Highland Shapeshifter (7 page)

He had to find Charity Greves of Seattle.

That was the plan and how it had all run afoul, Col was yet to make sense of it. ‘Twas all a murky blur. He’d gone to a run-down tavern. Seems in any era, pubs and taverns were the place to seek information. He’d barely asked the barkeep of anyone who might know of a healer, specifically one Charity Greves when ghouls set upon him. He’d fought, of course, transformed into one of the large cats of the Highland cliffs and was making a good accounting among the dozen or so wiry beasts, until the troll set his ale down and unfortunately took up the defense of the ghouls. Who would have thought they’d be mercenaries for the same coin?
 
Certainly not him, though by then ‘twas too late to sort any sense from it.

Everything had gone to shite after that, fuzzy and muddled. A sharp pain stabbed him and with it a fiery burn that dragged into his veins. They’d given him something. Some potion. He felt it crawl sluggishly through his blood, making his reactions clumsy. It had taken the ghouls moments to overcome him.

Then there’d been darkness and waking times where he’d bounced in the back of an untethered wagon, glimpsing spots of overcast sky through a slanted pane of glass as the carriage carried him away from his search. There’d been harsh voices and harsher treatment, more of the burning potion that turned his thoughts to porridge and a soft voice offering help with a singular burst of energy that pierced his essence with the first moment of clarity he’d had in days.

Then…what?

If the memories before the woman were a haze, everything afterwards reeked of nightmares. Exquisite pain, heat and blistering chills, his body wrenched so tight he couldn’t breathe. He could hardly distinguish dream from reality anymore.

Mayhap ‘twas all nightmare.

He fought to consciousness, clawing through the shadowy haze that did not want to recede.

He had to get to Charity before Toren came. ‘Twas his only hope of returning home and leaving this thrice-cursed century behind.

He drifted upward, expecting to struggle through the lethargy shrouding him.

Movement fluttered near. The padding of feet across a hard floor. He flexed a finger, testing, relieved when his hand obeyed.

Whatever he was laying on shifted beneath another’s weight.

Col strained to open his eyes. What new circumstance would he find himself in now? Whatever ‘twas, he’d rather not greet it defenseless on his back.

His lashes fluttered, revealing patches of subdued light. A wet cloth slapped upon his chest and started trailing water down his stomach.

“That’s it,” a male voice muttered. “You can wake up any time. I’m bored. Or does the slumbering prince require a kiss?”

Everything inside Col went on alert. What depth of blackness had he been cast into now?

The dripping cloth circled back up and Col concentrated everything he had to open his eyes. His blurry gaze opened to curious brown eyes staring down on him.

“Hey there.” The man grinned beneath wild locks of hair hanging around a lean face. “You back with?”

Col angled upward against protesting muscles and rolled off the other side of the bed, coming up into a defensive stance. A dozen hammers banged inside his skull.

The man flung his palms up, showing he bore no arms, just the wet cloth that fell from lax fingers to plop on the mattress. “Whoa, dude. You look kind of green. You probably shouldn’t move so fast.”

That was a given. Col narrowed his gaze. Searching the man’s scant attire of some sort of thin short breeches for anyplace to conceal blades, he didn’t see any. He wondered what clan the tartan design designated. “Who are ye? What do ye want?” And where was the honey-voiced lass who slashed through his bonds and spirited him away within the cramped belly of her wee carriage?
Car
, they called them cars.
 

He pressed the heel of his hand against his pounding head, trying to make the man’s suddenly blurry image solidify. Surely the lass hadn’t been a conjuring of his potion-addled mind. He’d felt her. Bone-deep somehow. Experienced the vibrancy of her magic, her desire to help him. She was very real. He’d wager on it.

The man shifted back off the bed, wisely keeping his hands in sight. “Easy. I’m Gabe. This is my house. We’ve been taking care of you. You’ve had a rough night. Withdrawals. Spasms. So just take it easy, fella. No one here’s out to hurt you.”

Thus far, everyone in this century seemed
out to
harm him in one form or another. Snatches of overheard conversations slashed into his thoughts, ugly words of vile intentions. His gaze flicked to the bed.

Gabe crossed his arms. A light brow arched. “Trust me. Don’t trust me. It’s been a long night and I need coffee.” He turned and stalked out the door, rounding back a second later. “Once you get over yourself, you’re welcome to some.” And flounced away on a chuff.

Col blinked. He’d apparently wounded his captor’s feelings.

Yet…he studied the room, the rumpled bedclothes and a bowl of water and cloths on the bed. His body ached like he’d worked the fields from sunrise to sundown, yet the lethargy he’d lived with from the potions they’d shot directly into his flesh from some alchemist’s wicked instrument was gone. He was tired, aye, his head ready to splinter, yet he felt more himself than he had in a while.

Mayhap he had, indeed, been freed and this man had helped him at his most vulnerable.

Cautiously, Col went to the doorway. The man, Gabe, sat at a small round table, slunk in his chair, long legs stretched out and hands clasped comfortably on his stomach, facing the bedroom doorway.

A strong aroma lifted with the steam from two mugs set before him.

The man motioned for him to sit in the second chair, all traces of hurt forgotten. “Cappuccino?”

Col lowered into the chair, still wary and tense and eyed the frothy brew dubiously. Another potion? His stomach rumbled.

Gabe lifted his own cup and took a sip, watching Col over the brim. “Hmmm. I make a fine cup. Not a coffee man? I have juice or pop.” He lowered his cup, pursing his lips. “Your stomach queasy after all that puking? I should have asked Nory what’s safe for you to eat before she left. How about toast? That should be bland enough.” Gabe got up and turned to the long worktable that housed a small watering trough.

She? He hadn’t imagined her then. She’d rescued him, unbound his wrists and spirited him away within her wee
car
. He liked
cars
.
 
Col flattened his palms on the table and leaned forward. “Where is the fair lass who gave me aid?”

Gabe half-turned, his features momentarily frozen until a grin melted the coolness. “Fair lass?” He pulled an already sliced wedge of bread from a transparent satchel and plopped it in a strange metal square. “Seriously. Do all shapeshifters talk like that?”

Col frowned. “What’s wrong with my speech?”

“For starters…?”

Col leaned forward, curious. He hadn’t done a fair job of maneuvering unconsciously through this century. Mayhap in large part due to the strangeness of his dialect. He’d have to do better, mimic what he heard.
 
 

The bread popped up from the metal device and Col lunged out of the chair, sweeping a small glass plate up and breaking it against the table to defend himself. ‘Twould saw through skin as well as any blade given enough pressure behind it.
 

Gabe flinched back, hands up again in a placating gesture, his jaw unhinged, dropping like a stone. They stared at each other until Gabe slowly shook his head. “They really did a number on you, didn’t they?” He backed up against the counter, giving Col farther space. “Look. I swear whatever happened to you, whatever you’ve been through, isn’t going to happen here. You’re safe, I promise. Take a seat. You look like you’re about to keel over.”

His weakness was too obvious. Col lowered into the chair again before his legs gave out. Gabe turned back to the counter and slathered butter across the warmed bread, took out a plate and brought it over.

When Col just looked at it, Gabe rolled his eyes and broke off a piece and popped it in his own mouth.

Col’s mouth watered. His stomach groaned at the smell of bread. He needed to regain his strength. If the man had wished him harm, he’d had ample opportunity while he’d been unconscious. He set the broken plate down and took a tentative bite of the bread. ‘Twas warm and crunchy. He finished it off in three bites and turned his attention to the steaming mug. One eye closed of its own accord at the strong, yet sweet flavor.

Gabe barely masked his grin behind his own cup. “It’s good, right?”

Col nodded curtly, allowing the warmth of the brew to soothe the tension within his chest.

“So, shapeshifter, huh?” Gabe leaned closer over the table. “What’s it like?”

Col scrunched his nose, not understanding the inquiry.

“Shifting. Does it hurt? Is it difficult? When you’re in the shape of, say a cow, do you retain human thoughts? Or are you like ‘hey look at me. I’m chewing cud?’”

A cow. Col hid his smile behind the mug. A cow. He’d never once shifted into something as mundane as livestock. Gabe kept firing questions at him. Apparently, he’d restrained himself until they’d broken bread together and now his dam had burst and flooded the village.

“…the biggest creature you’ve shifted into and for how long? Have you ever—you know—boinked in animal form?”

Col choked on the liquid.

A dozen soft paper squares were shoved into his hand, which Col assumed were meant to wipe his mouth with. He stared at Gabe, who shrugged as unconcerned as the cat eyeing the laird’s falcon.

“Too much too soon?”

Too much ever.

Boinked. He stored the new word away, doubting he’d have need of it in conversation, but, again he smiled, thinking of how using the amusing new word would annoy Shaw to distraction.

Col pushed Gabe’s odd questions aside. “The woman who helped me. Where is she?”

A flash of fairy bright hair and wide violet eyes flicked to his mind. In his hazy state, he’d thought her one of the Fae come to claim him. Or come to punish him for allowing the scale of magic to tip so profoundly.

“Nory? She left a while ago. Did what she could as far as healing and skedaddled.”

Ske-what?
A healer then. Col nodded on a flood of relief that a Healer Sorceress had found him. And felt profoundly saddened that she hadn’t remained long enough to accept his gratitude.

Nay, he was saddened that she simply hadn’t remained. Gratitude or no. His lips quirked downward at the unbidden thought.
Nory
.

He pushed it away to brood on later. Or never. There were graver things that needed his attention. His captivity had taken days from him. Days in which Toren may have already traveled the rift, come, and then gone.

He pushed up from the chair a little too fast. Pain flared inside his head and the colors in the room faded. He braced his hands on the table and let it pass.
By the rood
, he felt wretched.

His head felt like it was wrapped in fabric, heavy and disorienting. He had no idea of what to do next or where to look for a sorcerer or Charity. For that matter he had no inkling of where he was.

Gabe was looking at him in concern a little too closely. “I—Which village is this?”

Gabe’s lips twisted. “I wouldn’t exactly call Seattle a village.”

Everything in Col tensed, then just as swiftly loosened. “Seattle? This is Seattle?” That was the best piece of fortune he’d had since being thrust into this nightmare future.

His mind was swimming with possibilities. Gabe was acquainted with at least one Sorceress Healer, mayhap he also knew…”Charity Greves. Do ye know the lass?” His knuckles ground against the table as he leaned forward.