Bloody. Hell. Bloody. Hell. Bloody. Hell. Bloody. Hell.
The two words were the only coherent thoughts rippling through her brain to the beat of her heels on the pavement.
She ragingly brushed away the single tear that dared roll down her cheek. There was no time to cry.
Bloody. Hell. Bloody. Hell. Bloody. Hell. Bloody. Hell.
If Nikola was stupid enough, and there was no doubting it, he would try and find out where she was staying. She thus had to walk to her hotel, make a phone call, pack her bags, and leave as soon as she could find a bus or a flight.
Bloody. Hell. Bloody. Hell. Bloody. Hell. Bloody. Hell.
Paul would be furious. Hell, Nikola might even try to find her in Berlin. She had only a few weeks left before defending her thesis, but he knew that, thanks to Paul who, of course, couldn't keep his mouth shut. The best course of action would be to disappear now. She had gathered enough knowledge in architecture to go on with her underground project. At least in terms of light. She could probably go on with her plan without tying up the loose ends in Germany. But it would have been nice, for once, to transition seamlessly from one identity to another.
She stopped abruptly. In her hurry to put as much distance as possible between her and Nikola, torn between the necessity of level-headed thinking and her fluttering mess of emotions, she had walked past the street leading to her hotel.
Pressing her lips together, she pivoted to retrace her steps, cursing herself internally.
There was no excuse for what she had done. Naturally, she could argue she was feeling lonelier than she had ever been over her very long existence. The pain of having to lie and hide from her loved ones was excruciating. Yet, she only had about fifty years left before she could reintegrate her life, and there was no time to lose if she were to build a functioning underground Sanctuary.
And there she was, fooling around, jeopardizing everything for the sake of… Of what, Helen? She wondered. Feeling the softness of his fingers wrapping around your hand? The sturdiness of his shoulder under your wrist? Getting thoroughly swept off your feet by the most amazing kiss you have ever been given?
That. Or giving poor Nikola false hopes for a future that would not materialise in half a century, if ever.
Truth be told, even if some stupid, soapy part of her was not even trying to feign being sorry over getting a confirmation that Nikola harboured strong feelings for her, she was crushed. If she had felt lonely and sad before that, she was now left empty and heartbroken.
She swallowed back the tears threatening to drown her before entering the hotel lobby. She was seething.
Stopping an employee, she asked if she could use a phone to make an international call. The young man eyed her with nothing short of compassion, as if reading through her, and guided her to the nearest phone, drawing a curtain between her and the world to give her some privacy.
"You've reached the Sanctuary, Helen Magnus speaking." Her younger self's voice said when she was finally connected to her old home in London.
Her heart skipped a beat and she hung up precipitately.
Shit.
What could she have done? Hi Helen, this is an older – but not wiser – version of you. Wouldn't it be funny if I told you that fifty years down the line, you were going to fall in love with Nikola Tesla?
She huffed, closing her eyes, and banged her forehead against the wall softly.
What was young Helen doing in London?
Helen Magnus was endowed with a great memory. But she was 237 years old, and keeping tabs with her timetable from a century ago was getting harder with every passing day.
April 1965… What had she been doing, in London, in 65?
By that year, she had been living in Old City for a decade. James was in charge of the sanctuary in London, handling things brilliantly.
She groaned. Yes. That was it. 1965. James had started to feel old, all of a sudden, complaining about his knees which were playing tricks on him, waking him up in the middle of the night sometimes. Well, complaining… It was still James. He was not complaining so much as trying to hide his grimaces. She remembered how worried she had been at the time. She had insisted on reprogramming every surgery he had planned to make them all fit in the span of a fortnight she could spare to fly to London and take the scalpel away from him. Additionally, they had checked his life-suit for any dysfunction he might have missed. The issues solved, he had been able to resume his usual work, and she had flown back to America feeling less anxious.
She could not remember exactly when her trip had taken place, but it must have been in April.
Great.
She was glad to hear James' voice when she called again barely ten minutes later.
"Are you hurt?" He asked, certainly identifying his mysterious caller by her relieved sigh.
She smiled. It was very pleasant to feel cared for, especially by James Watson.
"No, James. I'm physically unscathed. Can you talk?"
The reception was clear enough that she could hear him turn his head, checking his surroundings.
"Yes. You're downstairs in surgery." He said calmly. "Thank you for the bottle. It was a nice touch for all the trouble you caused, darling." He added lightly.
She frowned before it came back to her. 1901. That's when she had sent him a bottle of his favourite whiskey as a thank you. That was also, ironically, the last time she had seen Nikola. Although back then, she had fully intended to see him. She had needed his input on the controlled use of nitro-glycerine, without which the whole underground sanctuary plan could not have moved forward. Had it been risky? Certainly. But the benefits had largely outweighed the potential risks, and she had trusted James to work his magic and cover for her. The bottle had been her way to silently acknowledge his timeline-damage control.
"I'm sorry James. I'm afraid it's way worse this time around." She confessed.
"Oh, you mean worse than dining with Nikola?" He joked, his tone teasing her mercilessly.
She was so mortified that she felt herself blush. For a second there, she felt like a Victorian teenager about to be scolded. She gritted her teeth. She was too old to feel the need to justify herself, and to her ex, no less.
Her silence betrayed her.
"I wasn't planning on running into him," she argued, "and as you know, surprise is your worst enemy in such matters," she completed in a lighter tone.
The comforting sound of James chortling brought a smile to her lips.
"It sounds like you two anomalies are like magnets. And I'm in for a ride." He said with a warm voice that enveloped her.
"Listen, I don't have much time. He knows me as Svenja Schädler, a German architect working on a PhD."
James whistled.
"Architecture, my my, you're keeping busy. I guess you have grounds to think he might call here?"
She knew him too well to miss his subtle intent to get her to spill the beans.
"Oh, he will." She affirmed, not caring to elaborate further.
He sighed, both frustrated to be kept in the dark and annoyed at having to play guardian of the timeline.
"What should I tell him? Or are you expecting me to deal with this on my own like last time?"
She was not affected in the least by his semi-caustic tone.
"Nikola met a shapeshifter. Who absolutely did not know him." She explained pointedly.
She sensed his frown before he could even answer.
"As in… A magoi?" He asked in disbelief.
"No. That would never work. A friendly shapeshifter."
James huffed.
"Shapeshifters are a myth!" He blurted out. Then, calming down, he went on.
"At least to our current knowledge…" He let out, trying again to get her to talk about the future.
He just couldn't resist.
"They are, but Nikola is no expert in cryptids, is he?"
He puffed.
"Svenja, a shapeshifter. Do you really think he's going to fall for that?"
She bit her lip. If only they had more time, they could come up with something less dodgy. Their Oxford days were long since over. It was no grumpy old professor they were trying to trick. It was Nikola, their own old accomplice. He had seen them lie through their teeth more times than they could count, and flashed them a knowing look almost every time.
"I hope so. I'm sorry to put you on the line, James. But this could have huge consequences. Nikola has to stay away from present and future me. I'm sure you can make it all credible." Helen said.
She paused but then, with tears threatening to overflow, she went on:
"But James? Please go easy on him."
Her voice caught in her throat and she pursed her lips. She wouldn't be caught sniffling.
Her old friend knew her inside and out though, and his voice softened.
"Alright, it's alright. I will deal with him." He promised caressingly.
"Thank you. I have to go, James. Take care of your knees, will you?"
The pink light of dawn found Helen Magnus curled up against the window of the bus that was driving her away from the city of dreams – and Nikola – in an attempt to shield herself against the brisk air that smelt of pollution and regret.
She was exhausted, battered, and her ego was bruised. She wanted to sleep – and truly she badly needed to. She closed her eyes, breathing deeply to keep her mind clear of any unwanted image of Nikola. She almost succeeded this time. But as drowsiness engulfed her, she was startled awake by the feeling of his lips on her.
She pinched her nose, sighing. There was no kidding herself. She was in love. That much she had known for a long time. But dancing with him had been like blowing on the embers.
Throwing her head back, she pouted.
The next fifty years would be nerve-wracking, and frustrating. But it would give her quite enough time to fantasize on how to make him swallow his smug grin.
And with that in mind, she finally fell asleep with a smile on her lips.