Timeless Vision

by Regan Black

  She paid the fare and climbed out of the cab on the street side, rounding the trunk to open the door for Wayne, studiously ignoring the driver’s sexist mutterings about modern women.

  “What is a feminist?” Wayne pronounced the word carefully as the taxi drove away.

  She noticed he still kept one hand on the dog. For comfort, she guessed, since the greyhound was so well trained. “Progress,” she said. Playing along with Nick’s opinion about this... situation, she rolled a hand in his direction. “I assume women were different in your time.”

  “They were.” His blue eyes found hers, held hers. “The code of chivalry demands I assist you regardless of the era.”

  She had to give the man credit for embracing his role. “If Nick isn’t teasing me about all this impending doom, it sounds like you’ll have the chance.”

  Wayne nodded, stretching his arm out to indicate she should precede him to the house. Simple common courtesy, she told herself as she pushed open the gate and aimed for the stairs. This was one of the more affluent streets in Brooklyn Heights and she marveled that anyone in her family had kept such a treasure hidden. Nick’s cop salary never could have covered this at current market value.

  “Why do the women now wear men’s clothing rather than proper dresses?”

  She laughed, thinking of the many dresses in her closet at home. Odds were good the burly stranger wouldn’t find many of those so proper either while he played this character. “It makes my work easier.”

  “What is your work?”

  Wayne and his dog flanked her on the wide top step. She felt sheltered and protected and resisted the sensation. “I run the O’Malley family pub.” And she wanted to get back to business as usual.

  “What happened to your husband?”

  “I don’t have one of those.” She pushed the key into the lock with a little more force than necessary, only to have it stick. There was no reason to get irritated. Whatever Nick might’ve told him, this guy didn’t know her and couldn’t possibly understand how often her family nagged her to marry and procreate. She wanted children and figured a husband - eventually - would make that easier. She just didn’t want to deal with any of it right now.

  The lock didn’t budge, despite her twisting and wriggling of the key. She pulled it out, turned it over and tried again. “Damn you, Nick,” she murmured.

  “Wait,” Wayne said from behind her. “Step back a moment.” He ran his fingertips lightly over a squared cross pattern at the top of the door. “I know this symbol. A protective ward is in place. Allow me.”

  She watched, impressed by his dedication to the role when he closed his eyes and pressed his palm over the symbol. A bright light shone under his hand for several seconds. His shoulders slumped a little. “Try the key now.”

  The lock cooperated with a soft clack. “Nice trick,” she admitted. Where had Nick found this guy and why bother? Her cousin had to know how bad she felt about losing the dagger. There wasn’t any need for theatrics.

  As she opened the door a light overhead flashed on, illuminating the small entryway. When Wayne and the dog joined her inside, she nudged them forward so she could lock the front door again. Wayne held his hand to the door once more and this time the light under his palm glowed in a soothing, deep blue.

  “What’s your dog’s name?” she asked, distracting herself.

  Wayne shrugged a shoulder, his eyes squinting up at the overhead fixture. “He’s never needed a name.”

  “How is he so well behaved if you never taught him his name?”

  “My hound is best described as a familiar. Through magic we share a bond that serves us both.”

  There was that word again. Magic. She gave him points for staying in character. She was Irish, genetically wired to believe in the unexplainable, the unseen. Unfortunately for her, this man and his familiar face were perfectly visible. Whoever Wayne really was, she couldn’t let her misplaced infatuation become a distraction. “Okay. That works for the two of you.” She tugged off her coat and hung it on the hall tree. “What should I call him?”

  “You should have no need to call him anything.” Wayne’s eyebrows furrowed into a quizzical frown. “He is mine.”

  “It’s tradition to name a pet.”

  “He is not a pet,” Wayne said, exchanging a long look with the dog.

  Tara nipped at her budding impatience. She should let it go. Maybe the dog was more partner than pet, but that only made a missing name more troublesome. Where was Nick anyway? The dagger had been stolen on her watch and she intended to be included in its safe recovery. “People will see him as such. How about we call him Blue?”

  Wayne shook his head. “It is bad enough that my name must be different in this era. The dog does not need a name.”

  “Hmm. Sterling, maybe.” Tara crouched down, showing the dog the back of her fingers. “Would you like to be a Sterling? Fluffy sure doesn’t suit you.” Time to call Nick’s bluff and poke a few holes in Wayne’s medieval knight routine. “How are you feeling after sleeping so long, sweetie? I bet you’re hungry.”

  Wayne’s stomach growled as if she’d been speaking to it rather than the dog. “We both are,” he stated.

  “Well, if Nick hired you and rented a house for this charade, I’m sure it’s stocked too.” She looked from the dog to Wayne. “Can I pet him?”

  Whatever answer he’d been ready to give, his mouth snapped closed as the dog pushed his head under her palm. “So it would seem.”

  “Aw, thanks, Blue. It’s nice to meet you too.”

  Wayne cleared his throat. “Sterling is better description for a creature of his import.”

  She counted that as a small, important victory. “Then Sterling it is.” She stood, stroking the soft ears the greyhound kept pushing under her hand for more affection. “Let’s see what we have for both of you.”

  She took note of the clean, basic furnishings of couch, chairs, and television in bland, neutral colors as she moved through the front room to the kitchen. It was a functional space although it lacked any real style. How had Nick pulled this off?

  “Are we alone?” Wayne asked, trailing her through the kitchen door.

  “Looks that way.”

  “Good.”

  At his relieved sigh, she turned from her inspection of the pantry. The bag of dog food fell from her hand and words failed her. A moment ago he’d been in dark jeans and a sweatshirt. Now he wore a loose tunic and breeches with soft boots that laced to his knee. He shrugged out of the scabbard and set a massive broadsword on the countertop. Impossibly, he appeared taller and broader than he’d been in the modern clothes. His hair, pushed back from his face, fell loose to his shoulders and his beard had grown longer.

  With an effort, she closed her gaping mouth and swallowed. He looked like a portrait come to life. More than that, he bore an uncanny resemblance to the golden knight she’d dreamed of as a child after hearing the stories of Peter O’Malley and the dagger entrusted to him by Gawain the Gallant.

  “You... you are Gawain.” Words failed her as she recalled the entirety of the family history her father had revealed when handing her full responsibility for the pub and the dagger.

  “Yes, Tara.”

  When he said her name a shiver danced up her spine, setting her scalp tingling. “Wh- what did you do?” She stubbornly prayed for a logical, 21st century explanation for what her eyes and heart were telling her. There was no way he could’ve grown his beard or changed clothes in the instant her back had been turned. No way would this character outfit have gone unnoticed under the other clothing, especially not those boots.

  Those burnished blond eyebrows, several shades darker than his hair, knit together over those bright blue eyes. “Does my clothing offend?” He ran a hand over his beard. “I will shave at the first opportunity.”

  Offend? “No.” She thought she might be drooling. “I’m just...” Surprised was an understatement. “How did you...?” It seemed she couldn’t complete a ques
tion with all of them piling up.

  He had one hand on the big hilt of the sword on the counter, another on the dog’s head again. “The use of magic was necessary to blend in with the people on the street,” he explained defensively. “It was merely a light glamour and I assure you it required nothing of dark magic. If we are alone, I would rather conserve my energy.”

  That made sense, if sense could be a result of impossible, magical explanations. “By all means be comfortable.” What else could she say? “Nick said this place would have everything you need in this time.” She shook her head. “Can’t believe I just said that.” She pressed her lips together, struggling to regain her balance in a world that seemed to have tipped sideways. Wayne had gone from hoax to legit in the span of a few seconds. “You really are from the past,” she whispered, belief washing through her with every heartbeat. “Gawain the Gallant of Arthur’s Round Table.”

  “I am.” He shifted, sketching another quick bow. “Though my presence here should never have been necessary.” The scowl returned in force as he examined the kitchen. “My squire, your ancestor, promised he would not procreate.”

  Her mouth fell open again, this time with offense. Wayne spoke as though her ancestor had wronged him, despite the evidence of all the precautions the O’Malleys had established in case of an emergency. “That was a terrible thing you asked of him.”

  “You were not there,” Wayne countered. “You do not understand the ramifications of his failure, in my time or now in yours.”

  She folded her arms over her chest, refusing to be treated as though she was featherbrained. “Dealing with an arrogant knight out of time is becoming a big ramification for me.” She searched through cabinets until she found bowls for the dog. Filling one with food and another with fresh water, she made a point of serving the dog over the man, giving Sterling heaps of attention and affection.

  The dog soaked it up, alternately sending her adoring gazes and gobbling up the food. “If the magic wears you out, I guess we’re stuck here until Nick says otherwise. What do you want to eat?” she asked, worried the pantry might not have enough to support a man of Wayne’s size.

  “Whatever the cook has prepared will be fine.”

  She kept her gaze level, though it was a trial not to roll her eyes. He couldn’t know how many customs had changed. “We’re alone, remember? No squires or servants. I’m the cook, unless you’d rather do the honors.” He shook his head. “Of course not.” She opened the pantry and considered her options, feeling Wayne’s gaze on her back. Why had Nick left her alone with him? “Go find normal clothes while I figure it out.”

  He turned in a circle, his brows beetling in the frown that was becoming familiar to her. “Where might those be?”

  She couldn’t quite resist the pinch of sympathy she felt for him. Based on her family’s version of events, when he’d cast the spell he thought it would be final. In his place, she’d be freaking out. Hell, having him in her place, her time, had her freaking out.

  She cleared her throat. “Forget normal clothing. I’ll fix something and then we’ll discover what other secrets Nick’s been hiding here.” The tension in his face eased, making him still more attractive. She wasn’t sure her hormones could take it. “Have a seat,” she suggested, pointing to the table.

  To her surprise, he pulled out a chair and, after checking the workmanship, sat down. The surprises continued when she opened the refrigerator to find fresh eggs and milk, butter, cheese, and a produce drawer full of fresh fruit and vegetables. “Either Nick uses this place or he entertains wayward knights more often than he should.”

  “There are others.”

  She straightened, studying his features. It hadn’t been a question. “Pardon me, did you say others?”

  Wayne nodded. “In my time many among Arthur’s acquaintance were capable of various magics, though I have no idea who was fully trained and who dabbled.”

  For the first time since he’d crossed the street with all that raging confidence, he seemed sad and uncertain. Sterling, who’d stretched out across the floor after his meal, immediately rose and dropped his head onto Wayne’s thigh. The contact seemed necessary to them both. She forced herself to concentrate on food prep rather than the unified and serene image they made.

  When it came to cooking, breakfast was her strong suit and she was relieved to find sausage and bacon in the freezer. Wayne definitely made a habit of hearty meals. No other way to keep up that physique, although it was curious he’d remained so fit during centuries of sleeping.

  Beauty rest, indeed, she thought with a quiet chuckle.

  “The situation amuses you?”

  “Not precisely.” She set bacon sizzling in one pan and whisked up half a dozen eggs in a bowl. “You’re lucky I’m Irish.”

  “I never had much luck with Irish.”

  “Yet you took an Irishman as your squire,” she said, carefully placing thick strips of bacon in the skillet.

  “And our conversation proves my point.” He sighed, the creaking chair adding emphasis as he shifted his weight. “Tell me how you came to possess the dagger.”

  She gave some thought as to how to explain so he’d understand her ancestor had done the right thing, despite the broken vow. “I can’t recall a time when I didn’t know the dagger would be mine one day. It’s been handed down to the firstborn since the first O’Malley, your squire, was charged with keeping it safe. I’m actually the firstborn girl in all those generations. Does it help to know if I marry and have children, I’ll pass the dagger to a child with a surname other than O’Malley?”

  “Peter was supposed to be the last of that O’Malley bloodline.” He coughed into his hand. “Tell me of your ancestors.”

  As she worked on the meal, she shared her knowledge of the family tree. Her parents and grandparents had stressed the importance of knowing her roots, now she understood the insistence of learning her family purpose and history. Until today, she’d considered all of it akin to fairy tales, from the dagger to the secret O’Malley cure for hangovers. “I was told our family began with Peter O’Malley, squire to Sir Gawain, and that our family fortune began with the gift of a dagger as a thanks for good service.”

  Wayne snorted. “A half-truth at best. I gave him the dagger for his vow that he would die without issue and be buried with it. Had he kept his promise there would be no need for me to clean up the mess created by you and your superfluous cousins.”

  Her mother’s reminder that there were two sides to every story echoed in her mind. Though the accusation irked her, Tara was used to people who prodded and provoked. She ran a successful bar, it went with the territory among customers and suppliers. Lifting crisp bacon out of the pan, she set it aside to drain. She stirred the grease, lowered the heat and poured the eggs into the pan.

  “As my grandparents tell the story, Peter was shocked during his journey home, dagger in hand, to find he’d already procreated, as you put it. Mabh was nearly to term and as the family legend goes ‘blessed him with a healthy boy’.” She glanced over her shoulder to see Wayne tracing the grain in the wood table top. “He’d given his vow to you in good faith,” she added.

  Wayne grunted in disgust.

  She spun around, her spatula punctuating her words. “What would you rather he do, leave the woman to bear his child alone? Kill her?”

  He had the grace to look horrified at those suggestions. “Of course not.”

  She turned back to stir the eggs in the pan. “Then be grateful he had the foresight to prepare his progeny - all of my superfluous cousins - for your possible return.”

  Scooping the scrambled, herbed eggs onto a plate, she added several slices of bacon and placed the dish firmly in front of Wayne. “For the record, I’m well within my rights to dump this in your lap.”

  He arched one golden eyebrow as if daring her to do just that. She resisted. Barely. Being childish wouldn’t help anything. When she returned to the table with her own plate, they ate in a ten
se silence, the dog resting like a sphinx on the floor between them. She studied Wayne surreptitiously, marveling that his presence was possible, even as he annoyed her. “What did you intend with your squire and the dagger?”

  “It was to be buried with Peter. As the last of his line, the blood I used in the spell should have kept bound a terrible witch whose followers were gaining in strength and number.”

  “What happened?”

  “It would seem one child followed by many more.”

  She bit back the sharp retort dancing on the tip of her tongue. Patience had never been her longest suit. “I meant what happened when you cast the spell?” She pointed at him, circling a finger. “To you.”

  “The hound -”

  “Sterling,” she corrected with a smile for the dog in question.

  “We fought the witch and her closest guards and devotees. When it became clear we could not win by force and strategy, I employed magic, casting the binding spell as a last resort.”

  She waited for him to elaborate. He didn’t. “Whatever you did agrees with you,” she said, clearing away the plates. “Why did Nick want you to go by a different name?”

  “Names have power and I am not prepared for the enemy to know I am here. The wards around this place -”

  “Wards?”

  “Magic that protects and -”

  “I know the term,” she interrupted. “If we can put them on a house, why didn’t you or, or anyone else put one on the dagger?”

  “By my intention such a ward was not necessary.” His voice carried a sharp edge. “I must believe Peter smartly avoided tampering with the magic I imbedded in the blade.”

  She didn’t know enough about magic to argue the point. “What can I do?”

  “Not a thing,” Wayne said, crunching the last slice of his bacon. “We must track it down of course. If, as you say, generations of good-intended O’Malleys have kept the dagger out of evil’s sight I have hope it will be difficult for the thief to use it.”

  “So the thief stole the dagger to break a centuries-old spell? To what end?”