Darkness of Time, page 1
Published by Sara Samuels
Denver, CO 80236
First Edition
Copyright ©2023 Sara Samuels
All Rights Reserved.
Cover image copyright Krafigs Design
Editing by Rainy Kaye
Formatting Allusion Publishing
License Notes: This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people, but it can be lent according to the retailer’s coding. If you would like to give this book to another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to an online retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Epigraph
Chapter One – Olivia
Chapter Two – Roman
Chapter Three – Olivia
Chapter Four – Roman
Chapter Five – Olivia
Chapter Six – Roman
Chapter Seven – Olivia
Chapter Eight – Olivia
Chapter Nine – Olivia
Chapter Ten – Olivia
Chapter Eleven – Olivia
Chapter Twelve – Olivia
Chapter Thirteen – Olivia
Chapter Fourteen – Olivia
Chapter Fifteen – Olivia
Chapter Sixteen – Olivia
Chapter Seventeen – Olivia
Chapter Eighteen – Olivia
Chapter Nineteen – Olivia
Chapter Twenty – Olivia
Chapter Twenty-One – Olivia
Chapter Twenty-Two – Olivia
Chapter Twenty-Three – Roman
Chapter Twenty-Four – Olivia
Chapter Twenty-Five – Olivia
Chapter Twenty-Six – Roman
Chapter Twenty-Seven – Olivia
Chapter Twenty-Eight – Olivia
Chapter Twenty-Nine – Olivia
Chapter Thirty – Olivia
Chapter Thirty-One – Olivia
Chapter Thirty-Two – Olivia
Chapter Thirty-Three – Roman
Chapter Thirty-Four – Olivia
Chapter Thirty-Five – Olivia
Chapter Thirty-Six – Olivia
Chapter Thirty-Seven – Olivia
Chapter Thirty-Eight – Olivia
Chapter Thirty-Nine – Olivia
Chapter Forty – Roman
Thank You
Appreciation
About the Author
“We are heros. We are villians. We are monsters. Come closer, dear reader. Fear not. Let me
ignite the path that you may choose.”
Olivia
Waking up next to a dried human corpse in a lush, green forest wasn’t how I liked to start my morning. Especially when the corpse was dressed in a torn, blood-stained blue wool jacket, white breeches, black shoes, and a black, taco-shaped, bicorn hat like a soldier. His parched skin was stretched tight to his bones in a gruesome leer.
I jack-knifed to my feet with a screech and stared in horror at the deceased body beside me.
The cadaver stared back at me with lifeless eyes sunk deep into his skull.
Were any other bodies about?
My dagger lay in the leaves near where I’d landed from my time travel in ancient Rome. I snatched it up, sheathed it on the thigh opposite to where my Glock sat, and scrambled backward from the dead man, keeping watch for branches and logs. Wherever I’d landed was so not Rome. And my two time-traveling companions, Roman Alexander, the love of my life, and Marcellious Demarrias, Roman’s sworn enemy, were nowhere in sight.
“Roman!” I called, cupping my hands around my mouth. “Roman!”
Not a sound.
“Marcellious!”
Nothing but the whoosh of wind to leaves met my ears. I stopped yelling, trying to catch my bearings, surrounded by thick, abundant trees. The quietude gave way to the resumed twittering of songbirds and other forest dwellers rustling through the branches. My heart galloped in excitement. This forest reminded me of the Cougar Mountain region where my father and Lee had lived when I’d left them.
Could I have returned home?
I stumbled through the underbrush toward the rushing sounds of water. Pushing aside a branch, I encountered a waterfall I’d never seen before. The waterfall tumbled from a kind of stone that I knew from Washington State. And the trees differed from the forest where Lee and Papa lived. Instead of the fir and cedar trees, here I stood amid oak-hickory and pine.
No, this was not near my home—or in the same century if the dead guy’s attire was any indication.
I spun in a circle, scanning for signs of my companions.
“Roman? Marcellious!”
Still a big fat nothing.
Panic wound its way around my windpipe, strangling my voice. Where could they be? Did I leave them in Rome? Were they now dead in the Colosseum? Or what if I did everything wrong? What if I messed up on the daggers and switched them with each other? I’d probably made the biggest mistake of my life by time-traveling us all together, and now they are nowhere to be seen.
My mind began to fog over from fear. This wasn’t good. What had Lee taught me? Panic led to pain and peril. I had to get a grip and move logically if I wanted to find Roman and survive. If Roman was in this century, I’d find him. I just needed a plan.
First, I had to figure out where I had landed.
I retraced my steps back to where I’d awoken. As disgusting as it sounded, I had to search the dead guy for supplies. The only things I had brought from Rome were the clothes on my body—a long linen stola and sandals. And, of course, my weapons. Depending on what century I was in, having different clothes might be the difference between life and death.
Flies buzzed around the body as I rolled it to its side. I had to swallow back the bile that shot into the back of my throat.
A cloth haversack wound around the guy’s back. I gingerly picked open the bag and looked inside. A simple metal cup and pewter plate and the oddest pocketknife lay inside. The handle, elaborately painted with roses, looked fashioned of bone and shaped into a woman’s shin and dainty, booted foot. It folded neatly over the blade.
I glanced at Dead Guy. It had probably been a keepsake from his wife, meant to comfort him on long cold nights.
Poor guy. Poor wife. She probably doesn’t know he’s dead.
Further digging in the sack revealed a three-tine metal fork, a knife, a hard biscuit, and some kind of dried meat wrapped in canvas. I removed the food and sniffed it for signs of spoilage. It didn’t smell foul, so I stuck it back in the bag and maneuvered the cloth rucksack from Dead Guy’s body.
A round, wood cheese-box-type canteen also hung around his lifeless form. I took that, too.
Mosquitoes were already eating me alive. While I didn’t think donning the military jacket was a good idea, I might do well to remove the corpse’s shirt. And maybe his pants. Definitely his boots.
I took a deep breath to gather courage. Then, I rolled Dead Guy back and forth to get off the bloody shirt. I could wash it in the creek below the waterfall. The boots and pants were next.
I searched around for anything else useful. If Dead Guy had possessed weapons, or even ammunition, whoever had killed him had likely taken it. So, I threw the haversack across my shoulders, held the clothes at arm’s length, and trekked back to the waterfall.
R.I.P. Dead Guy. And thanks for the food and clothing.
I scrubbed the pants and shirts at the river below the falls, rubbing them against the rocks to free them from blood and Dead Guy’s stank. Then, I laid them over branches to dry in the sun. I also emptied the dregs of the canteen and refilled it with fresh water.
When I was growing up under Moon Lee’s tutelage, besides fighting, he’d taught me survival skills, taking me into the woods and leaving me alone for days. I knew I’d need to find water and make a shelter. I’d also learned to light a fire by friction, monitor the birds’ sound for signs of disturbance, and other valuable skills.
Right now, the birds were contentedly living their lives.
Which meant neither Roman nor Marcellious was lumbering through the woods. At least not anywhere close to me…
I crouched by the water to give myself time to think, get oriented, and form a plan. And for the shirt to dry so I could wear it.
Time travel did a significant twist to one’s mind. A year ago, I’d lived in Seattle, Washington, in the 21st century. On a fateful day, I’d learned I was a so-called Timeborne. Then, later that same day, I was transported to ancient Rome by my mentor Moon Lee. I’d met the love of my life in Rome, Roman Alexander, a gladiator and Praetorian guard to the emperor. I’d also met his sworn enemy, Praetorian Marcellious Demarrias, whom I believed to be Roman’s fraternal twin.
Now I was here, wherever the hell here was.
How could I be in one time and place and then in another without knowing where I was or what century I was in? It was like dying and being reborn as an adult. So darn freaky… And I didn’t have the benefit of growing up in whatever culture I was in; no parents or loved ones to guide me. If Roman were here, we’d figure it out together. But I had no idea where he was.
I’d thought I’d be so noble in reuniting two brothers, but I’d only managed to lose both and transport myself to who knew where.
Before I could slide too far into doubt and self-pity, I rose and checked the clothes. They were damp but tolerable. I pulled the sturdy off-white shirt over my head and tugged it into place around my stola. Then, I removed my sandals and donned Dead Guy’s boots. They were a little big, but they’d suffice in protecting my feet. I tucked the coat and pants into the haversack strap and took off downstream.
I trekked until I came to a road winding through the trees. A distant horse’s whinny and the clopping sound of hooves had me sliding behind a tree for cover.
Several wagons rolled toward my hiding place, accompanied by men dressed in the same attire as Dead Guy. They must be American soldiers.
I scanned my memory for history courses I’d taken, but sadly, the types of uniforms men wore back in the day hadn’t made the cut by my brain. In truth, I hadn’t paid too much attention to American history. I only knew the Americans wore blue. But from what century? The 1700s? The 1800s?
Shrinking behind the tree, I kept my ears cocked as the wagons creaked and groaned past.
Several men spoke in a distinctly Southern drawl, like that of Kentucky or Missouri.
The horse-drawn carts and soldiers thinned down to a few stragglers at the end. One of the remaining carriages held a man, appearing in his late fifties, dressed in a simple white shirt and gray woolen pants. Grim-faced, staring out with vacant eyes, he didn’t look like a soldier. He looked like more of a captive.
But the last coach held a sight that wrenched my heart.
Two women in their twenties were tied to the wagon and forced to trot behind it. Their high-waisted, sage-green dresses were filthy with grime and torn in places. Both women were crying.
I let out a sigh. Why did I always find myself in situations like this? When I’d lived in Seattle, I’d trained women and kids to defend themselves from harm. Since I’d lost my mother early on to something I now knew as “the darkness,” I vowed to help people fight for their lives if needed.
In Rome, I’d trained a young guy named Anthony to fight off his mother’s lover, who happened to be Marcellious.
When someone was in need, I simply couldn’t help but defend them. And these two young women were clearly in need.
Five soldiers marched behind, in front, and to the sides of the wagons with the women and the man.
I had sixteen bullets left in my gun. I removed my weapon from my thigh, took aim, peeked around the tree trunk, and shot the soldier in the rear through the head.
He flew backward, falling to the ground in a spray of blood and brain matter.
The young women screamed.
His companion lifted his rifle and aimed in my direction. I stayed crouched, out of sight.
I took him down next. Now I only had fourteen bullets. I sheathed my gun at my thigh and thundered out of the trees to remove the remaining three guards. I dispatched them with kicks to the head, face, and belly using my martial arts skills—except my movements were slow and sloppy. It had been a long time since I’d trained, and it showed.
Several soldiers raced toward me.
Two held their rifles aloft, aimed at my head.
“Well, well, who do we have here?” the shortest of the two drawled. “Looks like this woman wants to be a savior today and save this poor family. Who the hell are you?”
His barrel chest puffed out as if he were in charge. A mop of greasy, dirt-colored hair hung beneath his bicorn hat.
“Nobody you’d know,” I said, my hands in the air.
“Are you with them?” He swung his rifle at the man and the two women.
“No.”
“You are now.” He motioned to the other soldier who trained his rifle at me. “Rusty, tie her up with those two.”
Rusty, the taller soldier, shoved me toward the back of the wagon.
I considered taking these two out, but since eight more gun-toting men glared at me from a short distance, I thought better of it.
Rusty removed a rope from the back of the wagon and used it to tie my wrists behind me. Then, he cinched the middle of a sisal sash around my waist, the same as had been done to the two other women, and secured it to the wagon.
The two captives trained their gazes on me with wide, fearful eyes.
“What in the tarnation are you doing with an American soldier’s belongings?” Rusty said, indicating the haversack, the canteen, and the coat and pants. His face was covered with dark scruff, and he peered at me with beady gray eyes.
I faced him directly. “I took them off a dead man. Figured he had no use for them, so….”
I shrugged.
“Did you kill him, too?” He spat out a long stream of brown spittle, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
“No, sir, I did not. My family is all dead. Shot through the head by the British,” I lied. “I was wandering through the woods looking for shelter and came upon him.”
He narrowed his eyes as he considered my story. Then, with a grunt, he waved to one of the wagon drivers and said, “Head on out. We’ve got the situation under control.”
As he fell behind us with the other guy, I was jerked along by the creaking wagon.
I glanced at my companions and smiled.
One of them, the taller of the two women, was a striking beauty with long, golden hair the color of a wheat field. With bow-shaped ruby-colored lips, sapphire eyes, and a heart-shaped face, she’d be on the cover of a magazine in the 21st century. Only now, her hair hung unkempt and unruly around her dirty face.
The other, who looked much younger, bore a sullen face with pouty lips. Her unruly blond hair bounced around her head in ringlets. The lines between her forehead and her pinched expression hinted at her misery.
The taller woman glanced at me, positioning herself between the shorter woman and me. Then, she looked over her shoulder at Rusty and the other soldier.
I did, too.
The two men were chatting and laughing about something.
I didn’t see any reason to be in a good mood.
“My name’s Emily. This is my younger sister Charlotte,” she whisper-hissed out of the corner of her mouth.
“I’m Olivia,” I whispered.
“Why’d you try to help us? You only got yourself in worse trouble,” Emily said.
“Is there a problem up there?” Rusty called.
“No, sir,” Emily said.
“Then shut yer damn mouths,” he called.
Emily and I stayed quiet as the late-day sun beat down on my head. I grew hot and sticky beneath the long-sleeved shirt and long stola. As I walked, I thought of Roman.
Where are you? Give me a sign that you’re wherever I am. Are you in a vast forest, too?
I knew it was foolish to be trying to connect with him psychically. For all I knew, he could have landed in Egypt in 1332 BC at Tutankhamun’s temple, a Shinto shrine in ancient Japan, or some other random place. Roman had told me that the dagger was said to guide its user to where they were needed. Why on Earth would I be required here? And why wouldn’t Roman, at least, have been sent here, too?
These thoughts weighed me down, making my legs heavy and lethargic.
We tromped along until the soldiers behind us started talking and laughing again.
“The man in that wagon ahead is my father,” Emily whispered.
“Oh,” I said, yanked from my thoughts.
“They’ve accused him of a lot of bad things. Horrible things.” Emily’s voice drifted as if caught in a web of sad memories. “I know he didn’t do those things.”
“I see,” I said, once again thinking of Roman. In Rome, Roman had killed for a living. It was what he had to do under the emperor’s employ. Sometimes people did terrible things, but it didn’t mean they were intrinsically evil.
I glanced over my shoulder again at the two soldiers.
Rusty caught my eye and leered at me. He grabbed his crotch, thrust his hips, then leaned over to say something to Short Guy.
Both of them threw back their heads and howled with laughter.
