by Rylee Swann
Echoes of Time
Echoes of Time Travel: Book One
Rylee Swann
Copyright © 2020 by Rylee Swann
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Created with Vellum
Contents
DESCRIPTION
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Also by Rylee Swann
About Rylee Swann
DESCRIPTION
Alien. Assassin. Time Traveler.
Shawn Paros, a flawed and dangerous time-traveling alien, is living his life out on earth as a hired assassin.
Cold, calculated, and emotionless, he makes for the perfect career criminal. But nothing could prepare him for Rayna Newman, the one person who can tear down all of his defenses.
Rayna breathes life into his pointless world, and now, he'll do whatever it takes to hold on to her. Even honoring her most absurd request: to work for the United States government and stop his criminal ways.
There's only one problem.
The government wants him dead.
1
1983
Not for the first time since coming to Earth, Shawn Paros wondered what the hell he was doing. He was a damned time traveler from another planet, and he wasted his life on meaningless jobs like petty theft and assassination.
He’d been hired to steal an antique ring and make the job look like a random robbery. While casing the house a sudden searing, blinding pain knocked him on his ass.
Under the warm blanket of a moonless July night in a quiet Long Island neighborhood, he should have been safe, the inky darkness a friendly companion covering a multitude of sins.
Including his own.
But it also had covered whoever shot him as dusk dissolved into night.
He hadn’t seen the shooter or the bullet that raced at him from what could have been miles away. The sniper had been accurate, only missing lethal damage by millimeters. Instead, the metal plowed through his stomach alongside vital organs, inflicting the worst possible pain.
Blood seeped through his fingers as he pressed his hand tight against the wound. He’d been trained to compartmentalize pain, to ignore it, push past until it no longer existed. This pain was different. A low grunt escaped his lips as a new excruciating wave dazzled his senses, stealing the oxygen from his lungs.
He stumbled over a tree root pushing through a crack in the sidewalk. He never stumbled; he was as sure-footed as a cat on the prowl. Tonight, however, was different.
He needed medical attention. His training and mental and physical fortitude had gotten him this far, but the misstep he’d just taken was a sign he had little time left. If he tripped again, and fell, he worried that he wouldn’t be able to get up. He couldn’t keep wandering without a direction, without a plan.
He pushed unruly long black hair from his eyes, his hand coming back wet with sweat. Wiping his hand dry on his acid-washed jeans, he stopped on unsteady feet to assess the situation, get his bearings, and—much to his dismay—catch his breath.
Trees lined the street, the houses packed one atop the other as most were on Long Island. He squinted to read the street sign and found he was two blocks east of the house he’d been casing to rob. Mentally shaking himself, he focused on putting one foot in front of the other, a task that caused sweat to bead on his forehead.
Quiet laughter behind him reached his ears and he tensed, every muscle coiling, preparing to spring into action. He crossed the street so he could look back without being obvious and found a young couple holding hands, heads drawn together in what appeared to be loving conversation.
Shawn hurried forward to the next crosswalk and turned down the first side street, moving farther away from the couple.
Five quick puffs of dirt and grass flew up into the air from the row of trees between the sidewalk and street. Gunshots.
Sonofabitch! A silencer.
Shawn recoiled, diving into a crouch. Little black spots danced before his eyes and he willed himself not to pass out. The silent gunshots stopped, and he hurried the opposite way.
Here the houses were spread a little farther apart. He treaded carefully down a path between two houses to around the back, crouching under windows to avoid being seen. The house on the right had a fenced-in backyard but the one on the left was wide-open. A light burned in the ground-level window near the back door, a sign the home was occupied, but Shawn couldn’t wait to find a better situation. He needed to get off the street in case whoever shot him was on the way to finish the job. Even in his weakened state, he could handle the occupants.
Pulling his Glock 17 from its shoulder holster, he continued in a crouch to the back door. He took a breath and then in one swift movement kicked it in.
As the door slammed against the wall, he rushed in and planted his feet on the linoleum floor. His gun held at the ready in front of him, he surveyed the kitchen. A woman screamed in surprise as she fell from her chair at the kitchen table to land on her ass with a small “oomph.”
Shawn leveled the gun on her as he closed the door behind him. The large wooden table partially obstructed his view of the woman, but he still had a clear enough shot if needed.
“Who else is here?” His voice was deep, demanding in no nonsense clipped words.
“Oh god, oh god, oh god.” She began a crab walk toward the archway leading into the next room.
Forcing the pain from his voice, he huffed quietly. “Stop or die.”
She froze in place, whimpering.
“Stand, now! Answer me. Who else is here?”
She struggled to her feet, wavy chestnut brown hair obscuring her face until with shaking hands she pushed it away and settled her wide-eyed gaze on him.
“N-no one,” she stammered. “Please, don’t…”
Shawn made a quick assessment of her. Early twenties, lithe, harmless. Barefoot, stringy denim cutoffs, black tank top. Hair styled in a seventies throwback, parted in the middle with lush waves framing her face and falling to her shoulders. Intelligent bright blue eyes. Like the ocean on a sunny day. Beautiful. He blinked in surprise as this last bit of data registered, but shrugged it off. He stood upright on borrowed strength and could not afford distraction. But there was more. He sensed recognition in those eyes.
She recognized him? What the hell did that mean?
“You are alone here?” he asked.
She nodded, her lips quivering as she tried to form the word. “Yes.”
Another quick calculation. She wasn’t furtively glancing to where someone might be concealed. The house was silent. He chose to believe her, yet keep her on edge, fearful.
“You lie, you die.” Moving forward, he swept an assortment of textbooks, pens, pencils, markers, and notebooks of
f the kitchen table and to the floor. They made a cacophonous thud as they landed, and she winced.
He pulled out a chair and with a mostly concealed sigh, sat down. The red cushion let out a puff of air like it was sighing with him. “What is your name?”
She stared at him blankly.
“Your name,” he said again, his voice rough with insistence, placing his gun on the table but still pointed in her direction.
This brought her back from whatever frightened inner thoughts had rendered her mute. “Rayna.”
“Rayna.” He nodded and lifted his dark blue shirt. Pain radiated like fire, bringing a grimace to his face as he fussed with the strap to the small fanny pack he wore with clumsy fingers. Finally releasing the catch, he flung it onto the tabletop and drew in a shaky breath.
“Oh, my god.” She pointed to the brown leather pouch. “Is that blood? Are you bleeding?” Her demeanor changed, suddenly seeming calmer now that his wound had been revealed. “Let me—”
Having no patience, the blood loss making him sleepy, he waved a hand at her. “Shut up and listen—”
“Or I die. Yeah, yeah, I get it.”
Shawn smirked. She possessed fire in the face of the danger he represented. He liked that.
She took a couple of steps closer. “I’m a nurse, well, almost a nurse.” She motioned to the books strewn on the blue-flowered linoleum floor. “Final exams. But I can help.”
He pushed the pouch toward her. “Yes, you’ll help. Open that. It’s my first-aid kit. I’ll tell you what to do.”
With fingers as clumsy as his had been, she unzipped the pouch and peered at the contents. Her nose wrinkled. “What…?”
“Dump it out. Hurry.”
Turning over the bag, she let the contents spill onto the table near enough for him to reach them without effort. Out fell twigs, roots, and bits of bark as well as sprigs of echinacea, sage, and rosemary, along with aloe vera leaves.
With a practiced eye, Shawn separated from the mix of fresh and dried herbs what he wanted and pushed the handful of leaves and sprigs toward Rayna. “Make a poultice from this. And here.” He motioned to some bark. “Make tea from that.”
Rayna scooped up the bark and took a closer look. “What is this?”
“Willow bark.” He met her eyes and wiped sweat from his brow. “For the pain.”
Her mouth formed a perfect little “o” of understanding. “I have aspirin. Wouldn’t that be easier? Faster?”
“Do as I say.”
“Why?”
Through gritted teeth, he said, “Because I cannot take manufactured medicine.”
“You’re allergic?” Her voice rose with budding interest.
He only offered a half shrug. “Make the tea and poultice. This is what I need from you.”
“Alright, alright.” She moved to the sink and filled a red kettle with water before setting it on the stove to boil. Taking a large blue mug from a cupboard, she placed it in front of Shawn. “So, this stuff really works?” She motioned with the willow bark as she dropped it in the mug.
“Native Americans gave your people aspirin. It works.”
She turned and rummaged for something deep within one of the cupboards but glanced back at him. “My people?”
“My skin is darker than yours and my hair black, long, and straight. You know I am not white like you.”
Finding what she was looking for with a little triumphant “aha,” she returned to the table with a pestle and mortar. “Yeah, you’re Native. Big deal.”
In that moment, his pain receded and a different sort of red haze clouded his vision. Her insolence was intolerable. Yet, her teasing smile allowed him to relax like a flag sagging on a windless day.
“You recognized me, didn’t you?” He wanted her to talk, to explain, to tell him a story. Any story to keep his mind focused on something other than the pain rushing through him in a burning torrent.
“Yes, I did.” From behind the dish drain she pulled out a wooden cutting board and placed it on the table. “I’ll need a knife to make the poultice.”
Shawn placed a hand on his gun and pointed it at the cutting board. “Go ahead.”
From a drawer, she removed a large chef’s knife and carefully returned to the table. Standing before the cutting board, she piled up the assortment of herbs Shawn had singled out and began mincing them. “What happened to you?”
“Shot.”
She flinched, the knife momentarily losing its rhythm of rocking back and forward.
“Oh…um…by who?”
“I don’t know.” His eyes moved from her face to the knife and back again. “Prove to me you know who I am.”
She glanced at him and continued mincing the herbs. “Shawn Paros, thief, criminal, killer, Native American. You slip out of the most tightly woven mantraps, as if you disappear into thin air. No one knows where you live or where you came from, but you’re considered one of the most dangerous men alive. Some think you’re amoral and others think you’re sociopathic. Many think you’re both.”
“And what do you think?”
Just then the tea kettle blared out a whistle to indicate boiling water, jarring Rayna and preventing her from answering. Setting down the knife, she raised the pot by its heat-proof handle and poured the steaming water into Shawn’s mug.
Shawn breathed in deeply the acrid aroma of willow bark tea and motioned with a jerk of his chin for Rayna to continue with the poultice. The tea had to steep before it would be any good to him, and he desperately needed to pack the healing properties of the medicinal herbs onto his gunshot wound. He felt lightheaded and could use a distraction to stay awake and alert. He would use Rayna for that purpose.
“So, you know all this about me,” he said, “but you seem unafraid.”
She finished the chopping and scooped the herbs to one side with the blade, transferring them to the white ceramic mortar. “Oh, I’m afraid. I know what you’re capable of, but I’m also not stupid. You need me right now, so I figure I’m safe for the time being.”
Her hands shook as she picked up the pestle and began grinding the mixture as if to emphasize her hidden fear.
Shawn remained silent as Rayna took his mug and poured a little of the hot water into the mortar before continuing with the pestle. He wanted nothing more than to close his eyes and rest, if only for a few minutes. That was not an option, so he roused himself with a painful adjustment as he sat up straighter. He couldn’t keep a small grunt from escaping his lips.
Rayna darted a glance at him. “I’m sorry. It’s almost ready.”
He nodded, barely having the strength to speak.
Another fifteen seconds went by, the only sounds the striking of the pestle against the mortar and Shawn’s labored breathing.
Finally, Rayna appeared satisfied with the consistency of the paste for the poultice. “Okay, I think this is ready.” Turning to him, she motioned to his upper body. “Umm…where were you shot?”
“Stomach.” A shock of hair fell into his eyes, but he didn’t bother raising a hand to push it away. Instead, he shoved away from the chair back and unbuttoned his shirt. It had to come off for the poultice to go on. As he tried to shrug his shoulders out of the shirt, a wave of pain overtook him, and he collapsed backwards.
Glancing up at Rayna’s horrified expression, hand clamped across her mouth, he realized his own face had betrayed him. She knew the agony he was in.
She came around the table and stood before him, eyebrows raised.
He didn’t like her proximity. He reached for the gun and tightened his hand on the grip, pointing the barrel at her.
Her eyes flicked in that direction, but she didn’t back off. “Listen to me. I’m a couple of exams away from being a full-fledged nurse. I can help you, if you’ll let me. It’s my calling to help the injured, okay? I just need to know that your hand isn’t going to spasm in pain and shoot me while I’m doing it.”
He didn’t respond, but relaxed his hand, letting go
of the gun completely as she knelt down in front of him and pushed the shirt off his shoulders. He couldn’t help much, so she did most of the work until the shirt was off. She let it drop from her hands onto the floor, swallowing hard and staring until he straightened his shoulders in an attempt to bring her back to the problem at hand.
Shawn had a swimmer’s body. Broad shoulders, long and limber muscular arms and legs, and a flat, perfectly chiseled abdomen. He’d slept with many women, and they’d all fawned and drooled over his physique.
“The poultice,” he said, annoyed.
Her gaze traveled upward until she met his eyes. “Yes, yes, sorry. There’s so much blood…”
She rose quickly, grabbing a basin from below the sink before pouring the remaining water from the tea kettle into it. Pulling a wash rag from a hook by the sink, she returned to Shawn, and dropped to her knees in front of him.
“The water is still warm. I need to clean you up so I can see where the damage is.” After dipping the rag into the basin, she wrung it out. The water made a peaceful gurgling sound as it dripped, lulling Shawn into relaxing further.
Half closing his eyes, he said, “Hurry.”
With the gentlest of touches, Rayna wiped away the blood on Shawn’s stomach, careful not to touch the bullet hole itself—a small entry wound that no longer bled. Her fingers danced lightly on his skin, and gooseflesh rippled across his skin.
Adjusting her position, she looked up, her mouth parting, her eyes warm and sympathetic to his pain. “I…um…I’ll put the poultice on now. It might hurt…”