Out of Time 01 - Out of Time

off.”
    The man shook his head and turned away.
    “Hate this bloody city,” Simon growled. “Give you something then take it away. Poxy, fucking, sodding city. King Kashian... Bloody bastard!” Simon nearly knocked over his glass. “Thinks he can take her away. Thinks I won’t find him. Oh, but I’ll find him. King! King Kashian!” he called out, spinning away from the bar.
    The crowd fell silent as he staggered forward, an instant pariah. People pulled away as he shouted, “King!”
    Simon felt a hand clamp on his shoulder and tried to pull away. “Let go of me!”
    “Vinny, show this palooka the door.”
    Another hand gripped him. Before he could even begin to struggle, the pavement flew up to meet his face.
    His head hit the concrete with a sharp crack, and the pain shot straight through to his neck. He touched his forehead and felt the lump already beginning to grow. He managed to push himself up and looked down the oddly tilting street. A few shuffling footsteps later he clung to the cold, wet side of a building.
    He pushed himself along and heard the echo of footsteps trailing behind. They stopped when he stopped. Was he still being followed? Whirling around, he nearly lost his balance and a strong hand reached out to steady him.
    “Careful there, son.”
    Simon narrowed his eyes, blinking through the rain. The black night slowly encroached, shunting out what little light there was. Through the shrinking tunnel of consciousness he stared into the kindly face and choked back a sob. It couldn’t be.
    “Grandfather?”

Chapter Twenty Nine
    T ea—Chinese Gunpowder. The smell was unmistakable. Strong, slightly bitter and somehow the essence of peace. This must be a dream, Simon thought. A counterpoint to the nightmare images still dancing across his mind. A magic lantern show of the macabre.
    He took a deep breath, and the insistent odor forced him back the last few paces to consciousness. Blinking against the bright pinpricks of light that stabbed his eyes, he rolled onto his side, and a new fragrance filled his senses. Elizabeth. Soft and fading, but one he’d know among thousands. Hope flared in his chest and then died a premature death. An empty bed and no Elizabeth. The last twenty-four hours fell back upon his shoulders with a crushing weight. He buried his head in the pillow and breathed in the sweet smell she’d left behind.
    “Drink this,” came a voice from behind him.
    Simon spun around on the bed with such force he thought his throbbing head would fly off his shoulders.
    He was sure it had all been a dream, a delusion. But there, not more than five feet away, in their little apartment, stood his grandfather smiling and holding out a cup of tea. He blinked a few more times and rubbed his eyes. Maybe he was still dreaming?
    “Come on, lad. Drink your tea.”
    His wits slogged through the mud of hazy memories. His hand took the offered cup, but his mind could barely manage to cobble a thought. “How did you...?” he asked before trailing off, unable to cipher out just one question.
    Sebastian Cross smiled patiently, his grey eyes crinkling at the edges. “Ah. How indeed?”
    He retrieved his own cup and sat down at the small table. “As to the tea, Mrs. Larsen graciously offered her hotplate and tea service. Delightful woman. Lives in 304, I think. Second cousin to Amundsen. Good man, Amundsen. Brilliant explorer,” he said and took a sip from his cup. “And as to the tea itself. First rule of time travel, my boy. Always bring your own tea.”
    Simon stared at him blankly. “But you’re—” He couldn’t finish the sentence and shook his head.
    His grandfather looked just as he remembered him. The herringbone suit, the knot in his tie off-center as it always was. White hair unruly as ever. Exactly as he was that last night thirty years ago. How many times had Simon wished to see him again? So many things left unsaid and not one of them would come to mind.
    “Are you real?” Simon asked, sounding every inch the little boy he felt.
    “Quite.”
    Simon placed his cup on the end table and stood, but his legs weren’t up to the task and he faltered. As he had been so many times before, Sebastian was there to steady him.
    “Take your time, son.”
    Simon looked into the weathered face smiling back kindly and swallowed the lump in his throat. He held on to the older man’s arm, afraid to let go.
    They stood together for a moment, the decades falling away. Years of longing