Tune the Violin
Part Twelve
by SarAdora


He didn't remember driving home. He had barely uttered a few words of condolence to the widow and was totally unable to look at Myka Orlovsky. He had to get out of there, his coping skills had reached a breaking point. Any second now he was going to lose control. He finally took a complete breath when he entered the underground garage of his condominium.

"I'll be out the rest of the day," he told Marta when he called her. "Call my cell if there's an emergency."

He stripped down to briefs and a T-shirt, filled a tumbler with ice and grabbed a bottle of his very best Scotch. The first two swallows went down fast, the silky liquor gliding down his gullet, instantly warming his churning gut. He stared off into space as he savored the next swallow, letting it roll over his tongue, sucking the flavor off the inside of his cheeks, the porous buccal walls retaining the smoothness of expensive whiskey.

The fourth swallow caught him unaware - sliding down the wrong way - making him cough harshly - his sinuses tingling - his breath a ragged tempest until his throat cleared. Putting the glass down, he contemplated his bare feet, his legs stretched out, and his heels on the glass coffee table. He lay his head on the back of the couch, stared at his toes and swallowed again.

His mind drifted with the Scotch - bits and pieces of memories appearing on separate screens in his head.


79 A.D.

"Rheia... Rheia, where are you?" he gulped air, coughing blood.

"Here, Skogi, here," she moaned softly, her eyes clouding over.

"My love," he whispered, clutching her hand.

"Are we going to die?" she asked, at peace in his arms.

"Yes, my love. Soon. Let me hold you."

With the last of his strength, he held her. His last breath fell softly on her brow, her body stilled by death.

Pompeii had fallen.


700 A.D.

He shivered - it was cold in the great hall. Sitting at the old Viking's feet, he wondered if he would grow a beard when he was older. The storyteller's beard was gray and matted and SkÚn was once again enthralled with the story of Valholi, the great hall where the souls of Viking heroes were received, where his father was.


720 A.D.

He grew hard when he felt the Russian gypsy in his arms, her soft body under his, her thighs spread wide for him. He could see the moistness of her sex, her desire for him. Her voice was husky, her words urging him to mount her. He did and she was soft and lush and very practiced in the loving arts, just what a Viking needed to warm his cold bed. He was happy he had abducted her - he would take her home with him to the northlands. She'd make a fine addition to his household. She'd warm his bed forever - her hot passion - his strength... they'd make strong sons.


1700s - Regency England

The violin sang a haunting melody. Lovely, Sir Wesley thought, admiring the beautiful violinist.

"I shall invite her to entertain us this week's end," he told his guests as they sat and sipped their wine.

"The Gardens are especially beautiful this time of year, don't you agree, my Lord?" his mistress purred into her lover's ear.

"Coventry is always beautiful," he murmured, slipping an arm around her waist, his fingers teasing the soft underside of her breast through the thin fabric of her gown. "Ask any Lord of the realm," he smiled at the minx. "England is a fine place to be."


Late 1870s - Montana

As usual, the coach was late. "You'd think they'd be on time in this day and age," Sergei Alexi Skovetz, youngest son of Sergei Nicholai, the Russian immigrant, grumbled to the others. "I cannot believe the only way to get from Bitterroot to Chicago is by a coach and four. We need a station for the iron horse!"

"Aye, that we do," one of the others agreed, stepping aside to make room for a lovely lady who approached them.

"Don't believe I've had the pleasure of your acquaintance, ma'am," one of the men tipped his hat.

Katerina smiled at the man. "That's correct, sir. We have not been introduced."

Something familiar about her, Sergei Skovetz thought as he listened to the exchange. Can't quite put my finger on it.

"I'm Sergei Skovetz, son of Nicholai and Raisa," he introduced himself the Russian way. "Will you be journeying to Chicago?"

"Yes," she answered softly, very attracted to the handsome man who was built like a grizzly bear. "Will you?"


1908 - New York City
Lower East Side

Police Captain Wesley Schyler would have been royally pissed if he suspected anyone thought he had a soft heart. It's not like I rescue stray cats, for Chrissakes! It was true he pitched in and helped distribute blankets and food to the children's home in his precinct. It was also true that he made sure every child in that home had a Christmas present every year, but that was the role of a police captain. Wasn't it?

But when he saw the pretty little waitress at his favorite sandwich shop burst into tears yesterday... God! I'm losing my edge. All I wanted to do was put my arms around her and tell her everything's gonna' be all right.

The other waitress filled in the details. Little Katerina needed an afternoon off. Seems she played the violin and had been asked to audition for the New York Symphony. The shop's owner told her no - if she took the afternoon off, she'd be fired. Katerina needed the job.

That's not right, Captain Schyler fumed.


Present Time

Wesley roused himself from his stupor. What the hell was all that? Have I lost my mind? Who are all those people? Why did all those events flash through my head?

"Shared memories, Sergei," the voice in his head whispered.

"What?" he yelled, sitting up, spilling his Scotch.

"Shared memories. Past lives, parallel lives, parts of your soul in other bodies - all living the same destiny - sharing different experiences - learning life's many lessons - pieces of you and Raisa - then... now... perhaps, some of what is soon to be."

Wesley sank back against the cushions - worn out - energy depleted - mentally and emotionally exhausted. He reviewed the events of the last few weeks in his head. Not a lot of it makes sense. Raisa is real - that much I know. My dreams are... exasperating at best. He rubbed his eyes, sat up and wondered if he had drunk enough whiskey to sleep without dreaming. His last thought as sleep overtook him was that he should have drunk some more.


Skovetsky Dacha
Foothills of the Urals

The sun woke her and she was immediately disoriented by the strange bed she had been sleeping in as well as the wall of warmth behind her. Turning, she looked up into the face of the man looking down at her and immediately blushed. Sergei laughed softly.

"Good morning, wife," he smiled. "How do you feel this morning?"

"I... you... last night, we..." She flung her arms around him, burying her face in his chest, unable to look him in the eye.

He had to pry her arms off of him so he could look at her. Laughing, he teased her. "What? No good morning greeting for your husband?"

"Good morning, husband," she said softly, then feeling very bold, pinched his flat nipple, making him jerk back and lose his grip on her.

Raisa leaped from the bed only to discover she was naked. Without thinking, she turned to her bridegroom. "What did you do with my...? Where are my...?"

He was on her in a second, scooping her up into his arms and swinging her over his head, her long silky hair brushing his cheeks. "You're pink all over, barushka," he teased.

"You're... you're naked!" she sputtered, the light of day combined with their nudity unsettling her.

"I am," he chuckled, lowering her to the bed. "You're pink and soft and sweet," he kissed her gently, and with even more gentleness, sucked her lower lip into his mouth. "You're beautiful and loving and..." His hand stroked her inner thighs and though she tried to keep her legs together, his palm cupped her, a finger testing her readiness.

"You're warm," he murmured between kisses. "You're ready for me to love you, kushla cupcake. You're wet. You want me inside you."

"Sergei," she moaned softly, feeling his hard penis pushing into her thigh. "You're... you're... are you going to...? Are we going to...?"

"Yes, we are, little one," he breathed into her mouth. "We're going to make love. Do you want me to make love to you? Do you want me inside you? Tell me, Raisa."

"Yes," she whispered, kissing him back.


The alarm woke him and he cursed softly. The dream was just getting interesting and he wanted to... "Damn it!" he yelled when he realized he was sticky. "Another damn wet dream!"

He groaned as he made his way into the shower and remembered the events of his dream. It hadn't answered any questions. The only thing he knew for certain was that either he and Raisa had a history or he had one hell of an imagination. Myka Orlovsky was still a mystery, and if anyone suspected his mental state, he'd immediately be labeled certifiable.

But you did remember the dream, his conscience nudged.

Yeah, I did.

Wesley showered and dressed, arriving at the Hoover a little earlier than usual.


Marta followed him into his office, a stack of phone messages and files in her hands. "I took care of most of your calls," she said, talking to his back as he removed his jacket and proceeded to look out the window. "But these need your attention."

"Anything urgent?" he asked automatically, turning to look at her.

"Just the new case file, sir," Marta responded, flipping through the four messages from the deputy director. "I brought the file with me for your review. Would you like coffee now?" she asked as she put everything in the middle of his desk.

"Yes, please," he murmured, still distracted by the events that danced through his head the previous evening. Vikings and Coventry Garden and God knows what. Un-fucking-believable!

He waited until Marta brought the coffee and returned to her desk, reminding her that he did not want to be disturbed. Then, skimming the files to bring himself up to date, he cursed Mahoney and called the deputy director.

"I have no idea what possessed him to take this initiative," Wesley said firmly. "Don't concern yourself. I'll take care of the matter." He paused to listen to the deputy rant and took a deep breath. "Yes, absolutely, consider it done."

Standing at his window, he drank two cups of coffee. The first cup was to assure his mind that he was awake and alert and capable of being civil. The second cup was to energize his body with enough caffeine so he wouldn't run out of steam when he hauled the misguided agent and his partner up here and...

"Marta," he pushed the call button on his phone and spoke softly. "Tell Agent Mahoney and Agent Sanders I want them in my office now. Not this afternoon, not tomorrow, and not when they feel like it. Now!"

"Yes, sir," Marta responded quickly, shaking her head. When AD Schyler spoke that softly, she knew the agents were in deep trouble.

Fifteen minutes later, both agents walked through Schyler's door as Marta announced them.

"I do not want to be disturbed," he said quietly. Marta nodded and quickly left, thinking an early lunch might be warranted - even if it was only 10:30 in the morning.

"You wanted to see us, sir?" Mahoney asked, the look of innocence on his face totally lost on his boss.

"I did," Wesley said quietly, causing Agent Sanders to arch a brow. "Lock the door, Agent Mahoney."

~ End Part Twelve ~

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