Out of Time 01 - Out of Time

Chapter One
    T he nightmares had come again.
    Simon Cross pushed himself off the bed and away from the cold, sweat-soaked sheets. His heart racing, his breath quick and rough, he forced his eyes to adjust to the dark room as the last vestiges of sleep faded.
    He glared down at his bed, as if it were to blame, as if the sheets and pillows had knowingly harbored the nightmare. He felt a surge of panic and escaped from the darkened bedroom.
    The moon was nearly full and cast its silvery light through the open curtains giving the living room an unearthly glow. Vague shadows stretched out like the taunting specters of his nightmare. Ignoring everything but his destination, he strode to the liquor cabinet. His hands trembled as he poured a stiff Scotch and downed it in one swig. Without pause, he poured another. His hands gripped the crystal glass as he tried in vain to keep it from clattering on the silver tray.
    Disgusted with his weakness, he slammed the bottle down and clamped his eyes shut. His hands still trembled.
    “Bloody hell.”
    The last time he’d had a nightmare like this was over thirty years ago. Yet, the memory rang with sharp clarity in his mind. His grandfather. The violence. The blood. And above all, the helplessness.
    Simon let out a short burst of breath. He tried to convince himself this had merely been another dream. Another dream about her.
    Ignoring the stacks of open boxes littering the floor, he tightened his jaw, grabbed the glass of Scotch and prowled across the room. He’d dreamt of her before. He was, after all, only human. She was attractive, intelligent and everything he wanted, but could never have. It was only natural she’d be in his thoughts. But there was nothing natural about this dream. This nightmare. This wasn’t a fool’s late night fantasy, brought on by loneliness and assuaged by a cold shower. This was something unspeakable.
    Unconsciously, he clenched and unclenched his free hand. No concrete images remained, just an unwavering sense of horror, of an inevitable evil.
    Exactly as it had been before.
    He took another drink and concentrated on the warm burning sensation as the liquor seeped down into his chest. There was no avoiding the harbinger of his dream. With the certainty only a condemned man can feel, he knew one absolute truth.
    Elizabeth West was going to die.
    * * *
    E lizabeth had heard it all before. But no matter how many times she listened to Professor Cross’ lectures, she marveled at the way he held the class in the palm of his hand. As always, there wasn’t an empty seat in the classroom. Introduction to Occult Studies was a favorite at the University of California Santa Barbara. Most students were there for the excitement of it, the dark abiding thrill of all things supernatural, like attending a semester-long horror movie. A few, like herself, were there for something more.
    When she’d taken his class as an undergraduate, floating along in the sea of the undeclared, she had no idea that four years later she’d be his graduate teaching assistant working toward her Masters in Occult Studies. A meandering path through her Humanities requirements had left her still wanting for something. While all the courses were interesting, none of them sparked her interest. Until she happened upon Professor Cross’ class.
    In retrospect, she wasn’t sure if it was the man or the subject that had first drawn her in, and in the end it didn’t matter. It had taken persistence and a thick skin to convince him she was serious about becoming his graduate teaching assistant. At first, she didn’t understand why he’d tried to dissuade her. After attending one Board of Chancellors meeting in his stead, she had a pretty good idea. Occult Studies was nothing more than a curiosity in their eyes. The poor foster child of interdepartmental parents, Occult Studies was hardly recognized as a serious area of academia. Technically it fell under the auspices of Folklore and Mythology, but for Professor Cross it was a life’s work and something very real. His passion inspired her, in more ways than one.
    Elizabeth watched him pace slowly behind the lectern, hypnotizing the class with his fluid movements, setting them up for the kill. His keen eyes scanned the classroom, pulling each student under his spell. When his eyes fell upon her, he paused, almost losing his place. He frowned and continued. No one else noticed the minor lapse, but claxons went off in Elizabeth’s