The Guardian (Chronicles of Dover's Amalgam Book 1) (7 page)

“Broke again?” Grandma hollered from the levy. Elizabet was knee deep in the crawfish pond, where the boat had died.

Her grandmother should not be out in the field inebriated. She could tell by the way her words slurred and how she hitched up her robe so it would not drag in the mud. The flowered mint green house coat was knee length. Her perception was drowned out by an excess of beer. It was early in the day, but today was Tuesday, and Grandma played cards at the city Senior Center tonight. She always got a head start, saying it made her more sociable.

Elizabet wiped the sweat from her face with the back of her hand, careful not to smudge grease over the bridge of her nose. “Yeah,” she replied. She heaved out a breath as Grandma stumbled closer and teetered near the edge of the pond. It would not be the first time she would have to fish her out of the water if she fell in.

“I’ll call Eli—”

“No,” Elizabet bit out. “You won’t. We can’t pay him for the last time, and he’ll be wanting his pay for this time
and
that one.” She regretted the way she spoke the second she saw Grandma’s face pale and then look heavenward. The money they had was limited, and it came sporadically with farming. Crawfish season was their money making season—when the boats all ran properly.

And Grandma was having difficulty enough standing upright, much less comprehending money matters. Her breathing was erratic, as though it was an exertion. The walk from the house was only about thirty feet, but that was a marathon for a person with chronic COPD. A drunken COPD was twice the charm.

“I’ll call Phil,” Grandma said. She spoke hesitantly, as though she was a child asking permission, her voice strained and winded. Phil, Elizabet’s dad, was a last resort, though. He was too busy chasing girls half his age to be bothered with things like helping family.

“I’ll fix it,” Elizabet insisted. She motioned to the motor. “And if I can’t, then we call Phil.” She refused to call him Dad. The title gave the impression of respect and love. She did not want to give the wrong vibes, and Grandma would second that motion. Phil was a horrible son-in-law, except when he dealt with the farm animals.

It took the usual fifteen minutes to persuade Grandma that she had things under control. Elizabet placated her by talking of soap operas and politics, anything to keep her mind off of the fact they could go belly up at any minute. Finally, Grandma had heard enough chit chat and disappeared into the house to watch said soap operas.

Elizabet managed to change the hydraulic hose without getting the boat to the bank. By the time she moved on to repairing a levy breach, she was agitated and tired. Hard work was easy for her. It made time slip by quicker. That way she didn’t have to think about how much her life truly sucked. She could do this all day and still have time to feel sorry for herself way into the night.

She sank the shovel head into the soft dirt with a shove and yanked a glove off using her teeth. It was times like these that they had come to her; when she was working outside. If she daydreamed hard enough, she could imagine them appearing. There were times they insisted she come with them and there were times they merely came to harass her to keep quiet.

She whirled around to peer at the tractor as she had multiple times before, as if being on her toes could conjure them from nothing. The hairs on her arms prickled. They were coated in sweat, so they could not stand to attention, but they wanted to. The heat had her hallucinating, or it was tricking her. Or perhaps she wanted something to happen so badly that she imagined she had seen a flash of light in her peripheral vision.

She thought about the lie she had told the knight, claiming apathy as the reason she was not freaked out. The truth was that she had known Mrs. Wheatley since she was a child. The lady had been friends with her mother. Seeing the wormhole appear with a flash of light was nothing new to her. She guessed she had been about seven years old the first time she witnessed it. Her mother had told her to never be afraid of Mrs. Wheatley, and that one day she would come for her and she must go without question.

It was then that her mother insisted she learn all there was about veterinary medicine. It was clear why now, although what she had needed was a human anatomy course instead. But she guessed her mom decided that was the most logical course considering she had access to a doctor of animals. It also meant that her mother knew why they would come for her, but kept that detail from her. That was irritating.

Elizabet frowned as she cleared her mind. Something changed the last time she was back in time. There had been something final about it. No one was coming for her. It was just wishful thinking, but it was over. They had used her and that was it. She spit the glove from between her teeth and bit at the other. All the while she kept an eye on the lone tractor whose engine was hitched to the canal as it pumped water to fill the pond. The glove dangled from her teeth as she whipped around to retrieve the shovel.

As if on cue, the engine silenced; it choked off just as she turned her back to it. It was not the sound of engine failure—which would be her luck today, but a distinct switch. She gripped the shovel handle and the air left her lungs in a noisy exhalation. Alarm crippled her—a deep-set fear that someone was there. Or even worse, that
no one
was there. The chance that this could be a simple farm mishap sat in her mind unwelcome.

They had left her alone for the past month. She had no clue how the knight was faring, whether his wound was closing properly or if infection had become a factor. He had ordered a book on gangrene, which meant he worried about sepsis. Perhaps he had succumbed to the disease and that was the end of things.

Your grace.

It was foolish to be timid and nearly hyperventilate over a tractor shutting off. It could be the switch. It had been faulty before. However, they had always come for her like this. If she were honest, she had been working sunup to sundown in hopes they would come and take her away again to a place where she mattered. A place she could smell if she thought hard enough—like the sea, cloves, and something citrus.

Your grace.

She gripped the shovel handle tight enough that it busted the blister wedged in the crease of her palm. “Are you there?” She lifted her dirty chin. She waited for the blink of three and then let her chin slowly fold to her chest. She felt foolish—stupid. It was over. No one expected anything of her other than sacks of crawfish. She was the girl who dropped out of school after she missed too many days because chores became vital to her life. It was work or starve. The adventure that had stolen her from this life had come to an end, and there was nothing she could do about it. The reprieve from farm life would never come for her. This was her lot.

It was not unusual where she was from, that kids dropped out of school. Louisiana remained one of the states where this was most common. Her mother would be disappointed, but she did not want to think about that. She wished she could speak to her mother one more time and ask her why people from the past wanted her. There was no certainty to it and it bothered her to think that it was all over. And it was evidently over. She heard nothing behind her. No footsteps, no rustling of leaves, no voices. She was alone.

Elizabet twisted her short legs together and lowered to sit on the muddy slope like a top winding down. She did not know if she did it out of exhaustion, or if it was out of aggravation that she was stuck forever working for something that had no prize. She would never own the land she worked, and she received no paycheck other than a bed to sleep in and food to eat. Her head dipped low as she blinked back tears. Her rubber boots were caked in mud as she sat there on the wet levy Indian style.

“Hello, Elizabet.” A branch snapped under his foot as he approached. The sound was a punctuation mark to his words—an exclamation mark to be exact.

Her boots were pink with small red roses. The inane thought appeared as she pressed her hand to her chest to calm her racing heart. After days of working, watching, hoping—someone had come. Not just someone—
him
. It had never been him before.

“You turned off my tractor.” She said the first thing that sprang to mind while she twisted to look over her shoulder. Her heart still pounded in her throat. His large form was showcased by the descending sun, which made it impossible to make out any facial expression, but something about his stance reeked arrogance and certainty. She spit out a fiber of glove left in her mouth and swiped at her lips with the back of her hand. She released the shovel with her other hand; it fell with a dull thump between them.

“It was tired,” he replied with a lazy shrug. He stepped over the shovel and stood before her. He clasped his hands behind his back and stared down at her, waiting for her reply.

Elizabet smirked because it was all she could do to suppress the urge to scream. He just showed up and acted as if they had seen each other only yesterday. As if he had not disappeared into thin air without a goodbye or explanation.

He did not know how depressed she had been. How miserable she was when she thought of it all being over without any answers or closure. They had just left her without word—without excuse. She had walked around with a half-beating heart—a sick thud of a heartbeat that let her know she was hurting—and keen with the loss of an opportunity that was gone too quickly. They had left her with nothing—no promises, no clues to their return.

He had become her ideal, a crush if she were totally honest with herself. She knew no one who could compete with his elegant beauty or his intelligent ways. He was a genius, and part Greek god, obviously. His movements were predatory, like a sleek jungle cat. She had never seen him move before and she was glad, because if she had seen him the way he was now, she may have given in to silly girlish fantasies and made an idiot of herself.

And to hear him say her name with a fondness, a personal knowing, and the inflection of a British scholar . . . It did something to her stomach. She had almost forgotten what he sounded like. Not quite a modern Brit, but something else entirely. As though he belonged to a heritage of his own making; as if he were combining time periods and heritages to be uniquely himself. It was so unfair that she did not even know his name.

Your grace.

She squinted against the sun’s rays. His face came into focus and she saw he was mirroring her smirk almost perfectly. She used her hand as a visor to shield her eyes. He looked really, really good. The gauntness and pale complexion were gone, replaced with a charged glow. The air practically crackled around him. It was most disturbing, and she hardly knew what to do with her limbs. It made her awkward and conscience of every breath she took. He was perfection personified and she simply was not.

“Tractors don’t get tired. Just like time traveling ‘your graces’ don’t just show up on a crawfish farm.” Her eyes narrowed. “What the heck are you doing here? You’ve never come before. Are your henchmen too busy to fetch your slave?” Her voice sounded breathy, winded. She hated it. The fact she was ecstatic to see him was unnerving. She also despised how she could not help but attack. It was a habit of hers to act hostile to cover any weaknesses. It was far easier to argue than to come up with something interesting to say.

“I came to speak with you.” He squatted down and as he did, she was able to make out the vivid hue of the royal blue tunic he wore. It made the light blue of his eyes pop in comparison. He had the palest eyes imaginable. He rested his forearms on his thighs. “My henchmen are otherwise involved.” He smiled with half his mouth. “And you, most certainly, are not a slave.” She remembered that smile, but fought the pull it had on her. He should use his charm on someone else. It was as if he read her mind, because the smile vanished. “Do you have a moment to spare? A few minutes of your time?” He waved a careless hand toward the flooded field. “I do believe it is appropriate to have the people you employ tend to such matters as this. I shall not tarry long. Summon your men of business to deal with this matter of moving soil.”

Elizabet glanced around for witnesses who would see him in all his glory of medieval attire, and maybe for a man of business. She almost laughed out loud at that part, but instead she felt ill—nauseated. “There is nobody else. Just me. And my grandma,” she said. “I guess you could say that I’m my own man of business.”

“Are you an orphan?”

“We don’t say orphan anymore.”

“Any longer.”

“Any more,” she repeated, her lips taunt. Her chin jerked upward. “My mom died, but I have Grandma. And sometimes a dad, so I’m not an orphan.” It was a sore point for her, and he seemed intent on honing in on it. She did not like feeling sorry for herself, and no one else was allowed to, either.

Jareth studied her face, his eyes making a perfect circle. His eyes roamed her face as he took in her features. He nodded and stood suddenly, looking away from her and out into the field. “Have it however you like.” His hand reached out toward her, but he did not look in her direction. “I require a moment of your time. I have a few questions that I would like to ask you.”

It was simple to reach out and grasp his large hand that was given in aid to help her rise, but she did not want his help. She stood as best she could on her own, using his hand only to steady herself as she rose to her feet, and then nearly fell over. The light contact with him brought her to the place they were now—they were starting over. It was awkward, as though they had not already spent hours alone together.

Elizabet curled her fingers into a fist. Her hand recoiled in the middle of his until he released her. Her fingers were numb. She clasped her hand with the other and massaged the palm while she stared up at him. He was tall. She was accustomed to seeing him lying in bed. Hiding under the covers had been a good six feet, six inches of solid man-boy. She was used to having to look up into people’s faces, but he was gigantic compared to her.

She cleared her throat when he caught her staring. She did not waste any time, however, and pressed on even though she felt her face involuntarily warm. “Can I at least know your name?” Her thumb massaged her palm. “If you want a moment of my time, then I want a name. I refuse to call you my lord or your grace, so you better tell me or I’m gonna make one up.” She allowed her lips to tilt in a slight grin, but then they trembled with her underlying nerves. “I’m thinking Jackass; do you like the ring it has to it?”