Page 16

Syrie had expected the drive to Boulder to be emotionally trying. But this? No. She’d never in her wildest worries imagined it would be like this.

She’d come downstairs to find that Clint and Rosella were joining them on their outing and that they had already taken their places in the backseat of Robert’s car. Patrick waited patiently by the door, offering a hand of assistance as she climbed inside.

The interior was much larger than any she’d ridden in before, and she’d just begun to count herself lucky when Patrick had folded himself into the seat next to her, his body all but wrapped around hers in the suddenly cramped space.

“Sorry about the crowding,” Ellen had said cheerily as she slipped into the front seat. “But once Mrs. Whitman learned we were headed down to Boulder, there was nothing doing but that I should make her honey delivery to save her the trip. One of you can move up here on the way back, if you want.”

That would be wonderful. If Syrie could manage to survive the current trip.

The backseat that had seemed so luxuriously large only moments earlier now closed around her like a cave-in. A cave-in where the big man next to her was sucking up all the available air.

No matter how she tried to reposition herself, his body fit around hers. From his arm casually resting along the back of the seat cushioning her head, to the length of him that pressed against her side, there simply was no escaping him. Even his legs, longer than hers by far, snugged up next to hers.

She shifted in her seat for the hundredth time, doing her best to shrink into herself, but it did no good.

“Sorry,” she mumbled as her elbow bumped against Patrick’s chest.

“It’s no’ a hardship for me, lass,” he said, his voice a low rumble in his chest. “Though, if you’d but try to relax, yer journey likely would be more pleasant.”

Try to relax. Seriously? As if she could even conceive of relaxing with his breath puffing down over her each time he leaned close to speak. The low hum of his words washed down over her, coating her nerves with a blanket, every bit as smooth as the honey perched in the front seat.

She pushed the blanket away, rejecting any comfort he offered. Trying to reject him.

How dare he? How dare he sit there, possessively curving his body around her as if she needed his protection from the door on his other side? Speaking to her as if she were the only person in the car.

How dare he behave as if he hadn’t stood in the middle of her bathroom not twenty-four hours earlier, stark naked, sucking all the air out of that room, too?

Just as he did now.

She’d feared this trip would feel long with him in the car. She’d had no idea that scooted up next to him as she was, it could feel like an eternity.

“Look at that,” Patrick whispered, dipping his head closer to hers.

She’d been prepared to rebuff any of his attempts at conversation, but a glance out the window drew an involuntary gasp from her.

The mountains!

Sure, she’d seen the mountains in Ft. Collins, but the view there wasn’t at all the same. Here, in Boulder, they rose up around the city in a way that she couldn’t ignore as just background scenery. It was beautiful and somehow eerily familiar.

“Reminds me of home,” Patrick said. “Does it no’?”

She froze the instant she found herself nodding in agreement. There was obviously something in the man’s voice that lulled her into a suspension of reality and bent her will to his way of thinking. How in the world was she supposed to know what his home looked like?

“This looks like a parking spot I can fit this boat into,” Robert said from the front seat. “We’ve made it, gang! I never know for sure with these old cars out of my dad’s collection.”

“Are you kidding?” Clint shook his head in disbelief and opened the car door to exit, reaching back to help Rosella out of the car. “She’s a Nash, right? Forties era. Nobody ever made them any roomier than this.”

“Forty-six,” Robert said, nodding. “One of my dad’s favorites in the collection. Handles pretty darn good, too, if I’m being honest.”

Patrick had exited the car and leaned in now, holding a hand out to assist Syrie. She hesitated for a moment, realizing it would look peculiar if she didn’t accept his help, since Rosella was sitting on the edge of her side, waiting for Clint and Robert to finish their discussion of the merits of older cars.

When she put her hand in his, that odd feeling returned, the one of familiarity and fit. Once out of the car, she couldn’t quite bring herself to withdraw her hand from his grasp. She’d looked up into his eyes and managed to start drifting in those endless blue pools when she heard her name, snapping her out of whatever daydream she’d fallen into.

“No, babe. I want to give Clint a tour through the Nash workings,” Robert said as he lifted the hood of the big car. “Syrie can help. And Rosella. The store isn’t more than a block or two. Clint and I will meet you there.”

Ellen sighed and handed one boxed layer of honey-filled jars to Rosella. She’d just reached in for her second layer when Patrick dropped Syrie’s hand and strode forward.

“I’ll carry that. Yers as well, Rosella, hand it over. There’s no point in any of you lugging these about when I’ve a perfectly strong back not in use.”

“You’re sure?” Ellen asked, looking more than a little skeptical of his offer. “You don’t want to stay here and pretend you’re a car expert, too?”

“Aye,” he answered. “I’m sure. Now, if the three of you will lead the way.”

He waited, the muscles in his arms straining against the soft blue cotton of the shirt he wore.

Syrie found herself drawn to walk next to him as their little group paraded down the street. Once they’d reached their destination, they were forced to make their way into the store single file, where Syrie’s senses were bombarded by what felt like a million different aromas.

“Like opening the door to the home of Orabilis,” Patrick muttered, looking much like a giant in a child’s room as he threaded his way delicately between stacks of dried flowers and elaborately colored boxes to deposit his burden on the counter at the back of the shop.

“A witch’s shop, indeed,” Syrie agreed, starting at what she’d just said.

Where had such a thought come from?

“Take yer time as you will,” Patrick said, backing away. “I believe I’ll bide my time outside the shop. I’m no’ so comfortable in such a close place with so many delicates just waiting for me to break them.”

Syrie thought a moment about joining him, but the wares in this little shop were far too enticing for her to leave without having a quick look around. Besides, Patrick was the last person in the world she wanted to be stranded on the sidewalk with, forced to make small talk while they waited.

She’d almost convinced herself of that, too, until she glanced out the window to see him talking with a lovely young woman outside. And not just talking. The woman had the nerve to place her fingers on his chest, and he, great brute that he was, didn’t even flinch. Not only did he not flinch, he placed his hand over hers, caressing it, as if having some strange woman touching you on the street was perfectly normal!

Unless she wasn’t a stranger.

Syrie turned toward the door, remembering at the last minute that she carried a scarf and some dried herbs she’d picked up for purchase. With a deep breath in and an equally great one out, she turned back toward the counter to pay for her treasures.

Giving him, and the lowborn wench who laid hands on him, a piece of her mind could surely wait until she’d made her purchase.

* * *

Patrick drew a deep draft of air into his lungs as he stepped from the shop, grateful to be out of the cramped, dark interior. It was certainly no place for a warrior. He moved clear of the door and stationed himself in front of the window so that he might keep an eye on the women he’d left inside. He doubted witches would be so open in this day and age as to harm them in any way. Nevertheless, one never said never when dealing with a witch or a Fae, and one of those, undoubtedly, owned the shop he’d just escaped.

Another deep breath to clean his nose of the myriad herb smells that had assaulted him inside, and he began his survey of his surroundings. Young men and women in all states of dress, and undress, loitered along the sidewalk. Someone played upon small drums and another accompanied him on a pipe of some sort. Women, barefoot and wearing long, flowing skirts that might well have found a home in his own time, danced to the music, their arms upcast, their long hair flowing around them. This century’s incarnation of Tinklers, no doubt.

He watched with only minimal interest until one of the women, made her way toward him, twirling and gyrating until she was mere inches away from him.

“They know you’re here,” she said, the smile on her lips not reaching her eyes. “They’ll not allow you to succeed in your quest.”

He wasn’t foolish enough to waste precious time in denying any knowledge of what she said.

“Where are they?” he asked, his eyes darting to the crowds behind her. “Are they here now?”

The young woman twirled away and back again, still swaying to the rhythm of the music playing behind her.

“They are here, they are there, they are everywhere. They are relentless in their quest for power and their hearts are void of mercy. They will not hesitate to kill her. Or you. Or anyone else who gets in their way.”

At her warning, a verse his mother had often quoted to him flowed through his mind. He could hear her voice in his memory so clearly, it was as if she stood directly next to him. He joined his voice with hers in the words she spoke.

“The Fae can neither commit nor experience violence in the Mortal world.”

“Don’t be fooled by that old saying, warrior. They can be harmed if they are weakened. If their powers are fully engaged elsewhere, they are vulnerable. If all that makes them who they are has been stripped from them, they wouldn’t be strong enough to protect themselves. It would be as if they were Mortal. And though a Fae cannot commit violence in this world, they don’t need to. There are a multitude of Mortals, their minds weakened by greed and their own desire for power. These minds the Fae can easily control, as a child might control the movements of his toys. Through them, the Fae can accomplish whatever they wish.”

“I will not allow them to harm Elesyria,” he said, his voice as unwavering as his determination.

“Orabilis chose her champion well, it would seem. With your bravery, you might have a chance to save her. But know that it will take more than bravery. It will take what you carry in here.” She touched her fingertips to his chest, just over his heart. “I can say little more about them, warrior,” she said. “Only that you must be constantly alert to the dangers around you, and to remind you that your time is running out.”

When it appeared she would leave him, he placed his hand over hers, holding her still.

“I was warned of dangers and challenges aplenty,” he said quietly, his eyes locked on hers. “But I’d no reason to believe that time was one of them.”

She stilled her dancing and tilted her head to one side as if it had suddenly become important to study him more intently. “In that case, let me share with you what no others have. The longer your Faerie is trapped here away from her memories, the more of herself she will lose. In time, there will be nothing left of herself to reclaim. When that happens, when enough time has passed, she will become the woman she has had to invent for herself and she will be the Fae you sought to rescue no more.”

With a delicate twist of her wrist, she was free of his hold and dancing away, once again twirling and gyrating into the crowd gathered along the sidewalk.

Patrick watched her progress until she had disappeared into the flow of people. Danger he had expected. Orabilis had warned him of as much, just as she’d warned him that he’d be stranded in this time if he failed in his quest. That he would be fighting against time as well was not something he’d expected.

He had little enough time to consider the Tinkler’s warning before the women came out of the shop, each carrying a bag tied up with colorful ribbons. Ellen and Rosella chatted with one another about the treasures they’d discovered inside, but Syrie had eyes only for him.

The expression she wore was one he’d seen often enough to recognize, putting him instantly on his guard. Something or someone had angered her and, from the intensity of her glare, he suspected it could well be him.

“Who was that woman?” she asked as she drew near. “The one speaking to you out here.”

If she’d seen that, she must have been watching him. A good sign, perhaps?

“What woman?” He answered her question with a question, doing his best to portray an innocent memory lapse.

“You know very well what woman. The one with her hands all over you.”

If he didn’t know better, he’d be tempted to believe Syrie was jealous. A definite good sign.

“The Tinkler, you mean?” He shrugged casually. “You’ve no call to worry yerself over that one. You ken as well as I do how Tinklers are.”

“Worry myself?” she squeaked, her eyes flashing. “It’s hardly as if I care in the least what—”

“Hippies,” Ellen interrupted, placing a firm hand on Syrie’s shoulder as if she hoped to calm her friend. “They’ve been flooding into Boulder for a while now, camping in doorways, clogging the sidewalks.”

“But there are so many more than the last time I was down here,” Rosella said, as if to herself. “I wonder why?”

“Because this is the best place to survive Icarus,” a young man said from his spot on the ground near where they stood. “When it hits, the Rocky Mountains just outside of town are one of the few places where anyone will be safe.”

“I’ve heard of that,” Clint said as he and Robert joined them. “Icarus is a comet. We discussed it in an astronomy class I took last semester. But it’s not on anything like an intercept approach. It won’t pass close enough to have any kind of effect on us at all.”

“You’re wrong,” the young man said, his eyes closed. “It’s coming. It’s coming for all of us.”

“Not an argument logic is going to carry, Clint,” Robert said, putting an arm around Ellen to steer her away from the people in their path. “With all the chemicals these freaks have in their systems, there’s no telling what they believe.”

“Do you guys want to find a restaurant down here?” Rosella asked. “I’m starving.”

“Away from this place,” Patrick said.

“I agree,” Clint said. “This is the kind of situation that could easily get out of hand. Cops showing up would be all it would take to set off a riot.”

Patrick didn’t know whether or not Clint was right, but he trusted the man’s instincts. Besides, he had his own reasons for getting away from here. It seemed that more and more people were gathering in the area, making it harder to judge who might be watching them. In this place, anyone could emerge from the crowd, strike, and blend in again much too easily. After the warning he’d just received, this was the last place he wanted to be. The last place he wanted Syrie to be.

“Don’t think I’ve forgotten what we were talking about,” Syrie said quietly, her words meant only for him. “We’ll finish the conversation about your little friend when we get someplace quieter.”

More people had arrived, pressing in on them as they started back to the car. The path ahead of them narrowed, forcing them to a single file. Patrick fastened a hand on Syrie’s elbow, pulling her close in front of him, her back touching his chest. Though her expression when she’d glanced up at him still reflected her aggravation, she didn’t pull away.

Yet another good sign?

Patrick smiled, deciding he’d consider that to be the case until something came along to prove otherwise.

Their progress was slow along the packed walkway, the noise growing as more of the hippies, as Ellen called them, began chanting and playing instruments of their own.

They had passed no more than two storefronts before a woman nearby screamed. Instinctively, Patrick wrapped his arms around Syrie and lifted her from her feet, forging his way into the center of the crowd, away from the path they were traveling.

Mere heartbeats passed before a large concrete planter crashed onto the sidewalk where he and Syrie had stood only seconds earlier.

The planter shattered into pieces, some larger than his own head, spewing dirt, flowers and concrete in every direction.

“Did you see that?” Ellen asked breathlessly as she reached the spot where they stood. “It must have fallen from the rooftop. Lucky thing you guys had moved from the sidewalk or an accident like that could have crushed you both.”

“Aye,” Patrick agreed, his arm tightening around Syrie. “Lucky indeed to escape such an accident.”

“Luck wasn’t what saved us back there, and you know it. You did. And you don’t sound to me like you think it was an accident, do you?” Syrie asked quietly, the fabric of his shirt locked in her grasp the only outward signal of her fear.

Patrick didn’t answer, instead tightening his hold on her as he hurried her back to where they’d left the car.

“You don’t, do you?” she asked as he helped her into the door and seated himself next to her. “You don’t think it was an accident.”

“No,” he answered once the car was in motion. “No more an accident than it was luck we escaped.”

An ordinary man under ordinary circumstances could well chalk it up to luck that the Tinkler had found him to deliver her warning. Or that some woman in the crowd had screamed as she spotted the enormous planter tipping over the edge of the roof.

But he was no ordinary man and these were anything but ordinary circumstances.

“No luck but vigilance.”

“There’s a place just outside Boulder that Ellen and I like,” Robert said as he drove. “We can stop there without even going out of our way.”

While others murmured their agreement, Patrick sat quietly. Where, or if, they ate was of no consequence to him. His only concern was the safety of the woman pressed against his side. Her safety and the awareness that, unlike on the ride down to Boulder, she now made no squirming attempts to distance herself from him.

If anything, she had molded herself into his side as if she belonged there.

Which she absolutely did, even if she didn’t know it yet.