying on their respective cots, but said nothing, just delivered a five-star-hotel-quality breakfast of fruit, omelet, and the best bacon he’d ever eaten and then left them.

They ate, but conversation was desultory. He tried a couple of times to get her chatting about her work as an alchemist, but she curled up on the cot and pretended to read one of the magazines that had been delivered with the breakfast.

Gregory thought some more, found no solution, and instead paced the perimeter of the cell looking for possible means of escape. He found none other than the very solid door.

“I don’t suppose you would care to cast the spell you used in order to get out of the bathroom in Slugs-Upon-Snails?” he inquired politely at one point.

“I’ve told you,” she answered without looking up from the magazine. “The name of that little town is Malwod-Upon-Ooze, and no, I can’t. I don’t have the spell with me.”

“You don’t remember it?” He was momentarily surprised by that thought. He’d assumed she was well versed in the art of magic, given her mothers’ backgrounds.

She shot him a quick look. “No. I’m really bad at magic, so my mothers gave up trying to teach me. I can cast simple spells, but only if I have them written out in front of me.”

“Blast,” he said.

She did not reply. He continued to pace, very aware of her warm presence, while the scent of her made him think of all sorts of ways he’d give her pleasure when she finally admitted their mutual attraction.

It was about two hours later that the captain of the guard opened the door again. “Come on—’is lordship wants to see you both.”

“The king?” Gregory asked, holding out a hand for Gwen.

She spurned his hand and strode past him through the door, her head held high.

“Aye. There’s been a letter about you two, there ’as.”

“What did the letter say?” he asked politely as they climbed the stairs to the ground floor. Immediately, three cats that had been curled up together on a bench stood, stretched, and jumped down to follow them.

“No clue. I’m not privy to messages from the front.”

Gwen stumbled. He grabbed her, but he needn’t have worried that she would fall—judging by the look of concern that suddenly appeared in her eyes, she had something on her mind.

“What is it?” he asked softly as they followed after the guard as he led the way out the great hall to the courtyard.

Gwen slid a glance at him, looking away quickly, but he could tell by the way she bit her lower lip that she was distressed.

He wanted to bite her lower lip. That thought wafted through his mind and refused to be ousted. He reminded himself that he was an honorable man, a man who cherished women and did not view them as mere playthings. Gwen especially deserved to be treated with respect and care, and if she was worried about something, now was not the time to be thinking about just how wonderful it would be to bite that lush little pink lip. Or to taste her mouth again. And certainly not what the feel of her tongue touching his did to his various and sundry lower parts.

He really wanted to bite that lip.

“You know that if I can help you in any way, I will,” he said, pulling her back so they were out of Al’s hearing.

“It’s . . . it’s just that the letter is probably from Douglas.”

“I have no doubt that it is. Why are you so concerned? The worst he can tell the king is that we were sent here because we are prisoners, and we’ve already acquired that status.”

“You don’t know these people,” she said with a little jerk of her hand in his. He wondered briefly how her hand had come to be there, and then decided that he liked it. His fingers tightened in support.

“You don’t either.”

“I’ve been here longer than you.”

“By about twelve hours.”

She made a disgusted noise. “That’s long enough to know that they aren’t normal.”

“Well, this is the afterlife.”

She waved that away with her free hand. “This goes beyond that. I’d expect some quirky characters to be hanging around, but these guys are just downright strange. Take that Ethan guy. He had dogs everywhere at his camp. And this place is overrun with cats. Not to mention the fact that the king has a Velociphant, whatever that turns out to be. Who do you know who has a million cats and a Velociphant?”

“You have a point.”

Her thumb stroked absently over the back of his hand. Inexplicably, the touch made his groin tighten.

“I’m telling you, this isn’t going to be good news.”

He released her hand, sliding his arm around her to pull her up to his side. She shot him a startled look, but didn’t object when he said, “Then we’ll face it together. I won’t let anyone harm you, Gwen. Have no fear of that.”

He felt brave, and strong, and very much like a warrior of old, protecting his woman from a herd of marauding Vikings. Or Goths. Or whoever it was who stormed castles and caused men like him to defend women like Gwen. History had never been his strong point.

Al led them through various outbuildings to a lower section that was surrounded by thick walls. Gregory glanced back and was only moderately surprised to note that the main structure was, indeed, a castle. One with tall pointy bits, and parapets, and other castle-ish details that he couldn’t remember the names of, assuming there had been a time when he knew them. As they emerged from between two small sheds, Gregory stopped, Gwen at his side, both of them stupefied by the vision that lay before them.

“I take it that is a Velociphant,” Gwen said.

“I would assume so. It looks mechanical, and Aaron said he needed someone with engineering experience.”

“Come along, come along. ’is lordship doesn’t ’ave much patience when things are going awry with ’is contraption.”

They moved forward again at the guard’s urging, Gregory examining the large structure that squatted like a mechanical behemoth. Scaffolding surrounded it on one side, with a half dozen men crawling all over it. Three wooden tables had been set up nearby it, both littered with papers that appeared to be held down by a couple of cats curled up with paws tucked under their fronts. At one table, the king of the Underworld stood with another man, both of them consulting what appeared to be plans for the machine. Beyond them, about twenty feet away, a woman clad in an orange blazer and white walking shorts stood talking to a group of about ten people.

“—famed Velociphant,” the woman was saying as they passed her. “The king intends on using it to mow down an uprising of trees and shrubs. You will notice that in lieu of teeth, it has a set of spinning blades reminiscent of a large lawn mower. Oh, goodness, we are in luck today. Just arriving on the scene to plead for their lives are two prisoners. A little bird told me that they were getting up to some pretty racy hijinks last night as seen by our After-Hours Tour (five pounds per person, old-age pensioners two pounds fifty). Now, if you’ll come this way, we’ll have a quick peek in at the foundry to see where the Velociphant’s parts are created, and then be on our way to the gift shop, where you can buy not only a miniature reproduction of the Velociphant but also a life-sized stand-up of Lord Aaron in traditional Underworld garb. Follow me!”

“This is really the strangest place I’ve ever been in,” Gwen said in a whisper.

“It’s definitely not what one thinks of as an afterlife.”

The tour moved off with only a few people snapping photos of Gwen and Gregory. Aaron and his buddy both ignored them. A cat was draped along the former’s shoulders, its tail flicking gently as the king raised an arm and gestured toward the machine.

“M’lord, I’ve brought the prisoners what you requested.” Al made a bow, with a little flourish toward Gregory and Gwen.

“Eh? Oh, it’s you two again.” Aaron turned his head, found himself staring up the nose of the cat, and with an annoyed tch removed the animal. It jumped up to the nearest table, and with careful deliberation, stepped into an upturned top hat that was resting next to a cane. “The thief and the other one.”

“I would object to being referred to as ‘the other one,’ but given my options, I’ll settle for it,” Gwen said, moving a few steps away from Gregory.

Al murmured something about some tanning to be done and left them.

Gregory did not like the sense of loss he felt at the removal of Gwen’s warmth pressed to his side. He frowned at her, but she was too busy staring with wonder at the machine that loomed over them. “I, however, have no compunction in denying the term ‘thief’ as applied to me. I am a Traveller.”

“A thief, yes, that’s what I said. It’s a fine beast, isn’t it?” Aaron turned to Gwen to ask the question of her. Pride was evident in both the satisfied expression on his face and the fat note of congratulation in his voice. “It’s been seven years in the making, but at last it’s about ready to be unleashed. Behold, thief and the other one: the Piranha Mark Five.”

Gregory dragged his gaze away from Gwen and studied the machine for a few minutes. Its shape bore a vague resemblance to a giant elephant, with a thick, bulbous head, a rounded back, and four girders for legs, but unlike the actual animal, this was made up of metal struts, cogwheels, pistons, and valves. A little hiss of steam emerged from the nearest valve. The man next to Aaron shouted and pointed at it, sending a worker to scurry over and give the round control a twist.

“It’s very large,” Gregory said, since obviously the king was expecting some sort of comment. “Why do you call it a piranha when it resembles an elephant?”

“It’s bitey,” Aaron said. “Also, once it has my enemies in its dread maw, it will consume them with much gnashing of its internal shredding blades.”

“Ew,” Gwen said, giving the king a disgusted look. “That’s just mean, even for the Underworld.”

“I have been sorely grieved,” Aaron said, turning when his man said something. “Yes, yes, go attend to the lubrication of the pistons. We must have it working no later than tomorrow. Oh, no, not now.”

The man made an abbreviated move to collect his hat, now serving as a cat container, grabbing his cane instead as he trotted off to yell and gesture and assumedly order the workers about. Gregory turned to see what Aaron was frowning at. The blonde from the day before tripped lightly down the hill. She was escorted by a semicircle of cats, each of which wore a golden collar equipped with bells that tinkled gently.

“Arawn! I want to talk to you!”

“Ignore her,” Aaron said, turning his back to the approaching woman. “If you don’t speak to her, she’ll get angry and go away. That gentleman was my chief engineer,” he added, waving at the man who was now yelling at some workmen.

“Arawn!”

Aaron strolled to the second table, where he pulled out a blueprint from under two cats, both of which got up and leaped off the table to join the approaching feline guard. “A solid man, but not brilliant, if you know what I mean. We’re having a bit of a problem with one of the legs. It wants to move out of rhythm from the others.” He looked up at them. “You’re sure you don’t have any mechanical engineering experience?”

“None,” Gregory told him. “Nor, I believe, does Gwen.”

“My Google Fu is very strong, though,” she added. “I’m a whiz at looking up information.”

“Will you stop behaving like an infant!” Constance reached them with a swirl of cats. She glared first at Gwen, then Gregory, and finally settled on Aaron. “What are the prisoners doing out of the dungeon?”

“Hmm? Oh, it’s you.” Aaron shook his blueprints and pretended to be absorbed. “I’m busy. Go away.”

“The prisoners!” Constance snatched the blueprints from him. His resulting scowl was fierce enough that Gwen took a step closer to Gregory.

He smiled at her.

“You could have told me you were having them executed! You know how I always enjoy a good morning execution! It’s just like you to be so completely selfish as to keep it to yourself.” She glanced around, her lips a thin line. “Where’s the executioner?”

“We don’t have one,” Aaron said, and tried to reclaim his blueprints. “Release my plans, woman!”

“What did you do with him? We had one a little while ago. I remember distinctly that we had one. There was that pesky demon who infiltrated his way into Anwyn, and you gave me a grand execution of it as a birthday present.”

“That was centuries ago. Jabez, the executioner, turned out to be a first-rate blacksmith. He’s at work in the foundry now,” Aaron said through clenched teeth, still trying to wrestle the plans from Constance. “Release your hold, besom! This paper is worth more than your life!”

“Don’t be a bigger fool than you already are,” she snapped back. “If there’s no executioner, then you’ll just have to kill them yourself.”

Aaron looked horrified at the idea. “I am not a killer!”

“You’re the head of the Underworld,” she answered, releasing her hold on the blueprint. Aaron staggered back a couple of steps at the unexpected move. “Of course you’re a killer. You’ve murdered countless people over the centuries.”

“Those were during wars. Everyone kills other people in wars. It doesn’t mean you’re going to volunteer the next time a couple of prisoners need their heads lopped off.” Aaron glared at the nearest cat, which had plumped down on half of the plans that were draped across the table. “Move it or lose it, furball.”

“Fine!” Constance drew herself up and looked down her nose at Aaron. “Be that way! Ruin all my fun, just as you always do. Get an ice pick and I’ll do the job myself.”

“Whoa now!” Gwen protested. “We are not going to allow you or anyone else to execute us! We haven’t done anything wrong!” She paused a moment, slid Gregory a look from the corner of her eye, and amended that statement. “Not lately, anyway.”

“No one is going to harm us,” Gregory told her with much calmness and serenity. He didn’t like to see Gwen with that hint of fear in her eyes. He much preferred her trying to deny her attraction to him. “This woman is all bluster.”

Constance gave him an almond-eyed look. “Give me an ice pick and you’ll find out for yourself.”

Gwen gasped.

“Go!” Aaron ordered, jerking the blueprint from under the cat so that he could wave it at his ex-wife. “Leave. Begone. You are not wanted here.”

“But I want to see the ex—”

“Leave before I feed those beasts to my Piranha!” he roared.

Constance opened and closed her mouth a couple of times before leveling him with a look that Gregory felt could well have brought down an entire skyscraper. “Fine! Take all my fun, you selfish, irritating man! Come, my children. We will seek out Daddy’s shoes and piddle in them!”

“I do hope she’s talking only about the cats and not herself,” Gwen said sotto voce as Constance spun on her heel and marched off accompanied by most of the cats.

“There are days when I have my suspicions,” Aaron said darkly, then frowned at them, seeming to recollect why they were there. “Since my executioner is at present busy making a new knee strut, and also since you can’t make yourself useful to me by working on the Piranha, then you shall have to do so by other means.”

“What other means?” Gregory asked, suspicion gripping him in its sticky embrace.

“You’re a thief,” Aaron said, frowning slightly at the plans as he read them over. “You will steal for me.”

“I’ve told you: I’m not a thief. I’m a Traveller.”

“And Travellers steal time,” Aaron said without looking up. “So it should be no problem for you to take a few things that I want. After all, they were mine to begin with.”

“What things?” Gwen asked, leaning against the table, one hand stroking the nearest cat.

“My dog, my deer, and most of all, my bird.”

“Your what now?” Gwen’s nose wrinkled in a delightful manner that wholly enchanted Gregory. He wanted to kiss her nose. And her lip. And, if he was honest with himself, the rest of her.

Aaron looked up and gave her a dissatisfied look. “My bitch, my white roebuck, and my lapwing. They were stolen from me by that fiend Ethan and his trickster brother.”

A memory smote Gregory alongside his head. “Ethan? Would that be Amaethon ab Don?”

“That’s the fellow, the devil blast his hide.” Aaron’s expression turned highly incensed. He shook the blueprint at Gregory. “He stole them and then when I tried to get them back, he declared war against me. Me! Have you ever heard of anything so devious?”

“Yes, but I admit that I’ve also heard about this. My partner was reading me something about Anwyn before I came here, but I could have sworn he said it was mythology.”

“Bah. Where do you think the myths come from?” Aaron snorted, tossing aside the plans. “I want my things back, and you can just steal them for me.”

“I’m not a thief.”

“If you don’t get them back”—Aaron’s voice turned sly—“you’ll spend the rest of your not inconsiderable days in my dungeon. As for you—”

He turned to Gwen. She looked startled. “You said you didn’t need an alchemist.”

“I don’t, but my soldiers at the front inform me that you’re one of Ethan’s warriors who wanted out of his service. I will grant you a place with my contingent.”

Gwen looked like she was going to protest, but evidently she thought better of it, because she just looked thoughtful for a few seconds before saying something that took Gregory by surprise. “All right.”

“You can’t be serious,” Gregory said.

“Why can’t I? I’d rather be a warrior than be stuck in a dungeon.”

She had a point, damn it. He considered stealing enough time to keep them from being captured in the first place, but knew that down that path lay only grief and sorrow.

“Very well. Since Gwen doesn’t mind being forced into a role that isn’t by nature hers—”

“Hey! I could be a warrior if I wanted to!”

“—then I will do likewise. I accept your offer of an exchange for our freedom if I return to you the three items stolen.”

Aaron made a notation in a leather journal. “I don’t believe I made any mention about granting you freedom.”

“Then mention it now. Those are our terms,” Gregory said firmly. He put his arm around Gwen again in order to give her support, but mostly because he just liked the feel of her tucked up next to him. “They are not negotiable.”

Her frown was potent, but she didn’t object to the fact that he spoke for her.

Aaron’s face was stormy for a few seconds, then cleared up as he shrugged. “Very well. You will have your freedom once you return what was stolen from me and the other one has served the span of a moon in my army.”

“Two days,” Gwen countered. “I’ll be a soldier for two days.”

“A fortnight,” Aaron countered.

She narrowed her eyes at him. “A week. That’s my final offer.”

“Done. You may go to the stables and tell the grooms to give you a horse. You may leave immediately.”

He returned to making notes in his notebook, clearly dismissing them from his thoughts.

Gregory didn’t stay to argue; with a slight pressure on Gwen’s waist, he started back up the hill to the castle with her.

“One thing . . .”

They stopped as Aaron’s voice, suspiciously silky, reached them. They turned together to look back.

The king’s gaze was filled with portent. “The mortals have a saying. Perhaps you’ve heard it? Hir yw’r dydd a hir yw’r nos, a hir yw aros Arawn.”

“I don’t speak Welsh,” Gregory said.

“I do.” Gwen hesitated, then translated, “Long is the day and long is the night, and long is the waiting of Arawn.”

“The mortals think that refers to the events of the past, but really, it touches on the fact that I always, no matter how long it takes, have my revenge for a betrayal.” Aaron smiled. “Something to remember, yes?”