Chapter 60 Chicago, 1927—Tavis
When the fog lifted, Tavis was still sitting behind the wheel of Tony’s Chevrolet. But Rick and Clay had fallen out somewhere along the way. He patted his pocket. His flask was still there. The gear was still in the backseat—a sliver of good news in the swirling uncertainty.
Rick and Clay would eventually surface, both okay and intact.
Losing the gear would be catastrophic. He corrected himself almost immediately—it would complicate things, not end them.
If the adventures with Erik had taught him anything, it was the necessity of improvisation.
His skills had grown out of sheer survival instinct into those of a time-traveling MacGyver. Okay, MacGyver. Where the hell am I?
He was on a quiet residential street, looking straight ahead at an iconic red sky disappearing behind the horizon. That meant Lake Michigan was behind him, the perfect beacon for orientation. Pinpointing his exact location required street names. And one stood out—Michigan Avenue.
Tavis unfolded himself from the car and locked the door, believing the car would probably be there when he returned.
He sauntered toward the intersection at the end of the block, doing his best to look like a guy out for a stroll, not a burglar casing the street.
At the corner, a sign confirmed he was on N. State Parkway—Skye’s street.
How convenient, which meant the brooch had a plan even if he didn’t.
Now, if he could only remember the house number or an identifying architectural feature, he could figure out why the brooch dropped him here. Did he ever know the house number? No, he was sure of that, but there was an architectural design mentioned in Clay’s report.
He strolled back to the Chevrolet, eyes darting left and right, absorbing details of the streetscape. Nothing ignited a spark of recognition. There had to be a signature marker—an unusual wrought-iron fence, a striking door, a gnarled tree.
Then his gaze landed on it, and he found exactly what he’d been looking for.
Two houses ahead was a grand home with a balcony, French doors, and a wrought-iron railing.
Clay’s report had mentioned peeking through the curtain on the door to see if Capone’s men were guarding the house.
Tavis kept walking, nonchalantly surveilling the street, and imagining Capone’s men hiding behind their cars with rapid-fire Tommy guns spitting bullets into the home’s windows as Remy, Skye, and Archibald disappeared in the fog.
Reaching the corner, Tavis executed a smooth turn and began his return journey, only to freeze mid-stride as the door to Skye’s house opened and she emerged.
He saw her through Remy’s initial lens: stunning, chic, and effortlessly elegant.
Yet today, a veil of sadness encircled her.
Her presence mesmerized Tavis, chaining his gaze to her as she crossed the sidewalk toward a yellow and black LaSalle convertible.
He had walked directly past that car moments ago and hadn’t noticed it or its driver. The oversight was a breach of his highly tuned awareness, and the realization hit him hard. Another slip like that, and he might not make it home alive.
No, he would have noticed that car. It must have glided to the curb moments after he passed.
Skye’s driver was pulling away from the curb when he reached the vehicle, and he and Skye made eye contact. He couldn’t look away. She gave him a knowing glance and a sad smile before turning her attention to the driver.
The brief look triggered a response, a wave of goosebumps prickling up and down his arms. It was the identical look Skye had given him when they first met in New Orleans.
Later, when she moved on to greet Kit and Cullen, her smile had transformed—a simple, polite glad-to-meet-you expression.
He had dismissed it then, but now, the truth was clear. She’d recognized him from another time.
Once Skye’s vehicle disappeared into the distance, Tavis sprinted to the Chevrolet. As he drove away, his gaze snagged on a FOR RENT sign, but the detail barely registered. His entire focus was now on finding Michigan Avenue and The Stevens Hotel.
A few minutes later, Tavis pulled his car to a stop in front of the twenty-eight-floor structure, a masterpiece of Bedford stone and gleaming marble that dominated the lakefront, staring down Lake Michigan’s choppy gray waters.
The ignition barely had time to cool before a bellhop materialized at his door.
“I have several bags—you’ll need help,” Tavis said, his voice clipped, with an edge of anxiety he couldn’t quite mask. “Park the car and bring me the key, please. The name’s Tavis Stuart.”
The bellhop snapped his fingers like a general commanding his troops, and three more men hurried to the vehicle. Tavis pressed coins Remy had brought back from 1928 into each waiting palm. “Get these to my suite without a problem, and I’ll double that tip,” he promised.
He pushed through the polished brass doors into a mammoth marble foyer that ascended like a cathedral ceiling, a dizzying ascent of luxury.
The hotel wasn’t just a building. It was a city carved in stone within the restless heart of Chicago.
Following the sign to the right side of the divided staircase, he climbed, releasing a relieved sigh as he reached the registration level.
There at the registration desk, Clay and Rick stood, deep in conversation with the clerk.
Tavis tapped Rick’s shoulder. “Please tell me you got us the biggest suite in this palace.”
The clerk looked up from the register. “You must be Mr. Stuart. Your associates have registered for a suite on the top floor—three bedrooms, a sitting room, and two bathrooms. I trust that is… satisfactory?”
“It is. Thank you,” Tavis replied. “Three of your men unloaded my vehicle. Would you give them the number to our suite?”
“Yes, sir. I’ll see to it.”
Tavis pressed another tip into the clerk’s hand, then drew Clay and Rick away from the flow of foot traffic. “I landed on N. State Parkway,” he whispered, his voice urgent. “Where Skye lives. I was on the sidewalk when she exited her home and climbed into a yellow LaSalle. We made eye contact.”
Rick sucked in a sharp breath. “Jesus Christ—you can’t do that.”
“It wasn’t intentional. But here’s what’s interesting. Skye gave me the same look when we met at the jazz club in New Orleans.”
“What kind of look are you talking about? Recognition or appreciation?” Clay asked as he pressed down on his mustache.
“It was a knowing glance followed by a slow, intimate smile, you asshole.” Tavis pictured her expression, a familiar memory, and said, “She recognized me, or perhaps, I reminded her of someone she’d met before.”
“There aren’t many men strolling the streets of Chicago who look like a Viking warrior stepped right out of an epic saga. And according to Marcelle, Skye didn’t travel,” Clay said.
Tavis shook his head, the weight of the mystery settling heavily on him. “Then why, for God’s sake, would she give me that knowing smile?”
“Maybe she saw a younger, less scarred version of Erik,” Clay said.
Cold chills rippled from Tavis’s nape to his fingernails. “I won’t argue with that, but why would Erik have been here? What’s he looking for?”
Clay snorted. “Find him and demand the truth yourself. I’ve done enough of that lately.”
Tavis wasn’t sure how he felt about seeing Erik again.
He knew it was a possibility hanging over them, but what unfinished business could Erik possibly have with Alistair or Skye?
And then a sickening thought struck him.
Maybe it wasn’t Alistair or Skye drawing Erik’s attention, but Sheena.
But if Erik knew they were travelers, why in the hell wouldn’t he have simply taken them all home long ago?
“Let’s get out of here.” The air in the crowded room felt too thin for Tavis.
He spotted the elevator and steered them through the throng.
The silence in the elevator was thick with unspoken tension, the quiet hum of the machinery the only sound until they reached the twenty-eighth floor.
The moment the suite door clicked shut behind them, the world fell away.
Rick tossed his hat, a dark, soft-brimmed fedora, onto a plush velvet chair, the fabric absorbing the sound. He ambled around the sitting room in a circle and lifted the heavy damask curtain. “We have an amazing view of the lake,” he said.
“I don’t give a shit about the view. I want a drink and a cigar.” Tavis flipped his hat in the air with a practiced grace, and it spun, landing perfectly onto one of the many hooks on a tall, antique hall tree.
“Wow!” Clay breathed, eyes wide. “That’s impressive. Do it again.”
Tavis obliged with a small, wry smile. He removed Clay’s hat, a straw boater with a simple band, and flipped it in the air. It landed with a soft thwack on a hook just below Tavis’s hat, a perfect, unexpected match.
“Where’d you learn that?”
“From JC. It cost me five large, but I finally beat him.” Tavis stepped over to the window.
Rick was right. It was a view worth truly seeing, the sun dipping low and painting the water in hues of violet and amber.
It instantly reminded him of twilight at Jarlshof with Astrid.
This bittersweet memory brought him full circle, making him think about Erik again.
“This room looks like Skye’s house,” Clay said. “She has the same style of furniture and similar colors.”
Tavis took a deep breath, then another as he half-listened to Clay discuss furniture styles. A knock on the door finally snapped Tavis’s wandering mind back to the reality of the moment.
Clay hurried to open it. “Come in.” Three uniformed bellhops muscled their way into the room, their arms laden with the weight of several duffel bags. “Just drop them on the floor.”