The Guardian (Chronicles of Dover's Amalgam Book 1) (10 page)

“There are . . .” His hands rotated at the wrists as he searched for the right words. “Strange times coming to our world. Things that we never dreamed possible.” He touched his chest with his fingertips. “Things I find troubling and bizarre. Full blown situations that will tear families apart and leave desolation in their wake. Things that will render society fearful and negligent unless intervention is made.”

“And you are the intervention?” Elizabet asked. She was halfway making fun of him, but as he revealed more of who he was, she had to know this was big. Things were about to get real in her life. She seemed both terrified and excited.

“Yes. It is no coincidence that I am a reformer and this boy is an unregulated pastor’s progeny. I believe in the providence of God, so yes, I will be the intervention. Jeremy will need guidance when he turns, and it will come from me.”

“Turns?” Elizabet asked, her voice raising an octave. “Like what? Werewolf? Vampire?”

“You read too much fiction,” Jareth scoffed. He shook his head and lowered his gaze to his feet. He didn’t know how to proceed without giving it all away prematurely. He had forgotten that the world of the future was riddled with fictitious ideations. Jeremy would, in fact, turn into what some would call a monster, but it was nothing like fabled stories of old.

“Maybe,” she agreed and shrugged with one shoulder. She seemed to want to do this, but only with her eyes wide open. “Apathy, movies, and all. My imagination doesn’t just exist, it romps.”

“Honestly, I do not know how much information I can relay to you at this time. It is still early for me, as well. Is it not enough that I am here asking
you
for help? Can you not ascertain that I have a level of trust for you? Why can you not extend the same to me?”

Elizabet tilted her head as he adjusted his stance to something more relaxed. She made a clicking noise with her tongue. “So, you don’t care if I invent stories in my mind?”

“I have no control over your imagination.” He was a bit sick that he had sounded as if he was begging. He never begged nor did he trust openly as he trusted her, but she would be married to him in the future. Surely, he could trust the person he would share his life with. “You need to think intelligently. This issue is one of DNA mutations. I do not understand it fully myself and I do not know if we ever shall. I am in the early stages of this, as well. It would behoove you to remember that.”

“It’s like that, huh?” She sounded disappointed that it was not something fantastic. Something unworldly. Her shoulders slightly drooped.

“I do apologize if I disappoint your romping imagination.”

“Umm.”

“I can see your mind churning,” Jareth said. His finger twirled in the air. “Perhaps I should dumbfound you more often. You are almost charming when you say nothing.”

Elizabet’s lips turned down in the corners. “You’re the rudest person I’ve ever met.”

“Quite possibly.” Jareth grinned. He was glad they were back on bickering terms and steering away from his momentary lapse in self-control. “Although I thought calling you charming was anything but rude.” He braced both hands behind him on the railing. “So, is this a yes? Will you help me?”

Elizabet surprised him by gazing up at the rafters instead of going into a full eye roll. “You’re crazy.”

“You are the one who claimed lunacy,” he said. “I am just a bastard.”

“Stop calling yourself that. Okay? It makes me think of small medieval orphans. Like a bad Charles Dickens story.”

Jareth was in awe of the sincere injustice she felt of his lack of birthright. He wanted to tally how many times she incited joy. It was remarkable. He was halfway convinced he could marry her on that merit alone. He wanted to squeeze her in a fierce hug each time she became indignant over his birth. “Do you realize that you are the most vexing person, yet I find conversing with you to be wonderful?”

Her nose crinkled. “Does that mean I get another question? Being wonderful has to get me something.”

“It does not. No.” He shook his head. “And I did not say that
you
are wonderful, merely that conversing with you is pleasurable.”

“I’ll make a deal with you.”

Jareth crossed his arms. “No more deals. I have reached my quota of agreements for the day and I am running out of time. I have a castle to tend.”

“Which castle would that be?” She clasped her hands behind her back, rocked onto her toes, and tilted her head as she waited.

Jareth allowed the silence to stretch as he weighed his options. To give her enough information for her to search things out would save time. It would give her access to knowledge of him—at least as far as Wikipedia could provide. He had not intended to play games. He had come here willing to bare all; this was her idea.

“Dover,” he answered. “As I said before, I’m the Duke of Dover. You must have missed that because you were too busy prying. It is near Kent.”

“You’re right,” she said thoughtfully. “You did say that.” She hummed meaningfully. “Medieval, England, and now a definite location.” She ticked each clue off with her fingers. “Any siblings, Sir Jareth.”

“Yes,” he said easily. “One half-sister named Agatha. And no one calls me sir. My title supersedes the necessity.”

“What year?”

“Thirteen twelve.”

“You’re so easy.” She seemed pleased at that.

“I am tired,” he admitted. He faced her with a serious expression. “Much like your farming equipment, but you are the reason of my exhaustion. I find you tiring. I may be in need of a nap when I return home.”

“Poor you.”

“Poverty is not a disadvantage of mine,” he said. “Although Gabriel does tell me that it will be a gradual accruing—my wealth.” He tilted his head. “I will have to sell off quite a few artifacts.”

She counted off another finger. “My thanks, but you’d better stop talking. My memory isn’t the best and I wanna be sure I stalk you correctly.” She waved her hand. “You may go now. Off to your castle. I have digging to do. The next time I see you, I plan to be prepared.”

Chapter 6

Beneath the castle walls of Dover, 1312

J
ARETH THREADED THE
final suture that closed the incision. One of his stewards had been afflicted with gallstones and it was past time for surgery. He looked forward to the day he could incorporate laparoscopy into his procedures. If he were to do that now, he feared the people he trusted would break under the pressure. It was one thing to stand aside and watch your duke during an operation, and another to observe him perform it using computer aided medicine in the early century. Most of his staff were superstitious and their faith weak. Even the solar panels it would take to run the equipment would raise a suspicion of witchcraft. And the Church would love to burn the young Duke of Dover at the stake for heresy against the faith he loved. They had been lying in wait to find something to kill him for. Ironic thing was they would have their proof if only they spoke to the right sources and pried in the right places.

He had built an infirmary in the tunnels beneath the castle and sealed it off with industrial locks that could only be opened by combination. Gabriel had brought the medical equipment after he took nearly a year to track down a smuggler they could trust.

New Orleans was a hotbed for traffickers looking to stick it to the government. Medical institutions were also regulated, like the churches. Dr. Harrow Mills was bent on vengeance against the system. Luckily for Jareth, Harrow was a professor at Tulane Medical Center, and a surgeon. In one day he gained both a mentor and a smuggler.

“I like the new retractors,” Jareth commented. The surgical mask he wore made it difficult to breathe and he usually refrained from speaking, but some things needed to be acknowledged. “Left handed. Both practical and smooth.
Gratias tibi ago
.”

“You’re very welcome. I thought you would appreciate them. It was my pleasure to lift them from the university surgical suite. Those bastards can ask the government for new ones,” Harrow responded. Jareth often switched to Latin when he was in surgery or when he was distracted; it was a good thing Harrow understood the language. Learning anatomy and medical terminology from him had been a breeze. Harrow peered over the glasses that were perched on the end of his nose. The neat line of sutures reflected in the lenses. “And the scrubs? How do you like those?”

Jareth stepped back from the sterile field and removed his gloves. “Nice. A bit breezy, but I suppose I will grow accustomed to lighter materials. Modern fabric is cheaply made. Not well done.” He frowned down at the emblem over the left pocket. “Gabriel tells me that you have secured identification and documents for my entry into medical school. Can I hope that it will not be an American university?”

“Ha! Speaking of not well done.” Harrow went back to swabbing the wound with an anti-infective solution before he removed the sterile drapes. “Gabriel is a snitch.”

“Is the snitch correct or is he merely teasing me?”

“The snitch is correct. Harrow removed his gloves and then pushed his bifocal glasses up the bridge of his nose. “But I was planning a better delivery. You’re now a proud twenty-year-old elite Oxford Medical student. First year—with great letters of recommendations, I should add.”

“Brilliant,” Jareth said. He rubbed the crick in the back of his neck. “Can I trust that we have sufficient funds to complete the entire education?”

“The crown sold to a museum for a hefty price. It’s rather like selling your birthright, eh?” Jareth merely shrugged, so he plowed on. “Minh purchased the cottage we selected in Kent, as per your request. And Gabriel set up a trust and bank fund in your name at the Royal Bank.”

“And yet, I am trapped here,” Jareth said. He motioned to the drugged body lying between them on the gurney. He grinned. It was something he rarely did, but it was becoming common practice and he did not want to think why. “Or in South Louisiana until the storm.” He faked a shudder. “Ghastly.”

Harrow laughed. “You’ll get used to it. The humidity and heat is bearable when you realize you have access to the best cuisine in the world.”

Jareth shuddered for real. “Shellfish? I would rather eat my own liver.”

“Liver is a delicacy.”

Jareth pretended to gag, which made Harrow laugh again.

“I think you better focus on learning to be normal and forget that you are destined to be in a place you’d rather not be. Besides, it’ll only be for a short time.”

“That, unfortunately, is untrue.” Jareth grabbed hold of the stretcher to help Harrow roll the patient into the recovery area. “It seems I am to be married to a native of the area.”

“Interesting,” Harrow said. He grabbed the blood pressure cuff and stethoscope from a wooden table as they passed and tossed them both on the patient’s legs. “The girl they brought over to nurse you, I presume?”

Jareth nodded. He didn’t meet Harrow’s gaze as they strolled the patient down the wide mouth of the north tunnel.

“Still don’t understand why they didn’t come get me instead,” Harrow muttered under his breath. He glanced at Jareth, who let himself remain remarkably stiff and deaf. “Did she patch you up well enough?”

“Quite,” Jareth bit out.

They reached the recovery area and parked the gurney against the wall. Jareth reached for the stethoscope that hung on the stone wall.

“They were under direct order by me,” Jareth said. He placed the tips of the stethoscope in his ears and bent over to listen to the patient’s heart and lung sounds. It was necessary for him to clear the air between him and his mentor. He liked Harrow and did not want a misunderstanding to stand in the way of their friendship. “They brought the girl to me because it is the way of things, the way the future is heading.” He masterfully passed the stethoscope between lung fields. “It is my understanding that I can be rather nasty in the future.”

Harrow waited for Jareth to complete the assessment, and then passed him the blood pressure cuff when he reached for it. “A bloodthirsty duke like yourself? Who’d have thought?”

Jareth ignored the comment. In fact, he chose that moment to remain silent for the duration of the recovery. It was a bit awkward because Harrow continued to attempt conversation. But Jareth was accustomed to being odd. He kept his tongue still. Somewhere deep in his heart he felt it was what he needed to do. Besides, what was the logical argument? Harrow had been only partially joking. His ability to slay opponents was legendary. It embarrassed him. He did not like docile people like Harrow to see him as anything but harmless and capable of healing.

Harrow eventually broke the silence. “Whatever will you do with Catherine?”

Jareth hid his eyes by gazing down at the patient. “I have never agreed to any betrothal,” Jareth snapped. His hand gripped the gurney to the point his knuckles blanched. He did not like when his emotions switched so quickly, but this topic was a sure way to get him upset every time it was brought up. It had been at least six months since he heard Catherine’s name spoken, yet it still hit a raw nerve. He had almost forgotten about her and their proposed betrothal. “Whatever was decided was decided without my consent.”

“That won’t hold up in royal court.”

“I do not care what holds up in royal court. They can have my title and lands if they must. I will not marry Catherine of Torquay.”

“Then you’d better get yourself hitched before they catch you with your pants down.”

Jareth stood to his full six feet, six inches. He leveled a killer stare at Harrow. “I beg your pardon, good sir.”

Harrow gave a short laugh. “Your
proverbial
pants, I should have said. You’re so good with slang that I forget you don’t know it all.” He took off his glasses and pointed them at Jareth. “You need to be rid of that supposed betrothal if you plan to pursue this other girl.”

“She is not the other girl,” Jareth said. He relaxed, reached up, and idly massaged his neck. Some of his tension left him immediately as the subject changed from Catherine to Elizabet. “She is
the
girl. The one and only if I can ever figure out why I chose her.”

“Wow!” Harrow’s eyes popped wide with the single mocking word. “You’ve never said anything like that before. You’re actually considering this girl as your future duchess? She’s from Louisiana, man. She’ll be like a fish out of water. She won’t fit in. Even the serfs will know.”