Crucible Zero (2 page)

He stopped in front of me. “You're shaking,” he said, not unkindly for a man who had been sent to bring me in as a fugitive accused of murder. “Matilda, tell me what happened here.”

And then the world twisted again, filling with that dizzy rose scent. John Black reached out for me. I reached back. I felt the warm pressure of his fingers on my wrist, and then he was gone—whisked away as if he were a curtain that had been pushed aside to show the open window behind it.

*   *   *

I was holding my breath, my hand cupped over my mouth.

The house was standing in front of me, whole. The day was quiet and still. In the distance, I heard a bird warble, and a sleepy lizard answer with a rumble.

“Ev— Matilda?” Quinten said from behind me.

Relief washed over me, and I finally exhaled. He was alive. Quinten was alive, and I was back in the time where I belonged.

I turned and dropped my hand from my mouth. The faint ringing in my ears was gone, the flower scent faded.

A very alive Quinten strode my way, wearing flannel, jeans, and boots, an irritated scowl on his face. “Where do you think you're going?”

“Did you feel that?” I asked. “Just now, did you get dizzy or smell roses or see . . . anything?”

He paused and gave me a look. “No. Why, did you?”

I took in the scenery behind him. This was still the property I'd always known, but the familiar pear orchard wasn't in sight, and a flock of six pocket-sized sheep of various pastel shades shambled along a fence line, stopping to nibble on weeds there.

We had only three pocket-sized sheep in the time I was from.

I must have been back to the time where Evelyn had grown up.

“I felt something. I . . . saw someone,” I said. “Do you know John Black?”

He shook his head. “Matilda . . .”

“He must have been an echo,” I said. “No, it was more than that. I saw what this place used to be. What I knew it as. He was real. He felt real.”

“You're telling me you saw something from your own time?”

“Or I somehow stepped into my time. Is that possible? Did I just disappear and reappear?”

He camped back on one foot and stuck his hands in his pockets. “No. You were walking toward the house, and I was walking after you.”

“Maybe it was just a second for you, but longer for me. Why would that happen? What would make that happen?”

“Don't look at me,” he said. “Until today, I would have told you time travel—of any kind—was impossible, and now you're telling me you've experienced it twice. Maybe you're just tired, and your brain can't sort through what's happened. Maybe it's old memories surfacing. Some glitch in the switch between what Evelyn knew and remembered and what you know and remember.”

It wasn't a hallucination. That had been John Black. That had been his touch. And that had been our demolished house. I was sure of it. But I had no way to prove it to Quinten.

“Okay.” I swallowed and nodded. “Okay. Maybe it's just a onetime thing. I can deal with that.” I set my shoulders and turned back toward the house. Sometimes experiments had unintended consequences. Maybe seeing into my old time stream was that consequence.

Or maybe it was a fluke of the Wings of Mercury mending time. A wrinkle that hadn't been ironed out yet.

Whatever it was, I would handle it if it came up again. Right now, here in this time—the real time—I needed to save our lives.

“Where are you going?” he asked.

“To get the information I need to save both our heads.”

I heard the sound of his boots as he did a short jog to catch up with me. “Does
no
mean something else in your time?” he asked.

“No.”

That, finally, got a chuckle out of him. “Just— Please. Listen to me on this. Trust me on this. I know the way the world works, with or without time travel.”

“I am listening. I am also going to get us some information.”

“We do not do business with mercenaries.”

“Is that the family motto?”

“It is now.”

“Well, I'm still following the other family motto: do whatever necessary to keep the people you love alive.”

Quinten swore softly.

We'd rounded the house. The big barn was behind us now, a worn wooden structure two stories high with odd creatures slipping or winging in and out of the windows, doors, and other cracks of it. I hadn't had time to get acquainted with the stitched beasties my brother was keeping, but from the glimpses I'd caught, Quinten had a full-blown menagerie here.

However, I had not missed the half-dozen winged lizards of various impressive sizes that skulked a little farther out by the trees and filled up the dirt road, belly-flat soaking up the sun.

“Sure are a lot of dragons around the place,” I noted.

“Lizards,” he automatically corrected me, just like I corrected everyone else who had met our single stitched, winged monstrosity back in my time.

“Do you use them for scale jelly?”

“Of course. Other than stitching, it's the jelly that keeps this place running,” he said. “But mostly the lizards patrol the property and make sure the things and people we don't want here never make it to the house.”

“How many do you have?”

“Thirty-six.”

I shot him a grin. “We had only one. Big as a barn.”

“Still do,” he said. “And, well, a lot of others, the size of other buildings.”

“As soon as I get the three killers in our kitchen sorted away, I want to see all the critters. We had a unicorn. Well, sort of a unicorn.”

Quinten picked up the pace enough that he reached the door at the same time I did. He straight-armed it, his palm smacking flat in the middle of the wood. “Listen to me, Matilda.”

I stopped, folded my arms over my chest. Waited.

His face was a little sweaty from the jog, but also pale. “We are not on their side. They are not on ours. They want us dead, and they plan to make a profit on our deaths. Anything they say, any information they give us, is suspect.”

“I don't see that we have a choice,” I said. “Good idea, bad idea—doesn't matter. We need to know who wants us dead and why. They can tell us.”

The door opened, swinging inward.

Quinten moved back and took hold of one of the guns under his overshirt so quick, you'd think he was on fire.

I stood my ground but didn't draw the gun strapped to my thigh.

In that doorway, filling most of it with all six foot six of his height and muscle, was the galvanized Abraham Seventh. The man I'd loved.

In a different world.

In a time that I didn't think existed.

The man who was now a stranger to me.

The only problem with dying is it takes so damn long. Of course, the same could be said of living.

—W.Y.

A
braham was powerfully built in my time. But here everything about him was harder, carved, chiseled, as if there had never been a day of easy living to soften him. His hair was long, pulled back off his tanned face with a band, revealing grim scars on his face and thick black threads tacking a line down one cheek to the edge of his mouth. Another row of stitches slashed up away from the opposite eyebrow to his hairline.

His eyes were still his: hazel flecked with red. The red was a result of him either being angry or in pain, though all galvanized were numb to physical sensation, including pain.

And he was handsome—gods, he was good-looking.

His wide forehead, lined with too much worry, held eyebrows that were darker than his brown hair. His nose was arrow straight, giving his angled cheeks a hard edge, even though scruff covered cheeks and jaw.

I knew that face was capable of great joy and laughter. I'd seen him laugh so hard, his entire body radiated joy. I knew his eyes softened with kindness, compassion, and human goodness.

Or, at least, those were the things he had been. Now he was all edges and intensity.

A hammer looking for an anvil to strike.

I couldn't see the muscles under his layers of clothing, but his movements had a tension and fluidity that made it clear he had often, and would at any moment, fight.

My stomach tightened with electric tingles that made it hard to keep a needful gasp from escaping my mouth. I wanted him to be mine again.

I had loved him. I still loved him.

I searched for some recognition of that connection in his stern expression.

Nothing.

“Decided to kill us yet?” he asked, his voice low.

“We're keeping our options open,” I said.

He didn't smile. I guess he hadn't been joking.

Abraham wore sturdy, loose leather pants, a layering of cotton and wool shirts under his jacket, and an arsenal of weapons. Over his shoulder jutted the butt of a long gun and an ax. A bandolier of bullets crossed his chest, giving me just a hint on the hard muscles beneath his shirts and making me wish I could see more. Handguns were holstered at both hips.

That was a lot of weapons for a galvanized to carry, considering he didn't need weapons to kill a man dead. A galvanized is so strong, all we need is our bare hands to end a life, bloody and quick.

And while Quinten and Abraham hadn't drawn weapons on each other, they were doing that man thing: squared off and glaring, just waiting for an excuse to start a fight.

So I stepped up between them to make it clear that neither of them had time for this.

“Back it up, stud,” I said, pointing toward the kitchen behind Abraham.

Quinten choked on the inhale of whatever he'd been about to say.

Abraham's mouth twitched upward on the unstitched side for a second, and that familiar flash of wicked humor flickered in his eyes, then was gone.

“Stud?” he repeated, tipping his head down and narrowing his gaze.

I stepped toward him, as if I were going to walk right through him. “You heard me. Move it back, good-looking.”

Abraham paced backward, still squared off to me as I strolled into my kitchen, the look on his face a mix of curiosity and caution.

It was like a dance, his movements and mine, and we were in perfect sync. Memories, hot and suddenly intense, flashed through me. My body tingled with the sensation of his wide hands against my skin, his mouth pressed to mine, his tongue exploring me.

We had been good together.

Really good.

Back in my time, I'd regretted waiting to sleep with him. I'd promised if I had a chance to do it all over again, I'd put sex with Abraham as number one on my to-do list.

But now? I didn't think he wanted anything to do with me. I found myself wanting to move forward with some caution. Just because he had been a man I loved before didn't mean I would love him now.

“Problem?” Abraham asked.

I realized I'd lost a few seconds to my thoughts. My hand was raised toward him midreach, the other pressed against my stomach. He hadn't moved, but Quinten had stepped into the room and closed the door.

Everyone in the kitchen was looking at me.

This was not the time to appear crazier than they already thought I was.

“Matilda?” Quinten said.

“I'm fine,” I said.

“Move away from her, stitch,” Left Ned said, breaking the mood and scrambling up a new one.

I glanced over to where he was standing near the icebox, a sawed-off shotgun tucked against his shoulder.

Neds Harris was our farmhand. He was all one body, with extra width to his shoulders so his two blond-and-blue-eyed heads could rest side by side in a pleasing, if unusual, arrangement of parts. In my time, Right Ned was always the kinder, more thoughtful of the two, while his brother, Left Ned, had a more suspicious, blunt nature.

Looked like they weren't any different in this time. They'd told me once that Right Ned controlled the left side of their body, and Left Ned controlled the other. So that meant Left Ned was the one ready to do the shooting.

Typical.

“Neds Harris,” I said. “I said I was fine, and these are our guests.”

“So?” Left Ned said.

“So we do not bring guns to the kitchen table. Set it aside. We all know we can kill each other if we're of the mind to. Waving it around isn't making a point. It's just being rude.”

Sallyo, a woman whom I'd only met once, chuckled. She sat at the table, a cup of tea in one hand, and looked as relaxed as could be. Sallyo was pale and pretty, her eyes snake-pupiled, which indicated she was born a bit like Neds: mutated. Her dark hair was shaved off above her ears, leaving the rest pulled into a heavy braid down her back. Hard and lean, the sleek and deadly woman had run the biggest, most feared smuggling ring in the world.

I knew zilch about her in this time, though. Well, I knew she had just showed up on my doorstep with Abraham and Foster First, the latter of whom was also galvanized, and albino pale, white-haired, huge, and silent.

Sallyo lifted her fingers. “I wouldn't say no to food, if you have any.”

“Tea's customary,” Left Ned said. “But you'll pay for food.”

“You know I'm good for it, Harris,” she said.

“I know you're good for nothing, Sallyo.” That was the coldest, hardest thing I'd ever heard out of Right Ned's mouth.

“I'm sure we have plenty to share,” I said into the weighted silence. “Foster?” I asked the seven-foot-tall gravedigger, who stood next to Abraham, silently scanning the people in the room. “Would you like some tea? Or cocoa?”

His red eyes lit up. “Cocoa?” His voice was low and gravelly, as if left unused for so long, it had gone to dust.

“Let me see what we have.” I pointed at the table. “Go ahead and sit down. Make yourself comfortable.” I gave Abraham a look. “You too.”

Abraham waited to see what Quinten was going to do.

Quinten stared at me a moment longer, then holstered the gun he'd drawn.

Abraham strolled over to the table and sat down, his long legs taking up a lot of space.

“You too, Quinten,” I said as I turned to the cupboards. “We'll all feel better after a bit to eat. So,” I said, “there's a price for killing my brother and me?” I opened the cupboard where we usually kept baking goods and was tearfully relieved to find the cocoa there.

I'm not going to lie. Coming back to a world that was not quite the same world I'd lived in all my life was spooky on so many levels, it was overwhelming. If I thought about it for too long, if I lingered on the consequences of having both gained and lost everything I loved, I was going to be asking for a panic attack.

And that little time twitch outside I'd just experienced wasn't helping my nerves any.

Better to stay busy, keep everyone talking, and find out how to remove myself and my brother from the wanted list.

“There is a reward for finding you,” Abraham said. “But that is not why we came here.”

“Now, now,” Quinten said. “No need to lie. We know what you do. We know what you are.”

“Tell me, Mr. Case,” Abraham said. “What are we?”

“Mercenaries. Bounty hunters. Galvanized,” Quinten said.

“Not to mention murderous, thieving bastards,” Left Ned muttered.

Foster growled softly.

“The only reason you are here is to collect on that price,” Quinten said.

“Well, that's good news!” I said.

“The price on our heads?” Quinten asked.

I turned with a jar in my hand. “No. We have cocoa.”

Left Ned sucked a little air between his teeth with a
snick
sound. Right Ned shook his head as if he still hadn't gotten used to words coming out of my mouth.

“Anyone else want some?” I shook the jar. “We have plenty.”

“We came,” Abraham said, completely ignoring me and instead leaning forward toward Quinten, his legs pulled back so he was in a better position to spring into a fight, if need be, “to warn you. To warn her.” He nodded toward me. “Nothing more.”

Sallyo shifted a bit too, and I noticed one of her hands had disappeared under the table. Probably to draw her gun.

Damn it. We did not need a shoot-out.

“Good,” I said. “Great. Then my brother, Neds, and I will take you at your word, Abraham.”

“You don't speak for me,” Left Ned said.

“Matilda,” Quinten admonished, as if I were a child who had interrupted while the adults were handling business.

“We welcomed them into our home,” I said. “No one gets shot. Understand?”

The tension in Abraham, the coil of anger, shifted to a hard sort of caution. It was like watching someone close all the shutters on a glass house. Everything about him went dark, flat, but there was still a lot of emotion leaking through his walls.

“Also?” I pointed at the gun Left Ned still had in his hand. “I asked you once to please put that down. This is the last time I'm going to ask you. Next up, I'll make you put it down.”

He looked over at Quinten, and to my surprise, my brother nodded.

“Might as well,” he said to Neds. “She has questions she isn't going to let go unanswered. And, frankly, so do I.” Quinten took the time to make eye contact with each of the strangers in the room. “You are welcome to a meal. But I would advise you not to pick a fight. This is our land, and that makes us the law here. We don't have to stand up in any court and tell them where we buried the bodies. Do we have an understanding?”

“We have an understanding,” Sallyo said, placing both hands on the table. “And you have my curiosity. Ask your questions.”

Abraham still hadn't moved. His eyes flicked and dismissed Neds, then settled on me, tracking my every movement as if I were the dangerous one here.

That was interesting.

“Hold on. Let me get cocoa for Foster, because I promised.” I put some milk on the stove to warm, then opened a few cupboards and checked the bread box and icebox for food. “It looks like we'll be having a cold lunch.” I pulled out cheese, pickled eggs, meat, and rolls.

Quinten paced over to the table, and Abraham's attention switched to him.

“There are some sauces on the lower shelf,” Quinten said as he pulled out a chair and sat, purposely putting his back to Foster. It was a very clear sign that he was in the mood to be trusting.

Thank you, brother.

Foster First locked gazes with Abraham. If I didn't know better, I'd think they could read each other's thoughts. But galvanized weren't telekinetic or magical. At least, they weren't in my time.

Abraham nodded, and Foster walked across the kitchen, his steps betraying just how heavy of a creature he was.

Sallyo used her foot to scoot out a chair for Foster to sit next to her.

“Shee-it,” Left Ned said. Then he finally pushed away from the wall and took a seat at the table, resting the shotgun at his knee.

A genius, a smuggler, a two-headed man, and three stitched monsters sit down for tea
, I thought to myself.

“So, who wants us dead?” I asked as I pulled out the jars of sauces, then the meat and cheese, and set them all on the table. I added an empty plate for each person.

“We don't have details,” Sallyo said.

Okay, so she was the boss of this party. Good to know.

“Are you sure about that?” Left Ned asked. “It's not like you to take a job without them.”

She shrugged. “I have a contact. Who has a contact. Who has a contact. It goes back to House Fire. I know that much.”

I poured the warmed milk, cocoa, and sugar into a big mug. “What's House Fire?”

Quinten cleared his throat into the silence. “You know House Fire, Matilda,” he said slowly. “Half of all the Houses that rule the world joined under that name. The other half joined under House Water, remember?”

“Right,” I lied. I did not remember that, because it was not how things were in my time. “Fire, Water. Must be all the excitement has my mind slipping. Sorry.” I dug through our pantry for marshmallows, but couldn't find any, so I dropped a stick of cinnamon candy into the mug.

“Here we go.” I handed the mug to Foster.

His face lit up like a kid at a fair, and he very carefully took the cup into both his huge hands. “Thank you, Matilda,” he said in that rolling rumble of his.

“You are very welcome.”

He closed his eyes and inhaled the steam rising off the cocoa. When he opened his eyes, he took a sip and savored it like fine wine.

I sat between Quinten and Neds, and put some cheese, bread, and sauces on my plate because, seriously? Time travel and being a wanted criminal were hungry business.

The room filled with the scents of a picnic lunch, rich chocolate wafting through the air mixing with the tang of pickling spices and the buttery warmth of bread, invoking—for me, at least—warm, safe feelings.