Time Masters Book One; The Call (An Urban Fantasy, Time Travel Romance) Read Online Free PDF Page B

normal man could stand. There had to be something! No one could be that good.  It just wasn’t natural.
    Yes, it was a sad fact. Bashing in Kwaku Awahnee’s head seemed naught but a dream.
    Yet there was still hope. Today with Padric’s help, Dallan had come close. And the taste, no matter how slight, had been excruciatingly sweet. He smiled as he replayed t he entire scene in his head. Th e look of pain on the heathen’s face was worth every bruise endured that morning and countless other mornings as well.
    Dallan’s mouth twisted out of his earlier smile into a grimace as he began to remove his sweat-drenched clothing. Again he groaned, but not with aggravation. Now he hurt. He cursed as he tossed his Sark across a chair and wearily sat upon the bed, his weight making it creak and groan in protest.
    Dallan didn’t want to fi nish the interview. Come to think of it, he didn’t feel much like doing anything except lie down and sleep the rest of the day. His whole body seemed to throb with the mere thought of it.  He glanced out the window above his bed. Judging from the sun’s position it was nearly noon.
    “Best get on with it, then.” He sighed pain fully, his eyes now focused on a wash bowl and pitcher.
    “On with what?”
    Dallan looked up to fi nd Padric peeking around the half open door of his one-room cottage. The boy looked at him timidly and waited for permission to enter. Dallan motioned him inside and watched as Padric took the soiled Sark from the chair and sat.
    “Yer mother sent ye after my clothes, then?” Dallan asked him as he slowly stood.
    Padric began to fi dget in the chair. “Yes, Weapons Master. She wants your kilt too. She’ll wash and have them ready for you tomorrow.”
    Dallan held back a smile . Padric’s voice was back to it s normal high pitch, his English accent smooth and almost musical, not clipped like the English of…
    Not a good subject to get started on. Best get off it while ye can, lad.
    Dallan forced the unwanted emotions back and watched Padric squirm in the chair.   T he boy was still nervous around him, but, that was Dallan’s own fault. He was the one not letting the boy get too close. He was the one keeping the distance. It wasn’t as if Padric even reminded Dallan of Alasdair. It was the fact Dallan couldn’t bear the thought of losing someone close again.
    No! He wasn’t going to start thinking about any of it. He had the interview to contend with today and that was enough. Besides, he should be in a good mood. He’d almost laid the bloody heathen out!
    “Ye did good today, lad. I’m proud of you.” Dallan told the boy as he pulled on a fresh Sark then began to remove his kilt.
    Padric smiled shyly and bobbed his head up and down like a bird.
    “The lads will no tease ye now, will they?” Dallan stated more than asked. He knew how the other boys treated Padric, knew what it was like to be teased about one’s small size. At Padric’s age, Dallan hadn’t been much bigger. He’d made up for it over the years, however, and could already see that Padric would one day grow up to be much like himself . Convincing Padric of that fact was another story.
    Padric stopped fi dgeting and grinned. “I wish the Councilor’s son could have seen it. But he was in the cookhouse.”
    “Councilor’s son?”
    “Yes, Weapons Master. The Lord Councilor’s Assistant brought his son with him. All the boys are talking about him. We’ve never met anyone from Sutter’s Province before.”
    “Ye mean ye’ve never met anyone your own age from there.”
    “Yes.”
    Dallan thought a moment, his head cocked to one side. “Tell me, laddie, just where is this Sutter’s Province?”
      Padric’s eyes widened as his body began to involuntarily shake. He swallowed hard and looked ready to bolt for the door.
    Always the same reaction. From everyone. Dallan sighed and handed the boy his dust-covered kilt. “Forget I asked.”
    Padric quickly took the kilt from h im and