The Guardian (Chronicles of Dover's Amalgam Book 1) (3 page)

They came as apparitions and then in complete forms as they merged into time through a portal of light. They would die to save him. Jareth’s life was gravely important to the threads of time, and these men had sworn an oath to protect him. He was destined to lead a group whose DNA had been altered by nature. They had come to him to train him. To prepare him for the meeting of his first host, which would occur soon after his twentieth birthday.

But this was the first time they brought someone along—a new person with specific healing skills. Elizabet had saved his life even though he had to tell her what to do. Her skills lay primarily with animals; she had to be forgiven that. A possible fatal wound that required healing by third intention was out of her scope of practice. Not out of his, however. The pity lay in that he was indeed the patient. They had brought her here and left her
alone
with him. And neither Gabriel nor Minh had decided to show their face to explain.

Elizabet had thrown up so many times that he believed she may fall ill and render her services useless. That was over the first three days. It had now been a month since he was wounded, and still she turned colors when it was uncovered.

“Here’s the book you ordered.” Elizabet tossed the leather-bound tome precariously close to the bandage on his abdomen and his body tensed. She smirked as the book flopped onto the bed beside him, missing the wound by a fraction of an inch. “Happy reading.”

Jareth narrowed his eyes. “Are you not staying?” It both disturbed and intrigued him that he cared.

It was a recent event that they could converse—speak and hold a conversation. Earlier, their relationship had been merely that of patient and nurse. Jareth would tell her how to treat and she would perform. In the first days, not being able to get a venous line had almost been the death of him. She finally managed it, though. He thought her magnificent after that, able-handed and well spoken, with an air of superiority. He was quite sure that she was faking the confidence, but that made it all the more interesting.

Normally, he detested conversation, but she made it entertaining, and now that they were at leisure to speak, he planned to ferret an advantage and find out why she was chosen. How did she play a part in his future life of the Amalgam? He knew Gabriel and Minh well enough to understand they did nothing without purpose. Somehow, this girl was tied to him. She was crucial to him; he only had to figure her out without scaring her to death. He did not know how much she was told—very little if he discerned correctly. They had practically thrown her together with him. She did not even know his name. Not well done at all.

“Do I have a choice?” she asked. Her face turned pink as she glanced away. “Besides, I need to change your bandage.” She waved her hand in the general direction of his abdomen without looking at it.

He had no family, so to speak. No one, really, to guide him how to act in the company of a lady. What he did value was the mind. The way it wrapped around a concept and understood that a simple idea or task was not singularly one opinion. Everything had multifaceted properties begging to be solved or unscrambled.

Therefore, she made him uncomfortable, because she did not fit into any one category. She had no properties or categories. Elizabet just
was
. He was not accustomed to the confusion this invited. Good character rarely acknowledged confusion. It was an oxymoron to strength and dignity. The way she spoke of his injury was hindsight to her. The trouble was that no one, even if they felt it, claimed to be annoyed with him since he was bestowed the title of Duke. Elizabet’s every fiber reeked of discontent.

But still, he liked her and he suspected she liked him, as well. It was evident in the way she cared for him. In the way she spoke even though she did not think he understood. The fevered way she attempted nursing care when she lacked skill or knowledge. Elizabet trusted him to guide her through his own healing, yet he knew she studied when she was away. How else would she come to know words such as ‘debridement of a wound’?

Jareth toyed with the edging on the book and watched her fix the covers over the bed. It was something she did even though she was aware he could not stand having his feet bound. She used exaggerated strokes as if she was deflecting his curiosity, tucking the heavy bed cover under and around his heels. She was angry—again.

He let a smile curve on half his lips. He would do something for her, after she had done so much for him. “You are relieved of your duties.” There. He had said it, even though he really did not mean it. He was, of course, willing to let her go. She was not a vassal or a servant. If she stayed, he wanted it to be because she wished to stay.

Elizabet’s motions stiffened yet another fraction. “I wasn’t aware that I had duties. I thought I was doing a favor. Or maybe just plain kidnapped . . .” Her voice trailed off as she turned away.

Perhaps her discontent of caring for him came from the fact she had been forced to do so. It was not her choice to be here with him. Jareth surmised that she was not someone who liked to be dictated to. He hoped if she felt free, then she would perform her ‘duties’ with a fraction of joy. Using reverse psychology was risky, but he prayed it worked.

“I am familiar with the term,” Jareth said as he wiggled his feet until the covers loosened from the tuck. “Kidnapped. It means to be taken. Stolen. Is that how you feel? As if you were stolen?”

“Stolen,” Elizabet repeated. She clasped her hands behind her back and leaned forward against the foot of the bed, her thighs against the thick post. “I was lied to. Mrs. Wheatley told me this would be an adventure, not a nightmare. I thought you would have a small flesh wound.”

Jareth tilted his head; he tapered his eyes slightly. “I have offended you.”

Her eyes rounded. “Offended? No. Not offended. I wouldn’t call it that.” She shrugged with one shoulder. “I’m not sure when you’ll let me go home. I can’t be here for days. My grandma will send out a search party. Again. I can’t pretend that I ran away. Again.” Each time she said ‘again,’ her voice raised an octave. It bordered hysteria.

“I apologize that you had to lie.”

It had been necessary that she remain during the first days of his care. It was not until a venous line had been established and he no longer needed nursing around the clock that Mrs. Wheatley had been allowed to fetch her.

He sensed Elizabet was not afraid of him, but maybe she did not yet trust him, either. It was not wrong of her to feel kidnapped, but it had been many days since she had been forced to stay. Kidnapped sounded criminal and without honor. Jareth had honor in droves. The fact she could not see that made him a touch angry. He was right, though. She needed to feel free; he would liberate her even though he did not desire it.

“You have told me that your grandmother accepted the excuse you presented.” Jareth rubbed the book cover with his fingertips, but watched her. “And I fail to be convinced that you are afraid. You seem at ease with me and where you are. I cannot see any evidence of discomfort.”

A puff of air passed Elizabet’s lips. “Apathy. Blame movies for that.” She shrugged. “I’ve seen every time travel, science fiction picture known. It’s nothing new. In theory.”

“And motion pictures are to blame for this apathy you claim?” He adjusted his back against the pillows. The slight movement caused him to wince with the pain. Purposely, he used modern terms to remind her he was not naïve to her world. She threw things—ideas—around as if to intimidate him. She had no idea . . .

In fact, his world was a mixture of old and new. Jareth liked what the future entailed and he had incorporated many modern aspects into his time. Elizabet did not know the extent of his dealings with the future. She had been confined to one room—his private chamber. The girl would be hysterical if she knew what lay beyond the walls and in the tunnels under the castle. She would faint if she knew he was a capable surgeon and physician. She would run screaming if she were to see the fully functioning surgery suite beneath the castle exterior.

“You shouldn’t move around.” Elizabet leaned forward and reached out to stop him. “You’ll start bleeding again.” She stopped before she actually touched him, and glanced at where the bed sheet covered his torso. Her hands hovering—she seemed terrified the blood would start again. It was uncanny how she was fearful of a little blood, yet accepting of where and how she was transported, all for the sake of adventure.

Jareth smirked despite the hot poker digging into his wound. “Some movement is good. It prevents unwanted clot formation.” He tried a disarming smile once again. “Have a care. You may have to do something nice for me.”

“I resent that.” She snatched her hands away and tucked them in her armpits. She gave herself a fierce hug. “I’ve done everything that was asked of me.”

“And yet you feel kidnapped. Stolen.” He looked Elizabet straight in the eye, his half smile becoming a slight sneer despite his attempt to appear docile. For a while, he thought he saw a twinge of remorse or guilt, but then blatant irritation crossed her face and she did not try to hide it. He shook his head methodically and looked away. “The ever petulant Elizabet.”

Elizabet snorted.

Jareth allowed a smile, this time real—which was altogether unusual. Smiling was not a habit of his, but this one was easy and unplanned. And caused by that particular noise she made when she was put out. It was a little huff that sounded positively swinish.

“All right. Let us try this. We know so little of one another, perhaps you can tell me a bit about yourself,” he suggested.

“You want to know about me, when I know so very little about you?” Elizabet’s face contorted into a mask of anger. “Your friends are nothing but a pair of bullies. All their rules.” She blew a piece of her multi-colored hair from her eyes when it fell over her face. Her hair was held back today, but her bangs were uneven from the rest and kept creeping into her vision. The way she wore it reminded him of a horse’s tail. “Don’t ask questions,” she went on in an imitation of a man’s voice. “Don’t talk about what goes on. Lie if asked.” She gave him a sharp look. “I’m supposed to never freak out, and go along with everything you tell me to do. Like I’m some sort of servant or something. You want to know about me; well, I want to know about you. Starting with your name.” Her eyes widened. “And who reads in Latin? “She flipped her hand toward the book lying next to him. It seemed she was attempting to get everything in while she had the chance. The girl gave the term ‘flight of ideas’ a whole new meaning. “Do you even understand that they don’t make books in that language anymore? I had to order it on eBay. Do you know how much that cost me?”

She was fishing too, but Jareth would not offer more information than she yanked from his battered body. He was the one doing the prying, not the other way around. And he read in Latin. It mattered not that in the future it was considered a dead language. In fact, even his thoughts were in Latin. He got the sudden urge to strangle Gabriel and Minh for not debriefing him. It was not like them to leave him in the dark concerning someone. It would help if he knew who she was and how much information he could leak to her without breaching some sort of rule or code.

“Goes without saying that you heal at an astronomical rate.” Her hands found their way out from their confinement to flail in the air. “Now,
that
is something I don’t get—for sure! How does one find Zithromax in this time period? And IV antibiotics, no less.”

“One does not find Zithromax in medieval England,” Jareth said loud enough to silence her for a moment. If he did not jump in, she would never give him the chance to speak. He had learned that about her early. Once she started talking, she never stopped. “Nor Vancomycin.” Then, quietly, “It was smuggled in.”

So much for not allowing her to fish, he thought with self-loathing. He might as well supply the pole and bait.

“Of course it was smuggled in. Unless I missed the antibiotic factory lesson in my history of the middle ages.” Elizabet wound her arms back around her torso in a tight hug. She used her hands like exclamation marks, commas, and italics. If she ever lost a limb, she may be silent forever.

His eyes traveled to where his sword was mounted near the hearth. It was on the tip of his tongue to reveal the antibiotics had merely been smuggled up the castle steps from his private stock, just to see if she would combust on the spot. That way he wouldn’t have to lift his sword to frighten her into silence.

Instead, he asked, “Why do you vex me so?” His voice was weary as he realized he had slipped—again. She now knew an approximate time and place. The clues could lead her to endless possibilities if she cared to search the small details.

What he wanted was to invite her to sit next to him and read for him, preposterous as that was. For some perverse reason, he liked her simple accent that had not refinement. He must be going mad. Perhaps his wound was infected and death would find him after all. “Why do you not rest and sit with me?”

Elizabet blinked. Her fingers twitched where she hugged herself. “You want me to sit? With you?”

“Aye,” he said, then smiled ruefully at his choice of words. “Yes.” He motioned to the place next to him. “I would like you to read to me.” He tapped the book with his index finger. “I think it would be beneficial if we studied this together. Perhaps we will stop bickering and go back to being companionable.”

She glanced at the small wind up clock at the bedside. Her lips slid sideways as she shook her head. “I can’t. Mrs. Wheatley will be here any minute.” She looked at him. “Shucks,” she added with heavy sarcasm.

“Have it your way,” he murmured, and glanced at the clock, as well. He sighed. “Listen, it is within my power to put this away from you. If being beneficial to the good of future mankind
upsets
you, then by all that is holy, let me release you.”

“You think I want to leave and never come back?” Her face puckered as she asked.

The immediate denial in her tone startled him, but he did not let on. “I have heard your complaints and I am willing to release you.” Jareth waved a hand toward her. “Do not seem so confused. You have gravely mentioned that you have had to lie and that you have been kidnapped. I am quite the villain.” He smirked and let his hand touch upon the bandage over his abdomen. Surely, a more worthy villain would be one who got around better. “This is what you want—is it not?”