Chapter 14: The Ring of Isolde

She had no idea her mysterious protector had been following her through time itself.

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The speakeasy pulsed with jazz music and cigarette smoke, crystal chandeliers casting amber light over the sea of beaded dresses and slicked-back hair. Sage adjusted her silver flapper dress, the fringe catching the light as she moved through the crowd. The year was 1926, and Chicago's most notorious speakeasy, The Golden Swan, was in full swing.

"There," Piper whispered, her ethereal form visible only to Sage as she pointed toward the back corner. "Vincent 'The Bull' Torrino. That's your mark."

Sage followed her gaze to a massive man in an expensive suit, gold teeth glinting as he laughed at something one of his associates said. On his pinky finger, almost lost among his other gaudy jewelry, was a delicate golden band that seemed utterly out of place on his ham-sized fist.

The Ring of Isolde.

"How did a bootlegger end up with a medieval artifact?" Sage murmured, accepting a gin rickey from a passing waiter to blend in.

"Vincent inherited his grandmother's jewelry when she died last month," Piper explained, having done her reconnaissance. "The old woman was from Ireland originally—probably had no idea what she possessed. To him, it's just another piece of gold. He wears it because it was hers, not because he knows it supposedly sealed the secret meetings between Tristan and Isolde."

Sage studied the ring from across the room. Even in the dim speakeasy lighting, she could make out the carnelian cameo's surface, though the carved figures remained frustratingly unclear. Legend claimed they appeared most distinct in moonlight—two lovers eternally entwined in stone.

"And the curse?" Sage asked, remembering the research Piper had done.

"Medieval priests declared it cursed after several nobles who owned it died in tragic love triangles. Whether you believe that or not..." Piper shrugged. "But every documented owner has met an unfortunate end related to matters of the heart."

A commotion near the pool table caught Sage's attention. Vincent was holding court, showing off as he lined up shots with theatrical flair. More importantly, he was drinking heavily—his movements becoming looser, his judgment more questionable.

"I need to get closer," Sage said, but before she could move, a voice interrupted.

"Well, well. Don't think I've seen you around here before, doll."

Sage turned to find herself face-to-face with the most striking man she'd encountered in any timeline. Tall, broad-shouldered, with dark hair slicked back and eyes the color of storm clouds. There was something achingly familiar about the way he carried himself, the slight tilt of his head when he smiled.

"Tommy Salvatore," he said, extending a hand. "I handle security for Mr. Torrino. And you are?"

"Ruby," Sage replied, using the identity she'd established for this timeline. "Ruby Thompson."

"A pleasure, Ruby Thompson." His grip lingered just a moment longer than necessary. "You play pool?"

Sage glanced toward Vincent's table, where the mob boss was loudly challenging anyone brave enough to face him. "I've been known to hold my own."

Tommy's smile widened. "Vincent's been cleaning house all night. Thinks he's the king of the green felt. But between you and me..." He leaned closer, his cologne—something woody and masculine—making her pulse quicken unexpectedly. "He's got more confidence than skill. Especially when he's had a few."

Focus, Sage, she told herself, even as something about Tommy's presence made her feel oddly unsettled. It's just because he reminds you of Marcus somehow.

The thought of Marcus brought an unexpected pang. She could almost feel the rumble of his motorcycle beneath her, arms wrapped around his waist as they'd raced through the hills outside San Francisco. His leather jacket had smelled similar to Tommy's cologne—that same masculine warmth that made her feel safe and reckless all at once.

Stop it, she commanded herself. Marcus is gone. This is just a job.

"You thinking of taking him on?" Tommy asked, misreading her momentary silence.

Sage looked at Vincent, who was now wearing the Ring of Isolde on full display as he gestured wildly with his cue stick. "Why not? Though I should warn you—I might be better than I look."

"I certainly hope so." Tommy's eyes sparkled with something that made her stomach flutter. "Tell you what, Ruby. I'll make sure Vincent plays fair. No cheating, no intimidation. Just skill versus skill."

"And what do you get out of it?"

"The pleasure of watching someone take Vincent down a peg or two." He paused, then added more quietly, "And maybe the chance to buy you a drink afterward."

Piper materialized beside them, invisible to Tommy but speaking directly into Sage's ear. "He's clearly smitten. Use it. Get close to Vincent, win the ring, and get out."

But as Sage looked into Tommy's eyes, she found herself wondering if Piper was reading the situation correctly. Was Tommy attracted to her, or was he somehow picking up on the attraction she was trying so hard to deny? There was an intensity in his gaze that suggested he saw more than just a pretty flapper looking to make some easy money.

"Alright, Mr. Castellano," Sage said, surprised by the breathiness in her own voice. "Let's see what happens."

As they approached Vincent's table, the mob boss looked up from his whiskey, his bloodshot eyes taking in Sage's appearance with obvious approval.

"Well, well, Tommy boy. You brought me a present?"

"The lady wants to play," Tommy said evenly, though Sage noticed his jaw tighten at Vincent's crude tone. "Says she can hold her own."

Vincent laughed, a sound like broken glass. "Against me? Sweetheart, I've been playing this game since before you were born."

"Then you won't mind if we make it interesting," Sage replied, surprised by her own boldness. The speakeasy fell quieter around them as patrons sensed drama brewing.

"What kind of interesting?" Vincent's gold teeth caught the light as he grinned.

Sage's eyes fell on his pinky ring. "Winner takes all jewelry. I'm wearing about two hundred dollars worth of baubles tonight." She gestured to her costume jewelry, knowing it looked expensive under the speakeasy's forgiving lighting. "Care to match it?"

Vincent looked down at his rings—three gold bands, including the Ring of Isolde. "You're on, doll. But when you lose, you stick around for a drink. Or three."

Tommy stepped forward slightly, a subtle but unmistakable protective gesture. "Easy, Vincent. The lady's just here for a game."

"Of course she is." Vincent's smile turned predatory. "Rack 'em up, boys!"

As the balls were arranged, Piper whispered calculations in Sage's ear—angles, velocity, spin. But Sage found herself increasingly distracted by Tommy, who'd positioned himself where he could watch both her and Vincent. Every time Vincent's behavior crossed a line, Tommy was there with a warning look or a strategic interruption.

Why is he helping me? Sage wondered as she chalked her cue. And why does looking at him make me think of motorcycle rides and leather jackets and—

"Ladies first," Vincent announced, gesturing grandly.

Sage leaned over the table, lining up her shot. As she did, she caught Tommy's eye. He gave her the slightest nod, as if to say you've got this.

The break scattered the balls perfectly, sinking two stripes. The crowd murmured appreciatively, and Vincent's confident expression faltered slightly.

"Lucky shot," he muttered.

"Was it?" Sage asked innocently, moving to line up her next shot.

As the game progressed, it became clear that Vincent had vastly underestimated his opponent. With Piper's whispered guidance on physics and Tommy's subtle interventions whenever Vincent tried to cheat or intimidate, Sage dominated the table. She moved with fluid grace, her shots precise and confident, each success making Vincent's face redder and his drinking heavier.

"Impossible," Vincent snarled as Sage sank another ball. "Nobody's that good."

"Maybe you're just that bad," Sage replied sweetly, earning appreciative chuckles from the growing crowd of onlookers.

With only the eight ball remaining, Sage found herself facing a nearly impossible shot—the ball trapped behind Vincent's remaining solids. She studied the angles, aware of everyone watching.

"Corner pocket," she announced, pointing with her

cue.

"You'll never make that shot," Vincent scoffed.

Sage glanced at Tommy, who was watching her with something like admiration in his storm-gray eyes. For a moment, she forgot about the mission, forgot about the Ring of Isolde, forgot about everything except the way he was looking at her.

Like Marcus used to look at me, she realized with a start. When he thought I could do anything.

The memory hit her suddenly—Marcus teaching her to ride his motorcycle in Golden Gate Park, his hands covering hers on the handlebars. "Trust yourself, Sage," he'd said. "You're stronger than you know."

Drawing on that memory, that confidence, Sage lined up her shot. The cue ball struck at precisely the right angle, banking off two cushions before connecting with the eight ball, which rolled steadily toward the corner pocket and dropped with a satisfying thunk.

The speakeasy erupted in cheers and applause. Vincent stared at the table in disbelief, his face cycling through several shades of red and purple.

"Well, Mr. Torrino," Sage said, straightening up with a smile, "I believe you owe me some jewelry."

For a moment, Vincent looked like he might refuse—or worse. The silence stretched taut as a wire, and Sage could feel the tension in the room shifting from celebration to something more dangerous.

Then Tommy stepped forward, his presence somehow filling the space between Vincent and Sage.

"A bet's a bet, Vincent," he said quietly, but his voice carried absolute authority. "The lady won fair and square."

Vincent's eyes darted between Tommy and Sage, calculating. Finally, with obvious reluctance, he began removing his rings. When he reached the Ring of Isolde, he hesitated.

"This one was my grandmother's," he said, his voice thick with emotion that seemed genuine.

Sage felt an unexpected pang of sympathy. "Then keep it," she heard herself saying. "Take one of the others instead."

Piper materialized beside her, eyes wide with alarm. "What are you doing? That's the artifact!"

But Sage was looking at Tommy, who was watching her with something like wonder in his expression. As if her moment of compassion had revealed something about her that he hadn't expected to find.

"No," Vincent said slowly, seemingly as surprised by her offer as everyone else. "A bet's a bet. You won it fair." He slipped the ring off his finger and held it out to her. "Just... take care of it, will you? It meant a lot to the old lady."

Sage accepted the ring, feeling its surprising warmth against her palm. "I will. I promise."

As Vincent walked away, his associates following like a pack of disappointed wolves, Tommy moved closer to Sage.

"That was either very kind or very stupid," he said quietly.

"Maybe both," Sage admitted, slipping the ring onto her finger. It fit perfectly, and she could swear she felt a slight tingle as it settled into place.

"Well, Ruby Thompson," Tommy said, his voice dropping to an intimate register that made her pulse quicken again, "how about that drink I mentioned?"

Sage knew she should leave. Mission accomplished, artifact secured. But something about the way Tommy was looking at her, the way being near him made her feel both grounded and breathless, kept her rooted to the spot.

"One drink," she heard herself saying.

As Tommy led her toward the bar, Piper floated alongside them, clearly agitated.

"This is a mistake, Sage," she warned. "We need to go. Now."

But Sage wasn't listening. She was too busy trying to figure out why Tommy Castellano, a 1920s bootlegger's enforcer, reminded her so strongly of Marcus—and why that thought filled her with equal parts longing and terror.

The Ring of Isolde seemed to pulse gently on her finger, its carnelian cameo catching the speakeasy's amber light. And for just a moment, in the reflection of the mirror behind the bar, Sage could swear she saw two figures carved into the stone—lovers entwined, eternal and doomed.

Just like me and Marcus, she thought, then immediately tried to push the notion away.

But as Tommy handed her a gin rickey and their fingers brushed, sending electricity up her arm, Sage couldn't shake the feeling that the ring's reputation for cursing matters of the heart might be more than just medieval superstition.

Especially when Tommy smiled at her like that, and she found herself smiling back despite every warning bell going off in her head.

The gin rickey was stronger than she'd expected, or maybe it was the way Tommy was looking at her—like he was memorizing her face. They'd found a quieter corner of the speakeasy, away from the jazz band and Vincent's sulking associates.

"You played that beautifully," Tommy said, his voice low enough that she had to lean closer to hear him. "The way you handled Vincent, the compassion you showed... it was exactly what I hoped you'd do."

Something in his phrasing made her pause. "Hoped?"

Tommy's smile flickered, just for a moment. "Figure of speech."

But the Ring of Isolde was growing warm on her finger, and suddenly the speakeasy seemed to shimmer around the edges. For just an instant, she saw Tommy in different clothes—rough medieval garb, his hair longer, a sword at his hip. Then the image was gone.

"Are you alright?" Tommy asked, and there was genuine concern in his voice. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

"I..." Sage touched the ring, and immediately regretted it. The warmth intensified, and this time the vision was clearer. A dusty Western town, Tommy in a sheriff's badge and leather vest, reaching for her as she rode away on horseback. The anguish in his eyes was unmistakable.

"The ring," she whispered.

Tommy went very still. "What about it?"

Another flash—ancient Rome, marble columns, Tommy in a centurion's uniform. She was dressed as a noblewoman, tears streaming down her face as guards pulled her away from him. His voice echoed across centuries: "Find me, I'll always find you."

"This isn't possible," Sage breathed, but even as she said it, she knew it was true. The ring wasn't just showing her random visions—it was showing her memories that weren't her own. Or were they?

Tommy set down his drink carefully. "Sage."

The use of her real name hit like a physical blow. She looked up sharply, meeting his storm-gray eyes, and saw in them a weight that belonged to someone who had lived far longer than his apparent twenty-eight years.

"How do you know that name?"

"Because," Tommy said quietly, "this is the seventh time we've had this conversation. And I'm running out of ways to make it end differently."

Piper materialized beside their table, her ethereal form more agitated than Sage had ever seen her. "We need to leave. Now. Something's wrong with the temporal readings around you."

But Sage couldn't move. The ring was showing her more images now—a cascade of moments, lifetimes, all featuring the same impossible truth. In every era, every timeline, she and Tommy found each other. And in every one, something tore them apart.

"Who are you?" she whispered.

Tommy's jaw tightened, as if he were fighting some internal battle. "Someone who's made too many mistakes. Someone who's watched you walk away seven times and can't bear to watch it happen again."

"Sage, the temporal signature around him is off the charts," Piper warned, but her voice seemed to be coming from very far away. "He's not from this timeline. He's not from any single timeline."

"The organization I work for," Tommy continued, his words careful and measured, "they have different methods than yours. We don't just observe and preserve—we intervene when necessary. But this..." He gestured between them, his expression growing more vulnerable. "This isn't about the mission anymore."

Sage felt like she was drowning. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying I've been watching you longer than you know. Through more missions than you realize." His storm-gray eyes searched her face with desperate intensity. "And every time I think I understand what's happening between us, every time I think I can predict how this will end..."

"How many times?" The question escaped before she could stop it.

Tommy's expression cracked, just for a moment, letting through a pain so raw it took her breath away. "Every mission, Sage. Every single one. I've been there, in the shadows, watching you risk everything to preserve history while losing pieces of yourself along the way."

The ring pulsed with heat, showing her fractured images—glimpses of a figure in different eras, always watching, always just out of reach. Ancient Rome, medieval Scotland, the Wild West, Victorian London, World War II Paris... and yes, San Francisco.

"Marcus," she breathed, the name escaping like a prayer.

Something shifted in Tommy's expression—not recognition, but something deeper. A resonance. "You loved him."

"I—" Sage stopped, staring at Tommy's face, seeing something familiar in the curve of his jaw, the way he held his shoulders when he was trying to be strong. "Who are you really?"

Tommy reached across the table, his fingers stopping just short of hers. "My name is Thomas Salvatore, and I work for an organization you've never heard of. But Sage..." His voice dropped to barely a whisper. "I think the universe has been trying to tell us something, and we've been too afraid to listen."

The ring showed her one more vision—herself in this same speakeasy, but the lighting was different, the crowd was different, and the man across from her had Marcus's eyes but wore Tommy's face like a mask that didn't quite fit.

"The ring shows you the truth, doesn't it?" Tommy said softly. "That nothing about this is coincidence. That we keep finding each other for a reason." He finally let his fingers brush hers, and she felt that familiar electricity, that sense of recognition that went deeper than memory. "The question is... are you finally ready to find out what that reason is?"

Piper was saying something urgent about temporal anomalies and extraction protocols, but all Sage could hear was the sound of her own heartbeat and the weight of unspoken possibilities pressing down on her shoulders.

"I need to know everything," she whispered.

Tommy's smile was sad and hopeful and desperate all at once. "Then let's start with the truth. All of it." His grip on her fingers tightened slightly. "Even the parts that might change everything."

The speakeasy seemed to fade around them as those words hung in the air, full of promise and threat in equal measure. Whatever came next, Sage knew there would be no going back to the comfortable lies of watching from the shadows.

"Are you finally ready to change the ending?" Tommy asked, and the question felt like it carried the weight of more than just this moment, this mission, this life.

Outside, Chicago's night air carried the sound of distant music and laughter, but inside their small corner of the speakeasy, time itself seemed to hold its breath, waiting for her answer.