Chapter Three

Elizabeth:

The day proved fair. Elizabeth took the break in the gray December clouds to walk into town while the roads were dry. She wore a short walking dress to not drag the hem in any remaining spots of mud, her sturdiest boots, and a heavy wool coat trimmed in silvery fur. She topped her ensemble with a sensible hat and scarf.

Elizabeth frowned at the coat. The bright blue and cheery silver fur seemed inappropriate for her to wear as a widow. She did not have a black wool overcoat and the issue simply never arose last winter as she did not leave the house. For the funeral service, she wore a heavy black shawl that did little to protect her from the cold. A decision to go to a tailor and purchase a suitable overcoat or accept that her period of mourning rapidly approached the end faced her.

A world without color was lacking. She wore somber grays and muted black for the customary two years. Perhaps it was time. David would tell her to stop looking for deeper meaning and wear the silly coat.

Well, she had her answer, then. She’d wear the silly coat.

Sweecombe Lodge stood tallest of three buildings atop a hill on the moor. Once a hunting lodge, the house had fallen out of use as the forest vanished. Previous owners had tried their hand at raising sheep, but the pasture land had been sold off bit by bit until just the main house and carriage house remained. The barn, having fallen into disrepair years ago, was a roofless shell.

Mr. and Mrs. Baldry, groundskeeper and housekeeper respectively, lived in the carriage house adjacent to the main building. They had served the previous owners and Elizabeth could think of no good reason to not keep them on. Two girls from the village came in for cleaning to assist Mrs. Baldry during the week, and Mr. Baldry hired a local lad when he needed a strong, young back to clear the land.

They were away for the month in Bristol, visiting their daughter at the birth of their first grandchild. Elizabeth received a brightly colored postcard from the port town, announcing that they arrived safely, mother and baby were well, and they would return after the New Year.

Elizabeth didn’t begrudge them their holiday but missed their company. Mrs. Baldry filled the kitchen with her bright chatter and motherly disposition. She could not be sure how much of Mrs. Baldry’s doting was sympathy, but Elizabeth genuinely enjoyed speaking with the woman. The moors were lonely, especially at night. When the silence of the lodge became too much, the warm lights of the carriage house assured her she was never too far away from tea and sympathy.

Christmas would come sooner than she realized and bring the New Year. The Baldrys would return, and everything would be in its proper place once again. As much as she pondered leaving, there was comfort in familiarity.

Despite the shining sun overhead, the muddy road remained frozen solid. She misstepped once on the uneven ground but did not injure herself or fall. Just as well. Better frozen mud than soft mud. She’d rather not scrape mud—or other unmentionable droppings—off her boots that evening.

The textile mill dominated the village. Aging plaster and timber buildings clustered around the mill and the river flowed lazily through the center. On a brisk day with clear skies, it made a picturesque view. In the summer, when the mill fouled the water, and the lack of basic sanitation was obvious in the streets, she did her best to avoid the village. That day, however, green wreaths adorned doors and the air smelled of nothing more offensive than horseflesh and chimney smoke.

Elizabeth stopped at the pub for the warmth of a cup of tea and a bit of lunch.

“Errands in town, missus?” Mrs. Simmons, the institution’s mistress, asked. She set down a steaming pot of tea on the table, accompanied by a Cornish pasty, a hunk of cheese, and warm bread.

“I thought I’d take advantage of the sun and stock up on provisions while I may,” she replied. She had a list of items for the grocer, business with the stone mason, and a letter for her solicitor in London.

“Be sure to get back by dark. John’s seen will-o’-wisps on the moors the last few nights. Those lights will lure you off the path into the bog to meet your demise,” Mrs. Simmons nodded as she spoke.

“Nothing more than natural gas from decaying plants,” Elizabeth said. She didn’t hold with superstitious nonsense.

“If you’re not worried about the hinkypunks and will-o’-wisps, then you need to mind the beast.” Another nod from the wise Mrs. Simmons.

“The beast?” This was new.

“Oh, it’s fearsome, missus. It prowls the moors, glowing with a fiendish fire. Eyes like the devil himself and wicked claws, ready to tear you limb from limb. If a poor soul is unlucky enough to meet it, well, let’s just say I hope you never encounter the beast.”

Elizabeth pressed her lips together to avoid a smile. While she did not hold the same beliefs and she did not wish to mock, but a beast? On Exmoor? In England? In this day and age? She tolerated the superstitious prattle about will-o’-wisps because wandering off on the moors at night was just not advisable. Too many patches of marsh and bog could swallow up a person with little warning.

“I’ve never heard of this beast before,” Elizabeth said in a neutral tone.

“It came with that bloody—forgive me—great falling star last week.”

“Are you suggesting the beast fell from the stars?”

Mrs. Simmons frowned. “I wouldn’t be so quick to laugh, missus. Mr. Stearne has seen it himself.”

Elizabeth poured herself a cup of tea, buying time to think of a sincere response. Her behavior shamed her. “I apologize, Mrs. Simmons. You are only concerned about my well-being. There could very well be a wolf or an escaped animal from some menagerie on the prowl.” That seemed more likely than a beast from the stars. The gentry were known for their eccentric collections and several nobles with more money than sense kept a menagerie of exotic creatures.

Her father had occasionally been commissioned for portraits that featured an unusual family pet, such as an ostrich or a zebra. Once there had been a stuffed crocodile, with green glass eyes. The rich loved to spend money on follies. She could easily imagine some poor creature had escaped or even been released onto the moors.

Even more probable was that people saw the light of a lantern as lovers met for a forbidden rendezvous. Yes, that made perfect sense.

“Just be back before dark. The days are short this time of year,” Mrs. Simmons said.

She nodded in agreement. The winter sun set by mid-afternoon. “I won’t dally.”

“When I think about you all alone in that cursed house,” she said with a shiver. “It’s not right.”

Elizabeth had heard that old chestnut often. The villagers whispered that Sweecombe was cursed, haunted, no good fate ever happened to the owners, and so on. Poppycock. It was a building, nothing more. She had been there for over three years and had yet to see any evidence of a curse.

“Will you visit your son for Christmas?” she asked.

The older woman’s face lit with delight. “We visit our Junior the night before. We’ll catch the train at Barnstable, then down to Exeter. How are you set for your Christmas dinner?”

“Mrs. Baldry left me her famous plum pudding.” Wrapped in cloth and soaked in brandy, Elizabeth would steam it the day of.

“Is that all?” Mrs. Simmons voice rose to a scandalous pitch. “No goose? Mince pies? Not even roast beef? This won’t do.”

“I have planned to make a small roast for myself.” Elizabeth could cook. As it was just herself, she failed to see the need for an elaborate feast.

“Nonsense. I’ll send one of the girls up with a hamper the day before. It’ll be cold, but you’ll have a proper dinner.”

Elizabeth smiled graciously. “Thank you. That sounds lovely.”

Luncheon finished, Elizabeth worked through her list. She made arrangements with the stonemason first, to get the onerous task out of the way. The tradesman had anticipated her need and showed her a selection of monuments available. She chose a simple granite slab, one with enough space for both their names when the time came.

The most difficult task done, she put her letter to the solicitor in the post and placed her order with the grocer. She added a few items to her basket, but the purchase was much too large to carry on her own.

“I’ll send Georgie round this evening to deliver your order with the cart,” the grocer said.

“That’s much appreciated,” she said with a sincerity.

The dry goods shop was her final task. Her supplies of thread and yarn needed replenishing, as did some smaller items such as writing paper, pens, and ink.

Two men arguing entered the shop. “I’m telling you, I seen it out on the moors. Eyes like the devil it had.”

“Jonas, you were blind drunk. Bloody hell, you stink of gin now.”

“Black as sin he was, lumbering along the hills. Then he rose up on two legs and turned to me, eyes glowing with the fires of hell, and horns like the devil himself,” the first man said dramatically, captivating everyone in the shop. “The sight turned my hair white. In his hands, he held a strange blue fire.”

“Witch’s fire,” someone whispered.

Jonas nodded. “The light flared, and then the beast was gone.”

The shopkeeper behind the counter snorted. “That’s a pretty story, worth a pint at least, but your hair was already white. And mind your language in front of a lady.”

“I’m not a lady,” Elizabeth murmured. She was a portrait painter’s daughter from London, a tradesman, and definitely not gentry.

The storyteller, Jonas, begged for her pardon but maintained that every word he spoke was true.

“Surely you saw a stag in the moonlight,” Elizabeth said. Or a wolf. Some terrestrial animal and not a monster.

“I know what I saw, ma’am,” the man said in earnest.

She bit her tongue. Otherwise, she’d scold a grown man for being frightened of a mere animal.

“Get on with you,” the grocer said, waving the man away. “Jonas likes to spin a yarn, but he’s not the only one to see something sinister on the moors.”

“Poppycock,” she said, losing patience. “I’m sure that gentleman saw something which can be explained in a rational manner.”

The grocer nodded, amiably. “I worry about you all by your lonesome, missus. It’s not right for a woman to be on her own, especially in that house. Nothing good has ever happened there.”

“I assure you, I’m quite fine on my own,” she said.

“Can’t you sell up and go to your family in London?”

“Mr. Halpine was my family,” she said. She did not want to explain about her brother in Paris. “I have the Baldrys, and I enjoy the quiet. I’ll have plenty of time to catch up on my reading this winter.”

“I don’t like it. Anything can happen, and no one will be able to help you.” He placed a box of iron bullets for a rifle on the counter. “I can’t imagine your artist husband enjoyed hunting, but I know Sweecombe Lodge is kitted out for hunters.”

“I can’t possibly—”

“For your protection. Even in Jonas’s devil of a beast is just a stag, it never hurts to be prepared. If Queen Victoria can shoot a rifle, any lady can indulge in the sport. Should I come around on Sunday and teach you?” His offer felt sincere and touched her.

“I can shoot. My father enjoyed the hunt.” She took the box of bullets, not too proud to admit a solid idea when she encountered one. Some animal prowled the moors, otherworldly or not, and she was all alone. “Thank you. A bit of preparation is always sound. An ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure, after all.”

Reven:

He wasn’t a complete idiot.

Mostly.

It only took him a few hours to realize that something was wrong. Very wrong.

The first clue had been the communication satellites. They weren’t just down; they were gone. Vanished. And not just the ones used by Mahdfel. All the Earth’s satellites were missing. He’d allow for a few satellites to be destroyed in a Suhlik raid, but every satellite? Improbable.

In an effort to gather more information, he deployed a drone at dawn. It surveyed the immediate environment, reporting back what Reven already knew. He was in the midst of a large, empty, and rolling landscape. He instructed the drone to find the nearest river and follow its flow until the drone reached a settlement. Terrans clustered together in townships, near rivers and other transportation hubs.

Within minutes, the drone streamed footage back to the shuttle. It found a town but the town… wasn’t correct.

Whitewashed thatched-roof buildings lined narrow streets populated with horses and carts. People wore odd garments, like something out of a historical drama. Mostly, it wasn’t what he saw but what he didn’t see. No streetlights. No motorized vehicles. No wide paved roads. No computer network tying homes to an infrastructure grid, not even a primitive infrastructure grid, at best.

Leaning back in his seat, Reven marveled at the wormhole created by the malfunctioning teleport drive. It went not just through space but also through time.

Even more marvelous, the wormhole lingered. Under typical conditions, the wormhole created for teleportation collapsed immediately. This one, as best as he could calculate, was in the process of collapsing, just slowly. He made a bridge to the past. In theory, he could use that same bridge to return to the time and location of the wormhole’s creation. He had, at best, a week to get the shuttle ready for the return trip.

Through time.

He puffed up with pride at the realization. Even if it happened by accident, no Mahdfel had ever done anything remotely similar. Recreating the conditions surrounding the accident might prove impossible, though.

Assuming his theory about the bridge to return home was correct.

Assuming he could repair the shuttle in time before the wormhole collapsed altogether.

He set the chronometer to countdown until the collapse. It wasn’t much time, a few days at best.

He had a backup plan if he failed to reach the wormhole in time. The teleport drive was dead. He had no hope of repairing the delicate equipment and using that to open another wormhole home, which meant if he was going home, he had to do it the slow way.

The stasis chambers in the ship were not rated for use more than a few months but Mahdfel over-engineered everything. The equipment may not have been designed to be used for more than a year, but they could safely run for a century, maybe more if the shuttle remained undisturbed. Assuming he could find a place on Earth that would remain undisturbed.

Reven shivered at sealing himself into a stasis chamber, not knowing if he would ever wake up.

He’d reach the wormhole in time. The alternative was turning himself into an icicle or remaining hidden. He could wait for the inevitable Suhlik invasion, but he liked that idea even less than using the stasis chamber. Mahdfel had long lives, but he doubted even his enhanced genetics would allow him to live long enough to welcome his kind to Earth.

The trouble was he didn’t know exactly when he was. In films, the hero always found a convenient newspaper with the date or someone on the street mentioned the year. No such luck for him. At his best guess, given the environment and what drone footage told him, he was some somewhere in Earth’s nineteenth century.

He was at least a few centuries too early. No wonder the shuttle’s computer couldn’t connect to the satellites. They didn’t exist.

This was pre-Invasion Earth, which meant Earth and its teeming masses had yet to encounter people from other planets. With his dark purple complexion and horns curling back from his brow, he would stand out as an alien.

Or a demon.

Reven frowned, trying to remember his old Earth mythology. He had watched a few films with Michael, but those were for shock and horror, not to develop a deeper understanding of the Terran mind. Then again, those movies featured a lot of gore and displayed female flesh in a titillating manner, so that did tell him a lot about how the Terran mind worked, but that was entertainment and not scholarly research.

Looking different was universally bad. His complexion and horns made a disguise necessary but still impracticable. While his form resembled a Terran male with the same number of limbs and features, his stature and build towered over the average Terran. Even if he could hide his exposed skin and cover up his horns, he would still be noticeable.

He would have to stay hidden. The shuttle’s current location, while remote, remained exposed. The other night, he’d nearly been discovered. A drunk stumbled his way and caught Reven welding. Before the Terran male could react to Reven’s presence, he snuffed out the torch and turned on the cloaking shield.

The male ran away like he’d seen a demon—and he had, in a way—but he could return. The cloaking shield wouldn’t hold up to a thorough search if the male came back in daylight or with friends.

Reven could only offer a weak excuse that the constant wind scrambled his senses. Everything smelled of peat, smoke, and unwashed wool, and he could hear nothing over the wind.

Reven needed to move the shuttle, quickly. He couldn’t fly about the empty moors, searching for cover, not without making a spectacle of himself. He needed to be clever and approach the problem calmly, rather than reacting on instinct.

He sent out a surveillance drone and found a likely candidate: a building without a roof, looking fit to tumble down at any moment. The only downside was two other buildings on the same hill. One did not appear to be occupied, and the other had only one resident. Before he committed to a course of action, he needed to scout the location in person to determine the risk.

He suited up in his armor and hiked. Careful to remain hidden, he skirted the footpaths and hilltops. Normally, his heightened sense of smell and hearing would help him avoid detection, but everything about the landscape confused his senses. The moors had a wild, raw scent, layered with domesticated animals. Above that lingered the stink of a nearby settlement with carbon-burning smoke and poor sanitation. The constant wind shifted the scents, toying with his ability to detect what was where and how far away. The wind also masked approaching footfalls, as had happened the previous night.

The lack of functional tech bothered him more than it should. A warrior should be able to do a simple scouting mission without relying on satellite positions or proximity alerts. His father would scold him for letting technology dull his skills, but Reven believed that technological innovations saved lives.

That was the point of the teleport drive. The Mahdfel have had teleport technology for generations. They built massive gates that create a wormhole to send large ships through. They have stationary teleporters for individual travel. Both had drawbacks.

Any ship that came through a massive gate was an easy target as systems came online. A sitting duck. Too many ships had been lost due to Suhlik ambushes.

Individual teleportation was easier to secure but impractical when moving a fleet.

An individual teleport drive per ship, just large enough for that one ship, could make the Mahdfel fleet much more mobile. That ship could teleport anywhere, no longer materializing at the other end of a stationary wormhole to find themselves ambushed.

The teleport drive worked in all the computer models. The theory was sound. Practical application, however, proved dangerous.

His father would never have climbed into that shuttle and certainly never would have initiated a jump with a damaged drive.

Reven’s father, his Warlord, and the entire clan had forbidden the experiment.

Which is how he ended up on Earth, originally. In the future.

He rubbed the base of his horns, pondering paradoxes.

He loved Earth. He knew he liked Terrans, but everything about the planet enchanted him, from the diverse biomes and climates to the intensity of Terran emotions. They felt everything so deeply. Perhaps their soft skin let their emotions rise so close to the surface.

What he liked most about Earth was the complete lack of formality and unnecessary ceremony. Too much of his life had been guided with rigid rules of behavior for a young Mahdfel warrior. His mother’s planet, Sangrin, the planet of his birth, had its own strict code of conduct.

Terrans, he found, were willing to take risks and do something ridiculous just to see what would happen.

Like strap a teleport drive onto a medical shuttle.

Perhaps it was their short lifespans that pushed them forward, or the knowledge that their fragile bodies would fail that spurred them to live with vigor. He was enamored with Terrans.

Reven decided his mate would be Terran. His son would look Terran, as Mahdfel sons looked like their mothers. He only hoped that he would find his mate soon so his sons could grow up with Michael’s child. Michael had taken a mate a few years ago, and Reven watched his best friend greet his newborn daughter, Mara, with greedy eyes. He wanted that.

He wanted the intensity of emotions, the spontaneity, and mostly he wanted genuine affection with his mate. He couldn’t leave it to a genetic test and terms of the Mahdfel-Earth treaty, hoping that it paired him with the correct female. That worked for some warriors but not all. It failed to work for his parents.

He needed to find his true mate. Soon.

Terran lives were short compared to Mahdfel. Michael had only a hundred years, compared to Reven’s two hundred. Then again, Mahdfel always threw themselves into battle, and the war with the Suhlik would not end in his lifetime. He was not guaranteed those two hundred years. He just knew that he wanted everything and he grew impatient waiting.

Reven found the abandoned building. Unused, it lacked the distinctive aroma of livestock. Cobwebs hung in the corners. No one had used the building in years, and it lay far enough away from the larger house that he did not have to fear discovery by a casual visitor. If he covered the windows with wooden boards or heavy cloth, it would suit his purposes.

In a dusty corner, he found a two-wheeled iron-framed vehicle, with the front wheel considerably larger than the back. Amused at the antique, he climbed onto the faded leather seat and tried to find his balance. The seat sat rather high up. While his legs were long enough to brace himself, he could not imagine how shorter Terrans would manage. The entire contraption was unsafe.

Terrans.

The smaller house sat empty. The ash in the fireplace sat cold, and the faint scents of a male and female spoke to the residents being gone for several days. The lack of perishable foodstuff in the larder—no electricity or a dedicated cooling unit—spoke to a planned absence. He crossed the residents off his mental list of Terrans to worry about.

The larger house sat perched at the top of the hill. The resident was out, so he took the opportunity to gather information. The lock on the door required no skill to open.

The scent of a single female hit him full force the moment the door swung closed behind him. Heather from the moors and the woody scent of shaved pencils, her scent permeated every room of the house. Underneath that, the common odors of everyday life—cooked foods, soaps, ink on paper—nearly masked the older, bitter scents of sickness.

Curious, Reven explored the house. The kitchen was bright and clean, if confusing. A large cast iron box sat in what was shaped like a fireplace. Warm to the touch, it heated the room efficiently. A primitive means of preparing meals? How fascinating.

Further into the house, he found the dining room complete with a table long enough to sit eight grown Mahdfel, so easily a dozen or more Terrans. An adjacent room seemed to hold no purpose other collecting vast amounts of chairs and settees. The furniture seemed heavy and very old-fashioned to his eyes. Varnished in deep tones and covered in thick, luxe fabrics, the furniture crowded the room. His memory dredged up the word parlor from somewhere. The parlor had an abandoned, unused air to it.

Upstairs he found a large room lined with windows. Canvas squares leaned against the walls. In the center of the room stood a wooden table, covered in multicolored splashes of paint, the pattern too chaotic to be deliberate. A chemical odor lingered heavily in the air, despite the dust on the floor indicating that the room sat unused.

Soft, color-filled landscapes covered the canvases. Occasionally, the figure of a dark-haired female appeared in the paintings. The details of her features were always hazy, but the light seemed to caress her fondly. The images reminded him of the creation stories of his mother’s world, Sangrin. The Eternal Mother traversed the darkness, drawn to the spark of life that glowed within the Eternal Father. He recognized the Eternal Mother as his mate and he glowed for her. When they joined, they created all life in the universe.

The story was sweet, but Reven always thought it was backward. Surely the spark of life resides within the female. He would journey across the unknown darkness for his mate, if he could sense her across the distance.

The female in the painting glowed like a beacon. The light kissed her form, embraced and celebrated her. Each brush stroke was made with absolute devotion. He envied such passion.

Reven found more drawings in a vastly different style on the table. Detailed and precise, the drawings focused on a single subject and replicated it with accuracy. Pages and pages were filled with native plants, flowers, domestic livestock, and occasionally a person in profile. The other paintings had been wild in their emotion, but this artist was curious. They studied anything with an interesting shape, or face when it came to a person. The inquisitiveness of the artist intrigued him. He idly wondered what the artist would say if they ever saw him.

Finally, he traced the delicious aroma of heather and wood fruit to its source: a bedroom.

Reven stood in the doorway. The fruit and tart scent was strongest here, as was the bitterness of prolonged sickness. Under that, faint and fading, was the scent of a male.

The female who lived alone once had a mate.

Entering seemed disrespectful. He did not need to prowl through the house, but he found himself curious about the female who lived in such a large, empty home. The room was a private space, and he should respect that boundary.

He closed the door to the bedroom, knowing that one female would be easy to track. He did not need to know more and prepared to leave the house as silently as he entered.

Reven’s hand hovered over the knob on the side door.

Voices.

He pulled back into the shadows. A Terran male and female walked past, heading to the front entrance. Snatches of their conversation indicated that they wanted to pay the lady of the house a visit.

They rapped on the door.

Surely, they would realize that no one was home and leave. He waited.

“I don’t understand. Mrs. Halpine is always home,” the male said.

Reven took the words to heart. If the lady of the house received frequent visitors, then he needed to find a new location.

The pair gave up and turned back, finally understanding that the house stood empty. Apparently, they did not find the person they sought. Reven followed, to gather what information he could from their conversation. It was risky, but risk was exactly what brought him to Earth.