The Guardian (Chronicles of Dover's Amalgam Book 1) (14 page)

Chapter 8

JARETH GLANCED AROUND
the room. “Gabriel informed me that time travel was emotional. He said that I would find it troublesome.” He rolled his shoulders, leaned forward and laced his fingers together, his elbows on his knees. “And I am, by no means, an emotional individual.” His mouth pursed sardonically. “Or sweet. I am a knight. Known for justice that is best executed by sword.”

“Yet you also plan to be a doctor?”

“Caught that, did you?”

“Oh, yeah. I’ve Googled you.”

“Nice. And very convenient.”

“You know what Googling is?”

“Of course. I know many things pertaining to your modern world.” He made a stirring motion with his finger. “But let us get on the fascination you have with my life. Where did Google lead you?”

“I wouldn’t say fascination . . .”

“I daresay I would.” He grinned.

Elizabet scowled. “You gave me the information and said ‘happy hunting.’ Of course I Googled you.”

Jareth shrugged one shoulder. “Saves time. We will not have to play your silly little game anymore. Besides, I am willing to tell you whatever it is you would like to know. Games are not necessary.”

Elizabet made an unladylike growl. “Do you know how many websites I searched through? And you’ll
tell
me whatever I want to know?”
“Precisely.” Jareth smiled. “With the exception of Jeremy. I have to insist that the details of what happens to him stay forbidden for a while longer.” He tilted his head; his eyes sparkled with what closely resembled glee. “Tell me all about me. I am almost afraid to ask, however. Am I a bloodthirsty knight who is a religious zealot, or am I a simple lord who leads his people with kindness. It will vary by perception. That is most unfortunate.”

“I will tell you who you are not,” Elizabet said. Her sudden cheery demeanor seemed to make Jareth uneasy. His shoulders slumped and his jaw became rigid. “You are not the Casanova you claim to be. The man to one wife and father of a slew of kids. So before you go bragging about what a fantastic catch you are, just know that you’ve been caught.”

“Really?” His eyes tapered. “Did they happen to name the lucky girl?”

“Elisabeth Tremaine, the first Duchess of Dover,” she replied. She wrinkled her nose and stuck her tongue out sideways. “Of great beauty and all that nonsense.”

“It does not sound like nonsense to me.” Jareth’s grin was predatory, which appalled Elizabet. She felt the heat of a flush again, and looked away.

“You’re ridiculous,” she muttered.

“Perhaps,” he replied. She gazed back at him. A bored expression fell over his face. “But I have never heard of an
Elisabeth.
She must be a ravishing beauty to
catch me
, as you so fondly call it. I cannot wait to meet the woman who ensnares me.”

“I’m sure it’s all a matter of time . . .” She gave him a pointed look. “ . . . Before you meet her and she snares you up.”

“
Dubium
,” he said with a sniff. He motioned to the small television in the corner of the room. “May we get on to business now? I would like to see more of this storm.”

“You want to watch The Weather Channel?” she asked incredulously. “Honestly, you switch subjects as often as I do. Drives Grandma nuts.”

He smiled and murmured something she couldn’t quite hear. “Is there something else you would like to talk about?”

“What did you just say? That wasn’t English.”

He touched his fingertips lightly to his chest “
Ignosce mihi
.” He executed a slight bow even though he remained seated. “Please forgive me; I think in Latin and sometimes it overflows my mouth.” He tilted his head. “I think I said something to the effect of ‘without doubt’.”

“You think in Latin?”

“Yes. It is the language I am most comfortable with. Does this offend you?”

Elizabet stared at him. She made sure to blink every so often just to let him know she had not turned to stone. “I’m so out of my league,” she mumbled and then shook her head. “No. It’s totally cool that you can do that. I guess it’s like speaking Cajun French around here. Nothing special where you come from, but crazy cool to me.”

“You speak another language?”

“Only the curse words,” she admitted with a bashful smile. “Grandma speaks it perfectly, though. It’s her original language.” She motioned to him. “But I want to talk more about you, not just your woman.” She let a scowl cross her face and Jareth grinned again. “I read that you work for the Church—”

His grin faded. “No,” he interrupted. “I do not work for the Church. I translate scripture. There is a difference. A vast difference. I would never ally with an institution that lacks the basis for biblical truth.” The timbre of his voice deepened and a feeling of uneasiness swept over her.

“Does the name John Wycliffe ring a bell?”

Jareth crossed his arms; one of his hands went to his face, where he stroked the shadow of beard appearing around his mouth and cheeks. “What did you discover?”

“That you almost die for your little side job of translating. A Lady Catherine has you questioned by the Archbishop of Canterbury. She orders your execution.”

“Really?” He straightened in seeming surprise. His hand paused over his upper lip. He pointed at her with that hand. “Did it say when? Did it explain what happened to this lady?” She noted that he said the word lady with vehemence. At once, she was aware that he knew this woman who wanted his life.

“No,” she answered honestly. “I couldn’t find anything else on your life other than the names of your children, your legacy with the Church . . . the date that you die.”

Jareth grimaced and he waved his fingers before dropping his hand. “This topic has come to an end. I think perhaps there are a good many things I do not need to know.”

“Agreed.” She leaned forward to rest her elbows on her knees. “And okay, I get it. No information that speaks of your demise.” He nodded and appeared relieved. “So, you want to watch TV, you said? The Weather Channel?”

“Please.”

“Why?”

Jareth’s lips slid to one side. “That question was foreseen. Somehow, I knew you would question that.” He motioned to the television.

She smiled. “Okay.” She rolled her eyes and reached for the remote that was on her fluorescent green bedspread. “I’ll give a little, but we are going to talk about all sorts of stuff while you watch TV. You did say that you’d tell me whatever I wanted to know.”

“
Dibium
.”

“Without a doubt,” she said over her shoulder as she switched on the television. He smiled at her before he faced the small screen.

The hand that held the remote trembled as Elizabet placed it carefully next to her on the bedside table. He could be so charming, but he was not for her. He belonged to some girl named Elisabeth, and she needed to remember that. He should save his lethal smiles for his wife, anything else was a waste of time—her time, to be precise.

She took advantage of his inattentiveness to absorb him—the way his large body made the small folding chair seem as doll furniture beneath him. Although he was not for her, she could not help herself. His dark hair was cut short, not the way she imagined a knight’s hair would be styled. It curled slightly at the neckline of his T-shirt. It was a recent, modern change. And his new clothing made him familiar. He was more approachable, more touchable. It was an understatement to say he was attractive. The man practically reeked pheromones that called to every eligible female within a hundred-mile radius.

He gave her a good thirty minutes to study him and she did not become bored with it. His face remained unmoved as his eyes roved the screen, studying the red mass that covered the entire Gulf of Mexico. It was a terrible thing coming straight for them, but she could not muster up the fear to care. If Hurricane Libby blew through the house this second, she would die with a smile on her face. He was that lovely to watch.

“This track is giving us under a week to make arrangements? According to this . . .” Jareth waved his hand toward the small, flat screen, “ . . . I have six days to prepare for the worst.”

“Give or take,” Elizabet said. She came out of her pheromone induced fog to glance at the screen and see that the latest coordinates were indeed closer. The hurricane had gained both strength and speed. The millibars were low. That was never a good sign. “What do you mean by us and having to prepare?”

“This storm that approaches has a great deal to do with Jeremy. I will need your help to secure him. I need to be introduced to the people important to Jeremy. Gain trust before I swoop in and . . .” He motioned to the television. “Can you stop the television, please, Elizabet? I find it distracting and I have the gist of the report. They are merely repeating themselves.”

Elizabet fumbled slightly with the remote due to the way her named rolled out of his eloquent mouth. She was terrified he would be laughing at her when she faced him.

He was not. “Elizabet,” he repeated her name, and she had the same squishy feeling again. “Ask your questions.”

A gush of air left her lungs. They were so much alike when it came to a disjointed thought process, yet when he did it, she found herself fumbling for footing. “You sound so rushed.” He looked at her with a grave expression that did not bode well in the pit of her stomach. She brushed her bangs from her eyes and bit the inside of her cheek. “I don’t know where to start.” She shook her head. “I have so many. Any suggestions? I’m sure you can tell me what I want to know most.”

Jareth scooted to the edge of his chair and reached out his hand. Elizabet stared at his outstretched palm. “You say that I sound rushed.” He wiggled his fingers. She thrust out her hand, and felt awkward even as his warm hand covered her clammy one. She did not have a feminine bone in her body, and it had never been more evident than in that moment. She wanted to weep. She wanted to be a lady and refined instead of a girl with calloused hands which she had just jammed at him like a ham hock. “I am rushed. We are running out of time. I must answer your questions so we can get down to business, per se.”

He made her smile. “You use slang so easily.”

“I read a book on slang,” he said, no humor in his voice, only urgency. He squeezed her fingers. The pressure had an odd effect on parts of her body other than her fingers. “Quickly, love, list your questions and I will answer them all.”

Everything within her stilled. Elizabet’s mind could not wrap around why he would call her such a thing as ‘love,’ but his urgency opened a floodgate of speech that lasted into the night. They spoke of the Amalgam, of Gabriel and Minh, and Castle Dover. He told her everything, except the fate of Jeremy. But even then, he gave her any answers she asked for that concerned Jeremy’s safety. He kept his voice lowered, and it became hypnotic as he told her of unspoken things she was now privy to.

Gabriel was a Spartan warrior and Minh was an Asian assassin. She could hardly believe it, yet it made perfect sense. His openness gave her a level of trust for him she did not have before. She told him about Mrs. Wheatley visiting her mother when she was a child. Admitted that it was not apathy that made her compliant, but years of being groomed by seeing time travel first hand, and the knowledge that one day she would be asked to travel the wormhole. They spoke of his future as a surgeon, how it benefited host without giving too much information as to what host actually was. And he gave her what he called a bonus secret.

He admitted he suffered from a mild case of Asperger’s, the same as all host. Asperger’s and autism were wildly prevalent among host and some guardians. Jareth believed that this genetic link was what led to their turnings. That was unexpected.

Jareth did not release her sweaty hand until Grandma called out to say she was going to bed. They stood to make their way to the kitchen where they could continue their conversation and still be adherent, somewhat, to Jareth’s moral code.

Jareth stepped aside and allowed her to exit the room first. He stayed a few paces behind to view the pictures hanging in the hallway and give her time to speak with Grandma privately.

“Grandma,” Elizabet let her voice carry ahead of them as Jareth paused to look closer at a picture of her younger self. “I promise he won’t stay much longer. We just have some Church things to talk about. That’s all.”

“You know how I feel about strangers in my house,” Grandma said. The walk from her chair to the kitchen had left her short of breath. She did not need to mention how she felt about Elizabet’s church activities; that was an old fight, and it went on and on like a broken record.

She lowered her voice. “He’s harmless. He’s really nice. I’ll be okay.”

Grandma made a noise that said what she did not verbalize: she was not impressed with her granddaughter’s guest. “Make sure you put away the cash, you hear?”

“Why don’t you go to bed? I’ll bring you a beer after he leaves.”

“Well,” Grandma said after a beat of silence. “As long as you keep an eye on the crawfish money. It’s in the coffee tin under the sink.”

“I promise,” Elizabet said. Grandma grumbled all the way to her room off the kitchen. “Goodnight,” Elizabet called. She peered over her shoulder as Jareth appeared.

“Don’t forget the beer,” Grandma hollered before she closed her bedroom door with a loud thump.

Elizabet closed her eyes briefly on the word beer and winced in embarrassment. She then smiled pathetically and tugged on the hem of her shirt as if she could hide. How she dreaded this part. The part where Jareth discovered what a mess her family was. “We’ve covered just about everything tonight, except Grandma. Any questions?”

He joined her in the kitchen. “I could say you fit the Louisianan stereotype perfectly, but I hesitate. I have studied your traditions and the social functions of your people.”

Elizabet leaned her weight on the back of a chair that belonged to the only table in the house. The kitchen was a cluttered mess. The paneling on the walls was stained from grease and cigarette smoke. There were outlines on the walls where pictures had once hung. “How weird is that? I mention the oversized elephant in the room that is my verbally abusive, alcoholic grandma and you say I’m a stereotype.”