Chapter 2 #2
“She thinks I’m dead,” I whispered.
And that thought alone was unbearable.
The pain ignited in my chest again, searing through me like a blade. Warmth spread beneath my fingers—blood soaking through one of the white patches Jack had placed on me.
Jack’s expression hardened. Though slight in frame, he seemed to grow in stature, his presence commanding.
“Please, son,” he said with quiet authority. “Get back to bed. This wound is the worst.” He gestured to the fresh stain of red seeping through the bandage. “Lee and I have worked hard to keep you alive. We won’t lose you now.”
The fight drained from my limbs, my strength slipping away as my body betrayed me. I staggered back to the bed, collapsing onto it with a groan.
Moon Lee. Dancing Fire. That was his name in my time.
I exhaled raggedly. “Moon Lee is here? At this time? He’s the man who raised Olivia?”
Jack stiffened. “Well, I’m her father.” A flash of something—resentment? Pain?—crossed his face before vanishing. “But yes, he helped raise her. He taught her how to defend herself. She was a highly trained martial artist.”
“A what?” My brow furrowed through the haze of pain.
“A… what you would call a warrior.”
A surge of pride cut through the fog of agony—Olivia, a warrior. We had fought side by side before—I had witnessed her strength and ferocity. But my body, racked with pain, forced me back into the moment.
Jack seemed to sense my struggle.
He retrieved a small, dark gray rectangular object and pressed something on its surface.
The device lit up, glowing with unnatural light.
I flinched, instinctively reaching for a weapon I no longer had. “What is that?”
Jack barely glanced up. “It’s a phone. A mobile phone. I’m calling for help.”
I stared at him, bewildered.
“This is how we communicate in this century,” he continued, pressing the device to his ear. “Damn. Voicemail.” He exhaled again, then spoke into the strange object.
“Hey, Lee, this is Jack. You’ve got to call me back. He’s awake. And that damn wound opened up again.”
I blinked, trying to process his words as he pressed something on the device, and the glow disappeared.
“He’ll call us back,” Jack said casually.
I frowned. “Call us back? You mean… shout through the window?”
Jack chuckled. “No, son. There’s a lot to teach you. But right now, you need to focus on healing.”
I barely had the strength to argue. My head throbbed with the weight of too much new knowledge, too much I didn’t understand.
Jack stood, rolling up his sleeves. “I’m going to grab some supplies and redress that wound.” He patted my shoulder lightly. “I’ll be back in a jiffy.”
I groaned. “In a what? What is this ‘jiffy’?”
Jack chuckled again, shaking his head as he walked toward the door.
“I’ll be right back.”
***
After Jack changed my bandages and handed me a small white pill to dull the pain, he invited me into the kitchen for food.
My stomach growled in response, deciding for me. I followed him.
His house was larger than the one I had grown up in with my mother, and every room was filled with peculiar things—strange contraptions, glowing numbers, materials I couldn’t name. Olivia’s time was full of marvels.
Jack motioned for me to sit at a small table in the corner of the kitchen before turning to prepare the meal.
I watched him move with effortless familiarity, working in a world I didn’t understand.
A giant silver box kept food cold. A simple turn of a dial on the stove produced an instant flame.
When he poured ground coffee beans into a strange machine, I expected nothing—yet minutes later, the room was filled with a rich, heady aroma.
Coffee. The scent was familiar but not quite the same as the brew I had known.
Jack placed a steaming mug before me. “Here. Do you like cream and sugar?”
I hesitated, inhaling deeply. The scent was earthy, bitter. Different.
“I don’t know,” I admitted.
Jack grinned. “Let me prepare it the way I like. Then you can decide for yourself.”
He crossed to the silver box, retrieving a stiff, waxy paper container. The design was unlike anything I had seen before.
With a practiced motion, he poured white cream into my cup, swirling it into the dark liquid. Then he reached for a small glass jar filled with tiny crystals—sugar; I realized, adding a careful measure before stirring it with a gleaming silver spoon.
“There,” he said, pushing the mug toward me, his eyes warm with amusement. “Try it.”
I lifted the cup to my lips and took a cautious sip.
The taste bloomed on my tongue—rich, warm, slightly sweet. It was unlike anything I’d ever had before.
Jack watched me expectantly. “Well?”
I set the cup down, savoring the lingering warmth. “Yes. Very much so.”
Jack beamed. “Excellent. I’ll make bacon and eggs next.”
As he bustled about the kitchen, the sizzle of cooking filling the air, he peppered me with questions.
“You’ve brought me much joy, son. My Olivia is alive.” Jack’s voice was thick with emotion. “And you seem like a stalwart young man.”
His expression darkened slightly as he cracked an egg against the pan. “I never liked Tristan.” His jaw tightened. “I knew there was something evil about him. I felt it in my gut.”
I wrapped my hands around the warm mug, letting his words settle.
Jack had been right about Tristan.
And now, he would pay.
Jack poured a golden stream of eggs into a pan, the mixture hissing as it met the heat.
“Stalwart?” I took another sip of coffee, savoring its richness. Heaven.
“It means hardworking… loyal… dependable,” Jack explained, stirring the eggs with quick, practiced motions. “You seem to possess those attributes.”
I nodded. Yes. Hardworking. Loyal. There was no question about that.
“And where is Tristan now?” I asked.
I already knew what I would do when I found him. Kill him. Swiftly. Then, I’d return to Olivia with the news that her betrayer had been vanquished.
Jack frowned, deep lines creasing his forehead. “We don’t know. He’s been missing since the night he shot me. No one can find him. Not Lee, not me, not even the local authorities. It’s like he vanished into thin air.”
I drummed my fingers on the table. That was not what I wanted to hear.
Jack retrieved several slabs of meat wrapped in a strange, flimsy transparent material. With practiced ease, he unwrapped them, placed them onto a flat pan, and slid them into the oven.
Soon, the welcome scent of sizzling pork fat filled the kitchen, teasing my senses.
“How long was I unconscious?” I asked.
Jack scratched his jaw. “Oh, maybe two weeks.”
I stiffened. Two weeks. Lost.
He continued, his tone laced with something unreadable.
“You woke up a few times—took water, some food—then fell back into a deep sleep. Lee insisted we keep you out of the hospital. He kept me out of the room while he did his mumbo-jumbo Native rituals on you.” Jack waved a hand dismissively.
“But I was afraid you’d perish without proper care. ”
He paused, eyes searching mine.
“I imagine waking up in my bedroom was a shock.” A small smile lit his face. “I think you’re on the healing path now, though.”
Healing path.
I frowned and took another gulp of coffee, the sweetness grounding me.
Jack moved with efficient ease, retrieving two plates from a cupboard. He scraped the now-fluffy, pale-yellow eggs onto each one before slipping on a cloth glove to retrieve the bacon from the oven.
He plated several sizzling strips on each dish before setting one in front of me, the other across from him. Finally, he placed two forks down.
I hesitated, then took a bite of the soft, warm, savory eggs. It was different from what I was used to, but full of flavor.
Then, the bacon—crisp, salty, smoky.
Jack watched me as I ate, a quiet curiosity in his gaze.
I chewed thoughtfully, then swallowed.
“What should I call you, Jack?” I asked.
I met his gaze, unflinching.
“Father?”
“Jack will do,” he said with an easy sweep of his hand.
“Thank you for the food, then, Jack.”
“You’re welcome.” He studied me for a moment, his expression softening. “I’m so glad you’re here, son.”
Something stirred in my chest at that word—son—an ache I couldn’t quite name.
Jack hesitated. “Do you mind if I call you that? What should I call you?”
I straightened. “Roman, if you don’t mind.”
He nodded as if committing it to memory.
“So, tell me, Roman—what period are you from? And how did you come to meet Olivia?” His face brightened with curiosity as he dug into his breakfast.
I set my fork down, considering where to begin. “I’m from the 1700s, but Olivia and I met in ancient Rome.”
Jack’s chewing slowed. “Ancient Rome?”
I nodded. “I time traveled there and became a gladiator.”
His expression shifted from amusement to fascination as I recounted my past—my childhood in the Americas, my years in England, and the brutal life of the arena under Emperor Severus.
Jack sat across from me, his gaze locked onto mine, absorbing every word.
“When I met Olivia,” I continued, “she had already killed some of the emperor’s men. She was… an oddity in ancient Rome. No one knew what to make of her. So, the emperor gave her to me.”
Jack let out a short laugh. “Oh, I’ll bet she didn’t take that well.” His eyes twinkled with knowing amusement. “She’s always been independent.”
“She is.” A small smirk tugged at my lips. “At first, we butted heads constantly. She was often rude to my housekeeper, Amara, and me. We had to… battle out our differences.”
Jack’s smile faltered. “Rude?” He shook his head. “She was raised with good manners.” A shadow crossed his face. “I’m sure she was just frightened. Alone. She didn’t even know she was a time traveler until it was too late.”
Regret filled his voice. “I should have told her sooner when she was young. But I was afraid. I didn’t want to scare her. So I waited—too long.”
I let his words settle between us.
“I understand,” I said finally. “It’s a bewildering experience.”
Jack nodded but didn’t look at me.