"Tell me," he said, glancing around the carriage, "what is this? How does it operate?"
"Well," I said, clearing my throat, "this is what we call the Tube." I gestured lightly around us. "It's a train, a vehicle that carries many passengers at once. It runs through tunnels beneath the city and stops at different parts of London. When it reaches the station closest to where you need to go, you simply get off."
Now that he had calmed somewhat, his eyes wandered around the carriage. He still held the railing tightly, his knuckles white, fearing that letting go might send him tumbling to the floor.
"You have ridden this many times?" he asked, noticing how I simply leaned against the wall behind me.
I nodded. "All the time. It's how I'd travel around before my parents retired and moved to St.Albans."
He studied me for a moment.
"Elena," he said slowly, "why did you not believe Aloysius when he told you that you were not from this time?"
I parted my lips, about to answer—
—but the train lurched as it slowed to a stop.
A voice crackled through the intercom, announcing the station.
King's Cross St.Pancras station.
Marcus frowned slightly at the unfamiliar words.
Before he could ask, I reached for his arm and tugged him toward the door.
"Come on," I said. "This is our stop."
The moment we stepped out into the station at King's Cross, the noise hit us all at once.
People moving in every direction. Suitcases rolling across the floors. Announcements echoing overhead.
I felt Marcus's hand stiffen in mine.
The signs were there. From the tightening of his shoulders, the quickening of his breath. There were too many sounds. Too many people.
A panic attack was coming.
Without saying anything, I guided him toward a quieter corner near the wall, away from the rushing crowd.
"Do you need sit?" I asked, glancing down at my watch. "We still have time."
Uncle Alan had already purchased the tickets to Newcastle before I could. First class. The train was leaving in thirty minutes, and the platform was only a short walk away.
"No," Marcus said, slinging both duffel bags over his shoulder. "We should...head for the train. I will endure."
But the way his fingers tightened on the straps of our bags told me otherwise.
I stepped closer and placed my hand against his chest.
His heart was racing beneath my palm.
"Tell me something first," I murmured softly. "What was your life like in that time...when there were no places to conquer?"
Marcus blinked, clearly taken aback by the question, as if he didn't think I'd ask him something like that.
His gaze then drifted somewhere beyond the station walls, like he was searching through another lifetime.
"On days without battle, I would rise later than usual. Train with the men in the courtyard, perhaps ride beyond the city walls if the weather allowed it." The corner of his mouth lifted faintly. "And if my friend had his way, the day would end with wine and music."
"Your friend?" I asked.
"The Emperor's son," he said simply. "Nero. He believed every evening should be spent as though the gods themselves were watching."
His eyes returned to mine then, softer than before.
"But truthfully," he added quietly, "those were the hours I valued most. The rare moments when a man could forget he was only meant for war."
"Was he the one who betrayed you?"
Marcus went still.
"You remembered," he said quietly.
"Back at the hospital," I replied. "You said someone betrayed you." I hesitated before asking, softer this time. "Was it him?"
For a moment, he didn't answer. His gaze shifted away, his jaw tightening slightly, as if the memory itself was something he would rather leave buried.
Then he gave a small nod.
I felt something heavy settle in my chest.
My hands slipped lowly from where they had been resting against his chest.
"I see," I murmured.
For a moment, neither of us moved. The noise of the station seemed far away, muffled beneath the weight of what he hadn't said.
Finally, I lowered my gaze.
"We should go," I said softly.
But even as I stepped back, I could still feel the warmth of his heartbeat beneath my palms. Still, I turned, ready to lead the way back into the current of the station.
"Elena."
His voice stopped me.
I looked over my shoulder. Marcus stood where I had left him, the duffel bags hanging from his hands, his expression drawn tight with something that looked dangerously close to shame.
"I must ask your forgiveness," he said quietly. "I have not been the man I ought to be. A soldier of Rome should not lean so heavily upon another, much less a woman. Yet here I am, relying on you for every step."
The words caught me off guard.
"It's alright," I said, shaking my head gently. "I'm just helping you. Anyone would."
"No," he said, his voice firmer now. "Not anyone."
He held my gaze, something resolute settling behind his eyes.
"I will be better," he said. "I give you my word."
A faint, humorless smile touched my lips.
"The last time a man promised me that," I said softly, "he betrayed my trust."
Marcus's jaw tightened at once, the muscle ticking beneath his skin.
For a moment, neither of us spoke.
Then I gestured toward the concourse.
"We should go," I said. "The train will be boarding soon."
Without another word, we turned and walked together toward the platform.
The station opened into the long stretch of tracks at King's Cross station, the air filled with the hiss of brakes and the low murmur of passengers boarding.
Our train to Newcastle was already waiting.
Marcus followed close behind me as we moved along the platform, our duffel bags slung over his shoulders. I showed our attendant our tickets, and after a brief glance, he waved us trough the doors of the first-class carriage.
It was quieter, since there were fewer passengers. Softer lighting, too. No wonder Uncle Alan had purposefully chosen this instead of the regular class.
For the first time since leaving the station hall, I allowed myself a small breath of relief.
Marcus stepped in behind me, placing our bags down near the seats.
Then his body suddenly stilled.
"Elena," he said under his breath.
Something in his tone made my stomach drop.
I followed his gaze through the carriage window.
Further down the platform, just as the whistle blew and the last passengers rushed abroad, a familiar figure stepped onto one of the rear cars.
Tall. Broad-shouldered. Blonde.
Garrick. Fuck!
He disappeared along with his partner into the doors of the regular-class carriage just as they slid shut behind him.
For a moment, I couldn't breathe.
The train jolted softly as it began to move.
Marcus leaned closer, his voice barely a whisper near my ear. "Sit, Elena," he whispered softly. "Before he sees you."
So I did, taking a seat next to him by the aisle.
The platform began to glide past the window, King's Cross slowly disappearing behind us.
And somewhere on this train—
Garrick was already hunting.