Chloe's Guardian (The Nephilim Redemption Series Book 1) (6 page)

CHAPTER
8

Chloe bawled until she couldn’t feel anything anymore. Passersby became visible when she came up for air. No one bothered her. They left her alone on the bench to suffocate alone under her blanket of despair.

Hiccups jerked her every few seconds. Todd flooded into her thoughts. Pain jolted through her, fierce and physical. Why would he have been with Rebecca?
Because you’re worthless.
His behavior made no sense. They needed to talk and straighten things out. Rebecca must have lied to him. Maybe even attacked him.
Such a
skank
. What if he thought Chloe didn’t want to see him? He might think she missed the plane because she didn’t want to be with him. She
had
to talk to him.

Then she thought of her dad.
He’s going to be so ashamed of me
. Not only for losing the competition, but for totally screwing up getting home.

Mr. Pozorski would be furious and probably kick her out of orchestra.
He’ll probably take away the scholarship he’d promised me for our Brazil trip.

But none of that would matter because she’d be rotting in a foreign prison for trying to blow up a plane with Kaitlyn’s flip-flops.

The sky was growing dark. Where would she spend the night? Would the bench be her bed until some cop found her and dragged her off to jail?

She didn’t have more than five pounds and some coins in her pocket. She didn’t even know what the coins were worth. Maybe a penny. Maybe a hundred dollars. She had no idea.

The sidewalk leading away from the airport seemed familiar. The hotel where they’d stayed wasn’t very far from the airport. She headed back there where she could ask for help before the cops found her and hauled her away.

Without her Colorado Rockies to show which way was west, she got completely turned around and lost, going by the same place at least three times in one hour. By the time she found the hotel again, the sky was dark and her feet hurt.

At the front desk, a young guy greeted her with way too much enthusiasm.

When she shuffled to the counter, he grinned and said in a thick Scottish accent, “Good evening. How may I help you?”

“Um, I…” The treacherous tears started again. “I’m sorry.” She sniffed and tried to calm her voice and stop the tears, but her mouth wouldn’t open without the risk of sobs blurting out.

Looking confused and uncomfortable with his enthusiasm all but gone, the guy fumbled with several items on his desk then settled for pulling a pack of tissue from a drawer and pointing it at her.

After blowing her nose, she said, “I lost my passport. And missed my plane. And my phone is dead. And my luggage is in the hold of a plane over the Atlantic. And Benji keeps hanging up on me. And—” Her language went foreign and coherent sounds had no part of what came out of her mouth. While the sobs soaked into the tight wad of damp tissue held in a bundle at her lips, the desk clerk got real fidgety. He looked younger than Chloe and couldn’t possibly know he was supposed to do something. So she bucked up and tried to wipe her cheeks dry with the saturated tissue.

Deep breath
. “Do you have a phone I can use?”

Relief flooded his face when he had something concrete to focus on. “Is it a local call?”

“I need to call someone at home. In America.”

“What’s your room number?”

“I checked out this morning.”

“Phone’s for guests only.”

“It was just a few hours ago.”

He got fidgety again. “Um, sorry. I can’t.”

“Can I use your computer?”

“That’s for guests only, too.”

She pulled all the money out of her pocket and spread it out on the lacquered counter. A few coins rolled and spun before they fell flat. “I’ll pay you for a phone call. Please. It will be quick. Or just send an e-mail for me. Please!”

“Can’t, not without a room number. Just got the desk. Don’t want to go back to being a bellhop. Waited a year to get here. Just can’t do that.”

“Please?”

He shook his head again. “Sorry.”

Chloe mouthed “never mind” and gathered up her money. Who would she call that would answer anyway? She went to one of the couches and flopped down.

Guests passed by and she sat coma-like. They walked through her line of vision but she just stared straight ahead. They disappeared when images of Todd blinded her. His expression was angry, then sorrowful, then surprised—like when she found him with Rebecca.

“How long do you plan to stay? This area is really for the guests.”

Todd dissolved. The young clerk hovered nervously next to the couch. She found just enough strength to turn her head toward him. But she didn’t lift her eyes. They fell on a storage room. The cloak room where they’d checked the large instruments rented for the musicians who couldn’t afford to buy an extra seat to carry their own on the plane.

She popped up and pointed at the closet. “This morning I turned in a cello I’d rented and they put it in that room. Do you think it’s still there?”

“Don’t know. I came on at five.”

“Could we check? It’s actually rented through the weekend, till midnight tomorrow, technically.”

“I don’t believe I’d be authorized—”

“
Please
!” She jumped up toward him. He stepped back with a worried twitch around his eyes. “I won’t go anywhere with it. I could play music here in the lobby. I’d just set up a tip dish. I won’t bother anyone. Please, just let me try. I need to earn money. I’ll give you half of what I get. Please.”

He thought long and hard, twitching the whole while, before he finally walked to the closet, looking over his shoulder as though his supervisor would sweep down on him any second.

Inside were the dark silhouettes of string basses, cellos, and a couple of tubas. “That one, there. It’s the one I used.”

He turned on the light and Chloe got the cello. She also grabbed a small glass bowl from the counter that looked like a tip jar for the cloak room. The clerk nearly grabbed it back when she picked it up, but somehow he managed to rein in his trepidation and let her take it.

A wooden chair with an upholstered seat cushion was not far from the entrance, next to an antique side table with a bouquet of orchids. The tip bowl went on the floor in front of her and she primed it with the money from her pocket. After a moment to decide, she began playing a Bach’s cello suite from her last recital. Number Three.

The clerk stood very close, as though he would reach out and grab the cello away from her if it appeared she’d hurt it or make horrible noise. But as soon as the notes started to sing out, he took a couple of hesitant steps backward and gave her some space. He eventually went back to his post and left her alone.

The acoustics of the high ceiling magnified her tone. The music soothed her soul like a balm. The fear and panic lessened and she got lost in the beauty and familiarity of playing. For a short time, she even forgot everything and just became one with the music flowing through her and the instrument.

Within an hour, the bottom of the bowl was filled with coins. She stopped a minute to look around the lobby. Hotel guests passed by, some dressed in satin and sequins going out and others in shorts coming in. This time she played Bach’s suite Number One and noticed what was going on around her. People stopped and listened, smiling for a moment as the music wrapped around them, then the bowl clinked when they dropped in their change. By midnight, the bowl was half full. Chloe asked the clerk if she could keep playing. No longer skittish about her, he said he got off at two and she could play until then.

Before starting again, she took a quick break, cradling her tip jar close, and went into the restroom. Her hair was a frizzy mess and her mascara had made raccoon eyes. No wonder she was getting so many tips.
Everyone feels sorry for me
. She used a wet, rough paper towel to wipe the black circles from around her eyes, never setting down the jar of money. Her hair was a different matter. Finger combing it hardly made any difference.

Before playing again, she bought a bottle of Coke and a Galaxy candy bar from a vending machine. When she asked the clerk about buying a phone charger, he said she’d be able to look in the gift shop when they opened at eight the next morning. He didn’t have a key to the retractable gate.

By one-thirty, she poured out her coins in a loud clatter onto the clerk's desk and he helped her sort through and stack them into piles. Many of them were one or two pound coins, but one person had given her a paper bill.

“Blimey! I should take up the cello,” the clerk said. “Some bloke even gave you a ten pound note. You can play as long as you like as far as I care, you get money like that.”

But the passersby had trickled to only a couple of people now and then, so Chloe put the cello and tip jar down next to a loveseat and curled up on the brocade upholstery, hoping to reenergize with a moment’s rest.

With her eyes shut, images of Todd floated through her memory. Possible conversations unfolded in her imagination, testing out scenarios to get out what needed to be said. In her mind, he was repentant for all he’d done and was ready to start fresh. A vision of him taking her into his arms comforted her and she slipped into deep unconsciousness.

CHAPTER
9

A throbbing skull woke him up. He lifted his head carefully to keep from rattling anything.
Where in Hades am I?

A field surrounded him, brown and dead, obviously long past harvest. And it was not a modern field. The rows had been plowed one at a time, each weaving a crooked line across the field.
Perfect
.
All I need is to land in some medieval society
. He had been enjoying the modern amenities.

Manure from the ancient field smudged his jeans. He pulled himself off the ground and cursed Satarel for pestering him so incessantly while he brushed at the mess. He condemned the girl who had exposed him to Satarel, he swore oaths at the oxen that had manufactured the dung on his trousers, and vilified the witless peasant who put the manure on the field where he had materialized.

Of course, his profanity would not help him get the eternal redemption he sought. But really, it couldn’t be helped.
The world is full of idiots, and those idiots are interfering with my plan.
Everything and everyone was working against him.

“Blast those humans,” he shouted into the vast, gray sky. It made his temples pulsate. He clutched his head, moaning. The frigid air was his only solace, soothing the hot pain.

What a ridiculous state. If his mother had not been human, he would not have inherited all the many weak traits of man. How was he ever to shed the damnation of the Fallen and gain a chance at redemption if he could not shake their wretchedness? “Blast it all!” he said in spite of his headache. He slapped some more at the muck on his trouser knee.

It only made them worse. He would have to drain some of his strength and change his wardrobe.

He closed his eyes, concentrated on the molecular makeup of his clothes, and transmuted them. He felt the power go from him as he did, and he staggered a step before reopening his eyes.

The new apparel was not only clean and dry but warmer, and quite stylish for the times. He designed it based on what John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster, wore to his second wedding in 1396.

Instead of his designer jeans and Hugo Boss polo, now he wore a jade jerkin with ornate braiding, thick breeches of brocade, a sword, scabbard, and a small dagger. Fine leather boots replaced his high tops. Plus a wool cape and a cap with a bright purple feather draping along its side, and a bulging bag of coins dangled from his belt. John was quite the likable fellow, with his charm, his wit. Dressed like him, Horatius was sure to appeal to all those he encountered.

A cart came into view over the next hill, growing in height as it crested the summit. Maybe it came from a town. It would be good to find civilization and get information about where he was. And get a drink.
Just one small drink. For my headache
.

Horatius followed the path down to meet the cart in the saddle between the two hills. At the front of the gray weather-worn wagon stooped a man with a thick neck and a big flushed head topped by wispy white hair. A rope in his fist led the snorting ox hitched to his flat, rickety cart rolling on huge wheels made of wood. The cart was filled with straw and a twig of a boy with bright red cheeks perched on the very top of the pile. White clouds of breath poured from his mouth into the cold air like a smoke stack.

“Tell me, from which town do you come? And how far beyond is it?”

“O’er the next hillock. Edinburgh.”

“And what is the year?”

The man gave him a sideways glare and his scowled deepened.

“Please. The year? It seems to have slipped my mind.”

The man stepped around Horatius, like he might catch something from him. “The year of our Lord fifteen-hundred and sixty-two.
O
’
course.”

“Aye, that is it! Now I remember. But, the month? Tell me the month.”

“You are a lunatic Infidel, you are.” He spit over his shoulder. “
’
Tis February. Anyone wi’ half a mind knows it.Wh
a
’
are you abo
u
’
here? Trouble
,
’
tis wha’ all you Infidels are for.”

“No need to fret, good man. I have no ill will toward you.”
You racist imbecile.

Horatius threw the man a coin to pay for the information and to appease him. He didn't need any more trouble. He nodded at the trembling youngster up high in the cart and trudged up the hill.
Well, I’ve landed in the same country, different century. Fan-damnable-tastic!

Before long he was at Netherbow Port, an entrance into Edinburgh. The arched gate was flanked by two round towers, all made of stone bricks. Above the arch were two fresh heads and an old withered leg, displayed to discourage would-be criminals. Black birds were busily pecking at the gruesome appendages. Unfortunately, the body parts didn't deter the gatekeeper who was manning the gate from robbery. The keeper was demanding an exorbitant entry tax on each head coming in.

Horatius shuffled and stomped his feet, waiting behind clusters of families, packed carts, and snorting horses for his turn to enter. The crowd was restless and cold, pushy to get through. The lump on top of his head throbbed worse and he was in no mood to delay his relief at the nearest pub.

A pathetic woman on foot, dressed in ragged black, and her three pitiful children, stepped up to the greedy watchman. When she handed him her coin, the gatekeeper demanded from her twice the amount she gave. Anger flared in Horatius for the imposition the man was causing, slowing the line and delaying his drink. Turning the churl to dust had sudden, great appeal. But then he remembered. This could actually be a chance to make up for some of his sins. Instead of wiping out the man, he stepped up to champion the poor, wretched woman.

“Leave the woman be, man. I shall pay her passage.”

“She must needs to pay her own way,” the pock-scarred man said, not quite as confident once he took in Horatius’ size.

“Take this for us all and put an end to this ill will,” Horatius growled. He handed over two groats. “Take it or be sorry.”

The keeper grouched a couple of times, but when he inspected the coins, his thin lips smirked for a brief moment.

“Get on through there then,” he said with a swift wave of his hand. “You are blocking me port and slowing the day’s progress.”

As Horatius passed by him, he willingly drained some of his energy and changed all the coins to sand in the gatekeeper’s money sack. The woman hustled her children away but Horatius wished to solidify his good work in the eyes of any of the Pure watching. He reached out and touched the woman’s shoulder, calling to her. When she turned, her haggard face broke into a seductive smile.

“Aye?” When her lines of worry relaxed, she wasn’t completely ugly. “You wish me to repay you now?”

“I just wanted to give you these.” He handed her a handful of sovereigns.

She gasped when she looked in her hand. “Oh sir, I will do whatever you desire to repay you.”

“You have already repaid me by accepting the money. Go in peace and goodwill.” He left quickly to get away before she could say any more. The last thing he needed was to stay and get involved with a woman with too many children and too little sense.

What he did need was a tall, cool tankard of ale.
Just one
. Then he could relieve the throb in his head and make a plan. A pub called Ainslie Tavern along Cowgate in central Edinburgh would do just fine to ease his thirst. Horatius hurried across the threshold, eager to get out of the cold. Inside, the warmth relieved the frosty bite on his face, and the smoky aroma of meat welcomed him well. When he approached the bar, he overheard the barkeep tell a maid to keep William Keith’s tankard filled, and gestured across the room. Horatius spun around at the mention of his old friend’s name.

At a table far in the back corner, Keith sat with a foam-topped tankard of ale. Keith had passed over twenty years on earth since Horatius had last seen him. The Highlander’s hair had thinned and lost its color, letting his red scalp show through the thin white strands that were left. His head and nose had thickened, and his ears hung low and large.

Horatius slid onto a high-backed carved chair across from Keith. “Hello, Will.”

Keith raised his head off the backrest of the chair and opened his eyes.

“Horace, is that you?” He squinted hard. “God’s teeth, you look good.” He stood and reached up to poke Horatius’ cheek. Then he took hold of his chin and turned him side to side to inspect him. “You have faired better than I o’er the years. You have not aged a mite. Must be that stubborn Arab hide of yours.” With a hearty laugh, he rubbed the top of his own balding head. His smile faded and his brow creased. “What happened to you? I feared you dead after that bad business. That storm, the lightening strike, you disappeared. I ne’er understood what really took place. My men came, but then MacKay made his escape and I thought he must have taken you with him. By the Rood, it is good to see you again!” His smile brightened and he laughed again as he grasped Horatius’ forearm into his palm and heartily patted Horatius’ shoulder.

“How have you been?” Horatius said, genuinely pleased to be so greeted by his old friend.

“About to lose me mind of late.” He sat back down, signaling Horatius to sit too, and took a quick swig from his tankard. “Me daughter, Agnes, is getting married on the morrow and it will be me end, no doubt. Queen Mary is planning the pageantry and between her and me wife, it is unbearable. Why could they not just run away together? Nay, me daughter had to go and catch the eye of the queen’s own half brother.”

“One of the dead king’s bastards.”

“Aye, James Steward, Queen Mary’s favorite. You should attend. It would be good to have you there. God’s bones, I have missed you. We had many a good time together, aye? I cannot tell the number of times I have thought of you o’er the years. I am happy you are alive.”

“I am trying to walk more the straight and narrow since our days together,” Horatius said with a chuckle to hide the regret. Those were good times they shared.

“I hope you have not been too successful then. That would be a loss, for certes.” Keith grinned at Horatius, showing he had two less teeth than before. “Eat with me!” Keith waved at the serving wench to bring food and drink. “Let us remember old times together.”

Horatius was famished. He pulled out several coins to pay his fair share and told the serving wench to make sure the drinks did not stop coming.

Two hours passed of stuffing in juicy meat pies and tender pheasant legs and bannocks, swigging whiskey, and reminiscing about the time when Keith was young and carefree and Horatius forgot he was trying to be virtuous. They laughed and drank till their eyes dripped and they could not walk straight.

When they left the tavern, Horatius tried to remember why he was in town. The memory did not come. Nor could he remember what he had been doing before he came. Keith asked him where he was staying.

“I dunno,” Horatius slurred. “I don’t think I have made arrangements yet.” Sleep suddenly sounded even more inviting than another drink.

“Come with me, then. I have a room at the castle. You can stay there, too.”

They staggered together down Cowgate, then High Street, singing, tripping, laughing, and annoying everyone they passed.

***

The wedding took place at Saint Giles with John Knox officiating the elaborate, ostentatious ceremony. Knox was reserved and condescending. He despised Queen Mary and her excessive pomp. She had lavished every possible extravagance on the wedding, decorating the sanctuary in greenery, with candles so plentiful, Horatius feared any minute something would catch fire and the place would erupt in flame. Everyone in the wedding party wore shimmering silver and blue damask. Except Knox, of course, who stood rigid and stern in his black and gray tunic. Agnes Keith glowed in her bridal splendor and seemed oblivious to any display of disapproval from Knox.

Horatius had experienced many encounters with Knox at different times through the years. They always enjoyed heated discussions on scriptural interpretation and spiritual perspectives. Knox both fascinated him and infuriated him, being insightful and astute, yet at the same time, so often pigheaded and wrong that Horatius wanted to knock him across the room. But because he was one of the few of that time period who actually had some understanding of biblical truths, after a long history of complete incompetence within religious institutions, Horatius kept going back for more. Oddly enough, he felt they were kindred spirits.

At the dinner following the ceremony, Keith re-introduced Horatius to his wife and then to his daughter, Agnes, regaling them with story after story of the exciting exploits Horatius and Will had shared in their youth, of course leaving out the stories unfit for mixed company. His wife listened with conserved dignity and Agnes laughed as much as Keith. They all got on so well, Keith insisted Horatius attend the masque planned at Holyrood for the wedding party that night. Horatius’ hangover almost kept him from accepting, but Keith assured him more ale would surly alleviate the affliction.

Later, on the way to the ball when Horatius passed a side street intersecting with Canongate, a voice called out to him and he turned at the sound. A board slammed into his face.