Chapter 2
Boston
Present Day
The pounding in his head, and the foul stench assaulting his senses woke Callan, as he rolled over and decided that from this day forth, and not in any particular order, that he despised not only Samhain but mercenaries, strange storms, and unhinged women with red hair named Agnes.
The dream had been most agreeable, so real Callan swore he could still feel the spray from the waves and the sun on his skin as he and his half-brother William, Lord Blackford, raced their horses across the shore below the castle.
Who would have ever thought a Scot and an Englishman would gladly call each other brother?
A snort escaped as he blinked several times to clear his blurry sight, the brick wall rough against his back as he pushed against it to sit up, utterly perplexed by the odd surroundings.
“Where the bloody hell am I?”
He reached for his ever present St. Christopher medal, only to find it gone. Had one of those damned mercenaries robbed him whilst he’d been knocked senseless?
The last thing Callan remembered was standing on the battlements with Lucy and William, in the midst of a terrible storm, after the lass had stabbed Agnes, then shoved the vile creature over the parapet to meet a well-deserved end.
Never get between a mother and her child.
The linen shirt he wore was wrinkled, blood-stained, and dirty, and as Callan shifted, the stench of his own self lodged itself in the back of his throat, making him cough.
The rip in the sleeve where the mercenary’s blade struck as he’d stepped between the man and William was stained the reddish brown color of old blood, as if the injury had occurred a long time ago.
As he moved his arm, there was no pain, and when he rolled the sleeve up past his forearm to look at the wound, much to his amazement, he found the injury already healed.
Nothing remained, but a slightly raised pink line that felt smooth under the pads of his rough fingers, as if he had been wounded a month ago, instead of, he squinted up at the clear blue sky, thinking, a mere day ago?
As the wind blew down the strange alley, he remembered the cold as the fates had taken hold of him, hoping they wouldna take him deep underground to faerie, for Callan had long had a fear of being trapped under the dirt, of being kept there for all eternity.
The formidable stone walls of Blackford Castle were no more. In their place loomed enormous buildings stretching higher than any castle tower he’d ever seen.
Strange noises rang in his ears and multi-colored lights flickered all around as Callan trembled in his dirty and bloodied plaid.
He should have been soaked, but nay, ’twas if there had never been a great storm.
He shook his head to clear the terrible sounds, grateful he was alive.
Cold swept through him, not from the surrounding air, but from the aftermath, ’twas the same as the feeling after a battle.
The sun warmed his face, and he took a deep breath of the foul air.
At least he would not catch an ague. As he shifted, his boot scraped against a black road unlike any he had ever seen.
Was he in purgatory then? Or mayhap the faeries had come and taken him away to live with them in some cursed place?
Callan’s hand went instinctively to the hilt of his dagger, only to find the sheath empty. Frantic, he patted his boots, but the jeweled daggers, a gift from William, were also gone, the fine leather sheath empty.
His medal was gone, he was weaponless, yet the two small bags of coins in his sporran remained. So he had not been robbed by bandits. But if not, where were the blades? Did the faeries take them as payment for bringing him to this wretched place?
Cautiously, Callan pushed to his feet, steadying himself against the wall. His head swam and stomach roiled as he slowly breathed in through his nose and out through his mouth several times until his legs were steady enough to hold him up.
It wasn’t hot enough in this place to be hell and he thought purgatory would be full of those he had killed or his sins come back to torment him. Neither was before him as he staggered out of the shadows of the great buildings and into utter madness.
The sight that met his eyes stole his breath away. A strange black road bustling with people and... what sort of horseless metal carriages were those?
They moved on their own, spewing smoke, fouling the air, and making a terrible racket as the people inside them laughed and talked.
So many colors and things for Callan to feast his eyes upon.
The strange way these people spoke as they hurried on to some unknown destination hurt his ears, yet there was something in the odd tongue, the cadence, if not the accent, of their speech that reminded him of Lucy.
He froze as a metal beast emitted a bellow, nearly colliding with him.
“Watch it, you idiot.” A man yelled, the anger in his voice letting Callan know he was most displeased. He clenched his fists, ready to retaliate, but the stinking beast carrying the man sped away, leaving him bewildered.
As he wandered down the street, taking in everything around him, Callan noted the strange attire people wore as they spoke into small, glowing thin slabs of something he could not name.
The noise was overwhelming, a constant thunder of sounds he couldn’t identify, making his heart beat faster and faster. He paused in front of a shop unlike any he had ever seen, catching his reflection in glass that was so smooth it was like the surface of a loch on a still day.
There were all kinds of odd things in the shop, the uses of which he had no idea as he merely shook his head and moved onward, desperately seeking anything familiar.
But the strange sights and sounds bombarded him from all sides. He could smell water in the distance but could not see it.
Then a moving sign in a building caught his eye. There was a person in the sign, talking. Callan shook his head, moving closer until his nose touched the clear glass.
“What witchcraft ’tis this?” He placed his hand on the glass, but the man did not pay him any heed.
The man’s face was almost orange as he spoke of the weather and what was to come. He shivered, making the sign of the cross. How could this man know the weather?
But it was what he said next that made Callan brace both hands on the glass to keep from swooning like a lass.
The voice said ’twas the first of May … the year two thousand and twenty-four.
The breath left his body as Callan rocked back on his heels. 2024? That would mean over 700 years had passed since his last night at Blackford Castle. Callan swayed, going down on one knee, oblivious to those around him.
The outlandish clothing these people wore, the odd metal carriages, the towering buildings.
How could it be? Were the fates punishing him for seeking out his brother? What had he done to offend them thus?
His head ached, trying to make sense of everything. Somehow, he had traveled through time and into a future that looked nothing like home. This was not Scotland. Nor England.
As he forced himself to continue on the odd road, small details came back to him. When Lucy had talked of the eighteenth century as if it were part of her past, five hundred years from 1311, his own time.
As two lasses sauntered by in scandalous clothing, dresses that ended halfway up their legs and showed off their bare arms, Callan’s mouth dropped open.
One of them laughed, smelling of apples as she passed, talking with her friend.
“Can you believe it’s finally quit raining?”
The other lass, in a black dress that barely covered her lady bits, with boots to her knees, ran a hand through hair shorn short as a lad as she tilted her face to the sun.
“I feel like it’s been weeks since we’ve seen the sun. Better enjoy every second before it’s too hot to be outside.”
The one who smelled of apples wore shoes surely designed for torture …
tiny spikes she pranced about on, somehow without falling over.
He would have stared at them until they were out of sight, but ’twas the word the one who smelled of flowers used as she said something to a man she passed by, that made him blink and stagger back a pace.
Whatever.
The same word Lucy used, and in the same tone of voice, as if annoyed.
Was Lucy from this awful future time?
Numb with shock, Callan forced himself to continue walking, letting the sun banish the chill deep in his bones.
He stayed close to the edge of the road, out of the way of the metal beasts, some with four wheels, and others with two.
The ones with two were most unusual, the beast growling as the riders leaned low, wearing coverings on their heads, and going faster than he ever imagined ’twas possible.
Then there were men dressed in bright colors with colored hard hats on their heads riding quiet two wheeled metal carriages, but Callan did not care for those, for they were not as fast, and the men looked as if they were in pain as they pushed the metal beasts onward.
All of the people were dressed in strange garb, speaking a form of English he had trouble understanding, and not a single person went about armed. Was there no war in this time?
He watched a group of brightly dressed people and heard a man talking about Boston. But where was this Boston? Callan knew not of such a place.
They paid him little mind beyond an occasional puzzled glance at his dirty linen shirt and stained plaid, the blood now dried to look like dark stains on the muted brown, slate blue-grey, black, and cream colors of the plaid.
A man passing by pointed at him, calling out, “Hey buddy, the weekend is over. Must have been quite the rippah.”
The other man with him held his nose.
“Smells like he bathed in beer at the party.”
The bastard cupped a hand over his mouth. “Take a bath, you reek.”
Party. He had heard Lucy use the word when talking about a celebration. If she had traveled back in time and had been there for years, did that mean she could not go back to her own time, or had she decided to stay with William of her own choosing?
Callan tried to find his way back to the alley where he first woke to try and return to his own time, but the streets were confusing, the lights and noise overwhelming, so he gave up and trudged on, grateful the sun shone down, warming him as he walked, knowing he must keep his wits about him.
Unsure how long he walked, Callan nearly jumped out of his boots when the day turned to dusk and, all at once, bright lights shone from poles up and down the streets.
As he sagged against one of the strange metal poles that captured the sun, a man dressed in a gray form fitting jacket and pants handed him a handful of green paper, telling him, “things will get better, dude. No need to walk around wearing a blanket.”
The odd paper stowed in his sporran, Callan came upon merchants selling food and odd objects unrecognizable to him.
The smells wafting from the metal food stalls on wheels made his stomach rumble, but they scowled at him so he did not approach, ignoring his hunger as he’d done so many times growing up.
As darkness fell, Callan stopped and stared as light filled the towering buildings from within, glowing like these people had stolen the very power of the sun.
The buildings, the lights on the streets, and the metal beasts had all stolen the light of the sun to banish the darkness. ’Twas a marvel indeed.
Exhausted and hungry, Callan found his way to a bit of green, a place that finally looked familiar, though the gates were closing. As the caretaker turned his back, Callan slipped through the gates and into the bushes.
As he made his way inside, his heart slowed, and a calm settled over him as Callan strode deeper into the trees, the sound of the birds soothing his weary soul.
A man, wrapped in a tattered blanket, cleared his throat as Callan passed by looking for somewhere to sleep for the night.
“You best find somewhere to hide, son. If they catch you in here after dark, there will be trouble.” The man met Callan’s eyes. Something passed between them as he nodded.
“I thank ye.”
The man shuffled off, mumbling to himself, leaving Callan standing there, throat tight. The man had the look and bearing of a warrior, even if he was no longer at his best.
Deeper and deeper into the gardens he traipsed until he found a secluded spot behind a statue where he would not be seen.
As night fell, shadows played amongst the trees, the wind whispering through the leaves, telling him he was alone, lost in time, with no one to aid him.
His newfound brother and Blackford Castle lost to the mists of time.
A sense of helplessness fell over him as he gazed up at the stars. Even the sky was different here, with so few stars in the sky. Callan didn’t know how to return to his own time, or even if ’twas possible.
Mayhap in the morn he would wake to find ’twas all a strange dream brought on by Samhain and the spirits freely roaming the earth.