Chapter Nine

Reven:

Reven removed the last available floor panel, leaving enough of the floor to support the two stasis chambers and a path. Yes, two. If he missed the wormhole, he would utilize them. He rationalized that if one malfunctioned, he needed the other available. Without the flooring underneath, the chamber would rest in a nest of wires and circuits and would overload the moment it activated.

The spare was definitely not for Elizabeth. Taking her with him was too great a risk, despite his affection for the female. The stasis chamber was not rated for continuous use for such a lengthy period of time. The slow journey home was hundreds of years, after all, not the hours or days for which the stasis chamber was designed.

He counted the salvaged panels and counted the holes in his ship. Then recounted.

He needed more.

The flooring under the stasis chamber would only grant him an additional three panels, and he needed at least six, possibly ten. Briefly, he considered manufacturing his own panel from raw materials but deemed it impractical. The abandoned barn offered some cover and space to work without worrying about a local wandering in and discovering him, but it did not have the necessary equipment.

He required tools and the ability to smelt—assuming he could even find raw material comparable to the alloy used in the shuttle. He might be better off patching with bolted-on steel panels. Soldering would crudely seal the joints, but it might not hold as the shuttle traversed the wormhole. If his calculations were correct, he’d arrive when and where he left, but in practice, it could spit him out anywhere.

The patches might be good enough for a short trip to the moon but they could give way during a longer voyage, which would force him into the stasis chambers.

That brought a new concern to the front of his mind, wondering if the stasis chambers could function if they were exposed to the vacuum of space. If the cold didn’t break the chambers, then grit and dust from the moon’s surface might. He could reach the moon if the patches failed, but most likely he wouldn’t survive to be woken in the correct year.

Problem after problem piled on his head.

“You have that look,” Elizabeth said from her seat at the console. With her sketchbook in her lap, she had been silently drawing all afternoon. Drawing him, he supposed.

“Show me what you’re working on,” Reven said, wanting a distraction. He reached for the sketchbook, but she pulled it close to her chest.

“It is still very rough,” she said.

“I want to see.”

“It’s rude to insist on viewing a work before it is finished.”

“So, it is a portrait? Of me?” Reven couldn’t fight the urge to toss his horns back and preen.

“No, you vain creature,” she said firmly, clutching the sketchbook tighter.

“Show me,” he insisted. “You have been drawing me for days. I must see.”

“I’ve been drawing the machines.” She stood to exit the shuttle, the fabric of her skirts rustling.

“You deserve a spanking for telling such an outrageous lie,” he said. She had blatantly stared at his form as he worked on repairs, then scratched her pencils in her book. What else could she have been sketching?

Her mouth fell open, and her eyes sparkled. “I never… You wouldn’t dare…”

In one swift move, he snatched the book and swept Elizabeth off her feet. He fell back into the chair she recently vacated and put her belly-down across his lap. One large hand in her back held her in place while he flipped through the sketchbook. Her legs kicked, offering a tantalizing glimpse of her pale legs.

“I would not disrespect your person, but do not squirm about. It tempts me,” he said. With one hand, he flipped through the book. Detailed renditions of plants filled the front pages.

She immediately stilled. “You’re not really going to spank me, are you?”

Reven snapped the book shut and Elizabeth tensed across his lap as if anticipating a blow. He rubbed her lower back, enjoying the feel of the soft wool under his palm. “I would never injure you,” he said.

Part of him wanted to ask her if that activity appealed to her, if her body tensed from anticipated pleasure or from fear. The many layers of her garments hid away any clue of her desire. He fought the urge to lift her skirt over her ass and find out. With her round cheeks exposed, he’d run his rough hands over her soft skin. Would she moan and shiver in delight? He suspected yes.

There was no point in finding out. Even if she desired his touch, he could do nothing. He would only have her as his mate. As much as Elizabeth appeared to be his mate, he could not claim her because he could not guarantee he could bring her safely back to his time. Remaining in her time was impossible. He would always be in hiding, and that was no life at all. Claiming Elizabeth only ended in heartbreak. For both their sakes, he resisted.

With a sigh, he arranged her to sit modestly in his lap, her back pressed to his chest. “May I?” he asked, waiting for her nod before opening the sketchbook again. He thumbed through the plant diagrams. “The detail is extraordinary,” he said.

A pleasing pink color rose on her face. “Thank you. Most people feel the need to express surprise at my talent.”

“Your talent is without question,” he said. The loose pages that fell from her satchel all those days ago told him of her artistic ability. She was a master with pencil, ink, and any other medium she used.

He flipped through the pages, finding detailed drawings of the shuttle’s interior. Her pencil captured the same fine detail as the sketches of the plants. Somehow, she had captured an accurate representation of the ship but made the sterile craft appear inviting. Nothing about the old shuttle was inviting yet there it was on the page.

Reven’s image filled the next several pages, everything from his profile to a full body sketch. At first, the renditions were loose, just the shape of him. His wasn’t quite built like a Terran male, so the artist needed time to figure his body out. In a sketch of him without a shirt, he recognized the evening when she invited him into her house for a bath. She captured the scarring on his back, the whorls of his tattoos, and even the hula girl in a grass skirt on his upper arm.

“This one was not done from a model, I think,” he said, finger tapping the page.

“From memory,” she replied.

“Good. I would hate to think that you are a sneaky voyeur as well as a liar.” His tone teased. She gave a weak grin and elbowed him.

He enjoyed the comfortable feel of her on his lap. Her back fit against him perfectly. He could easily imagine her curled up as they watched a film. Well, he would have to explain the evolution of photography into motion pictures, then onto holographic tech. Perhaps not a film, then, but they could curl up reading a book. His imagination ran wild, picturing Elizabeth on his lap as she swelled with their son.

He wanted that, the future it promised, more than he wanted anything, more than breath in his lungs, and it was the one thing he could never have.

The studies of him grew more detailed, often focusing on one aspect or feature. Elizabeth had rendered his horns several times, from various angles. A page held only his eyes: crinkled in laughter, open, closed, and squinted in frustration. He marveled that she could convey so many emotions with just a few lines.

He recognized himself in armor, worn for protection as he welded. The armor and tools he used seemed to hold as much interest to her as his horns, which was a shame because his horns were magnificent. Reven grinned at his own ego and the tug of competition he felt at sharing Elizabeth’s attention with his own tools.

Her most recent work, images of his hands, occupied the last pages. She portrayed his hand from every angle, clenched, opened, holding a tool, scratching the base of his horn, and even resting casually across the back of the chair.

He turned the page, only to find more renditions of his hands.

She shifted, as if nervous. “It’s not what you think.”

He looked away from her remarkable work and focused on her face. “I think you like my hands.”

That pretty pink color returned to her face.

“You have interesting hands. Everything about you is visually interesting.” The pink color deepened.

Fascinating.

“Everything?” His arm around her waist tightened, pulling her closer to him. The clean, fresh lavender scent of her soap tickled his nose.

“They’re strong and remind me of David.” She twisted to face him and spoke before he had a chance to reflect on his feelings about her comparing him to her deceased mate. “He had strong hands, too. His physique was not robust, but his hands held surprising strength and dexterity. He could hold a brush for hours without cramps or pain. He would grind pigment down to a fine powder in the pestle and never tire, yet he never lost his ability for fine detail.” She licked her lower lip, a move Reven recognized as something she did when thinking. “His touch was always gentle and firm when needed. Even if he did not have the strength for relations, he put his hands to good use. I don’t know why I told you that.” She shifted off his lap, taking the sketchbook with her.

Her words struck him as exceptionally intimate. It spoke to the comfort and security she felt in his presence. His pride rejoiced. It also spoke to a connection deeper than companionship, one laced with growing attraction. Such a confession was what one shared with a lover, not a friend. She desired him.

The tattoos etched into his skin burned with a matching desire.

“You’re glowing!” Elizabeth snatched his hand and pushed up his sleeve, revealing the glowing tattoos that climbed up his arms like a vine. Her fingers traced the pattern. The glow of his tattoos intensified every place she made contact with his skin. Instinct urged him to tear off his garment and reveal the extent of his desire and show her how she affected his body. He burned with desire for her.

“It is nothing alarming. I am feeling emotional,” he said. Reluctantly, he pulled his arm away.

“I’ve never seen that before.”

“They’ve been covered until now.” His armor covered everything but his hand, neck, and face. Significantly short in the arms, the loose cotton shirt she provided him with did not quite cover everything.

“Does it pain you?”

He blinked, stunned at the concern in her question. “No, of course not. It is part of my biology. Do your freckles pain you?”

Her eyes narrowed. “Are you teasing me? My freckles may not cause physical pain, but they are aesthetically unattractive, which might as well be pain.”

Reven found that hard to believe. “Your freckles are beautiful because they are yours and they make your face interesting.”

“Interesting faces do not launch a thousand ships,” she said.

That made no sense, but he could see how upset his comment made her, which was not his intention.

“Let me show you,” he said, unbuttoning the shirt.

“You don’t have to—”

Her words stopped as his shirt hit the floor. Reven couldn’t help himself and flexed his arms, enjoying the look of pure admiration on her face.

His tattoos continued up his arms, across his shoulders and down his back. He turned in place to let her see the design. Normally black against his skin, they glowed with a silver sheen. “For my people, the tattoos tell our story, who we are and our accomplishments. This was my first,” he said, pointing to a small mandala above his heart. “It is the mark of my father’s clan.”

“How old were you?” Her fingers brushed the small symbol, and it glowed brighter in response.

“A month? Two? An infant.”

Her eyes were wide at his words.

“That is typical for my people. To give a son the mark of his father’s clan is a celebration.” Another birth. Another warrior.

She circled around him, examining his marks. Her fingers skated across his skin, and he glowed brighter in response.

“That is decidedly not alien unless there’s something you won’t tell me,” she said.

He bent his arm to get a better look. Ah, the hula girl. “That is a traditional tattoo for Terrans,” he said.

“Maybe where you hail from. When you hail from.” She gave her head a small shake. “Is it Polynesian?”

“My closest friend is Terran,” he said. “Michael. We have known each other since our youth. We chose this dancing female as a sign of solidarity.”

“How charming. Does Michael live on the moon, too?”

“He is stationed there, with his mate and daughter.” His voice must have betrayed longing or some unspoken desire because Elizabeth drew back and frowned.

“Do you have a mate of your own waiting for you back home?”

“No,” he said. He brushed back a stray lock of hair from her forehead and smiled at the smudge of charcoal on her brow. His mate was here, standing in front of her. The light in her soul called to him across the darkness, bringing him to this moment.

She licked her bottom lip and tilted her face up, waiting for a kiss.

He could not resist. He leaned in slowly, giving her plenty of time to turn away or ask him to stop.

She reached up, fingers tangling in his hair and she tugged him down. Her lips crashed into his with enthusiasm. He ran his tongue along the seam of her mouth and her lips parted, warm and inviting. She tasted of the herbal teas she favored and smelled of pencil shavings and heather.

He took her mouth, claiming it as his, and explored the depths until she warmed under his attention and opened for him. She was so soft, melting against him, yielding and pliable.

Her hand curled around the base of his horn and stroked. Lights burst behind his eyes at the unadulterated pleasure of her touch, and he moaned into her mouth.

This female.

He couldn’t claim her, but he couldn’t leave her behind. He knew this. He told himself the difficult truth several times, but his heart refused to believe it.

He pulled himself back, panting and hard. His erection throbbed with need behind his armor. He’d stroke himself that night thinking of her and the fearless way she stroked his horn.

This had to stop now while he still could stop himself.

“Reven,” she began, lips plump and eyes hooded.

“I require a supply of iron or steel,” he said, bringing the focus back to his mission.

Her shoulders slumped. The moment had passed. “The blacksmith would have the materials, but I can’t simply ask for a cartload of steel,” she said.

“Is the blacksmith located in a densely populated area?”

“No, he’s at the edge of the village.”

“Then we will take the shuttle and requisition what we need.”

“Reven, I want you to have this, as a souvenir.” She opened the sketchbook and carefully tore out the page of hands.

He accepted, vowing to keep it next to his heart.

Elizabeth:

She was flying. Actually flying.

Elizabeth braced herself at the shuttle’s open door. Reven wrapped one sturdy arm around her waist to anchor her in place, not that she feared she would fall. The shuttle hovered over the moors, steady without so much as a sway.

The cold wind whipped about, knocking her hair loose and disturbing her skirts. The night air braced against her face. The darkness spread out below her with the night sky above. Moonlight softly illuminated the landscape and houses glowed as little points of light against the rolling dark of the moors. Her eyes were fixed on the stars. They shone brighter than ever, closer than ever. She felt certain she could pluck them from the sky.

She had never felt more exhilarated. It was too much. Everything Reven said proved true. She believed him before, but she took it on faith. The only proof she had was his exceptional appearance and strange artifacts. Now she knew the artifacts were functional technology, not a carefully crafted hoax. It was real. He was real.

She shivered.

“You are cold,” Reven said. As he pulled her back, the door slid shut.

“Excitement got the best of me,” she confessed. She rubbed her hands together for warmth.

“Let me.” He took her hands and gently rubbed, his thumbs digging into the meat of her palms. His touch radiated warmth. She wanted to feel his warmth on the back of her neck or sliding up her thighs. Everywhere, if she were honest with herself.

“Thank you. I’m much recovered,” she said, pulling her hands away. She glanced towards the empty pilot’s seat.

“The computer’s navigation system is capable of maintaining this altitude,” he said, answering her unspoken question with confidence.

“I’m sure those technical words mean something very impressive, but perhaps if you just sat at the helm?”

“Worried?”

“A bit nervous. Won’t someone see us?”

Reven sat at the control and motioned for her to sit in the empty co-pilot seat. “The engine is quiet, and I’ve disengaged the external lighting.” His fingers flew over the control panel and the interior lights dimmed. “A small amount of light may leak from the cabin, but we should remain undetected.” He pressed another button, and the shuttle lurched.

Elizabeth grabbed the back of the seat to steady herself.

“Apologies. I am an engineer, not a pilot. I disengaged the hover,” he said.

“Perhaps a warning next time.” She calmly adjusted her skirts as she sat.

The black screen at the front of the shuttle dissolved. No, that was inaccurate. The black material transformed into transparent glass, allowing her to view the outside as clearly as when the shuttle door had been opened. Clearer, actually. The image was illuminated as bright as day. An overlay of amber figures and symbols covered the screen.

“What is that?” she asked. The figures were regular and elegant. They conveyed meaning and were for more than ornament. That had to be Reven’s written language.

“Various tools for navigation,” he said absently. “The blacksmith is on the edge of the village. We will approach as closely as possible.”

A dozen questions tumbled in her mind about his language. She never asked him how he learned to speak English, for one. She settled for something more immediate. “Why is it bright?”

“I can’t fly in the dark,” he said. She sighed at his unhelpful response. “Because the external cameras are amplifying the available light, allowing me to not fly into the trees.”

They traveled over treetops and rooftops. The familiar landscape seemed so odd from her vantage. She was nearly lost until she spotted the familiar bell tower in the village, and gave directions from that point.

The shuttle sat down quietly behind the blacksmith’s workshop. Reven pressed his palm to a box, and the top unfolded, revealing a line of advanced weaponry.

“Are those rifles?” she asked. The form was similar, barrel and stock, but the similarity ended there.

“After a fashion.” Reven lifted a device no larger than a pack of cards with a circle in the center. His fingers slipped through the circle and the device hummed to life.

“Is a pistol necessary?”

“More necessary than the one you pulled on me?”

Elizabeth lifted her chin. “You were a stranger, lurking in my barn. Trespassing is a crime, you know.”

“I didn’t plan to be strictly law-abiding tonight.” He pressed the device to his hip, and it attached itself. “Relax. This is a stunner. It lacks the power to seriously injure a Terran.”

“That is acceptable,” she admitted. The blacksmith was a known drunk and could sleep through the apocalypse, but given her luck, tonight would be the night he turned over a new leaf and was stone cold sober. “How is that staying in place, anyway? I do not see a fastener.”

“Magnetism,” he said, wiggling his eyebrow.

“Honestly,” she said in a sour tone, fighting the urge to grin.

They exited the shuttle. Immediately she became aware of the sounds of singing in the distance.

“What is that noise?” Reven asked, hand on the stunner.

“Christmas carols. It must be Christmas Eve.” The days had gotten away from her. She thought she had one more day before dinner with the Stearnes.

“This is a problem,” he said.

“It shouldn’t be. The carolers will be nipping at the brandy to stay warm. As long as we stay hidden and don’t draw attention to ourselves, we should be fine.” She hoped.

Reven opened the door to the blacksmith’s workshop with ease. He found iron ingots but shook his head.

“Hurry up,” she whispered.

“This is unrefined. I lack the ability to shape this. I require large, flat pieces, no more than a few millimeters thick, that I can cut and rivet,” he said.

“How big is a millimeter? It sounds French.”

He held up a hand and brought his thumb to his index finger until they nearly touched. “This thin.”

She scanned the workshop. Moonlight trickled in through the windows, but she saw nothing matching his description. The carolers drew closer. A cart rattled by.

Elizabeth perked. “Does it have to be unused? Perhaps we can repurpose an already existing component.”

“As long as it the chemical composition is correct, yes.”

“We need to visit the rag and bone man,” she said, reaching for his hand. She drew him out and quickly explained that the junkman lived nearby. If they avoided the roving carolers, they should be in and out without a problem. “If anyone spots me, I’ll say I wanted to join the carolers.”

“And me? How will you explain my presence?”

“Vanish to the shadows, or whatever it is you do,” she said with a dismissive wave.

“I do not like this. We conducted no reconnaissance on the man of rags and bones. He sounds bloodthirsty.”

“It’s called thinking on our feet. We’re here, and that was the trickiest part, so let’s not dilly-dally.”

Elizabeth had never been to the rag and bone man’s place of business, but she knew its general location. He had been to the lodge a few times, carting away unwanted construction materials during the renovations, and whatever scraps she no longer had a use for.

They crept down an alley and darted between buildings until finally, they stood outside the rag and bone man’s shed. A great iron lock hung on the door. Reven did something, she could see, as he blocked what he did with his body, and the door swung open. A cart, piled high with the unwanted but still useable junk of the village, sat in the dim light.

A snarl came from the shadows. A dog inched forward, ready to leap. By the time a startled cry rose in her throat, Reven shot the animal with the stun pistol.

“Is it dead?” she asked, hand pressed to her chest.

“Unconscious. Do not worry. He is well.”

Reven picked through the cart, setting aside pieces he found suitable.

“This is stealing,” she said, following him in.

“It is necessary. My currency is not valid,” he said.

“I came prepared for this situation.” She dug out the pound notes from her coat pocket and stuck them awkwardly into the cart. “I hope that will do. Now, do you have what you need?”

“Yes. I can use this.”

The door creaked open.

Elizabeth stilled, knowing they were no longer alone.

“What on the Good Lord’s green Earth is going on?” The rag and bone man stood in the doorway, leveling an old regiment rifle at them. He took in the scene, Elizabeth and the horned alien who carried a bundle of sheet metal in his arms. “Widow Halpine. What witchcraft is this?” Then, “What did you do to my dog?”

“We’re spirits,” she said, wincing at her words. “Come to guide you on a vision of the past and,” she desperately looked towards Reven for help out of the hole she dug, “and the future. Do not be alarmed, simple mortal. We mean you no harm.”

Yes. Perfect. That was helpful, she chided herself.

“Felicity Stearne was right about you. You are a witch, consorting with the devil himself.” The rifle waved dangerously from Reven to her and back again.

“A witch? In this day and age,” she said, incredulous. Honestly.

“We do not have time for this,” Reven said. He dropped the bundle in a deafening cacophony and shot the man with the stunner. The man crumpled to the ground.

“You shot him!”

“He is an unnecessary complication. This way is better,” he said with a small nod.

“But he saw you, and you shot him,” she said. Reven had been discovered. They had to flee. Immediately. From her house and from England, or else he would be captured, taken as a curiosity and experimented upon. He’d be a captive, and she couldn’t allow that to happen to him. She wasn’t ready to lose him.

“He smells of alcohol,” Reven said, calm as ever. “No one will believe one crazed drunk man when he rants about the demon in his shed.” He picked up his scrap metal. “Hurry, before we are discovered again.”

The villagers might not believe the man saw a demon, but Elizabeth feared they would believe she was truly a witch.