Fisher

by L. L. Muir

  “And so. Tomorrow...”

  “Tomorrow?” Her heartbeat kicked up a notch, wondering if he were going to ask to see her again.

  “Um... Er... That duty ye’ve yet to perform. The one I interrupted today...”

  “Oh. Yeah.” She tried not to sound too disappointed. “I’ll go up there in the morning, I think, before people start sitting on the steps to eat their lunch. Apparently, the weather doesn’t bother them.”

  “S’il vous plait—that is, if it pleases ye, I’d like to come along.”

  “Back to Sacré-Cœur? You won’t try to stop me again?”

  “I’ll not try to stop ye. Besides, as ye’ve already learned, Paris is not the sort of place a comely lass should be wandering alone.”

  She stopped and stared at him while she tried to remember the order of the unlucky events of the day. The metro. The Frenchman. The clothing shop, then the Frenchman again. She’d seen the Scot at the corner, before turning up the street toward the cathedral. Then again at the top, when he’d shouted at her. The Frenchman, who had absolutely taught her it was dangerous to be alone in Paris, had come along before she ever saw Fisher the first time. And she’d outrun the creepy man long before she’d run into the Scot the second time.

  It all overlapped.

  She put her hands on her hips. “I think you’d better explain what you’re talking about.”

  Fisher bit his lip again, glanced to the side, then stomped his feet on the damp sidewalk. It was something a kid might do while they tried to figure out some lie to get themselves out of trouble.

  “I believe ye ken what I am referring to, Martine. That Frenchman who dared put his hands on ye earlier this day.”

  “You saw him?”

  “I did.”

  “You saw him chasing me?”

  “I did, that.”

  “And you didn’t do anything to help me?”

  The Scot gasped and let his jaw hang open. “Ye got away, did ye not?”

  “I was terrified,” she whispered, then took a few steps back, wondering if she might have been slow on the uptake yet again. Maybe, being alone with a strange, mumbling Scotsman was just as foolish as moving through Paris alone.

  She was such an idiot.

  Fisher raised his hands like he was surrendering. “Ye misunderstand. I meant to say that ye got away because I intervened. I was there, behind ye both as ye flew up those steps. I finally got between the pair of ye and forced the bastard to give up.

  “I thought I’d outrun him.” She folded her arms, still not convinced.

  “Ye’re right fast, ye are. I was lucky to catch up to ye. But do ye suppose a man like that, small and wiry, prone to chasing down young women, would have given up halfway to the top?”

  She shrugged. “Maybe.” Then she stared down the street while she tried to remember. She’d glanced back, to see if she’d lost the creep, so relieved he’d been headed down the steps. She didn’t remember seeing a big Scot draped in plaid, but then again, she’d only been looking for a tan jacket. Besides, she’d been a little preoccupied with her emotions switching over from terror and anger to absolute relief.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t notice you. It’s a little late, but thank you.”

  He smiled and offered his elbow, not crowding her, not insisting. “It was my honor to aid ye. Now, let me escort ye to that hotel of yers. Ye can decide tomorrow if ye and yer sister would care for company.”

  She wasn’t going to lie to herself. It was thrilling to walk arm and arm with the guy, feeling the muscles in his forearm without looking all creepy doing it. If all those women in the tunnel could see her now—and she hadn’t dropped a penny in his cap!

  Well, she’d bought him dinner, but it wasn’t the same. She hadn’t done it just for a chance to touch him. Had she?

  Though her hotel was a half dozen city blocks away, the walk was over too soon. He stopped about six feet from the door and grabbed her hand as she started to let go of him. He said nothing, just smiled down at her. And she smiled back. It was silly, and…delicious. The way her heart pounded in her chest made her feel like she was in high school again.

  He reached out slowly as if he wanted to touch her hair, but then pulled his hand back. Then he retreated a step, like he didn’t dare stand too close. His grin was the only reason she didn’t run off to find a mirror.

  “Shake yer head, Martine.”

  “What?” Her hand shot up to see what was wrong, and her fingers were instantly drenched. Relieved she didn’t have a spider or something on her, she laughed and bent forward, then shook like a dog. Water sprayed everywhere. Her hair felt much lighter, her coat a little drier. “I hadn’t realized it was raining.”

  “Nor had I.” He bent forward and shook like she had but with one hand holding his sash against his chest. The shaking made him look like a fluffy black lion, but she bit her tongue and quickly committed the image to memory.

  He took two slow steps back to her and touched her head this time. “A fine mist, perhaps, that simply settled on our heads. How could we not have noticed the rain?”

  “Mist.” She nodded. “Had to be.” She was careful not to move and scare his hand away. He’d been distracted too. And hopefully, not by the city.

  His hands settled on the sides of her head and he pulled her forward to press his lips, briefly, against her forehead. “Sleep well, Martine.” He let go, but didn’t step back, looking into her eyes as he spoke. “I shall be just here, waiting for ye in the morning. Then ye can tell me if ye’d like me to accompany yerself and yer Ziploc to Sacré-Cœur.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Fisher stuffed his hands in his jacket pockets and watched Martine step though the hotel door without glancing back. After the door had swung itself closed again, Julia’s spirit followed. No chance to chat and make a plan with his fellow ghost, then.

  He was a wee bit miffed that the sister had stood close and discouraged him from kissing Martine on the lips.

  Would it have been so horrible? One kiss? He only had two days—now a day and a half—to enjoy his mortality. He should have ignored the ghost and kissed the lass soundly. Given, it might have cost him the chance to spend tomorrow with her, so perhaps it was good they’d had an unworldly chaperone.

  A chill ran down his spine as a biting reminder he still needed to find both shelter and sleep for his temporarily mortal body or he’d be of little use in the morning. There were those bloody stairs to hike again, and Martine would have no respect for him if he couldn’t make the climb.

  Martine doubted she would sleep a wink, but once she got settled in the lumpy bed and closed her eyes, welcoming whatever Scotsman-induced dream her subconscious desired, she slept like a rock.

  The night was mild enough with her coat added to the blankets. For once, she’d had no dreams. And like a kid on Christmas morning, she sat bolt upright as soon as she realized she was awake.

  He never said what time he’d be back for her…and her Ziploc.

  She giggled. Julia would give her grief if she knew…

  If she knew… If she knew… Come to think of it, how had Fisher known the ashes were in a Ziploc? On the hillside, she’d never pulled it out of her purse. She’d left it in the hotel room when she went looking for dinner in the rain. And when he asked how many sisters she had, she’d told him just the one in her purse.

  Nothing about a Ziploc.

  He couldn’t have assumed. Who in their right mind would carry ashes around in a plastic bag? They were supposed to be treated with respect, carried in something dignified, or something sentimental.

  The ashes had been at the bottom of her purse every time she’d reached in for something else, every time she stopped at a shop. It was a deep purse. He couldn’t possibly…

  Her chest tightened. She could easily feel that firm boney hand clamping around her elbow again. The Frenchman looking back, seeing her, just as he’d been about to go down the metro steps. The Scotsman, just across the street from hi
m…

  No. They couldn’t have been together. They just couldn’t!

  If Fisher were part of some kidnapping operation, why hadn’t he led her away last night, when he had her eating out of the palm of his hand? After his performance in the tunnel, he could have lured away one of his fans, when he’d finished singing.

  Then again, it had been quite a coincidence that he’d ducked into the same tunnel to get out of the rain? The last time she’d seen him was at the cathedral on the other side of the city! The odds were much more reasonable if he’d been following her.

  And now he knew where she was staying, and where she’d be going that morning.

  Martine pulled the blankets up to her chin and scooted back against the headboard. How could she have been so blind? Unlike her beautiful sister, she’d never had a stalker before. What were the chances she’d have two unrelated ones in the same day?

  After a few deep breaths, she tried to look at it from the other side. Was it possible she was just being paranoid? Was it her stupid lack of self-esteem letting her down again, making her question that anyone as handsome as Fisher could be genuinely interested in her? Was there a small chance the guy really liked her? That he’d actually enjoyed their evening together?

  Yes, yes, yes, and…yes.

  “All right. Okay. Then there’s no reason why I shouldn’t get ready.” She climbed out of bed and did just that. But as she was making sure her eyelashes weren’t clumping together, with one last check in the mirror, she pulled back and took a good hard look at the idiot whose stupidity might just get her killed. Or worse.

  But what could she do? Holing up in the hotel might keep her safe from kidnappers, but it wouldn’t get Julia where she needed to go. If Martine hired someone to do the job for her, they’d probably take the money and dump the sack in the closest trash bin. Then Julia would come back to haunt her for sure.

  “Yes, Julia. Please. Come back and haunt me. And if you don’t, I’ll toss the Ziploc in the trash myself.”

  Martine stood perfectly still for a few minutes, waiting for some sign from her sister. But nothing stirred. The red velvet swirls in the wallpaper made a slightly face-like shape that repeated all around the room. But there were no eyes looking back at her. Just a little curl that could be a smile—or a mustache.

  She sighed and slipped into her shoes. “Only one option,” she said aloud, then reached for the door.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Fisher woke long before cockcrow.

  The dawn still slept well beyond the eastern horizon. The sky was still all silence and blackness but for a few insomniac stars that lit the paths twisting through the city park.

  He’d found shelter between thick bushes at the base of a tree that kept most of the rain at bay. His tightly woven tartan did the rest. And when he rose to walk the streets, the storm had passed and left the heavens open to him, as if to say, “There it is, man. All ye need do is reach for it. Simply leave the world behind...”

  But a different sort of heaven awaited him when the sun rose. The chance to spend another hour, another day with Martine.

  To while away his wait, he returned to the street where once his uncle’s house had stood. The row of stone homes built before the eighteenth century, when he’d lived there, were in the process of being restored. The entire street was cordoned off by fences of linked chain. Though his uncles home seemed whole, the house opposite sagged on one side. Its neighbor’s roof was missing and the front wall tipped forward, waiting for permission to fall.

  Loud orange signs warned the public away. A white one promised the historically restored area would be opened by summer. It never promised which summer.

  Historically restored? Just how far back? Did they really want to know what the past held? Fools if they did.

  There seemed to be no space to slip through the barricades to take a peek in his uncle’s windows, so he turned and headed back again. Even the alley was inaccessible thanks to an old house propped up with metal poles and a fence of its own. That barrier threatened to burst its restraints any moment, like the belly of a fat man complaining against the limits of a younger man’s girdle.

  Eager to die and be forgotten.

  Not unlike Miss Martine.

  Frenchmen who were cursed to rise and work at ungodly hours jumped at the sight of a Highlander emerging from the dark end of the lane. Though most offered a nod or some other acknowledgment, Fisher was watched warily as he made his way back toward the woman’s hotel.

  Finally, the indigo sky surrendered to brighter hues. The promise of another day was fulfilled—God’s promise, and Soncerae’s. Fisher murmured his thanks to both.

  Once he’d taken up his position outside Hotel Maria, his heart was able to settle into a peaceful rhythm, and he enjoyed the sound and feel of blood pumping steadily through his body. There was no hint of it stopping in only a day’s time, though it was destined to do so.

  How would it be done, he wondered. It took a mighty act of violence to kill a man. A well-sharpened blade and a strong arm. A well-placed bullet propelled by an explosion of gunpowder. A guillotine, as used over two hundred years before. A fast automobile. Or would Soni simply call up something from the next world to suck out his soul and leave this body to slump lifelessly to the ground?

  He chuckled to himself. Not his Soni. Nothing he could imagine seemed worthy of his wee witch.

  Auch, weel. No matter. How it would be done would not be up to him. But how he used his final hours was completely up to him.

  The door of Hotel Maria swung open and a short, white-haired couple emerged beneath thick dark coats that nearly swept the ground. Before the glass door swung shut again, a blond lass appeared behind them. The familiar face turned to smile at him just as the older couple turned and bustled back inside, passing through the woman’s body without noticing her at all.

  “Julia.”

  “Mr. Rankine.” She dropped the smile. “You’d better hurry if you’re going to catch her. She’s sneaking out the back.”

  Martine went three blocks north and one block west to make certain she wouldn’t run into her morning “date.” She probably looked like a paranoid runaway constantly looking over her shoulder, or a criminal running from the police.

  When she finally neared the metro stairs, her heart slowed down a little. It was a big city, she reminded herself.

  I won’t run into him here.

  Besides, he was probably going to wait for hours, not knowing how long it might take her to get ready. Unless he tried to call up to the room, he’d stand there like a gentleman while she was at the cathedral. If he went looking for her, knowing where she intended to go, she would hopefully be long gone before he got there.

  She had to walk around to the far side of the steps, then join a wide line of people waiting for their chance to descend. Someone whispered in her ear, and she snapped her head around to see who it was.

  No one stood close enough to have done it. But directly in her line of sight, the figure of a Scotsman with a familiar face leaned against the corner of a building. His eyes narrowed as he scanned the shuffling mob. Then they skipped right to her.

  For a few seconds, they stared at each other. She was busted. He looked confused—hurt even, as he pushed away from the wall. He shook his head as if to ask what had gone wrong. She shook her head in response.

  “Leave me alone,” she said quietly, hoping he could read her lips.

  He frowned, then started forward.

  A step to the side put her in the path of those exiting the metro. She had to step back again. They moved so slowly! He’d have his hand on her elbow in a matter of seconds if she didn’t—

  She moved without completing the thought, spinning around and joining the flow of bodies coming up the steps, then she darted right, putting the entire pack of humanity between her and the Scot. Like she had done at the base of the cathedral steps the day before, she found the path of least resistance and ran flat out.

 
“Martine!”

  His baritone cut through the morning air like cannon fire. There was no telling how close he might be, how much of a lead she had. But if she turned her head, she’d lose whatever ground she’d gained.

  “Martine!” This time, it seemed a little farther away. Or maybe there were more bodies between them, absorbing the sound.

  Doesn’t matter. Keep going!

  Another block covered. She was retracing her steps. No good. She had to be unpredictable. So she turned right at the corner. Farther west. She might get lost, but what did it matter, as long as she lost him?

  She found a comfortable pace and held it. Just another morning run, even though she was fully clothed, wearing a coat, and carrying a heavy bag. Good training, that’s all. Just a morning run.

  He had to have turned back, but she wouldn’t look. Couldn’t look.

  At the next corner, she turned left, then right again. The buildings had gaps, became more industrial. She had to be careful. Bad neighborhoods would be next. What she needed...was a taxi.

  She slowed to a walk and moved closer to the road. A dozen deep breaths, and she had to stop, to take just a second and calm down. She’d need her voice.

  While holding her knees, she looked up, searched the road, then straightened when she saw the intense yellow of a cab. It pulled over to the curb just as she raised her hand to hail it. She stood back to allow the passenger to get out, prepared to jump inside the first chance she got. No one came close. It was obvious.

  This taxi’s mine.

  The man unfolded himself and stood. Her stomach dropped.

  Fisher Rankine. Still frowning. He threw his hands in the air. “Peace! Please, Martine. Tell me what is amiss. Tell me to leave ye alone, but I beg ye, do not run from me. I can think of nothing that could explain yer actions. Something must be horribly wrong here. I beg ye for just a word of explanation.”