Excerpt 5 – in which we
meet Hector, a most reluctant (and vindictive) time traveller who wants nothing
more than to get hold of Alex’s mother, Mercedes. Unfortunately for him, she’s
no longer around. . .
Hector sat in absolute stillness, hands folded over
crossed legs, and studied his companions from his position in the backseat.
Diane was keeping up a constant conversation with John, no doubt in an attempt
to distract him, but as far as Hector could see it wasn’t working very well.
John’s shoulders were tense under the red wool of his sweater, hands tight on
the steering wheel as he drove back towards the crossroads.
He
wondered how much of the previous night Diane had spent verifying his identity,
and mentally he tipped his hat to her; Diane Wilson was thorough and not easily
intimidated, and those were qualities he appreciated—particularly in people
working for him. He met her eyes in the rear view mirror, sharpened his gaze
until she looked away. Hector went back to regarding the speeding landscape. In
the front seat Diane was saying something in a low, intense tone, and without
turning his head he tuned in.
“.
. . so of course there must be some sort
of explanation,” she said to John. “It’s just that we haven’t found one yet.”
Good
luck to them. He’d spent most of his extended life attempting to unravel the
logic behind his own fate. He’d thought he’d found it when he met Diego, a
divine compensation of sorts for all the previous fruitless years. He sighed.
The only reason Diego had hired Diane Wilson’s IT company had been to get to
Alexandra Lind, an opportunity to get her alone and browbeat her into telling
them what had happened to Ángel. Now it had all gone wrong: no Alexandra Lind,
and no more Diego. Hector fisted his hand and caressed the thick gold ring that
adorned his ring finger.
John
parked on the verge and gestured at the road. “Here,” he said, and Hector got
out. He took his time studying the barren surroundings. There was nothing here,
nothing that would help him learn where Diego had ended up. Ignoring his
audience of two, he walked out to stand in the exact centre of the crossroads,
and there he crouched to lay his palm against the warm asphalt.
“Adios, Diego.” Poor bastard, he’d never cope
in a world without fast food and modern amenities. He straightened up and
rubbed at his bruised thigh, courtesy of that panicked jump out of the studio
window a couple of days ago—stupid thing to do, he’d been far too distraught
about Diego to make much of a cat burglar. Still, he had to try. He needed one
of those paintings, and even more now that Diego was gone from his life.
He
turned to look at them, two rather apprehensive young people standing very
close together.
“Strange
isn’t it? First Alexandra goes missing and is apparently held somewhere against
her will for some months, and on the day she reappears, her mother vanishes,
never to be heard from again. Unfortunately.”
It
had been one of the happier days in his long, long, life, the day Ángel called
him to tell him he’d found her—not the witch herself, but her daughter, an
Alexandra Lind. Was he sure? Yes, Ángel had yelled—well, he was almost sure,
like ninety-nine per cent sure. So what did Hector want him to do? Well, that
had been easy. At last; a golden opportunity to snare the witch once and for
all, and if the daughter was somewhat battered as a result, well, so be
it—blame it on the mother, not on him. Hector’s brow creased together. Damn
Mercedes! Somehow she’d evaded his elegantly baited trap, and in the process
taken Ángel with her. How?
“You
don’t really like her much, do you?” Diane said.
“Who?
Mercedes? No, her I don’t like, but then why should I? She’s a witch. This is
all her fault, she’s the one who started it, dragging me out of my time.”
“Oh
dear.” Diane tut-tutted. “And why, one wonders. What did you do to her?”
“That,
Ms Wilson, is none of your business. Let’s just say that she has utterly
destroyed my life, and for that I dearly want to make her pay.” She made a
derisive sound that Hector chose to disregard. At times it was better to ignore
than punish; the aftermaths could be so tedious. He did one last, slow turn,
bidding Diego a mental farewell. And now who would share all his secrets?
Hector sighed; years of companionship left one very vulnerable to the darker
sides of solitude.
“We
might as well drive back,” he said. “There’s nothing to see here, is there?”
“What
were you hoping for? A neat little sign post saying Time Node? An open hole to another dimension in time?” Diane’s
voice was loaded with sarcasm. “You know, something—anything—to corroborate
your rather weird story.”
“Are
you calling me a liar?”
“Yes,
I suppose I am—or delusional, take your pick.”
“I
am not delusional,” Hector said through gritted teeth. This young woman was
beginning to annoy him.
“None
of this time travelling stuff is true!” Diane said.
“No,
of course it isn’t,” John broke in. “There must be a logical explanation.”
“Of
course,” Hector sneered. “I can’t wait to hear it. How will it explain the dry
car in the middle of the downpour? Or her rusted phone? Or my poor Diego?”
“I
don’t know,” John mumbled.
“No
of course you don’t, because there isn’t one.”
“There
must be,” Diane said.
“There
isn’t; trust me.” Hector turned to look at a deflated John. “Get over her,
she’ll never come back.” John moaned, and Hector gave him an irritated look.
What did he have to whine about? He wasn’t the one who’d been thrown out of his
time, was he?
She’d
tricked him. Hector shoved his hands into his pockets. Fucking witch! Hector
pressed his lips together to contain the rage that roared up from his belly,
clogged his throat and filled him with the desire to rip someone’s heart out.
Now.
He
turned his back on them, struggling to calm down. The landscape rose and fell
in soft swells around him, muted greens creating a soothing backdrop to the odd
purples and pinks—so different from his homeland, a land of dusty heat, of
faded browns and dull yellows. Sevilla,
mi Sevilla. . . And the year was
1480 or thereabouts, and he was young, an up and coming man at the court of La Reina Isabel, handpicked by Her Most
Catholic Majesty to help in that most sensitive of tasks , cleansing the
new-born Spain of all heretics.
He
followed them back towards the car, sunk into his memories. So much power; a
bright future stretching before him, a life of wealth, of influence, a servant
of the Inquisition, a man who came and went unhindered through the gates of the
Alcázar of Seville—and then Mercedes ruined it. Witch! To stand there and curse
him, to tell him she would make him pay and for what, hey? For doing his job!
Was it his fault her father was a false convert? Benjamin ben Isaac became
Benito Gutierrez only to avoid expulsion from Seville, everyone knew that.
Well; not until he, Hector, told them so, nodding gravely as he described how
Benito settled the prayer shawl around his shoulders.
“Hmm?”
He adjusted his seatbelt.
“I
said, do you want us to drop you off somewhere, or is the office fine?” Diane
twisted to look at him. “Are you alright?”
Hector
strangled a guffaw. Alright? Of course he wasn’t alright! He was living a life
he shouldn’t be leading, in a time he shouldn’t be in. Damn you Mercedes! He
stretched his lips into a smile, told Diane the office was fine and sat back.
He’d
lied. Benito had been no false convert, and nor was his pretty youngest
daughter, Dolores. But what was Hector to do, trapped in a mess that threatened
to explode in his face? He had no choice! His biggest mistake had been to let
Mercedes live. He should have dragged her before the Inquisition as well, and
then she’d have been yet another woman roasted to death on the central plaza,
and he could have gone on with his well-ordered, happy life.
His
hands knotted together. Instead . . .
She’d yanked him out of his time, the witch. Endless years thrown from
one age to the other in his desperate attempts to get back, to go home.
Mercedes had cackled with laughter when she told him she’d cursed him never to
die, always to roam, unless he made it back to medieval Seville. He crossed
himself; please let me die, strike me with a heavenly bolt and obliterate me,
hang me upside down and slice me open, throw me into an erupting crater, but
please, please let me die—don’t leave me to rot to pieces.
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About Anna
Had Anna been allowed to choose, she’d have become a time-traveller. As
this was impossible, she became a financial professional with two absorbing
interests: history and writing. Anna has authored the acclaimed time travelling
series The Graham Saga, set in 17th century Scotland and
Maryland, as well as the equally acclaimed medieval series The King’s
Greatest Enemy which is set in 14th century England.
Anna has also published The Wanderer, a fast-paced contemporary romantic
suspense trilogy with paranormal and time-slip ingredients.
Her Castilian Heart is the third in her “Castilian” series, a stand-alone sequel to her
September 2020 release, His Castilian Hawk. Set against the
complications of Edward I’s invasion of Wales, His Castilian Hawk is a
story of loyalty, integrity—and love. In the second instalment, The
Castilian Pomegranate, we travel with the protagonists to the complex
political world of medieval Spain. This latest release finds our protagonists
back in England—not necessarily any safer than the wilds of Spain!
Anna has also authored The Whirlpools
of Time in which she returns to the world of time travel. Join Duncan
and the somewhat reluctant time-traveller Erin on their adventures through the
Scottish Highlands just as the first Jacobite rebellion is about to explode!
All of Anna’s books have been awarded the IndieBRAG Medallion, she has
several Historical Novel Society Editor’s Choices, and one of her books won the
HNS Indie Award in 2015. She is also the proud recipient of various Reader’s
Favorite medals as well as having won various Gold, Silver and Bronze Coffee
Pot Book Club awards.
Find out more about Anna, her books and enjoy her eclectic historical
blog on her website, www.annabelfrage.com
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