by LAURA HARNER
The director of the clinic was a woman in her late fifties, slim, sharply dressed, and thoroughly professional to the tips of her manicured nails. She nearly swooned when Gabhran handed over a Visiting Physician’s Permit, a sort of temporary courtesy extended to consulting physicians who were licensed in other jurisdictions. Once again, the intrepid Alfred had come through with another relative in an important position. This one was a cousin who just happened to be the Chief of Staff at the big hospital in Baton Rouge. Cousin Leroy had been persuaded to request assistance on a case, smoothing the way for the provisional permit. Gav had wondered if this was part of Alfred’s special magick, or if it was merely a by-product of a large extended family in the South.
Gabhran told her that he knew state funding was tight, so he wondered if he might volunteer at the clinic, while he decided what he wanted to do next with his life. Then he’d provided a copy of his application for a standard Louisiana medical license, his current licenses, specialty endorsements, transcripts, and references from the Chief of Staff at the Edinburgh Hospital.
It was one of the nagging inconsistencies in his life that he couldn’t remember attending medical school or acquiring his certifications. There was no doubt he must have, because the knowledge and skills were there. So was the documentation. It was just the damn memories that were lost when he settled into a new reality. It was why he had to find the mysterious patient whose story was so similar to his own.
The director did what all good bureaucrats did, accepted his offer on the spot, and planned to follow up on his references later. Because she was very good at directing, she also arranged for the other doctor’s on site to request Gav as a consulting physician on their most complicated cases. Although it might be as much as three months before he was fully licensed, the temporary permit would allow him to do what he needed.
Now finally, after two long weeks of treating a myriad of patients, he was on his way to meet the woman he had determined through a process of elimination must have been the subject of the journal article. The woman who might provide some clue that would help explain why he kept getting lost in his own life.
The woman known as Alysone Smith sat in a small parlor on the first floor of the clinic. She was a stunningly beautiful young woman with silky ash blonde hair, creamy white skin, and sad-looking eyes that were an impossible shade of violet. He felt an instant connection and realized that honesty was the only way to reach her.
Gabhran rummaged around in his head until he felt that place the Druids had been touching with their minds when they’d tried to recruit him. He was more aware now of that internal place of power, and although he’d tried once or twice before, he was still unsure how exactly to harness the magick. He no longer questioned its existence. He tried to use it now to sense the young woman, to reach inside any latent power she might have. It was a clumsy effort, but judging from her quick gasp and the flash of her gaze, it worked.
“Alysone, my name is Gabhran MacLachlan, and I am a doctor from Scotland. I know your story is true. The feeling of being shifted into a new life has also happened to me.” He spoke quickly, his rushed words infused with sincerity.
Her violet eyes filled with tears as her gaze met his and they stared at each other a long moment. “Is this a trick?” Her voice was a whisper, and her hands twisted together in her lap.
“Nay, lass, I also am lost or whatever you want to name the feeling. It happens to me every five years or so. I seem to be remembering a bit more each time, but I can sense my time is nearly up. We must work together to find answers before I am lost again, or I fear we will both have to start over.”
Alysone was silent and appeared to be weighing his words. Her situation was tenuous; the medical team had exhausted traditional treatments and had become frustrated by her lack of improvement. He’d read her file and knew that her primary physician, Dr. Taylor, was starting to take her failure to progress as a personal affront.
Finally, she spoke. “They want to use shock treatments on me. Dr. Taylor plans to begin next week. I’m trying to convince him I’m getting better, but he keeps pressuring me to sign the consent.”
It was time for a hard truth. “Alysone, I have reviewed your files. Dr. Taylor sees you as mentally unstable and incapable of rational decision-making. He’s considering asking for a court to intervene. He is going to approach the people who claim you as family.”
“I didn’t know what to do when I woke up surrounded by strangers, so I agreed to let them put me here. But now, I have nowhere else to go…” she trailed off.
“Aye, lass, I know. I will help you. You will have a breakthrough today while we are talking. Not a complete recovery, you understand, but enough so that you will request for me to be your doctor. I will coach you so that others will believe you when you tell them you are better, but you must follow my directions. Can you do that? Will you follow my directions?”
“Yes,” said Alysone, and her voice was strong. “Don’t let them do this to me.”
****
Alysone met with Gav every few days, supposedly to work through her issues. She’d claimed a major breakthrough during her session with Gabhran and had finally remembered being repeatedly abused as a child. The team had gathered to discuss her story and developed a new working theory: Someone had recently abused Alysone again, and that, coupled with emotional trauma suffered as a result of the hurricane, had triggered a total repression of her memory.
Gabhran told the other doctors that it was their fine groundwork that laid the foundation, and he had just happened to be the doctor who was with her during her breakthrough. Neither of them wanted to alienate anyone or make them suspicious that she was not on the road to recovery.
They spent their time together exploring the similarities of their stories. Gabhran's memories were more defined than hers. He had very specific recollections of starting over many other times. He would be plagued for months by the feeling he was about to be lost, nothing more specific than that, just lost. One night he would go to sleep full of memories of the life he was living, and when he woke the next morning it was under completely new circumstances.
He would wake in a new house, in a new city, with a new medical practice. He told her how he never seemed to age, looking much as he did now for as long as he could remember, but the eras in which he lived changed. He was sure he’d been a physician outside of Glasgow in the late nineteenth century, and he remembered living in a small village near Inverness. He had other memories, as well.
In his experiences, there had been constants. As soon as he woke up in his “new” life, he needed to find the papers that were always there somewhere nearby in his new reality. They were the blueprint for his new life: school transcripts, licensing documentation, a history of the new place he found himself.
Alysone had no such reference points. She had awakened one morning in a strange bed, an unfamiliar house, and a man she’d never seen before in her life claimed to be her brother. The problem was, her “brother” had family pictures, her birth certificate, and all manner of documents to prove who Alysone was. She had never seen any of it before.
Since that day, Alysone had been trying to convince every person she’d come onto contact with that this was not her life. Not surprisingly, no one believed her. She had vague memories of other realities, other people she’d known, places she’d lived. Actually, memories was too strong of a term, it was more like living in a constant state of déjà vu.
Now finally someone believed her. More than that, he had experienced similar disruptions of time. Their meetings hadn’t restored any of her actual memories, but sometimes the things he remembered stirred feelings of recognition within her.
All talk of shock treatment had terminated, and Dr. Taylor was happily writing a paper explaining how long term therapy was beginning to pay big dividends in the care of Patient A, his name for the patient in his articles. Life at the hospital had become easier for her; she could walk through the buildings and ground
s, as long as she checked in and out at the main desk. She spent most days outside, but her nights had taken on a life of their own. In her dreams, she thought she must be in Scotland.
*
The skirt of her lavender gown swept along the stone passage, her slippers made no sound against the wooden floors. The rush lights provided shadowy illumination as she hurried through the hallway. Turning a corner, she came to an abrupt stop. She had been so sure this passageway led to the servant’s stairs to the kitchens. How could this be? She whirled around, and with a little sob, she began running back in the direction from which she’d come.
She gathered the folds of her skirts to still the rustling silk and crept past the door to the master’s chamber. She dare not make any sound lest she disturb him. She turned the corner leading to the grand staircase, and stopped again. This passageway had also been walled off. I am trapped!
Her thoughts seemed electric in her head. She couldn’t focus. The only rooms she could access were her chambers and the master’s. This was some dark magick, of that she was certain. Perhaps she should wait in her chambers for the master to awaken and discover this treachery. He would fix this, if only she could ask him. But it wasn’t her place to speak to the master. Is that right? We've never spoken? I can't remember, but if we've never spoken, how do I know of him?
She traced her hand along the cold stones of the castle wall and shivered against the chill in the air. Slowly, she made her way back through the corridor, trying to make sense of where she was and how she’d gotten there. Was this a dream?
She’d walked the whole length before she realized there was only one door left in the entire hallway, and it wasn’t hers. Her heart hammered in her chest. There was nowhere to go, nowhere but to the master’s chambers. Will his room still be there, or will it have disappeared, too. Is he even inside? Do I want his help?
She slumped against the wall, bent her knees and slowly slid to the floor. Dear God, what is happening? She had no idea how long she sat like that, on the floor, head in her hands. Finally, she stood and steeled herself for the inevitable confrontation, and knocked softly on his door.
“Come in,” a voice called gruffly.
She entered the opulent chamber that was part bedroom, part sitting room. She closed the door behind her, and leaned against it for support, as she looked around. Two large chairs were placed at an angle in front of the fireplace on one side of the room. The main part of the room was dominated by a massive, four-poster bed with white silk drapes hanging from the ceiling that would surround the bed if loosened from their ties on each of the bed posts. There was a tapestry hanging from one wall, and in front of it was a large tub.
The master leaned against the mantle, one fist clenched at his side, staring into the fire. Without turning around he said in a low, whisky-rich brogue, “Och, so you have finally returned to me, lass, as I have always known you would.”
He turned slowly then, and her gaze was irresistibly drawn to him. He stood more than a foot taller than she, long black hair, the color of coal flowed to his waist in silky waves. He was clad only in a kilt and worn leather boots, his massive bare chest glowed golden, kissed by firelight. He stood with his feet apart, hands on his hips, arms akimbo, and looked every bit the conquering warrior.
He raked his gaze slowly up her body, and her knees felt weak at the heat in his eyes. Her breath came in short, quick pants, and she could think of no proper response. He was the master, she a mere servant, and yet there was a terrible longing within her breast. When he finally dragged his gaze up to meet hers, his black eyes were iridescent in the flickering light of the fire.
With a sigh, her knees buckled, and she sank to the floor.
Then he was beside her, lifting her, and pressing his lips to her hair. “I have waited for this ten lifetimes; I would wait all of eternity.”
His words were the last thing she heard as her mind drifted into blackness.
Chapter Five
Gabhran walked for miles along the banks of the Mississippi and the streets of the Vieux Carré each night, stopping for drinks and dinner as his mood suited. Tonight as he walked, he thought about Alysone. Gabhran was disappointed with the information she’d provided so far, but he had not actually expected more. He had always thought the uncertainty of his own life was nearly unbearable, but ‘twas nothing compared to what she had suffered. At least he’d had papers to tell him who he was. She had wakened completely lost in her new time.
Alysone thought some of his memories felt familiar to her, but she had not yet had any genuine memories of her own past. Unless you counted the dreams. Today she told him of a particularly vivid dream that she’d had the previous night, one that sounded to him more like a memory or even a vision. It had intrigued him, and it scared her. He would ask her more questions on the morrow.
Idly he wondered if Marie could help Alysone, maybe read for her, or see into her as she had with Gabhran. Perhaps she could fashion Alysone a gris-gris bag for protection, too. His hand reached for the bag nestled on the chain around his neck, and froze. He had removed the chain when he’d showered and forgotten to replace it when he’d dressed.
Though he’d been skeptical at first, he was grateful for the bag now. He’d looked around his few possessions when he’d returned from the Voodoo Queen’s shop, thinking about what one personal item he could add to the bag, and how he would keep it next to his skin. Then he’d had an idea that pleased him greatly.
In this current version of his life, he’d been contacted by an attorney who had informed Gabhran of a hidden vault in his house in Edinburgh. Upon entering the secret room, he’d discovered many relics and a journal. The journal was undated and appeared ancient, and it contained incomplete notes about the items in the vault. There he had read about the large amber pendent called the Talisman of Cycles. When Worthington had started sniffing around and trying to recruit him, Gabhran had decided to wear the artifact around his neck to keep it safe.
Gabhran had never grown accustomed to the feelings that the pendant evoked, it felt cold and dark against his chest. Marie suggested he could wear his gris-gris bag around his neck, so after careful consideration, he’d slipped the pendant into the bag and tied it closed. Then he slipped the chain around his neck, taking care of two problems at once. The gris-gris bag shielded his flesh from the sensations evoked by the pendant. Now that he was aware of its absence, it felt strange not to have the little bag next to his chest. He’d call it an early evening and make sure he stayed out of trouble.
As he walked and thought, his feet took him as they did most nights, to Preservation Hall, the place he’d listened to jazz his first night in town. He took up his customary spot against the wall and let the music wash over him.
He noticed Miranda as soon as he entered; his gaze drawn to her like a moth to the flame. She was sitting on the floor, a few rows in front of where he stood, swaying gently to the music. She was dressed in a flowered summer dress with a halter-top, her golden hair pulled back into a knot on the nape of her neck, exposing a long expanse of her bare back. He knew how she got that tan. He forced his gaze away from her, tried to put her out of his mind and focus on the music.
Melancholy was in the air tonight, the musicians were playing a particularly bluesy set of songs, about loves lost, crying rivers, and no second chances. His gaze drifted back to Miranda as the last song came to an agonizingly depressing end on the wailing note of a lone trumpet. He sucked in a breath, as he watched a single tear trace down her cheek.
As the band got up to take a much-deserved break, people shifted about the room, and Miranda came to her feet, looking around. Their gazes locked over the heads of the audience, and she started to turn away. Miranda.
As if he’d spoken aloud, she swiftly turned back to look at him. Had she heard that somehow? He smiled at her and hoped his expression was reassuring. Her shoulders rose, then fell as she took a deep breath then meandered her way around the room until she was standing next to hi
m, but facing away, toward the stage area.
“Hello, lass, nice to see you again.” He tried for casual.
She flushed. “Nice to see me dressed, you mean,” she snapped.
He leaned over and got very close to her ear, so only she would hear. “Och, lass, here I was trying to be polite and ‘twould appear I royally fucked that up.” He straightened and then laughed long and loud, causing several heads to turn their way.
Randi’s lips twitched as she looked up at him, making sure of the intent of his words, before relaxing and giving a genuine smile. “I’m sorry, that was bitchy. I really am sorry about the other day. I’ve never been more embarrassed in my life! I just can’t apologize enough.”
“No you canna, because I doona need to hear any apology. ‘Tis truly not necessary, but you could have a drink with me after the next set. I’ll even let you keep your clothes on,” he teased.
Randi laughed, a musical, enchanting sound that made his heart rate speed up and the dark within him raise its head and sniff the air. Gabhran gave her a slow smile. Just then, the band took the stage and began their next set, determined to lift the blues from the air.
It was a glorious session, all Cole Porter and Irving Berlin songs, and he just knew where it would end, it was inevitable. Sure enough as they approached the end of the set, a lively version of “Blue Skies,” gave way to “I’ve Got You Under My Skin”. He couldna say why he had been so sure that song would be last, except there was a feeling of fate about standing here next to Miranda. She was definitely under his skin.
They’d stood side-by-side throughout the final session, occasionally they would brush shoulders, unintentionally touching as each moved to the music. Without stopping to consider the consequences, Gabhran slipped an arm around Miranda’s waist, took her hand in his, and danced with her in a tight little circle.
