Clandestine

I watched the knife sink deep into my employer’s shoulder. I fired at the assailants, but they melted into the London mist. My master collapsed in the dark alleyway, blood rapidly darkening his greatcoat.

I was part of his
crew
, as he sometimes called us—the group of men who protected and served him. For our part, we simply called him W.

W had survived so much, but as I turned him over, I feared the nasty wound would turn inevitably gangrenous. All the money in England would not be enough to save a man from such an injury. Not even the infamous W, who owned a good percentage of that money.

“Garvis,” W said to me between clenched teeth, “in my coat pocket . . . there is the information Wellington seeks. Ensure he receives it.”

I nodded my agreement. More men than just W had bled for the information those documents contained. The fate of the British Empire hung in the balance.

How I got W back to his townhouse, I cannot remember. Once there, I handed off the blood-stained letter with strict instructions to place it directly into the Duke of Wellington’s hands.

Two footmen carefully lifted W into a clean bed. Lean and tall, W still had the vigor of a man ten years younger, despite the gray creeping in at the edges of his dark hair.

“You know the drill.” W fixed me with his pale eyes as a valet cut away his gory clothing. “That special poultice I discovered while in Brazil. Flush the wound with my best brandy before stitching it closed, and do not let anyone—on pain of death—come near me with a leech or bloodletting lancet.”

These instructions were not new. W had this same odd ritual around all his wounds. The valet and I flushed and stitched the wound, applying the poultice of herbs and honey. All the while, W mumbling strange sentences, like ‘Hope tetanus vaccine is solid’ and ‘What I wouldn’t give for an antibiotic.’

But this, also, was nothing particularly unusual. W occasionally said inexplicable things like ‘whatever, man,’ and he had a strong affinity for the word
awesome
. By this point, I had given up making sense of it.

As we were wrapping the wound in clean muslin, W grabbed my hand tightly. “If I end up delirious, do not believe a word I say.”

W did well that first night, sleeping fitfully. But despite all our precautions, a fever set in the next morning. W descended into delusional ramblings.

Naturally, I had been through this before with my employer, but usually W’s mutterings were quiet and indistinct. This time started like all the others with W murmuring phrases like ‘mustn’t go back’ and ‘she’s well.’

However after a day, W became more agitated. I woke from dozing in a chair to find him thrashing about. Jumping to my feet, I instantly tried to still him before he reopened his wound. W continued to toss his head back and forth.

“Please, sir, you must calm yourself,” I pleaded.

W hissed and opened his eyes, scanned the room and then focused on me. His eyes narrowed in confusion.

“Who are you? Where am I?” he whispered.

“You are in your townhouse, sir. In London. I am Garvis—”

“This isn’t my house.” W opened his eyes wider, darting a glance around the room again. Staring at the bed hangings, the candles burning, the fire flickering in the hearth.

“No!” W heaved his body, nearly breaking my hold. His eyes rolled back into his head. “No, this isn’t right. It can’t be.”

I needed to calm him. “Everything will be all right, sir. You just need to compose your—”

But W continued to thrash his head back and forth, muttering.

“No! No, I was there. In the cellar of the house . . . falling . . . so long ago . . . cottage . . . Duir Cottage.”

“Sir, calm down.”

W fixed me with a terrified look. “What is the year?” he asked, licking his lips.

I paused. How gone was he into his delirium? “1828, sir—”

“No! Oh heavens, no!” W groaned. “No, that’s not right. It makes no sense.” He grabbed my arm with his good hand, holding fast. “Tell me you lie. Tell me the year is 2014—”

Horror flashed through my soul at those words.

“Sir, you are fevered—” But my words fell on deaf ears. W had closed his eyes, murmuring again.

“It was there—there in the cellar. The portal.” He started thrashing about again. “My name. What is my name?”

“Please, sir, calm down. You mustn’t be so wild—”

“Wild!” W suddenly laughed—a crazed, maniacal sound. “It’s all wild, wild, wild! Marcus Wilde!”

Chapter 1

Fraser Island

Queensland, Australia

February 7, 2014

M
arc Wilde
should
have been having a good day.

A
fantastic
day, even.

But, of course, something
would
have to come along and mess it up.

Whatever. Just his luck.

On the surface, his day seemed so perfect. A flat out ten out of ten in nearly every category.

Location = 10/10.

He was on a photoshoot for
Vogue Thailand
with Australia’s Next Top Model, who posed nearby in a gossamer gold silk gown. The ocean lapped soothingly against the rusted hull of a nearly century-old shipwreck nestled romantically in the sugar-white sand.

What wasn’t there to love about the whole scene? Standing on a shipwreck in the midst of exotic scenery? A beautiful woman at his side? It was every man’s fantasy.

Career = 10/10.

His latest film,
Croc-nami
, was a huge commercial success (well, at least in Southeast Asia), and Marc—martial artist turned stuntman turned leading man—could practically taste his growing fame.

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see a promotional poster for
Croc-nami
taped to an awning behind the art director’s head. The image depicted Marc—his face grimy with blood, dirt and scruff—holding aloft a chainsaw with an enormous tsunami rearing behind him, gigantic crocodiles lunging out of the frothing water.

Words blazoned across the bottom:

The crocs are coming and they are hungry for
YOU!

It was the moment in the film where Marc turned to the camera and uttered that infamous catch phrase. Deadpan and threatening:

“Later, alligator.”

Granted,
Croc-nami
wouldn’t be winning an Academy Award, but he viewed the movie as a stepping stone. The film would give him visibility, opening up other roles and cross-promotions. Case in point—this uh-mazing photoshoot.

Weather = 10/10.

The sun beat down with the bone-melting warmth of summer in Australia, a welcome change from February in New York or London. Marc kept tilting his face toward it, soaking in the vitamin D.

So yeah. Everything picture perfect. Literally.

Basically a ten out of ten day all around.

Except for the teeny, tiny matter of the note he had received earlier that morning.

It had landed on his perfect day like a six-foot-eight guy in front of Marc’s fifty-yard-line Bronco’s football seat.

Ruining the entire experience.

The letter was terse and anonymous.

I know what is hidden in the cellar of Duir Cottage in Herefordshire.

A time portal would be of extreme interest to the rest of the world.

I have definitive proof of its existence.

My silence comes with a price.

Place thirteen yellow roses in the front window of Duir Cottage

to acknowledge you have received this missive.