The Reunion

by Michelle E Lowe

  Voices sounded inside his mind.

  “By the way he’s dressed, I bet you he’s some queer actor who’d went on da stuff and got ’imself lost.”

  Pierce saw them, a band of ragged-looking, homeless tosspots blocking his way out of a building he’d never been in before. They were trying to surround him. A bum with a chipped tooth pulled a knife.

  “C’mon, pretty boy. Let’s see what you have under those fancy clothes.”

  Fuckin’ hell, has this happened to me before? Pierce wondered dreadfully.

  “Stay still!” screamed the bounty hunter, forcing Pierce to return to the horrifying present.

  As the man continued to rub over Pierce’s crotch, his breath grew heavier with lust. He stroked him roughly like a whore rushing to arouse her customer in order to get the job over with. If this knobhead aimed to get a willy from Pierce, he was going to be sorely disappointed. Instead, a queasy sickness ballooned inside Pierce’s stomach, especially when the tosser started kissing and licking his face. His breath reeked of tobacco smoke, and the coarse, wet feel of the man’s tongue made Pierce ill.

  “No,” Pierce uttered, turning away in disgust.

  The bloke became more antagonistic and pressed his entire bodyweight down upon him. He kept touching him everywhere. With his arms locked behind him, Pierce could do little to defend himself. The bounty hunter began to unfasten his own belt buckle. Pierce was terrified. He just wanted to break free.

  “C’mon, pretty boy. Let’s see what you have under those fancy clothes.”

  Leaves crunched nearby. Pierce believed Taisia had come back. The bounty hunter rose, only to be struck across the face and shoved off. Pierce’s sight was fuzzy due to the blow to his head, but he distinctively saw a tall man standing over him. He appeared to be a medieval hunter wearing an elongated brown leather vest with a light grey shirt underneath. His britches were sewn in the same patchwork style as the old geezer they had encountered in the woods, and his black boots had rabbit felt sewn in at the top edges. He held a recurve bow, which he’d used to strike the man. The woodsman looked to be the same age as Pierce’s parents, with sharp facial features and even sharper ears that poked out through very long, hickory-colored hair. Strapped across his back was a grey pelt quiver, packed full of arrows, and a hatchet was tucked under his thick leather belt.

  “Sit up, boy,” the woodsman ordered Pierce.

  Pierce did so with some difficulty. When he did, the woodsman pulled his hatchet. Pierce never saw it happen, but he felt the swooshing of the blade and the sudden snapping of the chain. Pierce gawked at the chains dangling from his wrists. Truly, the sharpest hatchet he’d ever seen!

  The woodsman handed the hatchet over to him. Pierce accepted it with an unsteady hand as the bounty hunter recovered. When the bastard reached for his gun, the woodsman quickly fixed an arrow in his bow and aimed it at him. He moved with such speed that it almost surpassed a vampire’s quickness.

  The woodsman glowered at the bounty hunter, daring him to move. His demeanor alone kept the cocker in place. The woodsman steered his sights toward Pierce. In his bright green eyes, Pierce saw what needed to be done. Pierce turned his focus on the bastard who had just tried raping him, and the heat of anger swelled in his gut. He raised the hatchet, ready to hack his bleedin’ skull in, but, in the last second, he didn’t. Instead, Pierce grabbed the bounty hunter’s hand—the one he had groped him with—and forced it down. In a single thrust, he hacked it completely off.

  The bounty hunter yelled so loudly the birds went quiet. Pierce stood and walked around the maimed man now lying in the fetal position and howling like a dog. Pierce threw the hatchet blade to the ground, picked up the bounty hunter’s revolver, and emptied the chamber of its bullets. He shoved them into his pocket and tossed the gun. He pulled the hatchet free and stepped out into the field.

  “You’d best kill me, boy,” the bounty hunter said while sitting up. “I’ll bloody well make you scream for mercy if I ever get my hands on you again.”

  “You mean hand?” Pierce corrected, searching for his pistol in the tall grass.

  He found his weapon, and when he rose with it, the woodsman was gone, as was the hatchet from Pierce’s grasp.

  “Where did he go?”

  The bounty hunter sat, gawking in shock. Apparently, the woodsman had vanished right before his eyes. To make certain the hunter didn’t try anything else, Pierce rushed at him and kicked him upside the chin. A tooth flew into the air as he fell backward, his mouth full of blood. He moaned but did not move much. Pierce didn’t give a toss if he blacked out and bled to death. He ran into the grove to search for the woodsman who had saved him. He was nowhere to be found.

  “Pierce!” Taisia called from the woods ahead.

  Her voice made him forget about the woodsman. He snatched his hat up from where he had dropped it and ran as fast as he could across the field.

  * * *

  The screaming brought Taisia around. It was the rope she needed to pull herself from the darkness and into the light of the waking world. She snapped her eyelids open, and instantly, fear seized her heart.

  “Pierce,” she gasped.

  Her head hurt like hell, but that mattered little to her. She staggered to her feet and hurried up the embankment. The bank was steep, which was most likely the reason why the stranger hadn’t come after her. Her headache pounded so bad, it made her stomach queasy. She had nearly crested the hillside when her foot slipped out from under her.

  “No!” she shouted, digging her nails deep into the cool earth.

  Her efforts to gain traction only slowed her down. She needed to reach Pierce and save him from that monster. She dug in her heels and pushed her way up, her lungs had nearly collapsed by the time she neared the top, tightening her chest and stealing her ability to breathe properly. The sight in one eye was blurry, disorienting her. The sledgehammer of pain pounded her down, and she believed she would black out again.

  Someone seized her wrist. Taisia tilted her chin up to a young woman.

  “I have you, child,” she said, lifting Taisia over.

  Her strength was astounding. She pulled Taisia up without as much as a change in her breathing pattern. Once Taisia had safely crested the hill, the woman touched her on the forehead. All the pain left her like a nightmare upon waking. Her vision refocused, and her sense of balance was restored. As her eyesight cleared, Taisia became lost within the woman’s beautiful face. She was unlike anyone she had ever encountered before. Her pale skin glistened like snow in the sunlight, and the colors in her large eyes were like melted pools of gold.

  “Go,” she ordered softly, removing her hand.

  Taisia got to her feet while keeping her sights on the woman. “Thank you.”

  Taisia darted off while calling out, “Pierce!”

  She passed the wide tree trunks and came out into the field, and there, Pierce rushed toward her. The relief nearly made her weightless. She cried the moment he was in her arms. Her delight almost blinded her from the sight of blood on him and the manacles around his wrists.

  “Is this your blood? Did that man hurt you?”

  “I’m fine. I got away before he had the chance.”

  She rested her forehead against his and sighed with relief.

  “We need to leave,” he said urgently.

  She nodded. “Da. Follow me.”

  They mounted up on both horses and raced off into the forest.

  After several minutes of steady riding, they stopped. Taisia thought Pierce intended to give the horses some rest. Instead, he dismounted and went to a brook cutting across the thick, grassy land. Colorful flowerbeds were everywhere, and tall trees nearly blocked out the sky, allowing only shafts of bright sunlight to slice through the open spaces.

  He stumbled and collapsed to his knee beside the water. As he scrubbed the blood off himself, Taisia dismounted and searched through the monster’s saddlebag. She found several items, one of which was keys.


  “Let it be,” she hoped.

  Pierce had finished scrubbing his face by the time she joined him.

  “Pierce,” she whispered.

  He stayed kneeing with a shackled wrist resting on his bent knee. He lifted his index finger a bit as if to say “Wait,” and then closed his hand into a tight fist before lightly pressing his forehead against it. Pierce wasn’t merely acting scared; he was utterly traumatized. He shook so badly, he could have started an earthquake. What had that monster done to him?

  I may have some vigor left for you after I have at him for a while.

  She sucked in a breath. Had the beast tried to force himself on him?

  Pierce Landcross was hers to protect, and she had failed. In his time of need, she hadn’t been there to save him. Granted, he’d been able to escape before it was too late, but if he hadn’t . . .

  Without a word, she gently took him by the forearm. He didn’t resist. She put the key into the lock and to her relief, it turned. She unclamped both manacles and flung them into the water. He kept his sights on the brook as though he was too ashamed even to look at her. She drew him close and held him as tightly to her as she could. Taisia wanted him to feel safe. He returned the embrace, gripping her as if to absorb the strength and security she offered. He never stopped shaking.

  Taisia pulled away and placed her hands on his jawline. She looked at him a moment before lightly kissing him on the cheek. She wasn’t sure if he would welcome such contact after what he had endured, and so, she waited patiently for his response. He raised his eyes to her and to her surprise, kissed her and held her against him. The strong passion behind his kiss sped up her heart rate. Taisia wanting nothing more than to be one with him. She let her desire be known by pulling his jacket off and unbuttoning his vest while never letting up on their second kiss. His fingers went to work at the buttons of her vest and the buckles of her belt. She couldn’t lift her blouse off fast enough. He stole a beat to admire her naked chest and then continued to kiss her. She helped raise his shirt over him. His body was lean, with a scar to his side and a brand mark on his chest. They didn’t bother her, not even the scar across his throat, which he had kept hidden under the scarf.

  She fell back slowly, pulling him down on top of her. He stroked her breasts, heating her desire for him even more. His touch sent vitality coursing through her, and the taste of him was sweeter than anything she’d ever had. The soft grass acted as the perfect bedding, and the scent of the flowers mixed pleasantly with their passion.

  They pulled off the rest of their clothing, and her eyes danced delightfully over his whole body. Pierce positioned himself on top and paused just to look at her. He grinned lovingly as if he was about to ask her to marry him. She smiled in return and kissed him again. She raised her hips and her head dropped back as he eased himself inside her. Their first feel of each other in that ancient act of lovemaking nearly caused her to arrive right then. Never had she experienced a sensation this intense before. She only hoped for many more times like this with him.

  Clacher Cuckoo Clock

  Chapter Seventeen

  Cuckoo

  The brother of a famous thief, who is, in fact, a thief himself, is about to come across an opportunity to gain a sufficient amount of money. What he does not know is how the funds will someday benefit others, while, at the same time, it will be used to pull someone dear to him into grave danger.

  This is the story of Joaquin Landcross and his heist at the Clacher Cuckoo Clock workshop.

  England, spring, 1838

  When Joaquin arrived in Birmingham, he didn’t expect to come across the golden goose that he did. For the past six years, after Joaquin tried killing his brother by taking a blade to his throat, it had only been him, Luca Smith, and Luca’s cousin, Giles Summerfield.

  By the time they reached the city, he and his small gang had run aground, so to speak. They got into a spot of trouble in the south and were now running from the British Guardians. They had ridden nonstop for days, and they were penniless and utterly exhausted. They slept the night in an alleyway near where they had hitched their horses.

  The following morning, Joaquin visited the marketplace in the town centre and stole a loaf of bread, a wedge of cheese, and fruit. He took a different route back and passed the Clacher Cuckoo Clock workshop.

  When he was a child, he and his family had come through the city on the day of the workshop’s grand opening. Mr. Gibby Clacher had cut the ribbon himself. Joaquin remembered it being declared a victory for Britain, for Mr. Clacher was the first domestic cuckoo clock competitor to go against the German company, Black Forest. The branch had expanded into many chains since its opening, yet this little workshop had remained the corporate headquarters.

  There was a Help Wanted sign in the window, and the gears inside Joaquin’s head cranked into action.

  “You got employment?” Luca exclaimed when Joaquin told them.

  “Keep your voice down. And yes. I start tomorrow.” He handed Giles the stolen bread and gave Luca an apple. “I’ll be linking chains together at the Clacher Cuckoo Clock workshop.”

  “You’re cuckoo,” Giles chortled, taking a big bite of the bread. “Why work when you’re such a good thief, eh?”

  “Aye,” Luca agreed. “Are you retiring on us, Landcross?”

  “The workshop is more than a place where they assemble clocks, you dolts. Above is the flat where Mr. Clacher once lived. It’s said that he kept the company’s vault up there somewhere. Today, the small workplace remains the company’s major hub, and it is where the company’s profits are taken. Understand?”

  Luca gaped. “Fuck me. How much do you think is up there?”

  “Loads, I assume. I just need to find out where the safe is.”

  “How long will that take?” Giles demanded.

  “Not long once I get up there. Meanwhile, I want you two idiots out on the road. Don’t rob anyone too close to the city, though.” He brought out a pear and bit into it. “Steal us some loot, lads, or this will be our last meal until my first wages.”

  * * *

  The next morning, Joaquin arrived on time and was eager to get things started.

  The small workshop smelled of linden wood, paint, and walnut thinner. The flooring was covered in wood shavings and dotted with paint stains. On the walls hung many styles of cuckoo clocks. Unfinished ones sat on shelves. Clock pieces were stacked on tables, along with tools. The majority of the light came in through long windows off to the side of the room.

  When Joaquin walked in, the woodworker, wearing an apron and carving little trees, turned to him from his worktable. He stood a bit taller than Joaquin, with an average-looking face, black hair, and ears that stuck out like a mouse’s.

  “Hello,” Joaquin said. “I was in yesterday.”

  “Aye, Mr. Ash, I’m the fella who hired you, remember?” the Irishman retorted. “Head onto the back and meet our clockmaker, Samuel Bancroft. He’s expecting you.”

  Joaquin left for the room, leaving the woodworker to his carving. He walked through the long, narrow workshop, eyeing a closed door at the very end where an armchair sat in the corner. An open doorway stood on the left-hand side. Through the doorway was the assembly area, with three worktables: one in the far corner, another located on the opposite end with a strange and bulky machine on top of it, and a third table leaning against the corner under a single window. In the center of the room was a counter with stacks of pendulums, clock hands, gears, springs, and clock faces. Music box parts were also stored in boxes, ready to be assembled. Two people occupied the room, a man in a faded vest, hunched over his workstation under the window, and a plump young woman who was painting flowers on the front piece of a white-painted clock. On her desk were many clock figurines, some drying, others waiting to be painted.

  The wood creaking underfoot announced his presence.

  “Oh, hello there,” the woman greeted him, standing from her seat. “Didn’t see you come in.”

  �
��Good morning. My name is Jake Ash, your new chain maker.”

  “Nice to meet you, Mr. Ash, I’m Tilly Lincoln. I paint the cuckoo clocks and help Sammy over there assemble them.”

  Tilly was a healthy-sized lass with a youthful, pretty face and a fantastic smile. She had bright red hair, done up fashionably in dragonfly hair clips, and wore dark kohl around eyes of cobalt. The white apron she wore over her blue gown had speckles of paint on it.

  She turned to the duffer in the corner. “Sammy. Oi, Sammy!”

  The man jumped and slowly swiveled around in his chair.

  “Um, did you say something, Tilly dear?”

  The old man’s thinning white hair looked transparent in the sunlight. He wore pinstriped trousers, a slightly dirty shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and heavily scuffed shoes. He had on spectacles with six magnifying lenses attached, two of which were lowered over the main lenses.

  “He has problems hearing,” Tilly explained to Joaquin. To the clockmaker, she said, “Sammy, this is Jake Ash. He has been hired to make the driver chains.”

  “Oh,” Sam said, raising the magnifying lenses up as he stood. All the added lenses stuck out by their bendable metal stems, resembling the forewings of a mechanical butterfly. “So very glad to meet you, Mr. Ash.”

  Sam walked with a slight hunch, probably due from years of toiling over the clocks. He held out a hand to Joaquin. The hand shook as if the old man was cold.

  “Very nice to meet you, as well, Mr. Bancroft.”

  “Please, young man, call me Sam, or Sammy, as Tilly does,” the kindly clockmaker insisted. “We’re all family here.”

  “Even the woodworker?” he quipped.

  “Oh, aye, even Daniel. If he was a bit short with you, he don’t mean anything by it. He just doesn’t fancy being interrupted while he carves.”