Into Thin Air (3 page)

"Oy, Millicent," Sir Godfrey said. He always called Lady Follywolle by her Christian name. "Let us quit this drafty hall whilst Nicklesby instructs young Conwyk here of his new duties." Godfrey laughed, a loud, boisterous cannon of a sound. "I vow we'll hear the full tale later. Come.

Meanwhile, we can inform the others."

Millicent accepted Sir Godfrey's proffered arm and gave Gawan a short nod. "Until later, good sir,"

she said, smiling.

"By the by," Godfrey said, "the wench's name is of a certainty
not
Eleanor Aquitaine."

Millicent giggled as Godfrey led her through the hearth and they disappeared.

Gawan, still wet from his previous ordeal in the rain, turned to Nicklesby. "They still enjoy tormenting me."

Nicklesby nodded. "I fear they do, sir. But you're passing easy sport, if I do say so myself. 'Tis all harmless, though, I suspect."

"Hmm. No doubt." Gawan shivered from his damp clothes. "I'm going to run through the shower, change, then come down for a bite.
Then,"
he said, holding up his hand as Nicklesby opened his mouth to argue, "I'll listen to what you have to say, although I'm fair positive I don't want to."

With a short nod, Nicklesby answered, "Very well, young Conwyk."

Moments later, hot water pelted Gawan's neck and back as he stood in the shower. Damn fine invention, that. It still puzzled him at times, the concept of heated water running through pipes about the castle. Bloody amazing.

Tilting his head back, he rinsed the suds from his hair and let the steaming water run over his face.

Quite different from the twelfth century, truth be told. Not all bad. Just different.

Turning off the water, he cracked the door of the stall and grabbed a towel off the electric rack.

Heated drying cloths. Who would have ever thought it?

Taking the cloth, he dried first his body, then scrubbed his hair. Wrapping the towel about his waist, he stepped onto the mat and leaned against the sink with a groan. Damn, after nearly a thousand years, his poor body still ached from warring. One would have thought acquiring Angel status would have surely eliminated bodily pains.

Mostly
dead. Ellie Aquitaine was mostly dead. A true shame. How? he wondered. What had happened to her? Mayhap she was on borrowed time?

Much like himself.

Only his borrowed time, if things went accordingly, was finally almost up. He'd shed his Earthbound-Angel status and finally gain mortality.

Running water and heated towels he could grasp. The Range Rover, he could grasp. Jets and rockets and men on the moon—all fascinating, but tangible. Hell, he owned a bloody helicopter, for priest's sake. He, a once-twelfth-century-warrior-turned-Angel. But
mostly
dead? One was either dead or one wasn't. Aye?

Nay. He himself was neither dead nor alive. Then again, he was something altogether different.

Although he lived as a mortal, in truth, he could not be killed. He had a few paltry Angel powers, such as reading thoughts and coercion of one's mind. He'd lost his higher-up powers when he'd gained Earthbound status. And
that
particular status ran out in less than a pair of fortnights. Now he had Ellie's problem to decipher.
So little time ...

Saint's blood, there was something about her that wouldn't leave him.

"My name's not Eleanor Aquitaine."

Gawan jumped at the sound of her voice, knocked his razor from the sink, then grabbed the edges of the towel that had started to slip down his hips.

"Christ's priests, girl!" he said, breathing hard. "You nearly—" He blinked. "How did you get in here?"

"I don't know! God, I don't know anything!"

He turned her around before she started that infernal pacing again. Then he gently shoved her out of the garderobe and into his bedchamber. He followed, clutching his towel, and pushed her down onto the bed.

When she looked up, her eyes widened, then dipped from his face, clear down to his bare toes, then back to linger on his chest. While her voice remained silent, her lips mouthed the shameless word
Wow.

Gawan crossed his arms, determined to delve into her thoughts only when absolutely necessary.

"Where'd you go?"

Her gaze drifted across his upper body, affixed to the scores of symbols tattooed there.

He supposed now was necessary.

Sexy. Wacky, but definitely sex-y.
Finally, she shook her head and looked at him. "I told you. I.

Don't. Know." She stood and pushed past him. "One minute, I was standing in the middle of the room, wondering what the heck was happening and how the heck I even got here." She crossed the chamber, pulled back the mantle, and peered through the glass. "And why I couldn't remember my own name." Turning, she leaned her backside against the window frame and blew out a hefty breath. "I stole the name Eleanor Aquitaine from that big tapestry downstairs."

Gawan smothered a smile. "Aye. I figured as much."

Grasping the corner of his towel, he gave a short nod. "But until we get things sorted, Ellie will do, aye?"

She nodded.

"Good. Then we have an accord. Can you recall anything of import?"

She thought a moment. "I remember floating in the water. Freezing-cold water. I don't know how long I was there, but I managed to get out, crawl up onto the beach, and then I was hit, I think."

"Someone hit you?" he asked.

The space between her brows crinkled as she frowned. "With a vehicle, maybe. I can't be sure. I remember flying through the air, and it
hurt.
I think someone must have tried to drag me to safety, and then I just passed out." She met his gaze. "Then you were there."

They stood in silence for a moment; then Gawan nodded. "Right. Allow me to change and we'll sup.

Nicklesby has food preparing as we speak. Then we'll talk. Mayhap you'll recall a bit more."

Throwing her a grin he hoped would put her at ease, he ducked back into the garderobe. With haste, he used another fascinating invention—deodorant. Lo, how that ingenious stick of wax would have made the battlefield a much more enjoyable place to be. He pulled on the jeans and long-sleeved tunic he'd chosen, ran his fingers through his wet hair, and hung his towel over the shower stall.

With a flick, he clicked off the light.

Barefoot, he stepped into his bedchamber. "Just let me pull on my boots, then."

He glanced around the large, open,
empty
room. "Ellie?"

Oy.
Gone again.
Poor girl. From what he could tell, she hadn't even a hint that she was, as Lady Follywolle had put it,
betwinxt the living and the unliving.
Damn, he could barely believe it himself, and by the saints, he'd seen quite a lot of strange things. He
was
one of those strange things. But for a tangible body to appear and disappear? How could that be possible?

Pulling on his socks and boots, Gawan thought of what Ellie must be like—taken out of the odd circumstance, of course. He'd seen a vibrant flash in her eyes, and she most certainly was quite bold of tongue. A quick thinker, too, by the way she'd scoured his great hall, found the tapestry of Eleanor of Aquitaine, then filched the name to use as her own.

He grinned. Quirky, clever girl. Somehow, the two brave and tenacious women seemed strangely alike.

Tying back his hair, Gawan hastened to the kitchens to satisfy his empty belly, and to hopefully hear a full explanation from Nicklesby as to why and how the comely Ellie could appear in the flesh, then vanish into thin air. Nicklesby himself was an Angel, once upon a time. He'd certainly have guidance to offer.

As in what, by the devil's hoof, was Gawan to do about Ellie in such a short amount of time?

As he entered the kitchen, Nicklesby met him at the arch, a blue-checked oven mitt on each hand.

Nicklesby lifted one mitted hand and rubbed his chin. "Did you by chance mention to the girl anything about your present occupation, or how the outcome of her situation will determine your fate?"

Gawan frowned. "Of a certainty, Nicklesby. Right after I informed her of how I acquired all the markings on my skin nigh onto a thousand years before. And then I stripped me tunic off, called forth me wings, and flapped them a time or two."

Nicklesby grunted. "Passing grumpy today, aye?"

Walking to the open kitchen hearth, Gawan stared into the flames. "Nay, not grumpy. Just frustrated." He glanced at Nicklesby over his shoulder. "Twenty-four days, man. I had twenty-four more days before retirement, and then
her."
He shook his head and returned his gaze to the flames.

"Trust me. Over nine hundred years of Guardianship, one starts fancying the idea of living out the rest of a mortal life once and for all
not
as a
gwarcheidiol."

"No doubt," Nicklesby said. "Sit, sir, and eat your supper. Things will be clearer come the morn."

Never had a night been so black. Of course, it could simply be because there wasn't even a sliver of moon out. Cold, too. Cold and black. Or was it really night? Could be a dark room, right? Things could be worse, though. Much worse.

Couldn't they?

Ellie lifted her hand in front of her face and squinted hard. then blinked several times, trying to make out her appendage. Hmm. Not even a shadowy outline showed. The electricity must be out—

Ellie jumped, trying to get her bearings, yet unsure that her hand waved before her face, unsure that her foot felt for the floor. It was just so dark. And empty.

She smelled ... hay? No, not hay. Something more earthy. Warmth replaced the cold.

My name's not Ellie ...

She thought she closed her eyes as her mind spun, gathering scattered memories. What
was
her name? The man who helped her—what was his name? Talk about intense. Cute, but intense. His looks betrayed an inner strength—the quiet type, she thought. Tall, broad, with shoulder-length dark brown hair that hung in disarrayed curls. Not tight curls, but loose, carefree ones. And eyes so brown, they seemed to have no pupils.

Gawan, he'd said his name was.

She couldn't be sure, but something had seemed odd about him. Maybe not odd, but out of place?

His mannerisms, maybe, or was it his speech? Definitely an unusual accent. Cute, too.

Welsh, he'd said.

Sighing, she tried once more to rise, to call out, but the darkness grew heavier, an oppressing force daring her to challenge it. She seriously wanted to, but something held her back.

Then before her mind could recall another thing, the heaviness began to lift and fade, and a tiny spot of light appeared far in the distance. Headlights? No, she didn't think she was outside. Ellie willed herself toward it, hoping it would at least be someone who could tell her what the heck was going on ...

"So what you're saying"—Gawan scratched his brow—"is that Ellie, or whoever, has had something near-fatal happen to her. And she is somehow trapped between life and death?"

"More like suspended," Nicklesby answered. "Her life force teeters precariously, if what I know of the affliction proves aright."

"Oy." Gawan rose from the dining room table and began to pace. "She obviously doesn't realize it."

"Aye, and 'twill be your duty to tell her the tale, being you were the one who rescued her. 'Tis why she can appear in the flesh as she does. Even though your Earth-bound powers are limited, they're just powerful enough to gain a few senses of import with a soul who is In-Betwinxt." The man clucked. "Just in time, she is. I daresay you've not much to work with."

"What mean you?"

Nicklesby blew out a gusty breath. "Her body has obviously taken a mighty blow, if indeed she was struck by a vehicle. She appears and disappears because she is fighting."

Gawan rubbed his eyes. "To stay alive?"

"Aye. A strong will, that one has." Nicklesby shook his head. "Poor dear. I've no doubt the news will not sit properly with her. 'Tis why you must do the deed with upmost delicacy."

Gawan cringed and followed his man into the kitchen. "I fear I'm not very good at being delicate."

"Poppycock! I daresay you've been most delicate at times, in contrast to your, err, well ..."

Nicklesby coughed. "I have all faith in your abilities, young Gawan."

Leaning a shoulder against the kitchen fireplace mantel, Gawan cocked a brow. "In contrast to my what?"

Nicklesby worried his clean-shaven, pointy chin with a long, bony finger. Then he sighed. " 'Tis no secret of your past, master. One only has to be in close quarters with the markings on your person to know you led a questionable existence, once upon a time. You're a legend, and well you know it."

He waved a hand. "No matter. Those days have passed, and you, sir, have fostered your occupation rather well."

"Oh, aye, indeed," a new voice agreed.

Gawan turned to find Lady Bella Beauchamp walking through the larder wall, leaving a ghostly trail of seawater as she made her way toward him. Because she had drowned in the North Sea in August 1802, Bella's lavender-and-lace gown always appeared drenched—as did the massive amount of graying red curls piled high atop her head.

"I've heard tremendous tales of your fierceness, lad, and then of your strength and loyalty whilst serving as Guardian Angel of the Knights all those years past." She shook her soppy head. "The souls you've saved as a mere Earthbound Angel are experiences whispered far and wide about the spirit world and will no doubt be talked about until the end of time." A faraway look hazed her eyes.

"To have been your charge would have been glorious. And to think, you're so close to retiring." She clapped her hands and gave him a wide grin. "You more than deserve a mortal life, love, but it appears the deed placed before you is quite an imposing one, to be sure." She glanced at Nicklesby.

"Now. Tell me of this newest case. I'm dying to hear all about it. 'Tis far different from your other charges, indeed, as the others have always been quite alive. Now this one is a lovely girl, from what's been rumored, although a bit touched, mayhap?"

Gawan and Nicklesby exchanged glances before Gawan addressed her. "Lady Beauchamp, I do appreciate your kindness. Truly. But I fear there isn't much to tell ... yet. I've only just learned of the girl's predicament moments ago. Other than that her mortal life is in deep peril, I cannot offer anything else, save I'm the one responsible for rescuing her."