“Look, I have a job to do, one simple little job: I collect the spirits of those who’ve passed on. I’m responsible for those spirits, and when someone goes and gets herself resurrected—” Here she gave them both a very stern look. “—then I can’t go back to my boss and say ‘Oh, well, that one got away.’ I mean, he’s death! He’s just not going to understand! Plus it does throw the books out of balance, and the accountants get all pissy if you mess with their books. You wouldn’t know how to resurrect someone, would you?”
Gregory smiled a grim, grim smile. “I have no knowledge of resurrection at all. I believe that is the purview of necromancers.”
“Mmm.” She eyed Peter, then made a dismissive noise. “Very well. But I expect to hear from you if you see her. Drat, who’s this calling?” She moved off a few steps to answer her phone.
She could expect all she wanted; he had absolutely no intention of turning Gwen over to death’s minion. Not when she was wanted by the Watch.
“She lied to me,” he said to Peter in a soft voice. It hurt to say the words, and he couldn’t understand why that was. Yes, Gwen—Magdalena—had betrayed his trust, but it wasn’t as if he’d invested any time or emotion in her. So why did it feel like he had? “She lied to my face. Looked me straight in the eye and said she wasn’t Magdalena Owens.”
“It’s been known to happen,” Peter said, his gaze on the reclamation agent. “I’m sorry to hear it, but on the other hand, it explains a lot. And will make it easier for us to catch her. Now we know exactly what she looks like.”
Gregory ignored the sense of foreboding that settled over him with those words. He didn’t like to think of what the Watch would do to Gwen (as he still thought of her) when they turned her over. Most likely she’d be banished to the Akasha, the place of punishment from which no one escaped. He hardened his heart. He couldn’t allow sentiment to taint his duty. Gwen had broken the laws, those governing both mortals and immortals, and she had to pay for her crime. The fact that she was a bare-faced liar was just proof that she wasn’t to be trusted. “I won’t let her fool me again, that’s for certain.”
“Bah. I must go scour the park before the others get here.” The reclamation woman tucked away her phone and glanced around with distaste.
“Others? What others?”
“The mortals. The ones chasing her. I ran into them outside some psychology place yesterday.” She gave a little shrug. “They said something about a debt she owed them, but I didn’t pay much attention. The debt she owes my boss is much greater, and naturally takes precedence.”
“Naturally,” he said, thinking furiously. Someone else was chasing Gwen? A mortal someone? It didn’t surprise him—anyone who would kidnap a mortal certainly would have no qualms about double-crossing other mortal beings. But still, the idea that people other than him—and the annoying reclamation agent—were tracking her filled him with unease.
“I wouldn’t like to meet them in a dark alley, and I’m immortal,” the woman finished, flicking off a piece of lint from her arm.
That didn’t bode well. Not for them, and certainly not for Gwen.
“Do you know the names of these other people—” Peter started to ask, but stopped when the police scanner squawked to life. The first few words were lost in the noise of the carousel, but a man’s voice suddenly spoke with unfortunate clarity. “—Owens seen heading toward the Cardiff Shopping Centre. Units are in pursuit.”
Peter didn’t hang around to ask his question again. He simply ran for the carousel, gesturing at his wife.
“The game’s afoot!” cried the red-suited woman, and spun around, racing off into the night without another word.
Gregory swore at the timing of the police scanner, swore at the unknown people who were so threatening that even death’s minion quailed at meeting them, and at his own stupidity for allowing a pretty woman to fool him.
By the gods, things were going to be different from here on out. He’d be damned before he believed a single word that came out of Gwen’s delicious mouth.
Read on for an excerpt from Katie MacAlister’s
TIME THIEF,
the first Time Thief novel.
Available from Signet.
Chapter One
“You know that saying about lightning never striking twice in the same place? Well, I’m the living proof that it’s totally false.”
“The lightning is false, or the saying? Aaaa . . . aaaa—”
“—choo,” I finished for the man sitting across from me in the small reception area. I flinched in sympathy when he wiped an already red nose, his eyes just as angry-looking, and swollen to boot. But it was the really magnificent array of hives all over his face and what I could see of his chest through the neck of his shirt that had me adding, “Don’t worry. I’ve heard from my friend Lily that the doctors here are awesome. I’m sure you’ll be de-hived and de-puffied in no time.”
“I truly hope so,” the man said wearily, closing his eyes and leaning back in the waiting room chair, dabbing at both his streaming eyes and nose. “I’m used to pollen allergies, but the hives are new.”
“I didn’t know that you could get hives from anything but drug allergies,” I said, absently mimicking his movement when he reached for his neck before he forcibly stopped himself. Just seeing all those angry red welts made me itchy all over.
“Evidently if you are hypersensitive to some plants, you can. As I found out this morning when I ran into a large sagebrush next to the road.”
I scratched my arm. “Huh. I see mountain sagebrush all the time. They’ve never bothered me.”
“Stranger things, Horatio,” he murmured, his hands fisted as they rested on his legs. Poor guy must have been miserable with all those hives. He looked nice enough, too, probably in his late fifties, with brown hair and eyes, and round little 1930s-style wire-rimmed glasses.
“You got that right.”
His eyes popped open suddenly. “My apologies, Miss . . . Miss—”
“Mortenson. Kiya Mortenson.”
“Kiya?”
“Yeah. It’s kind of odd, huh?” I scratched my shoulder. “Mom and Dad were hippies. Smart hippies. They thought it would be fun to name me after some ancient Egyptian who people used to think was King Tut’s mom, but I heard recently that she’s not. So now I’m named after someone who isn’t related to King Tut.”
“There are worse people to be named after.”
“True that. I could be Hitlerina.” I smiled when he gave a rusty chuckle, then grimaced at his itchiness, his fingers twitching with the need to scratch. I scratched my wrist for him.
“I am Dalton.”
“Just Dalton? Like a movie star one-name Dalton, or you’re afraid to tell me your last name in case I covertly take a picture of you all puffy and hivish, and post it on Facebook, where it’ll embarrass you in front of all your friends and family?”
He opened his red, swollen eyes as wide as they could go. “Are you likely to take covert pictures of me?”
“No, but mostly because my cell phone is a dinosaur, technologically speaking, and doesn’t take photos.”
He chuckled again, more carefully this time. “Since my friends and family are safe from my gruesome visage at the moment, I shall risk your suddenly blooming into stalkerhood and will tell you my surname. It’s McKay.”
“Hi, Dalton McKay.”
“Hello, Kiya. I’m sorry I interrupted you when you were telling me something about lightning. You said you were struck by it? That sounds like a major life event. I would think you would have gone to the emergency room rather than a walk-in clinic.”
I shrugged. “I wasn’t really hurt. Just kind of a bit woozy for a few seconds, but then that cleared up and I was fine. Though I figured I’d better check in to make sure that my heart was okay and that the lightning didn’t screw up something in my head. Tha
t sort of thing. So here I am.”
“Indeed, you are.” He blinked owlishly behind his round lenses. “I don’t believe I’ve ever met someone who has been struck by lightning.”
“Twice. This was my second time. Hence the comment about the saying being false.”
He blinked a few more times, dabbed at his eyes and nose again, and said with a little frown, “What were you doing when you were struck?”
“Helping a chipmunk.” I gave a wry little smile. “Well, gasping and heaving and swearing that I was going to get back to jogging regularly is more accurate, but the reason I was doing all that is because I was trying to help a chipmunk that had his head stuck in a plastic milk container. Little bugger could sure run despite that handicap. I had to chase him all over a mountaintop before I caught up with him. I forgot that you’re not supposed to hide under tall cedar trees when there’s a storm. One minute I was fine, and the next, crack, zap, and sizzle.”
“Sizzle?” Dalton looked appalled. “You actually sizzled?”
“Well . . .” My face screwed up as I tried to remember the event of that morning. “‘Sizzle’ may not be the right word. There was kind of a scratchy noise when the lightning flower grew. At least I think that was it. Maybe the scratchy noise came from the chipmunk ripping the milk container off his head.”
“I don’t think . . . no, I’m sure I have not ever heard of a lightning flower. Is it a plant native to this part of Oregon?”
“No, no, it’s not an actual flower.” I moved over and plopped myself down on a saggy sofa next to his chair, pulling off the gauze overshirt I wore over a tank top. “It’s a feathery pattern that sometimes shows up on people who are hit by lightning. See? Supposedly, it’s from all the veins and arteries and stuff being lit up by the lightning, but because it’s so delicate, it’s called a lightning flower.”
“That is just . . . amazing.” Dalton leaned forward to examine my upper arm. “How very unique. And it doesn’t hurt?”
“The lightning flower?” I gave a cursory glance to the feathery pattern of light tan that ran down from my bicep to my wrist. It wasn’t like I hadn’t seen the same pattern before. Well, assuming I was naked and looking over my shoulder at a mirror. “No. Getting hit by lightning is a bit like touching an electric fence, only more so. But this? Doesn’t hurt at all.”
“It’s almost . . . feminine in its delicacy.”
“Yeah, they are kind of pretty in a weird sort of way.”
“Will it last long?”
“Well, that’s where it gets a bit strange,” I said, making myself comfy on the sofa. I couldn’t quite say why, but I was content to while away the half an hour or so it would take to be seen by the clinic doctor by chatting with this man. “I looked it up online a few years ago, and they’re not supposed to be permanent, but mine are. It’s kind of like a scar.”
“It doesn’t look like a scar.” He leaned in closer, touching the pattern with the tip of one forefinger. “It looks like a henna tattoo.”
“It does, doesn’t it? My foster mom says my other one looks like I drew it on with a tan felt pen, but really, it’s just a case of me being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Again.”
“You should definitely give trees a miss the next time a storm comes up,” he agreed.
“I couldn’t really help it. I was . . . er . . . kind of working a temp job. An unofficial one. I was helping out Lily, a friend who wanted to take a couple of days to go see her family, but she had to be up on top of a mountain watching for fires. So I said I’d help her out and take over her shift for her. We figured that this way she’d get to see her family at the same time that I’d make a few bucks, and no one would be the wiser. So, of course, what happens but I chase a chipmunk to kingdom come and back again, and get struck by a freak bolt of lightning that I swear came right out of nowhere? And when I called 911 to see if there was someone who could drive me off the top of that mountain to the hospital, everyone had a major hissy fit, and they called the Forest Service, which meant Lily’s boss found out that I was there instead of her, and . . . well, you can guess how that all turned out.”
“Mmm,” Dalton said noncommittally, returning his gaze to my arm. “You said this was the second time you were struck?”
“Yes.” I examined his face for a few seconds. “Are you really so miserable that hearing my boring life story will distract you from all the itchiness?”
“Yes,” he said frankly, then made a face. “I apologize; that was rude.”
“Not in the least,” I said, laughing and waving away his apology. “I know what it’s like to try not to do something, so I’m happy to give you something else to think about. I was hit by lightning once before, when, according to my foster mom, I was about three years old. I don’t really remember anything about the storm or the fire that followed it.” I smoothed my hand down one leg of red Capri pants that made me feel very 1950s.
“And you weren’t hurt? A little girl of three?”
“Nope. Evidently I was just struck by lightning on my butt. Which is odd enough, let me tell you. Carla—my foster mom—says that the lightning that hit me also started the forest fire that killed my folks and a couple of people who were with them in the campground, and that the firemen couldn’t believe I hadn’t been hurt other than having my clothes blown to shreds.” I thought for a moment, then gave a shrug. “I’ve tried to remember what happened because I have absolutely no memories of my parents, but it’s all just missing. Carla says my id and ego and superego are all blocking the events of that night because they were so horrific. Sounds kind of odd, since they don’t block any other bad events I’ve lived through, but I guess Carla would know; she’s a clinical psychologist.”
Dalton peered at me through the thick lenses of his glasses, his liquid brown eyes full of empathy. “I lost my parents at a young age, as well. You are lucky not only to have survived but to have found a good home after the tragedy.”
I smiled and curled my toes around the toe-grip on my sandals. “I’ve always been lucky that way. Well, I used to be lucky. It seems to have run out of late.”
“Oh? In what way?”
“No job, no boyfriend, my apartment house is going to be torn down, and I’ve got too many fines at the library to do anything but sneak in and read books while hiding in one of the back study carrels.”
“And then you were struck by lightning,” he said with a little smile.
I answered the smile. “Yup. Kinda makes you glad that all you have are easily fixed hives, huh?”
The nurse behind the frosted glass window slid open one section and said loudly, “Dalton McKay? You may go into room two. The doctor will be with you shortly.”
“Ah. Excellent.” He stood up and started toward the door the nurse had gestured at, then turned around and offered me his hand. “Thank you for entertaining me, Kiya. I hope your luck changes soon.”
“Thanks. Happy dehiving!”
I didn’t see him again, since I was called into another room and had to repeat my story of the morning’s adventures, which necessitated a number of tests, but after a couple of hours of giving up what felt like way too much blood, having an EKG, and explaining just what a lightning flower—officially known as a Lichtenberg figure—was, it wasn’t until early afternoon that I was released from the clinic with a clean bill of health. I waved to the nurse as I headed out to where Eloise sat somewhat lopsidedly on the side of the street.
“Right,” I told the car as I climbed in through the window, not an easy task on a 1969 VW Bug, crawling over the passenger seat to the driver’s side. I gave the dashboard a little pat. “I’ve given you gas and oil and water, Eloise. I cleaned your spark plugs. I washed your front window, and if you had a back one, I would have washed it, too. I even vacuumed, and found a piece of fresh rope to hold the driver’s-side door tight. There is no earthly reason why you shouldn’t
start, so let’s not go the prima donna route this afternoon, okay? We have a good two-hour drive to get home, and since there’s no one here in town I can stay with, I really, really, really need you to be reliable today.”
I took a deep breath and, bending down, fished out the ignition wires that I had to use to start the car because the ignition was shot. Literally. Stupid hunters thinking Eloise was a derelict when she clearly was in fine working order, if admittedly suffering from a few cosmetic insults.
“You’re not the only one who’s had a few years on her,” I told the car while I touched the wires together.
A few sparks, a puff of acrid electrical smoke, and Eloise’s engine coughed and sputtered to life.
I sang while I drove out of the southern Oregon town that nestled up against the Cascade mountains, interrupting myself periodically to swear at the logging trucks that barreled out of the wilderness, their swaying loads of freshly cut trees annoying me on many levels. Not only were the truckers arrogant with their “we’re bigger than you and thus you have to give way to us” attitude, but I hated the clear-cutting that went on in the interior of the state, even if the lumber companies had a stringent replanting policy.
“The forest belongs to everyone, you road hog!” I bellowed at one truck when it came whipping around a curve, straddling the center line of the road, and causing me to jerk the wheel to the right, sending poor Eloise onto the shoulder, where the passenger side was forced to endure the savagery of a long stretch of wild blackberry bushes before the car came to a shuddering halt. “I’ve got your license plate number! I’m going to turn you . . . Well, drat, no, I didn’t get the number. Bastage.”
It took me a few minutes to get a grip on my jangled nerves, but at last I stopped shaking and tried to start the car.
Eloise gave a few oily coughs, backfired twice, and lapsed into an ominous silence. I swore to myself. “Great. Stupid logging trucks picking on innocent little Bugs. Well. Only thing for it is to get out and see if you’re truly stuck or just being cranky.”