Time Masters Book One; The Call (An Urban Fantasy, Time Travel Romance) (50 page)

“How
long…,”
Lany began.

“Since
before
the alley. Now be quiet and keep moving.”

“But I don’t
th
…”

“Quiet!”

“Fine,” Lany mumbled to himself. No use arguing now, not with an unknown assailant trailing them. He wondered if this newest threat had perhaps fol
lowed him to Dallan but then figured they would be finding out in the next fiv
e minutes.

The two men rounded a corner. Dallan began to sprint, dragging Lany along wi
th him,
then
ducked into the fi
rst alley they came to and unceremoniously threw Lany up against the wall.

Twice in one day was too much. “Now see here,
DallamPHF
!”

Dallan had clapped a hand over Lany’s mouth so fast he didn’t even have time to react. “I’ll ask ye one more time to keep quiet. Either comply or I will keep ye quiet myself.” He whispered into his face before taking his hand away.

Lany wanted nothing better than to let him verbally have it with both barrels, but the intense look on the big man’s face stopped him. Whoever was following them was close by. Better let the Weapons Master handle things his own way.

Then again, that might not be such a hot idea either…

Dallan grabbed Lany suddenly and, after dragging him deeper into the alley, lifted him atop a huge green metal box, one of many they had seen throughout the city—a tra
sh receptacle, Lany thought. Th
e Scot motioned
for him to be quiet, then jumped up onto it himself with a speed and grace one would think
a man of his size incapable of.
He further displayed h
is agility by leaping onto a fi
re escape a good twelve feet away, hardly making a sound as he did.

Lany let go a tiny smile. Kwaku had taught the Weapons Master well.

Dallan turned on the tiny escape
landing
and faced Lany, positioning himself into a crouch. He motioned for quiet again and mouthed the word “watch” as he pointed toward the alley’s entrance.

Sure enough, two men were just entering the sh
adows. Th
ey hadn’t
seen Dallan
but Lany would be har
d to miss, sitting as he was
ato
p a smelly garbage bin.  L
ooking as if he were waiting to see a sadistic dentist.

Lany decided his b
est pollster’s look was more fi
tting for the occasion and plastered it on instead, just as one of the two thugs caught sight of him. The thug stared at him with an odd look on his face as he nudged his companion with an elbow. The other man, a much larger fellow took in the sight and all but licked his lips, making Lany shiver slightly atop his perch with revulsion. He resisted the urge to glare at the Scot lying in wait like a huge cat above him.
So,
he thought,
I’m bait. Okay, fi
ne.
He crossed his legs and took on a casual air.

The thugs came up to the bin, measuring up any possible threat his thin form might contain. Apparently they decided there was none. “
Whaddaya
know, Mr. Graves? Garbage man forgot to pick this one up,” the shorter of the two chuckled to his more serious companion, who was scanning the alley with a killer’s eye.

Perhaps being in Dallan’s company at the moment wasn’t so bad after all.

“Where’s your big friend?” the killer, Mr. Graves, asked casually as he reached into the jacket of his obviously tailor made suit. Lany especially noted the man’s accent and dress, both quite similar to Philip Brennan’s. Not hard to guess who sent them, he thought.

Lany smiled and glanced upward as if pondering the man’s statement, just catching the grin on Dallan’s face above him. It was all the encouragement Lany needed. “Oh,” he shrugged, “I suppose he’s still in there.”

The two men looke
d at each other. “In where?” Th
e shorter and
obviously dumber one asked.

“There.” Lany pointed to a steel door in the shadows. It probably led into whatever establishment fronted the street. Judging from the smell of the alley, it was most likely a restaura
nt, one that served a lot of fi
sh…

“Funny, I could have sworn he was back here with you.” Graves now spoke as he pulled out the gun he’d been keeping his hand on beneath his jacket. He pointed it directly at Lany and took a threatening step toward the trash bin. “Get down.”

Lany s
miled and looked to the star-fi
lled sky. “Well, all right, if you insist. But only on one condition.”

“Condition?” Graves asked as he reached into his other pocket and pulled out a black metal tube. He began to screw it onto the end of his gun. Lany had heard of these; a silencer, it was called. He also knew he was going to be dead if Dallan didn’t do something quickly.

“Yes, condition,”
Lany
said calmly, stalling as best he could. Now all he had to do was think of a condition in the next three seconds.

“And what might that be?” Graves replied, now totally amused.

Lany had been thinking so hard on what to say that he almost didn’t notice the shorter man was
gone, and replaced by a very fi
erce-looking Weapons Master. Mr. Graves, taking small steps toward Lany while he
talked, stood not more than fi
ve feet in front of him. He was now perfectly positioned between the trash bin and the seething Scot, who looked as if he’d had enough.

Lany had his condition. “That you don’t turn around.”

Gra
ves sneered at him. “Is that the best you can come up with
?”

Lany merely smiled.

Graves rolled his eyes.  "Americans." He mumbled then asked the inevitable.  "And why not?"

Lany’s smile grew wider. “Oh, I can think of about two hundred and eighty reasons, but I really don’t think you want to know what they are.” He squinted knowingly as Dallan shot him a disgusted look. “Uh, by the way, your friend’s gone.”

“What? Kent?” Graves called. He backed up a step to ensure Lany couldn’t reach him and promptly turned around when he got no answer. He then fell to the gro
und in a heap after Dallan’s fi
st smashed into his face.

Lany peered down at Graves a moment and nodded to himself. Out cold. He hopped off his perch, mumbling about the stupidity of twentieth-century hoodlums while Dallan examined his catch.

“Where’s the Brain?” Lany asked as he scanned the area for the other cadaver. Dallan nodded off to his right, and Lany could barely see the silent heap in the shadows. “Anyone you know?” He asked, glancing from one unconscious—at least he hoped they were just unconscious—form to the other.

Dallan stood. “I rather hoped ye could tell me. I do have a bloody
good idea, though.” He spoke fl
atly, wearing a grave look of concern on his face.

“That makes two of us,” Lany muttered. “The man at the Maiden’s
house yesterday?”

Dallan nodded. “I wasna in the house when he came and never saw him, But I… I felt him.”

Lany raised a curious brow at the statement.

Dallan shook his head, eyes narrowing at the crumpled heap before him. “This
isna
him.
The man from the house ‘twas with her folk today though.
At least he felt the same.” His eyes now held a far off look, as if he was trying vainly to remember something. “Who is he, Master Lany? Or are ye going to keep that bit o’ information from me, too?” He asked sarcastically. Dallan bent to the man on the
pavement,
grabbed him by the collar and shook him a few times. No good
;
still out.

“Maybe next time you shouldn’t hit so hard.” Lany commented dryly.
“We’ll never fi
nd out anything at this rate.”

“Answer my question.”

Lany sighed. “Their boss’s name is Philip Brennan.” He was unsure how much he could tell Dallan and still be able to keep him in line.

“What does he ha’ to do
wi’…
Shona?” Dallan stood again, towering over Lany with one of the most intense stares he had ever seen. Lany was glad it was boring holes into the body on the ground and not his own skull. This must be the look that always gave Eaton a headache.

Wait a minute. Did the Scot just call the Maiden by her given name? Well, this was a breakthrough…

“Master Lany…” Dallan’s voice was stern.

Lany quickly made a mental note to himself:
Don’t tell him everything,
yet give him enough of the truth to keep him happy.
“He’s a close friend of the family as I understand it. Now, I don’t know what he might need these…” he gestured to the still-unconscious forms, “uh, people for. Or what’s left of them.”

“Weel, t
hen. Let’s fi
nd out, shall we?”

Lany looked confused for only a second before he heard the man at their feet groan. Dallan bent down and watched him come around.

“Uh, just what are you going to do?” Lany asked, cautious yet curious.

Dallan grinned at him. “The same thing I would like to ha’ done wi’ you if given half the chance.” He shrugge
d. “But, 'twould upset John,
so I suppose I’ll ha’ to make do
wi
’ these for now.”

Lany couldn’t believe Dallan was suddenly in such a light mood with the prospect of pulverizing someone. But then again, after ten years Kwaku was bound to rub off on him a little. “So, uh, what did you have in mind?”

The Weapons Master’s grin broadened. “Ye dinna
happen to ken where we might fi
nd some humiliating form of persuasion, would ye now?”

Lany knew he shouldn’t be doing this, but desperate times did call for desperate measures. Besides, it sounded like fun. He grinned back and looked at the man called Graves as he began to regain consciousness. “Give me a minute.”

And with that, Dallan’s fi
st once again connected with Grave’s face, sending him back to the ground and giving Lany time to think on the best possible course of humiliation.

* * *

A light breeze crept through Shona’s window to gen
tly touch her face, its cool fi
ngers stroking her
cheek
as had the mysterious man from the library.

She fought the sleep that held her against her will. Perhaps it was the man himself and not a breeze. If only she could wake up.

Or was she awake already? She couldn’t move, and try as she might, her eyes refused to open. Yet she could hear the sounds of the night surrounding her—night
birds, crickets,
a
neighborhood
dog
'
s
occasional bark
. And the voices outside her room, fading in and out, becoming clear then suddenly distorted, as if her door was being opened and closed.

If only she could wake up, if only she could sleep
;
either would be preferable to this haunting limbo. How on earth did she get th
ere? What caused it? She was fi
ne after dinner, happy to get home and away from Philip. The constant discord she sensed between him and her parents made the entire eveni
ng unpleasant. She felt fi
ne after she’d taken a shower, had some tea Julia insisted she try, and went to bed.

Where was the man? She needed him; why was he not here? He had all but said he would be waiting for her beneath the tree. She knew the pain would come in the middle of the night like it always did, and he was the only one able to take it away. Even her music did little to stop it now. Only him…

Please, God, if he’s out there, make him come! I do not know where he has
gone. Please, do you know where he is? Is he hurt? Lost? I need him. I need him.
I need him like I need… the boy.

Where had the boy gone? Why had she not seen him in her dreams as often since she’d met the man from the library? Who had killed those loved by the man? Oh, how he hurt. If she could just push the pain away from him, he would be so much better, so free to love her… just like the boy...

“Philip, what’s happening to her?” Julia backed up a step and trembled with
an odd combination of
fear
and elation
at what she saw.

Philip, his breathing erratic, bent over Shona who lay helpless and
drugged upon her bed; a sacrifi
cial lamb bound to a hideo
us altar, waiting to be sacrifi
ced to a detestable god of evil. Himself.

He put a hand on either side of her shoulders and leaned to within inches of her face, intent on the changes taking place. “She is in what is called Flux. See how her features change, Julia? Is she not beautiful? She can sense
what is inside me, her camoufl
age instinct
relaxing
as she dreams, no fear of discovery. It thinks I’m one of her kind. It doesn’t know yet how human I am.”