Treagar's Redemption, page 3
part #1 of Woodland Creek Series
Now, if only he could wash the blood from his hands. He looked around the cell. Save for the narrow cot, there were no facilities to make a prisoner comfortable. He didn’t expect any either.
Just as he itched with the need to have water run down his body, the door opened. Marcus’ gaze tracked the tall, lithe man in what he could see was a tailor made suit, and who wore his long hair tied in a queue. His tread was light, barely a whisper, and Marcus could swear that the soles of his shoes hardly touched the ground. Something in the periphery of Marcus’ consciousness pushed its way to the forefront of his mind. He tried to hold on to it, but he would’ve had a better chance of holding on to smoke than to the memory that refused to surface.
“Dad will take your case.” Paisley appeared behind her father and moved toward the cell’s grills. Marcus latched on the happy note lilting in her voice, her midnight blue eyes shining with hope. She swept her arm in a grand gesture. “My father, James Halleran.”
Marcus strode forward, and the man sucked in a harsh breath. If there was no cell door, he would have pumped the man’s hand in gratitude. “Thank you. I am deeply in your—”
“No.” Pallor seeped into James’ face, pain and disbelief replacing it in equal measure. His voice, tight. “No…I…I’m sorry.” He looked at Paisley, stricken and didn’t look back at Marcus. “I can’t help you.”
“What? Dad, you just said you would,” Paisley said in surprise before glancing at Marcus and her father alternately. “He’s innocent.”
James’ face hardened and a muscle ticked in his jaw. A frown creased the middle of Marcus’ forehead at the full blown fury in James’ eyes.
“I can’t defend him,” James said in a harsh whisper, yet his eyes were transfixed at Marcus.
“Why not?” Paisley’s face mirrored her bewilderment. “Where is your maxim of innocent until proven guilty? Marcus is innocent.”
“No, he isn’t.”
“What?” Paisley gasped.
Astonishment was the least of Marcus’ concerns as his heart plummeted. Not innocent? Did James Halleran know something? He looked at Paisley.
“Have you been here before? In Woodland Creek?” she asked.
Marcus shook his head and turned to James. “No, I swear! Signore, have we met before? Because I do not recall even meeting you.”
“I hardly believe you would.” James sneered, pivoting on his heel before returning to face his daughter. “Sorry, Paise, but I can’t do it. Treagar is on his own.”
James Halleran stormed off, slamming the prison door with a resounding clang.
Arctic cold washed over Marcus and threatened to drown him. What did Halleran mean? Did he or did he not know who Paisley’s father was? James Halleran’s face was not someone Marcus recognized, not even the elusive memory lurking just in the shadows of his mind triggered any familiarity. He could not remember a damn thing!
“Signorina, I swear to you—”
Paisley raised her hand, stopping him from continuing. Her dark eyes searched his face and despite the desperate situation he was in, the urge to take Paisley slammed into him that he staggered back.
The need to make Paisley believe him was much stronger.
“Paisley.” Marcus gesticulated. “You have to believe me, cara. I do not know your father and I do not know what happened before the sheriff found me.”
“It’s okay, Marcus.” Her gaze bored into him like a lead ball into his heart. “I still believe you, but I don’t believe for one minute that my father is telling the truth. He knows more than what he’s led on.” She looked at the space to the side of Marcus’ head. Her eyes flickered, and Marcus could imagine the thoughts passing through those midnight orbs.
“Perché?”
Her gaze held his.
“Because I never gave him your last name.”
..
Night cloaked the nooks and crannies of the mansion when Paisley arrived home. Except for the foyer and hallways that were softly lit by the recessed lights in the ceiling, everything was dark. Leaving her Jeep’s keys in the bowl on the foyer table, Paisley made her way to the library that doubled as her father’s study. Taking a deep breath and straightening her spine, she took hold of the door knob and twisted.
The lamp on her father’s huge mahogany desk cast its net over the strewn papers on its surface. The hearth’s gentle blaze threw light and shadow across the room, making objects loom and ebb in tandem with the flickering flames. Paisley watched her father’s form against the huge window behind his desk as he stared out into the dark garden, a two dimensional silhouette against the glass. Her eyes widened in surprise when she saw her father’s aura. It didn’t matter if it was dark. Her gift was manifesting itself, her inheritance from the shamanic blood running along the highway of her veins. And now as she silently observed her father, she saw the mist surrounding him in a veil.
“Mustard gray,” she commented. “Really, Dad?”
The sudden movement of James’ head was the only acknowledgement of her presence.
“Flexing your unwanted abilities,” he riposted with a tight smile. “Really, Paise?”
She blew out her breath, lifting the few tendrils of hair from her face. She moved further into the room and dumped her purse on the leather couch that faced the fireplace.
“I’m surprised you didn’t come straight home,” James said before Paisley heard the clink of ice against the crystal glass her father had in his hand.
“I went to Virgil’s.” Paisley crossed her arms over her chest. “The prisoner, you knew who he was.”
“You told me who he was.”
“No, I didn’t.”
Her father continued to stare at the garden.
“You said ‘Treagar’,” she pushed.
“You introduced me.”
“I never told you his last name. C’mon, you can do better than that.”
Her father’s body stiffened.
“How did you know his last name was Treagar, Dad?”
Her father bowed his head, studying his drink. “I wasn’t sure it was him.”
Paisley waited and watched as her father pulled the queue from his hair, raking the black and gray strands free. He flung the strip of leather over the papers on his desk before taking a few steps to the small bar by the corner of the wood panelled room. The sharp rap of ice hitting glass and the dull pop of the decanter being opened first hit Paisley’s ears before the noise of liquid sloshing into the Lalique overrode the sound of flames crackling merrily in the hearth.
“Dad?”
“Long story, Paise, and I’m too tired tonight to tell you.” His voice brooked no argument. “I don’t want to get into it.”
If her father was bull-headed, she was like a barracuda that refused to let go.
“C’mon, Dad. What’s happened to giving even the worst criminals a fighting chance?”
“Paisley,” her father warned. Paisley saw his eyes darken even amidst the gloom of the room.
“No,” she said, standing her ground. “I know Marcus is innocent. He didn’t kill that backpacker. And it baffles me that one minute you’ve agreed to take his case and the next you don’t. Heck, you even refused to hear him out even with two cups and a string.”
James knocked back his drink and poured himself another shot. He stared into the bottom of his glass.
“You need to make me understand, Dad. Please,” Paisley pleaded, knowing that time was running out for Marcus. Of all the shifters she had helped, some who had less than savoury reputations, she had never been more certain of anybody’s innocence as much as she did with Marcus Theodoric Treagar. She saw it in the bewilderment on his face, his jaw hardening and his forehead puckering in confusion and dismay at the sight of the drying blood on his hands. Paisley saw it in the resignation that made his shoulders slump one minute before determination not to back down straightened his spine the next. He was a man whom Paisley knew would defend his honor no matter what Woodland Creek’s judgement would be.
Because Marcus Theodoric Treagar was not one of them.
“Dad—”
“That’s enough,” her father roared before throwing his glass across the room, causing Paisley to reel in stunned hurt. The crystal smashed into tiny fragments in the fireplace and glinted like diamonds against the glowing and suddenly brighter flames of the hearth.
Paisley’s heart lodged in her throat. Her father had never lost his temper that way, and to do so because she was convinced of a man’s innocence immobilized her before tears glistened in her eyes. She blinked to regain her focus. Stupefaction dissipated, replaced by the feeling that her father was being unfair.
“Paisley, I’m sorry.”
“If you won’t defend him, I will.” Her voice was hardly a whisper. “I’ll be his advocate and find someone among my contacts who will take his case.”
James’ face hardened, the planes harsher in the flickering firelight. “You’re treading on thin ice, Nuttah.”
Paisley’s heart squeezed painfully. “Yes, Shaman, I am. But so are you.”
She refused to look at the disbelief so stark in her father’s eyes.
“No, Paisley. Don’t do this.” James raised his voice in anguish.
“Askuwheteau,” she murmured, calling her father by his Native American name. Her tears fell when she bowed her head. “There comes a time when the little one must leave the nest to soar like the eagle it was destined to be.”
* * *
Marcus removed his clothes and prepared to retire for the night. Despair and hope coiled tightly inside him in equal measure while acknowledgement of his fate encroached like a red tide. There was also the physical hunger, his gut gurgling and burning in the absence of food. Either Sheriff Trent had forgotten he had a prisoner or he opted not to bother providing him with sustenance.
Marcus heaved a huge sigh and lay down flat on the cot. He’d been in more dire straits than this, and he had no doubt that he would survive the night. He stared at the ceiling, the sounds of the crickets and whispering waves of coolness against his heated skin his only companions. A frown made two vertical lines between his eyes as he tried to remember what pulled him away from his time.
The party thrown by Euric in his honor continued until the early hours of the morning. Guests continued to partake in the abundance of food and drink, taking to the marble dance floor even after their legs were too tired to carry their weight. They fell in heaps across the space, splashing the pale marble with jewelled hues of purple, red, blue, and green. The quartet continued playing, the tune discordant and tired after a very long night. Marcus had retired to the library to continue reading his father’s journal.
Always his father’s journal.
He knew the answer to his curse was hidden there, somewhere in the pages of his sire’s scrawl. The sire he missed, and the mother whose warm embrace and gentle words had always comforted him. Snatched away from him in the cruellest of ways.
Victims of a rabid being that sliced their bodies to shreds.
Just as he turned to one side, he heard voices before a strong wave of dizziness sucked into him.
“Fanculo! No!”
The room spun like a top on its axis. Marcus was helpless as he was sucked into the vacuum of his nightmare, where there was no up or down, no gravity. Where he floated and hoped that it would finally be his end no matter how many times he prayed not only to the Christian God, but to all of the deities of the cultures he encountered in his travels. It was a very dangerous thought, but Marcus didn’t care. Because traveling through time always landed him in a place where there was a mangled body, and his hands and mouth smeared with blood.
The spiralling stopped, but the muscle that allowed blood to flow and keep him alive continued to pound aloud in his head. He swallowed, grateful that no bile was forthcoming before he opened his eyes.
It was dark and his naked front felt a cool and soft breeze, like fingertips dancing over his skin. His back was warm and heating up in increments until he felt his skin begin to sting. Rolling and instantly landing on all fours, Marcus growled only to see it was a fireplace.
The one in his library.
He was home.
Sitting back on the floor, he sighed in relief, hanging his head and trying to get his bearings. From his past sojourns he knew that it would be months before he was pulled through time again. For now, he was safe. Still, he longed for his curse to work now, wanted to return to Woodland Creek. His promise to himself not to get involved with another woman in the time he was thrown into crumbled in the face of seeing the dark haired blue eyed goddess. Even now, he couldn’t get his mind off her or the kindness she showed him. He longed for the sound of her voice even when she was irritated. He knew that she was perfect for him because of her inner strength and conviction, and of her sense of fairness. He longed to taste her lips, to mold her body against his, to feel her softness and her warmth surrounding him until they both found their sexual release. It was also because his beast was at the moment howling in protest at the loss of proximity to the woman who could tame him. Marcus wanted to return to the place where he had finally found the woman he knew was truly his soulmate.
Paisley Halleran.
Sunlight filtered through the billowing muslin curtains of the balcony. The sounds of the city rousing from slumber joined the sloshing of the canal’s waters against the city’s banks. The putrid smell of the early morning ablutions of the citizens was still absent, but soon it would waft through the windows of the houses where the inhabitants turned away from the smell. It didn’t really matter. Thank the ever merciful God for Venetian engineers. A gravity driven drainage system called the fognatura took care of taking away human waste with the help of the canal’s tides.
Marcus stood and waited for the residual dizziness to subside before entering a chamber just off the library. Unbeknown to Euric, he had commissioned the construction of a bathing chamber inside the house with water piped in and controlled by spigots. The engineers initially scoffed at the ridiculous idea, but when Marcus produced plans he had copied during one of his travels, the engineers agreed on the condition that they, too, would construct the same bathing chamber in their own homes. It was a secret all concerned kept lest the Pope heard of it and considered it the work of the devil. Marcus only knew too well that if it landed in the Vatican’s hands, the righteous would claim it as their own.
He made the act of stripping, only to realize that he had shed his borrowed clothes before lying down. He turned the spigot and water flowed, splattering its coolness against his heated skin and marble floor. He groaned in relief as the water started to work its wonders of removing grime, dirt, and blood from his body, his head, his mouth, and his hands. With brisk strokes, he scrubbed himself with the handmade olive soap he scooped from the sea shell embedded in the wall. Although he was relieved that he was back in his own time before fate dealt another cruel blow by throwing him away again, there was a hollow feeling inside his chest at the knowledge that he would never see Paisley Halleran again. It was just as well for he didn’t know how much more battering his weary heart could take whenever he left the woman he fell in love with. But unlike the other women he had fallen for, he was never more certain than when he saw the dark-haired, sapphire-eyed beauty who was thoroughly convinced of his innocence.
Marcus twisted the spigot closed, staying in place and looking up while he let most of the water stream down his hair and torso. He walked across to the window that overlooked the inner courtyard, allowing the breeze to partially dry him. He breathed in the floral scents that came from the garden below before looking down, over the solid marble balcony hiding his lower limbs. The household, already awake since the night before, were already hard at work cleaning the mansion. Exhaling, he moved back inside, past the bathing chamber and into the dressing room. He gathered some mint leaves from a wooden container with mother-of-pearl inlay, stuffed them in his mouth and began chewing. The taste of blood soon disappeared, replaced by its fresh flavor. Finally, taking an Egyptian cotton towel to dry completely, his musings turned to his father’s journals while he dressed himself.
Returning to the library, he unlocked a secret compartment just by the side of his desk where he had hidden Alaric Treagar’s diaries. Not even Euric knew this secret location. If Marcus was to find his parents’ murderer, he would rather that he kept his findings close to his heart. When Euric told him the killer could not be found, Marcus let out an anguished roar, his beast seeking vengeance. He had shifted and stalked the streets of Venice, picking up every scent that could lead him to his prey, but his sabretooth found nothing. Not even the oily scent he noticed on the night of the murder that was forever etched in his mind. If it had not been for his uncle, Marcus would have opted to stay in his beast form and remain there. It was the only way he could control his human grief. It was Euric who coaxed him out of his pain, sending him to far flung areas with the merchant ships, taking the place of his parents as his mentor until the deep wounds of his parents’ death were covered by a huge scab of remembrance.
His father had written several journals before he and Marcus’ mother were murdered. On the first page of every journal was one word.
Verità.
After their deaths Marcus combed every journal, read every page slowly, and tried to decipher every possible hidden meaning in the entries. More often than not, he’d be tempted to throw the bound tomes because he never came close to finding out who killed his parents. Verità meant truth and Marcus clung to the hope that he would find the truth to why his parents were killed. Instead, each meticulously written entry talked of the mundane, everyday lives of people in Venice until Marcus reached the entry about the strange visitors. A Native American shaman and his bride who had traveled to Venezia. It was something unheard of happening in his own time. He remembered them vaguely, remembered the shaman’s anguish and his chanting before they disappeared into a rip that suddenly appeared in the air. It was then that he began to travel. Admittedly a curse that was foisted on him on the night of his parents’ murder, Marcus’ ability to travel through time allowed him to discover new lands without having to step foot on his merchant ships. The fact that people believed the world was flat and ships could fall once it reached the ends of the earth was something he knew was untrue, or that legendary sea monsters were just huge fish with grotesque faces. And mermaids? He still had to see one to believe they existed.
