Fisher

by L. L. Muir

  A tall teenager with curly black hair stepped out from the curtain, but he didn’t come far. “May I help you,” he said, obviously sent by his mother and not happy about it.

  Martine didn’t have the French vocabulary to explain. All she needed was a few minutes of sanctuary, so she used her phrase again.

  He looked at her like she was an idiot. She couldn’t blame him.

  Finally, hoping he knew more than just a single phrase in English, she asked, “Can you tell me how to get to Sacré-Cœur?”

  His expression didn’t change. He still thought she was an idiot, but he raised his arm and pointed back the way she’d come. “Down the sidewalk, yes? When you reach the corner, turn right. Two blocks. Look up.” He didn’t move, probably waiting for her to get out of his store before she could infect him with idiocy.

  Martine thanked him and walked out with as much dignity as she could fake, then turned up the sidewalk, sure that her stalker had gone away.

  Only he hadn’t.

  Chapter Five

  Fisher Rankine paced back and forth along the sidewalk like a giant plaid cat, watching the villain return to the metro and begin his descent between the lines of green iron railing. How he wished he could lock some gate that would prevent him from emerging again—for the lass had reappeared from the shop she’d been hiding in. Poor timing that, for the ill-mannered Frenchman still looked determined, even as he admitted defeat. As long as he didn’t look back, she’d be safe enough—

  The bastard paused just before his head was about to disappear into Hell. He turned a final time, noticed the woman, then his face lit up with a smile that showed the devil’s own teeth.

  Fisher’s heart lurched in his chest, but he held his ground. The Frenchman hurried back up the steps and headed straight across the street in Fisher’s direction, intending to intercept her. The woman seemed to realize she was in a race to make the corner before her stalker and increased her pace, all but running. By Fisher’s estimation, both were likely to reach him at the same time.

  “I’ll be happy to sway the outcome,” he muttered.

  The light changed to red and autos stopped at a line in the road, clearing the path for the man. Silently, Fisher cheered the woman on and hoped she would look up and see him. It should offer great relief to know a large capable Highlander—a good man, mind—was willing and able to protect her.

  Alas, the woman’s attention was for the footpath alone, but he could tell she was well aware of her pursuer. Did she have a plan, perhaps to ignore the small Frenchman and hope he would leave off? If so, her plan was failing.

  Another three steps…

  Fisher read the man’s shift in balance and stepped to the right to cut him off. He summoned his most intimidating scowl, but the devil never glanced up. Instead, he darted around Fisher’s left side and continued after the woman without the slightest pause, as if he dodged large bodies on a regular basis.

  Rankine spun on the heel of one boot and eagerly took up the position of third man in a three-man parade up the street. No matter how quickly the lass walked, she could not shake the little man half a step behind her, and Rankine was pleased his own new body was able to keep pace with them both.

  They traversed two city blocks between massive buildings that crowded the streets and left the little shops and their customers in shadows. Much of the merchandise—T-shirts, tea mugs, scarves and wee paintings—spilled onto the path at either side of the road with their hawkers guarding over them. If they wanted their wares to be safe, they should pull them back into their shops!

  Any moment now, the lass would have to surrender her lead. The Frenchman would think he’d won, but his celebration would be short-lived. In fact, the man himself would be short-lived if he laid a hand on her.

  But the woman soldiered on. Her white cap wove back and forth but ever onward up the incline toward the large trees in the distance. When finally they reached those trees, they found themselves in a wide, paved park with a carousel to the left. It was temptation itself to stop and watch the brightly painted animals bobbing up and down as they spun gaily in a circle, but that would have to wait. The lass had already chosen her next course.

  Fisher followed that white cap up a wide circular pathway that led back to center on the next level of the hillside. There, she paused for a heartbeat or two when she noticed the two military policemen standing beside a sign that read, “300 étapes.” 300 steps.

  The Frenchman hesitated as well, though he seemed unphased by the gendarmerie. Instead, he watched the lass, to see what she might do.

  She must know she can trust the police to help her. She must! And yet, that wee white cap turned to the right and smoothly put distance between herself and easy aid. Why?

  The diminutive devil couldn’t have been more pleased and did not hide his pleasure when he glanced from side to side, took a brief, dismissive look at Fisher, then hurried to catch up to his prey once again.

  How did the spectacle of a kilted Highlander not demand his attention? It wasn’t as if there were others of Fisher’s countrymen about that day. And if there were, none wore traditional garb. He was worthy of a second look at least.

  A cold chill rolled through his stomach. Was he still invisible to mortal eyes? Had the Frenchman been stepping around something else at the corner? One of those disgusting bits of chewing gum? It was a fact, he’d passed by without touching, without looking Fisher in the eye nor pausing to note his clothing.

  Will my person have substance enough to help the woman if the devil accosts her?

  The hillside was covered with stairways. Two of them stretched straight up the steep hillside with a wide swath of frozen grass in the center. Farther out, to either side, were more leisurely pathways of larger, more shallow steps that meandered back and forth so one might stop and rest along the way. Here and there, the brave and foolish sat and raised bare faces to a winter-weak sun.

  The woman chose the straight path on the right and charged up the center as if she were completely rested. Fisher had to assume it was fear itself that propelled her upward at such a speed. His own body begged him to stop, but he persevered.

  In a burst of effort, the devil took the steps by twos in order to catch her. The sight of his dark hand reaching for her elbow was all the urging needed to convince Fisher to close the distance. The brush of those unwanted fingers made the lass yank her arm out of reach, and she veered slightly to the right. Her pace never faltered, however, as if she were confident the older man—who might have been fifty or more—would never be able to keep up with her.

  As unchristian as it was, Fisher would have been pleased to see the wee devil clutch his chest and sink to the ground, perhaps roll back down the steps…

  Though her pace was steady, the woman gasped loudly. They’d come so far, and yet they were only halfway to the top. And because they both might have underestimated the smaller man, Fisher could wait no longer.

  He surged forward, his long strides eating up three stairs at a go. As he reached over to grab the scruff of the devil’s neck, he prayed to God that he hadn’t only imagined his new mortality. Then he praised both God and Soncerae when he felt the solid flesh and bone beneath the collar.

  Fisher squeezed firmly, slowed to a stop, and insisted the Frenchman do the same. He grinned with satisfaction when the other man turned his head and narrowed his eye, glaring at anyone with the audacity to interrupt his chase.

  Fisher took advantage of the moment to catch his breath, then spoke firmly. “La toucher, c’est mourir.” To touch her is to die. His desire to punish the man was surpassed by his desperate need for air. It galled him that the smaller man wasn’t equally starved for breath, so he gave him a shake. “Comprenez vous?”

  The devil sneered, shrugged to free himself, then took a step back to face Fisher squarely. Whatever he spat, it was nothing of the French language Fisher had learned in the eighteenth century.

  “Comprenez vous?” Fisher pressed.

&nbs
p; The man rolled his eyes, then looked up the staircase to see the lass still moving away from them, oblivious to the fact she’d lost her pursuer. He turned back and spat something besides words at Fisher’s feet, then started down the hillside, no more intimidated by the outright threat than he had been by the officers at the base of the steps.

  Fisher watched until the devil was well and gone. Only after he saw the tan jacket cross the street in the distance did he turn himself and head for the top of the hill, sure the climb would be easier now, having rested a moment. It was then that he realized where he stood and where the woman had been heading.

  Sacré-Cœur Basilica. The Sacred Heart. The white cathedral that overlooked the whole of Paris. Why had Soni sent him here? To pray for his own soul? Or to protect the lass in the white tam?

  If so, he’d best find her and keep her safe, which might not be so easy when she was so quick on her feet. That reminded him that she’d also been running away from the police. What reason could she have for not seeking their aid? Did she hide something nefarious in that satchel she clung to? Had the Frenchman been after her treasure?

  Fisher finally reached the summit of the stairway and rubbed his hands together. Perhaps this woman was the answer to both his quests. He’d proven himself honorable by thwarting the Frenchman. If he explained why she was in his debt, he might be granted that favor he so desperately wanted.

  Planting a quick fist into the center of Bonnie Prince Charlie’s face sounded mighty gratifying, but not satisfying enough. What good would a few seconds of revenge do, after all? No. It would be much more pleasing to have his grave marker—his mark—left on the world for centuries to come.

  He’d already achieved the difficult part. He’d already proven himself. The rest should be simple what with two entire days with which to secure a wee promise. An additional boon would be a pair of days spent with an intriguing lass.

  He only had to find her…in a crowd of thousands.

  Chapter Six

  Martine blended into the crowd, hustled toward one of the monstrous pillars at the entrance to the cathedral, and slipped behind it. Leaning back against the cold white stone, she hoped no one would chide her while she caught her breath and took a swig from the bottle of water that had been weighing her bag down.

  She alternated between gulping air and gulping the water, thrilled with each second that passed without a hand on her elbow. Had she really lost him? On her run up the 300 famous stairs, she’d stopped hearing his footsteps about halfway, but she’d feared it was because she was breathing so hard. Turning to check hadn’t been an option, though, since a little bit of eye contact might give him hope.

  She would never look a man in the eye again! At least, not until she was safely back at home.

  With a couple of swallows left, she tucked the water bottle back into her purse and felt the ominous corner of the thick plastic bag. Its little zipper bit into her wrist to remind her what she’d come for.

  “I’m not ready yet,” she whispered to Julia. She’d just about killed herself running all the way up the hill, and she needed some time to catch her breath and clear her head. She’d earned the right to take a look around, too. After all, once she produced the gallon-sized bag and started spreading her sister’s ashes, there was a good chance someone would chase her off.

  She should look around first. Take in the sights. See what Julia thought was so special about the place she’d never seen in person.

  There was supposed to be a giant statue of Joan of Arc somewhere. And a square full of artists who could draw a good portrait in a matter of minutes. Place du Tertre, wherever that was. Might as well do my part and get Aunt Penny’s money’s worth.

  But first, she had to get up the nerve to step out from behind the pillar.

  Fisher searched for an hour before he found the woman sitting in a chair, posing for an artist. The fellow was doing a right fair job of capturing her likeness on a large square of paper, using only white chalk and black charcoal. Fisher might have passed her by a number of times before he decided to forget about the white hat and search for her navy-blue coat instead. A wise move since she’d taken off the cap.

  He stopped not a dozen paces away and put his hands on his hips, giving her a clear view of him. There was a chance she might have noticed him sending the Frenchman away, and if she felt so inclined to thank him for the rescue, he wanted to make it easy for her.

  She never glanced his way. The artist instructed her where to look, and she obeyed.

  Fisher moved into her line of sight, but still she ignored him. The cheerful green and blue of his Rankine tartan drew only a peek and earned a slight widening of her eyes, but she never looked for his face or any other part of him.

  Was he so unimpressive, then?

  He regarded his newly reanimated body and found it to be the same familiar size and form he’d known all his adult life. It matched the spirit version of him, known generally as Number 4 to others of his ilk who paced across Culloden Battlefield unseen to human eyes.

  Perhaps, then, she suffered poor eyesight?

  Improbable, that, given the way she flew up the steps to the cathedral without missing a one.

  Clearly, she hadn’t witnessed his good deed, which meant she would not jump at the chance to thank him—nor would she be amenable to doing him any favors. It was possible Soni knew about his heroics, but he doubted she would come so soon to collect him. She’d vowed to see him again in two days, so two days it should be…

  If only he had a mobile telephone with which he could call a certain wee witch and discover the particulars…

  He grasped his sporran, freed the clasp, and felt into the shadows, hoping against reason that a wee device had been slipped inside for just such occasions. But alas, all he found were the things he’d carried with him through the centuries. Bits and bobs of a lifelong past.

  Nothing to do, then, but wander about the city and help folks as he might. For he refused to brag of his good deed to the woman who’d benefited from it. It was just poor form.

  He watched the artist work for a moment as he added small details to his creation. A deeper shadow at the corners of her mouth. A bare finger rubbed and smoothed the texture on the lips, careful to avoid the bright reflection of light at the edge, there.

  Rankine peered closer at the woman’s mouth to see if the artist knew what he was about. The lass’ lips did have a shine to them, which he’d not noticed before. Neither had he noticed the color—a lovely shade of pink which nature perhaps had not intended, but which drew him closer still, as if he might find a chance to run his finger along the bottom edge where it curled under ever so…

  The artist murmured something not meant for him to hear. Something about an admirer.

  It appeared as though the lass didn’t understand the language and waited for the man to repeat himself. He waved away her concern and shot Fisher a knowing look. The lass followed the artist’s gaze and finally, after all Fisher’s effort, noticed him.

  Except for the moment she’d hurried past him on the corner, this was the first he’d seen her up close. The stripes in her hair couldn’t possibly be put there by God’s hand, but they lent a lightness to her expression. Brown eyes flashed his direction, then darted away. He held his breath while he waited for her to look again.

  Come lass. See me.

  The second time happened so quickly, it might have been his imagination. Quick as a blink, it was. Perhaps she was just as curious about him as he was about her.

  There was nothing simple about her. It was almost as if she were two people in one. The white cap she’d worn contrasted with the dark soberness of her coat. Perhaps one had been a gift. But then again, the brightness of her eyes contrasted with the sobriety of her expression. If she were determined to remain serious, her eyes gave away a wish to be anything but.

  It was a mystery he wished to explore.

  Again, she glanced up.

  He pointed at the portrait. “Ye’ll
be pleased, I think.”

  She blushed and hurriedly turned her attention back to its assigned spot. Her chest rose and fell quickly as if she’d been running again, and he realized his familiar manner had frightened her. And no wonder. She might worry she’d exchanged one stalker for another.

  To remedy matters, he gave her a brief nod and moved along, feigning interest in other portraits on display all along the square until he was safely around the corner and out of sight.

  A frightened wee rabbit now, it would be best to leave her alone and go. But alas, the idea of leaving her defenseless in a city full of Frenchmen caused his stomach to burn. He simply couldn’t do it. The prospect of watching over her and protecting her from afar, however, eased his discomfort and made the decision all the easier.

  What was it, Scottish day at Sacré-Cœur? Or did the French wear kilts too?

  Martine shook her head. No. He’d definitely sounded Scottish. Maybe his clan was vacationing or something, since the other kilt she’d seen that morning had been close to the same color. The frantic chase from the metro to the cathedral had been a horrible blur, but she was sure she’d passed a man in a kilt long before she’d reached the steps.

  What was wrong with her? She’d been so determined not to look men in the face, then failed the second she’d gotten comfortable!

  Pascal, the artist, had been the quiet type, uninterested in small talk while he worked, and that suited her fine. Then the Scottish guy had been so…weird…she couldn’t help looking at him to see if he might actually be nuts. Maybe a little drunk? But he hadn’t acted drunk.

  And those eyes. So blue. So direct. They’d held her attention like a wet finger caught against the ice when you have no choice but to wait until that ice thaws just a little, so you can get free.

  If she had to guess, she’d say he was maybe 6’4”, 6’5”. His frame was wide all the way from his shoulders to his knees, and though his waist wasn’t small, his stomach was flat. The guy obviously spent a lot of time at the gym, or if not that, he threw around a lot of weight of some kind. She’d seen cowboys built like him. Guys who tossed fifty-pound bags onto their shoulders and barely notice it.