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In the beginning // 1978
Danny’s smile was bright and wide. He looked up at his mother and father with pleading eyes and tugged nervously at the hem of his shirt. “Can I...?”
His mother smiled and pat the space beside her on the bed; that was all the encouragement Danny needed to hop up next to her, bouncing up and down eagerly. His mother laughed.
“Easy, Danny." Danny stilled immediately, making his mother smile. “Hold out your arms.”
Danny did as he was told, his little face scrunched into an adorable approximation of extreme concentration. Carefully Mrs. Quinn lifted the swathed bundle from her chest and placed it gently in her son’s outstretched arms.
“Careful,” she warned, but the advice wasn’t necessary. Danny’s face had changed and his body language had shifted, he didn’t miss a beat.
“Say hello to Patrick, Danny.”
“Hi, Pat,” Danny whispered quietly, looking intently into his baby brother’s sleeping face. “It’s Danny. I’m your big brother.”
He lifted one tiny hand to cradle the newborn’s head and his parents exchanged smiles over the top of his head. But Danny didn’t notice. He was completely absorbed in the tiny child sleeping in his arms.
He simply sat, staring at his brother’s face and his patience was rewarded when the baby’s eyelids fluttered. Danny’s breath caught as those grey eyes flickered open for one second, long enough for their eyes to meet, before they slipped shut again. Patrick fell back to sleep without a fuss.
Danny’s mum put a hand on his back. “Sorry sweetie, he must be tired-”
“It’s okay,” the seven year-old smiled at his mother before glancing down at his brother affectionately.
“Don’t worry, Pat,” he told the baby cradled in his arms. “I’ll always protect you.”
It was the first promise he ever made.
7 yrs. // 1985
As far back as Patrick could remember, Danny had always been there for him. He remembers Danny taunting him as he cruised over the pavement on his shiny two-wheeled bicycle, yelling “catch me if you can!” before racing off down the block too fast for his clunky training bike to follow.
He had been angry and determined to follow him, so he'd found their dad’s screwdriver in the garage and taken his training wheels off.
No sooner than he’d hopped on had he fallen and scrapped his knee in the process. He hadn’t wanted to cry but the frustration and humiliation of failure was worse than the pain and the tears started falling anyway.
And Danny had turned around and was back in an instant, throwing his new prized bike carelessly on the pavement to crouch at his brother’s side.
“What happened?” he demanded, and Patrick tried to stop his tears.
“I fell,” he said, feeling miserable, and started crying all over again.
“Hey," Danny leaned down to touch his arm and he looked up. He expected Danny to tease him for crying; he always did, but Danny surprised him by holding out a hand. “It’s all right. I’ll tell you what. Why don’t we go inside and get your knee cleaned up, and I’ll teach you how to ride properly? But no more crying!"
He had sniffed and looked into his brother’s eyes. “You promise?”
“I promise." Danny nodded and offered him his hand again. “Deal?”
Patrick grinned and took his hand.
“Deal!"
10 yrs // 1992
Danny was always there when Patrick needed him. This time around Patrick was a fresh-faced ten year-old with a quick temper and even quicker fists. A mumbled comment from one of the boys as he was leaving the schoolyard was all it took to set him off.
Torrence was a mean, greasy-haired kid of twelve whose temper was worse than his grades. He had dark black circles under his eyes and a mouth that was twisted into a perpetual sneer.
Torrence was older, but Patrick had rage on his side and that was enough for him to send the older kid crashing into the dirt. They tussled in the grass and Patrick fought with the unrestrained power of an angry bull, fists flying, vision red. His fist connected with Torrence’s chin and Torrence answered with a punch to the face that caught him in the eye.
Patrick cried out in pain, seeing stars as Torrence’s fist connected with his eye and then a familiar voice called out, “Get away from my brother, you tosser!” and Torrence was picked up and flung unceremoniously into the dirt. Patrick heard the other kids’ panicked murmurs and then they scattered, leaving him alone on the ground, his throbbing eye swelling shut from the blow.
Patrick looked up as a shadow fell over him and grinned at the outstretched hand, taking it and hauling himself to his feet.
“At it again, Pat?” Danny shook his head and knelt beside him in the grass. “Mum’s going to go ballistic. What’ve you done to your eye?”
Patrick slapped away the hand reaching for his eye and whimpered, his own hand covering it protectively. He squinted up at Danny from his good eye with a hint of a pout.
“I could’ve taken ‘em!” he boasted, sounding sulky.
“Sure you could’ve, Pat," Danny agreed amicably. “Though that bloke who looked like a raccoon sure was nasty.”
Danny chuckled and reached out to tousle his hair, making Patrick scowl and swat at him in protest.
“That’s Torrence,” Patrick said. “He’s a tosser. Torrence the tosser!”
“Patrick!” Danny chided, laughing.
“What?” He stuck his bottom lip out at the reprimand. “It’s true! That’s what everyone calls him.”
Danny grinned and stood, throwing a friendly arm about his brother’s shoulders.
“That might be true, but don't let mum catch you saying that or she’ll have my head!”
Patrick looked over at Danny, his grey eyes suddenly serious.
“Danny?”
“Yeah, Pat?”
“You’re the best big brother ever.”
14 yrs // 1996
In retrospect, the fight was insignificant. Teenage rebellion and a desire to prove himself ended in a back-alley brawl two blocks from his house and much to his embarrassment, it was Danny who had to step in and save him.
Just like always.
"Fuck off, Danny! I didn't need your help!"
The fight exploded. Misdirected anger and embarrassment overrode his gratitude and he didn't even bother to thank his brother, even though without him the fight would have ended with a lot more than a few broken ribs and a missing tooth.
It was just that his brother had become this kind of untouchable hero, a god in their parents' eyes, while Patrick was the trouble-maker. He would always be second-best to good ol' Danny boy.
It had taken a week for his ribs to heal. Danny stuck close and asked continuously if he needed anything, if there was anything he could get him, which only made it worse.
The resentment grew and Patrick spent the week thinking of ways to get back at his brother.
The solution came to him on the fourth day, when he overheard his mother talking with old Mrs. Simmons, the old lady who lived next door.
"That old house?" Patrick could hear the disapproval in her tone. He didn't have to ask to know which house they were talking about; there was only one house in the neighborhood which could get his mum to use that tone of voice.
It was the neighborhood secret, the neighborhood legend; the perfect haunt for rowdy kids and squatters. He had grown up hearing stories about that old house.
His mates had always egged him to go but he had let it slip to Danny once a few years back and Danny had grown more serious than Patrick had ever seen him. He had taken him by the shoulders and stared him in the face and told him never, ever to go in that house.
So Patrick grinned and waited til his mum was out of earshot to phone his mates.
Ryan Mason and Nathan James were as reliable as they come, showing up to spring him from the house in the middle of the night.
They exchanged excited grins as they pulled up to the house. The headlights shone on the dusty windows, casting everything in a strange, filtered glow.
The high of disobeying his brother and his parents got his as far as the door, but when Ryan took a pair of pliers to the old padlock, the resounding clunk of the heavy metal as it dropped to the ground left a bitter taste in his mouth.
He hesitated on the threshold when Nate pushed open the door and uttered a laugh to hide his nerves.
Ryan shoved Nate, knocking him off balance and into the house.
"Keep it down!" he hissed and Nate shot him a glare as he climbed to his feet before heading deeper into the house.
Patrick was still frozen on the spot. Ryan jabbed him playfully in the ribs.
"What's a matter, Paddy? Don't tell me you’re scared. This was your idea."
Patrick ignored him, Danny's warning ringing in his ears as he stared into the yawning mouth of the doorway and the dark unknown that lay beyond. He felt torn. He could only think of his brother's face when he had made him promise he would never, ever go into the house.
But then he remembered last week's incident. The shame and embarrassment came flooding back. Was he really going to rely on Danny to fight his battles for him forever? Was he going to give in now, call Danny up and ask him to save him from this, too?
Incited, he shrugged off his mate's quiet teasing and strode purposely through the door, eliciting a surprised exclamation from Ryan behind him. Patrick grinned, already feeling braver. His anger carried him through, over the threshold, and once he was inside, the thrill of the break-in and the suspense of being in such a forbidden place of mystery left him feeling giddy.
The best part of all though was that he was blatantly disregarding Danny's rules. He was finally standing up for himself and being his own person instead of merely following in his brother's footsteps and the freedom of that knowledge was exhilarating.
A floorboard creaked beneath his foot and his breath caught in his throat. Then Ryan rushed past him, whooping quietly and Patrick relaxed, flashing a grin.
"We did it, mate!" Ryan cheered, slapping a friendly hand on his shoulder as he passed and rounded the corner. "We're in! This is wicked!"
"Wicked!" Patrick echoes, following the wall to the stairs and glancing up into the inky darkness beyond the stairwell. He figured that was where Nate had gone to and the adrenaline spiking through his veins made his pulse race as he mounted the first step. The slight chill in the air and the forbidding sense of gloom that hung about the upper level only heightened his excitement.
"Nate!" he called out into the darkness at the top of the stairs. "You up here, mate?"
He moved his hand from the railing to the wall, fingers trailing over the old flakes of paint, and took a few steps down the corridor. With each step that he took the air seemed to grow colder and darker. He left the minimal light from the street lamps behind as he continued further down the hall.
"Pat!" Nate's voice erupted from down the hallway. "Pat, you've gotta see this!"
Patrick followed his friend's voice past a couple of closed doorways and noticed with a sudden shock that there was a light spilling out from one of the rooms.
He flung the door open and crashed into the room, wild-eyed.
"Are you daft? Turn that light off before someone-"
He stopped dead in the doorway, the words dying in his throat.
"-...sees. Wow."
"Yeah," Nate said quietly, awe in his voice. Patrick's eyes flashed to him in the corner of the room; watched the strange, flickering light play over his friend's face and he shivered. Patrick turned wide grey eyes back to the source of the light, hanging suspended in the middle of the floor.
"What is it?" he asked, breathlessly.
"Got me," Nate said with a shrug. Then his eyes lit up and he flashed a wicked grin. "Hey, Pat?"
"Yeah?"
"I dare you to touch it."
Patrick jolted. He had been subconsciously reaching for the light, mesmorised, but the words snapped him out of it. He drew his arm back to his side protectively and clenched his hand into a fist, looking back and forth between his friend and the strange, flickering light.
"Unless you're scared," Nate egged him on with a grin.
Pat bristled. "I'm not-"
A sudden inhuman scream cut the words short and he barely had time to blink before the light pulsed, glowing, and a fast-moving blur shot from its centre like a missile. It hit Nate square in the chest and Nate screamed, the sound twisting a cold knot of fear into Patrick's stomach when he realised it was more than just a startled cry.
A cloud of blood misted into the air and the creature's claws came away bloody. Nate howled in anguish, writhing and trying vainly to wrestle the creature away from his chest.
Patrick stood numbly, too shocked to do anything but stare with wide eyes until Nate cried out to him for help. The creature swiped at Nate again and suddenly Patrick screamed, lunging for the creature with outstretched arms. But the beast was fast and strong, if tiny, and Nate, flailing about in his attempt to push it off, stumbled.
He fell backwards and windmilled his arms, trying to regain his balance and keep the creature at bay, but he was too preoccupied to watch his step.
Patrick watched the whole thing unfold in slow motion, like a really bad film; the hairless gremlin-like creature clutching savagely to the front of Nate's shirt, claws and fabric soaked with blood; Nate's ashen face, pale with fear and the shining, mysterious light which pulsed when Nathan stumbled backwards before it swallowed them whole.
Patrick cried out in alarm, fear and shock and disbelief making him numb as the roaring of blood in his ears drowned out any and all sense of sound.
His face was wet with tears and sweat and his body was shaking as he pushed himself to his feet. He didn't, he couldn't comprehend what had just happened, couldn't explain it if he tried, but all he knew was that something, some ugly, mutated cat with bat-like ears and wicked long claws, had come out of that light, and dragged Nate back through it.
And they hadn't reappeared.
"Nate?" He called out weakly to an empty room, hating the way his voice wavered in the silence. "Nathan!"
Nothing.
Patrick's eyes slid, unwilling, back to the fracture light sitting stagnant in the middle of the room and watching it set fire to something in his blood. Patrick clenched his hands into tight fists at his side, fighting down the growing urge to turn tail and run. He closed his eyes to collect his courage and saw nothing but Nate under the claws of that vicious beast. He saw blood and the echo of his friend's anguished cries drove him forward blindly.
He charged into the light on a whim, shuddering as he passed through it. It made the hair on the back of his neck rise. The sensation of passing through the light was eerie, like pins and needles brushing over every inch of his skin, setting each of his nerves alight. It felt like he had walked through a ghost.
He came through the other side on a run, the momentum carrying him forward until something snagged beneath him and sent him sprawling into the dirt. He landed hard and the air was forced from his lungs hard enough to wind him.
Patrick glanced down at what had tripped him and his heart all but stopped when he recognised the face beneath all the blood.
Tears prickled at the corners of his eyes as he reached out with trembling fingers for a pulse, wishing please no.
Nothing.
"Nate..." he choked on the words as they caught in his throat and remained there until the burning in his chest told him to breathe. He sucked in a deep breath and choked on a sob, the air burning its way out of his lungs in a broken, heady rush that left him coughing. He broke down sobbing, body wrecked with fear and anguish while his mind tried to cope with the shock.
It took a few moments for the tears to subside enough for him to think and he collected himself, wiping his face on his sleeve.
Patrick glanced up and realised with a numb sort of shock that he was no longer in the house. It was a detail his mind had previously glossed over, but now that it hit him, it was all that he could think. He had never been a fan of science, but he didn't have to understand rocket science to know that what had happened, that what he was seeing, was impossible.
He was in a rocky clearing surrounded by trees. The air was humid but the breeze was cool enough to make him shiver through the light material of his t-shirt. The moon hung low in the sky, the only constant; a silver light in the expanse of inky blackness, and it was then that Patrick realised the shining light was gone. The light that had bought him here, that fractured silver light that must have been a door, some kind of gateway to another world.
Something like panic beat in his chest, settled like lead around his heart, and Patrick was suddenly painfully aware that nothing made sense, and the only thing he knew for certain was that the body growing cold on the ground beside him had been one of his best mates. Sickened, he felt the anguish tear at him again and reached down to brush a hand over Nathan's face, closing his eyes for the last time.
As he glanced down at the body of his friend, Patrick couldn’t help but see the jagged wounds that had caused Nate’s death, wounds that painted his vision red with fury at those bat-like creatures that came from the light and stranded them here.
He was too numb to think properly so logic was slow to settle, but when it did it caused a spike of panic so sharp that he was almost certain his heart was trying to pull itself from his chest.
If the creature had come from the light and he was currently inside the light’s source, the probability of there being more of those same creatures was high. Patrick had no idea what kind of animal, if any animal at all, that gremlin was related to, but most animals he knew were drawn to the scent of blood.
Which meant that they would return, eventually.
They had already taken Nathan’s life. But he was a Quinn, and the hell if they were going to take him, too.
He glanced down at Nate’s corpse, feeling a coldness settle in the pit of his stomach at the sight of the blood, a stark, red contrast to the deathly pallor of his skin. He felt the bile rise in his throat at the thought of the blood and the creatures it might attract, but he couldn’t just leave him here as food for those things.
Patrick lugged Nate’s limp body halfway onto his shoulder and started for the cliffs at the edge of the clearing. It was slow-going and he had to stop more than once to regain his breath and rest his arms because his friend’s body was heavier than it looked but he was determined not to leave him behind.
Eventually he reached the cliff-face and found a crack in the wall large enough to crawl into. His stomach twisted when he realised the dip in the wall was not big enough for the two of them and it was a few agonising moments before he convinced himself to let Nate go. He did his best at hiding the body from plain sight, but there was little else he could do in such an open space.
Patrick crawled into his makeshift shelter and drew his knees up to his chest, clenching his eyes shut in sheer terror as the unmistakable growls of the gremlin creatures washed over him. Another emotion squeezed itself in beside the fear, a sick and shameful sense of guilt so powerful it nearly reduced him to tears.
Danny, he prayed as he sat shivering in dark, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to go. I’m sorry. Please, please come help me.
The words offered him some measure of comfort. Danny was always there to protect him. That was one thing he could always count on, one irrefutable constant in his life that never wavered. The reassurance calmed him and slowly Patrick unclenched his fists. His breathing evened out and as he finally dozed off in this unfamiliar place, there was only one thing he knew for certain.
Danny would save him.
14 yrs. // Unknown
He didn’t know when it happened. Even now if he looked back it was hard to distinguish when exactly he had crossed that line. He knows where it started though, because that was a time when most things started for him.
It started when he went through that light, and he’d never had a term for it until he met Emily and her group of time travellers, but before then he’d just called it ‘the light’. He tries to repress that memory, like any of the memories before that time, but he still sees it clear as day whenever he closes his eyes.
He had run screaming from those things. He’d hid, but eventually they found him. His nights those first weeks alone on the other side of the light were filled with nightmares of large eyes and clawed hands and blood; his blood, the blood of his friends, sometimes, even the blood of his brother.
He tried not to think of Danny, but he held out hope that Danny would come and rescue him. Danny would find out where he’d gone and go through that light and bring him home. Danny would save him, just like he had every other time. Danny wouldn’t let him down.
Thoughts of his brother spurred him on. He thought of what his brother would do, what his brother would say in this situation and those imaginary words of encouragement kept him going. His brother was strong. His brother would never run and hide. His brother would fight back, just like he always did.
He wanted to make Danny proud.
So he stopped hiding. He took it upon himself to learn the creatures’ habits. He watched them watching him and eventually he figured out a pattern. He knew what they ate, he knew when they slept and he knew when it was safe to come out of hiding. The creatures could blend into the scenery, he figured that one out at the cost of a nasty scratch across his shoulder that nearly cost his life.
Once he figured out the pattern, it was easy. He’d go out for food in the day, when they were less likely to bother him. Dusk and Dawn were their peak hours, those in between times when the setting or rising sun painted everything in colour and gave them myriad of shades to hide in.
He stuck to open spaces, away from the trees and the rocks and anything which they could find purchase on because he’d learned from experience they liked to attack from above.
The first time he killed one had been purely by accident. He hadn’t meant to kill it, only harm it, knock it unconscious long enough for him to get away. He had no love for these creatures, these living nightmares made real, but he wasn’t a killer. He didn’t want to be the cause of death for any living thing. He didn’t want to see the light leave another creature’s eyes at his own hand.
The first time it happened, he’d broke down sobbing. He bent over the creature’s prone body and cried like it had meant something to him. He’d touched it’s neck where he’d broken it and murmured, “Sorry, sorry, I’m so sorry” until his throat hurt and his lips ran dry.
Those glassy eyes accused him of murder and he saw them in his dreams every night even after he’d closed them and buried the creature in a shallow grave on the other side of his clearing.
The second time it happened, it made him sick. He turned his head and emptied his stomach into the bushes and then buried that creature beside the first.
After a week, he’d buried five bodies.
Six bodies later and the sentiment started to wear off. He didn’t bother to bury the next one at all. He left it where it dropped and moved on without looking back.
By the seventh kill, he was curious. He was hungry and tired of living off of berries and leaves and he’d gone fishing with his dad and Danny countless times, so he knew how to gut a fish. It took longer than he thought, without a proper knife (and because the creatures were hardly as simple as fish), and eventually he’d settled for throwing the whole thing over the fire and picking off the parts that weren’t burned too badly.
He ate with his hands and tried not to think as he licked the grease and marrow off his fingers like a savage, that it felt like the most natural thing in the world.
20 yrs. // 1902
When he stumbled upon that light again, he thought he was seeing things. He thought it was too good to be true, that he was dreaming or hallucinating or both; there were a thousand different reasons to explain what was happening and how it wasn’t real, but none of them could crush the hope that sprang so sharply to life in that moment.
He ran through the light, suddenly a boy again, expecting to come home.
(He’d ended up in an unfamiliar city and the wind was so cold he’d killed a man for his coat.)
The weather was a shock. The air had been just shy of tropical on the other side of that light, and he had grown used to the heat. He also hadn’t realised how used to being alone (lonely) he had become. He wasn’t sure what that place on the other side of the light had been, but it had become increasingly evident that no human had ever touched foot in that place. It was pure, untamed wilderness. (Or perhaps, he thought, reclaimed.)
He had grown accustomed to being the only human around for miles, and being so suddenly dropped back into humanity was a culture shock he wasn’t ready to handle.
Seeing people brought back everything he had tried to forget. It brought back memories and broken promises and a long-buried despair that the cold wind morphed into a raging hatred. He was still operating on his own, acting for survival, and he snapped the neck of the first person he saw without stopping to think until it was over; when the light had already left his eyes and the man was a limp corpse in his arms.
“You were supposed to save me,” he whispered brokenly to the dead man. The body was tall and lanky and he saw his brother in that face though they looked nothing alike. The words stuck in his throat as he choked back a sob. “You didn’t come after me."
He had propped the dead man up against the wall and he stepped back. He would have buried the body but the ground was frozen and impossible to dig up, so he took the man’s coat to ward off the chill and disposed of the rest of him behind the nearest building. He expected to feel remorseful, ashamed, guilty, any of the things he didn’t feel, but all he felt was hollow; an all-consuming emptiness that would eventually manifest into a dark and deadly desire for revenge.
He lost something of himself that day. He may have snapped the ragged, lanky man’s neck, but it was Patrick Quinn who died when the light left the man’s eyes.
From this day onward, he would take a new name. He was no longer the mouthy but good-natured kid of fourteen who snuck off with his friends and found himself in another world. He was twenty years old and hardened from experiencing the world in its most basic and primitive form.
He was a killer. He’d had to kill to survive, but in the end, it was his choices that had lead him down this path. He had made the decision to follow his friends into that house; he had taken the dare to touch the sparkling light in the middle of the room and he had snapped that man’s neck without so much as a second thought.
He took the name Ethan Dobrowski as a vow and a beginning. The real Ethan Dobrowski lay limp at his feet. The name was also a reminder of who he had become.
He was a man out of time and Patrick was nothing more than a body in the snow.
28 yrs // 1867
A lot of things in Ethan’s life were unexpected. Love was the last thing he expected to find, but in the end it found him. One of the lights, doorways he realised they were, doorways to other times; one of the doorways lead him to Victorian England, circa 1867.
There he encountered a headstrong woman who introduced herself as Lady Emily and who seemed all too curious about the anomalous light. He found her edging closer to it as he emerged and nearly bowled her over. She had startled backwards in surprise and his resulting laughter made her angry. She had shouted at first, but then her curiosity won out and she questioned him relentlessly.
“Who are you? Where did you come from?” She demanded. “What is that light? Where does it lead?” And so on until she simply ran out of questions and patience for his silence demanded answers. Her quick temper amused him.
“If you have food to offer, perhaps I’ll answer your questions."
Her disapproval was obvious in the scowl she threw him, but after a moment of observing, she agreed to formally invite him to dine with her and her husband to talk about what he had seen and where he had been.
He had gone for the promise of a free meal and found a woman there unlike any other he had ever seen. She had a quiet, undeniable sense of grace so unlike that of her strong-willed friend, but she stood out to Ethan like a beacon in the darkness.
Charlotte, her name was. She watched him intently throughout the meal as Ethan explained his travels (carefully omitting certain unsavoury details) and her interest had pleased him greatly.
Recounting his travels, however, put him in a foul mood and he excused himself from the table and withdrew into the drawing room, where he paced in agitation as he tried to stem the flow of memories he had repressed for years.
That’s where Charlotte found him, announcing her presence with a quiet cough and he looked up, startled to find her standing in the doorway. He had been rude to her and yet she still came after him. The effect was oddly humbling and he felt a sudden inane desire to tell her everything, including the parts he deliberately left out.
She continued to show him compassion until he turned on her.
“Why are you like this?” he snapped, partly pleased when she flinched back, eyes wide. “What do you gain from treating me nicely?” He took a step towards her and then another until he had her cornered between the bookcase and the drawing table, his body barring her way. He drew in close, eyes burning and purposely crowded her personal space.
“Do you have any idea of the things I’ve done?” He asked. “If you had, I’m certain you wouldn’t be standing here now.”
There was a trembling in her shoulders but she held her head high, defiant, and met his eyes. Her courage startled him and he found himself wanting to break it down, smash her kindness to pieces until she was reduced to tears. So he reached out to stroke her cheek, his voice a deliberate growl.
“I’ve killed people, Charlotte. Six men, for no reason at all. Do you really want to be near such a monster? These hands,” Ethan murmured, hands on her face, tilting her chin up so she would meet his eyes. He rested one hand on her neck with his thumb at her pulse. “These hands have murdered people.”
By now a delicate shudder ran through her body, and Ethan could feel her pulse spike rapidly under his thumb, but she didn’t draw away or fight off his hands. She merely looked him in the eyes and the compassion in her eyes startled him.
“Surely there must be a reason -”
“There was no reason," he said coldly, voice flat. “The first man I killed for his coat." His other dropped from her chin to pluck at the black fabric of his collar. “The very coat I’m wearing. I snapped his neck and left his body in the snow.”
Her stare didn’t waver.
“The second,” he continued. “I killed for money. I was hungry, so I killed him and dumped his body in an alley for the rats to find.”
“The third man...” he trailed off, his eyes miles away in thought. He barked a laugh that made Charlotte jump beneath his fingers. “I killed him simply because he bothered me. He reminded me of someone I didn’t like." Ethan scowled at the memory. “So I killed him and dropped his body in the river.”
“The fourth," something wicked gleamed in his eyes and tainted the smile that played around the edges of his mouth. “The fourth I killed in front of his family. They didn’t raise a finger to stop it from happening, but once he was dead they broke down sobbing-”
Charlotte’s eyes were glassy and her voice shook, just a little. “Why are you telling me these things?" She whispered.
Ethan shook his head and laughed, and then she finally flinched. He smiled like a shark. “I want you to know what kind of a man I am."
“Are you going to kill me?"
“Kill you?" The question took him by surprise. He released her suddenly, agitated and thrown by the direct question. “Why would I kill you?”
“I know your secrets, milord. God forbid I were to use them against you. You have just confessed to the murder of six people, four of whom you told me about in detail. I could have you arrested.”
Something like fear beat in his chest, and his dark eyes suddenly turned cold.
“You wouldn’t.”
Charlotte shook her head, and the rage in his heart stilled.
“No, milord, I could never disgrace a guest in such a way. Not in Lady Emily’s company."
Ethan watched her for a moment, until her words sputtered to a stop and a light flush spread itself across her cheeks, painting them a delicate shade of pink. He leaned in and kissed her on impulse. Charlotte’s breathing picked up, her heart beating hard against his. Her hand went to her lips as they parted and she looked at him with a new sense of wonder.
“You really were telling the truth, weren’t you? About the gateways. You must truly be from another time."
Ethan felt an amusement tug his lips into a grin. “What makes you say that?”
“Because a gentleman would never be so forward, especially not in another’s manor.”
He laughed. “You’re forgetting, Charlotte. I’m hardly a gentleman.”
Ethan jumped when Charlotte touched his hand and she startled, surprised by her own boldness. But the gesture seemed to give her some kind of confidence and she met his eyes with determination.
“You’re not a bad person, Ethan. Whatever you might have done. There is still good in you, somewhere. I’m certain of it.”
The words stuck with him, struck him speechless, and for a moment he was a child again. He found himself wanting to please her. Some foolish, desperate part of him wanted her words to be true.
Charlotte’s hand touched his face and his eyes went to hers; wide, startled.
“There, you see,” she said with a kind smile. “There he is.”
Ethan narrowed his eyes in suspicion. “There who is?"
“The gentleman. Sometimes you just look positively like a boy lost in his own skin.” Charlotte’s eyes softened. “I like this side of you."
Their courtship was short-lived. Ethan was unaccustomed to the strict rules of the Victorian Era gentlemen, and he suspected he often over-stepped his boundaries. Charlotte didn’t seem to mind. She was too far smitten with this mysterious stranger from another time to think rationally about things like propriety and sense.
They made love on the third day, Charlotte a willing and blushing maiden and Ethan fumbling his way through it with as much grace as his limited experience would allow. The experience was new for the both of them. Ethan had to remind himself that Charlotte was different from the girls of his own time. He tried to be gentle, though he suspected he was rougher than Charlotte had expected. Charlotte had simply clung to him afterwards and told him she loved him and he was at a loss for the feelings those words put into him.
Their one night of passion caused a rift with her family and he found he never more understood Romeo in that moment. He was overcome with the desire to kill them for disgracing and disowning her for something as simple as love, but something about Charlotte calmed that raging fire in his heart.
“Come with me,” he said one afternoon, as they lay naked and tangled together in the sheets. “We’ll go through the gateway. I’ll take you to a different time. You could be free, Charlotte.”
She blushed and ducked her head, avoiding his eyes at first, but it only took a little nudging before he managed to get her to agree. They were to head for the gateway the next day.
When he came to call on her the next day, Emily was standing by her side, dressed to leave.
“What is this?” Ethan demanded. “Charlotte, what’s she doing here?”
Emily glared at him. “I’m coming with you." It was not a question. Her words were sharp, reproachful and reminded Ethan of another time.
He laughed. “Who says I’ll take you along?”
“Charlotte is my friend, too," Emily asserted, stalking forward to crowd into his personal space. The confrontation was a pleasant surprise after the demure demeanor of the other Victorian women.
“You don’t think I would just let her willingly go off with a stranger, do you? Besides,” she continued before Charlotte could protest. “I’m curious about the gateways you speak of. I’d like to see them for myself.”
Ethan just stared at her in bemusement, wondering just what she thought she was capable of against him, and she stared back, unwavering. It was clear her mind was already made up.
“If you go with me,” he started, narrowing his eyes. “I’m not responsible for you. You have to look after yourself.” He looked her up and down in contempt and she only bristled under his stare.
“What can you do?” He sneered. “How will you possibly defend yourself?”
Emily moved so suddenly that she caught Ethan off guard. He blinked and found her with a knife at his throat and a fire in her eyes.
Charlotte gasped. “My lady, please!"
The blade didn’t waver. Her grip was sure and steady and the set of her mouth was grim. Ethan grinned at the challenge in those eyes and pressed forward until the point of the blade bit uncomfortably into his throat, not quite enough to break the skin. He wondered if Emily would actually have the courage to use it.
Ethan pushed forward just a bit more, a wicked grin splitting his lips as a thin trickle of blood bloomed under the knife’s point and gathered at the base of his throat.
Emily’s eyes widened and she dropped the knife as though it had burned her. Ethan laughed, amused and intrigued.
“Very well,” he conceded. “But know that if you go with us, you will have to use that knife of yours."
Her eyes narrowed as she slipped the blade back into her belt. “What about Charlotte?”
Ethan glanced over at his bride, who looked pale and shaken and he felt anger stir in his heart that anything dare put her into such a state. He turned back to Emily with that fierce desire to defend her still written all over his face.
“I’ll protect her.” It was a statement, not a question, and it was one Emily grudgingly accepted for truth.
“Thank you,” she told him sincerely.
Ethan shrugged off the courtesy and took Charlotte’s hand. He peered into her face and when he caught her eyes he felt a warmth stirring in his chest, fierce and burning. She made him feel truly human again.
“Don’t be frightened,” he told Charlotte softly. “There’s a whole new world just beyond that light.” He even spared Emily a glance long enough to catch the light of the gateway reflected in her eyes. “Let’s see where this gateway takes us."
Charlotte gave his hand a squeeze and smiled.
“Anywhere,” she answered, as the three of them stepped towards the gateway in unison. “So long as I’m with you.”