Artane.
Artane.
And medieval Artane, at that.
He shook his head. Who would have thought it? It was no wonder the
place had given him the willies, when this was what it had had in store
for him.
He paused. And what had it had in store for him? Besides a trip back
into the past?
Amanda.
If he hadn't recognized her as the woman that group of medieval
ghosts had waxed rhapsodic over, he might have just thought she was a
beautiful woman and called it good.
Then again, maybe not.
She was, in all honesty, far beyond anything he'd ever expected.
He stopped and stared into the distance, past trees that looked just
like trees in his day, and wondered. Was it possible? Was he
hallucinating? Was it a reenactment society gone mad, reenacting far
beyond what their club charter allowed? Were they Artane fanatics who
had permission from Artane's earl to take over his castle and turn it
into a slice of the past?
Not likely.
But the thought that he actually had traveled to a different time
was just as unlikely. Things like that didn't happen. He lived in a
modern, rational time with modern, rational occurrences. That
paranormal stuff was just mumbo-jumbo made up by people with too much
time on their hands and a driving need to measure things on little
instruments of their own making. His world was cold, hard reality;
rocks, minerals, things that could be touched, cut, dug out, and put in
pockets. He didn't believe in Fate, time travel, or… er… ghosts.
He shifted uncomfortably.
All right, so he'd seen ghosts. There was probably a logical
explanation for that as well. In a way, that was reassuring, to think
that existence didn't end at death.
But time travel?
No way.
No way at all, which was why he was going to start looking for
familiar landmarks such as roads, phone boxes, or tracks left by Range
Rovers on their way to the local market for snacks. The very last thing he was going to look for was something that screamed "Get in me,
I'm a time-travel machine."
He scowled. His '67 was probably just such a machine. Unfortunately,
after its last flight, he suspected it wouldn't be good for driving,
much less allowing him to warp time to his will and pleasure. And that
assumed, of course, that it had any sort of time-traveling
capabilities—which he most certainly doubted it did.
So, having no other alternative, he kept on walking.
He came to a point where he wondered why he hadn't asked for a
doggie bag back at the castle. He saw trees to his right and paused to
look at them. Was there at least water there? It was worth a look.
He wandered over, found a little trickle, and didn't bother to check
the source before taking a long drink. The water was clear and so sharp
it almost burned his mouth. It wasn't particularly cold, but he hadn't
seen any glaciers around either, so maybe that wasn't a surprise. He
drank until he was satisfied, then sat back on his heels and looked
around him. It was a pristine little glade, with no sounds of traffic,
no sounds of civilization, no sounds of modern man to disturb the
peace.
But there was, quite suddenly, the sound of loud conversation in a
language he didn't speak.
He looked up and saw men come to a stop across the little stream
from him. They were dressed, and he used that term loosely, in ratty
tights and tunics. It made him realize just how nice the clothing he
was wearing was.
Jake jumped to his feet, only to have the ruffians stop still. He
stared at them. They stared back at him.
Then they pointed to his shoes and burst into laughter.
He did what any red-blooded male would have done in that situation.
He flipped them the bird.
Apparently that translated well, whatever the century.
The men snarled in unison and lake looked around him quickly to
judge the terrain. Too rocky. He turned and made tracks for a nice flat
surface where he might stand a chance, one against eight.
Without warning, he tripped over something in the grass and went
down. Damned shoes. When he managed to
Artane.
And medieval Artane, at that.
He shook his head. Who would have thought it? It was no wonder the
place had given him the willies, when this was what it had had in store
for him.
He paused. And what had it had in store for him? Besides a trip back
into the past?
Amanda.
If he hadn't recognized her as the woman that group of medieval
ghosts had waxed rhapsodic over, he might have just thought she was a
beautiful woman and called it good.
Then again, maybe not.
She was, in all honesty, far beyond anything he'd ever expected.
He stopped and stared into the distance, past trees that looked just
like trees in his day, and wondered. Was it possible? Was he
hallucinating? Was it a reenactment society gone mad, reenacting far
beyond what their club charter allowed? Were they Artane fanatics who
had permission from Artane's earl to take over his castle and turn it
into a slice of the past?
Not likely.
But the thought that he actually had traveled to a different time
was just as unlikely. Things like that didn't happen. He lived in a
modern, rational time with modern, rational occurrences. That
paranormal stuff was just mumbo-jumbo made up by people with too much
time on their hands and a driving need to measure things on little
instruments of their own making. His world was cold, hard reality;
rocks, minerals, things that could be touched, cut, dug out, and put in
pockets. He didn't believe in Fate, time travel, or… er… ghosts.
He shifted uncomfortably.
All right, so he'd seen ghosts. There was probably a logical
explanation for that as well. In a way, that was reassuring, to think
that existence didn't end at death.
But time travel?
No way.
No way at all, which was why he was going to start looking for
familiar landmarks such as roads, phone boxes, or tracks left by Range
Rovers on their way to the local market for snacks. The very last thing he was going to look for was something that screamed "Get in me,
I'm a time-travel machine."
He scowled. His '67 was probably just such a machine. Unfortunately,
after its last flight, he suspected it wouldn't be good for driving,
much less allowing him to warp time to his will and pleasure. And that
assumed, of course, that it had any sort of time-traveling
capabilities—which he most certainly doubted it did.
So, having no other alternative, he kept on walking.
He came to a point where he wondered why he hadn't asked for a
doggie bag back at the castle. He saw trees to his right and paused to
look at them. Was there at least water there? It was worth a look.
He wandered over, found a little trickle, and didn't bother to check
the source before taking a long drink. The water was clear and so sharp
it almost burned his mouth. It wasn't particularly cold, but he hadn't
seen any glaciers around either, so maybe that wasn't a surprise. He
drank until he was satisfied, then sat back on his heels and looked
around him. It was a pristine little glade, with no sounds of traffic,
no sounds of civilization, no sounds of modern man to disturb the
peace.
But there was, quite suddenly, the sound of loud conversation in a
language he didn't speak.
He looked up and saw men come to a stop across the little stream
from him. They were dressed, and he used that term loosely, in ratty
tights and tunics. It made him realize just how nice the clothing he
was wearing was.
Jake jumped to his feet, only to have the ruffians stop still. He
stared at them. They stared back at him.
Then they pointed to his shoes and burst into laughter.
He did what any red-blooded male would have done in that situation.
He flipped them the bird.
Apparently that translated well, whatever the century.
The men snarled in unison and lake looked around him quickly to
judge the terrain. Too rocky. He turned and made tracks for a nice flat
surface where he might stand a chance, one against eight.
Without warning, he tripped over something in the grass and went
down. Damned shoes. When he managed to
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