The Eclective: Time Collection

The Eclective:

  The Time Collection

  With stories by:

  Heather Marie Adkins

  Greg James

  M. Edward McNally

  Shéa MacLeod

  Alan Nayes

  CD Reiss

  Tara West

  G.R. Yeates

  Copyright © 2013 by the Eclective

  The eight authors in this collection retain and hold their individual respective rights to their stories.

  This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any reproduction or other unauthorized use of the material or artwork herein is prohibited.

  Cover Art by Christine DeMaio-Rice

  Interior Formatting by CyberWitch Press, LLC

  Visit the Eclective at eclectivebooks.com

  A Stitch In Time

  Shéa MacLeod

  “Branwen, it has come to our attention that you have been getting a little too cozy with these humans.”

  “Oh, it has, has it?” Branwen, ancient Welsh goddess of love and beauty, stabbed viciously at a bit of greenery on her plate. She’d wanted a plate of Applebee’s deliciously sticky ribs, but had settled for their boring house salad. Diets pissed her off. Thor pissed her off more.

  Thanks to that idiotic movie with that gorgeous Australian, Thor was currently the most powerful god in the Pantheon. Apparently Viking gods were far more Hollywood than ancient Welsh goddesses and movie fandom was close enough to divine worship to count. The more worship a god (or goddess) received, the more powerful he (or she) became. Unfortunately they weren’t making a lot of deity films in Wales these days.

  It annoyed Branwen no end. Thunder Boy had always been such a pompous ass and the unending adoration was making his ego bigger by the minute. Never mind that in reality he looked nothing like that sexy blond Viking hunk of human imagination.

  She scowled as Thor tossed back the last of his cheap beer, a bit of it dribbling down his scraggly beard and landing on his big belly. Well, he certainly had the Viking manners down pat.

  “You know we need to keep a low profile.” Thor swiped one hand across his thick lips and then down the front of his shirt, leaving a stinking wet smear.

  “Hmmm.” She kept her tone noncommittal, but her brain was making plenty of snide comments. You’re one to talk.

  “It is not good to draw the attention of those dirty little mortals.”

  “Mmm.” Like you’re doing right now, you splenetic jackass?

  “And interfering in their lives.” He shook his head. “Not at all acceptable, Branwen.”

  “Ah.” She rolled her eyes as he snapped his finger at the harried waitress.

  “Wench! Bring me more of these potato sticks.” He slapped the empty plastic basket on the table, spraying crumbs and ketchup drops in every direction. Gods, she’d never be able to show her face in Applebee’s again.

  “They’re called fries, Thor.” Why can’t you be more like Loki? For all he was portrayed as the bad guy, Branwen had a soft spot for Thor’s younger, hotter brother. Something which she knew irked Thor no end. Which was probably why he was enjoying this so much. Scuttleheaded hog-grubber.

  “I am sorry, Branwen, but we have no choice. We can not allow others to run about doing whatever they like. We must make an example of you.”

  Unfortunately with the extra power boost, he could do it, too. “We?”

  “The Pantheon, of course.”

  “Right.” More like those idiotic sycophants that had once been Greek goddesses. They kissed Thor’s butt everywhere he went and backed up whatever idiotic plan he came up with. “I suppose Loki is in on this, too.” She supposed no such thing. She knew very well the brothers would rather kill each other than agree on anything.

  Thor snorted. “Please. He hasn’t left his Fortress of Freaking Solitude in at least a hundred years.”

  “So how exactly do you plan to make an example of me?”

  “By exiling you somewhere you can do no damage.”

  Branwen snorted. I’d like to see you try.

  * * *

  Light stabbed at Branwen’s eyes, shooting pain straight up into her skull. She groaned. Why had she thought she could keep up with Thor in the drinking department? And who the heck left the curtains open?

  She groaned again and buried her face in her pillow. Somebody kill me now.

  “I’m sorry, milady. Would you like me to close the curtains?”

  Branwen froze mid moan. There was someone in her room. She cautiously opened one eye and squinted at the slight figure standing deferentially beside her bed. The figure was wearing a shower cap. No. Wait. It was one of those lacy hat things - a mob cap.

  Sitting bolt upright in bed, Branwen ignored her roiling stomach and throbbing head. “Who the blazes are you?”

  The girl looked so startled, Brawen thought she might pass out. Clearly she wasn’t used to being accosted whilst about her duties. “Milady,” she squeaked. “I’m - I’m your lady’s maid.”

  Lady’s maid? Mob cab? He couldn’t have.

  “You got a name?”

  “Yvette, milady.” The maid bobbed an awkward curtsey.

  Branwen frowned as her sluggish brain began making connections. “You’re not French.”

  “N-no, milady. You prefer Yvette to Janet, milady,” the girl said almost apologetically.

  “Shit.” Branwen let out a string of colorful words that made the girl with the fake French name blanch.

  “M-milady?”

  Branwen took in the girl’s outfit. Even underneath her white apron, Branwen could see the weight of the gown sat just under the maid’s rather unimpressive rack.

  Holy Hades. Thor, the rat bastard. He did it!

  “What is the date?” Branwen demanded, throwing back the thick coverlet.

  “Milady?”

  “The year, girl. What year is it?” Branwen snapped her fingers. Gods, the girl was thick.

  “The year of our Lord Eighteen-hundred and Thirteen, milady,” Yvette said promptly, rushing to help Branwen into a robe thingy.

  Wrapper, Branwen reminded herself. Two hundred years and things got a little fuzzy. She froze as the maid did up the ties. Yep. Thor had definitely sent her back in time and there was no way she could undo what he’d done. Even at full charge, she didn’t have enough power to get herself back to the modern era and he knew it.

  She took quick stock of her powers, such as they were. Mind reading (sort of) - check. Seeing the future (more or less) - check. Minor glamors - check. Everything else was gone. Which meant she’d have to do things the old fashioned way: by using her wits.

  “That bastard!”

  Yvette blanched again. “Milady?”

  “Never mind. Where are we?”

  The maid clearly struggled with the question. “At - at Balle House, milady.”

  “And what, exactly, is a Balle House?”

  A blank stare, shuffling of feet, a little cough, and finally, “It’s a stately manor, milady. Near the village of Merriwild in Devon. We came down from London two days ago. His lordship felt you needed a...rest in the country.”

  Memories tingled at the edge of Branwen’s brain. Not real ones, of course, but fake ones placed there by that dratted Viking arse of a god. Dead husband. Rich father-in-law. Etc., etc.

  He didn’t like her meddling in the affairs of humans? Well, she’d just see how he liked her meddling with the past.

  “Got it. Is that my breakfast?” Branwen nodded toward a silver tray the maid had placed on a small table next to the window.

  “A snack, milady. Breakfast will be served at ten as you ordered.” By her expression it was clear Yvette thought eating straight after
getting out of bed was beyond shocking. Branwen could care less. She was starving.

  “Excellent. You get my bath ready while I eat. We’ve quite the day ahead of us.”

  “B-but, milady, this is Wednesday.”

  “And?”

  The maid ducked her head. “Yes, milady.”

  As she scurried off, Branwen plopped into a chair and took a sip of thick, hot chocolate before lifting the lid off her plate. A couple slices of toasted bread, a pat of butter, and a small pot of...she sniffed...strawberry preserves. Hardly enough to feed a gnat, but it would do for starters.

  As she dug in she amused herself by envisioning ways in which she could get revenge on Thor. Castration held an appeal, though the things would just grow back. He was a god, after all. But he deserved something. Something bad.

  Branwen, goddess of love and beauty, was stuck in the freaking Regency.

  * * *

  “What an excellent sandwich.” Branwen’s latest caller nibbled delicately on something that reeked of boiled egg and vinegar.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Farrington.” Branwen smiled thinly. She had forgotten that mayonnaise hadn’t made it to England yet. Ordering egg sandwiches had been a mistake. But at least it was better than anchovy. Ghastly. As such, she hadn’t touched a single sandwich and her stomach was in danger of letting out some truly embarrassing noises. Not that she cared. But Mrs. Farrington would probably have a conniption or something.

  “I must say it is a delight to have another lady of such fine taste and refinement here in our small village.” Another nibble of stinky sandwich followed by a sip of tea. “We are remarkably lacking in good company, if I do say so myself. Though I do try to set an example of refinement for others to follow.” Mrs. Farrington’s tone made it clear she felt those others to be far beneath herself. “Eventually I shall win them over. I am nothing if not persistent.”

  “I’m sure,” Branwen murmured politely. If Mrs. Farrington was an example of Regency refinement, the village was in trouble. Between the yards of burgundy gauze and the swaths of gold fringe, the woman was a sight to behold. Never mind the fact that her amble bosom was in danger of heaving up and out of her stays.

  Branwen would give just about anything to have her powers back. She could squash the bothersome woman like a bug. Unfortunately she was a stranger in a strange land and offending the locals wasn’t exactly the best way to start out. Especially with her powers at low ebb. At least Thor had the decency to create an instant backstory for her: wealthy widow relocating from London. As if.

  Still, she supposed it was better than it could have been. The first time around the Regency, she’d been languishing in a forgotten shrine in rural Wales with barely enough power to light a candle. It wasn’t like she could go to herself for help.

  “...don’t you think, Mrs. Nash?”

  Crap. She hadn’t been paying attention. Fortunately her visitor didn’t actually need an answer. Mrs. Farrington simply prattled on.

  “Oh, my. These are delightful.” Mrs. Farrington waved a small, frosted morsel around, nearly upsetting her tea cup in the process. “What do you call them?”

  “Cupcakes.”

  She may have forgotten the Regency’s lack of mayo, but she hadn’t forgotten the dearth of cupcakes. Coming up with a decent recipe had been easy enough. Convincing cook to make them for tea had been a bit more...challenging.

  “Oh, my,” Mrs. Farrington said again. “Are they all the rage in London? I knew you were a lady of refinement. Much like myself. Or at least so it has been said. Though, of course, my friends would say I serve a superior cake.”

  “They are wonderful,” said a voice. “Thank you, Mrs. Nash.”

  Branwen glanced at her second visitor with some surprise. For a moment she’d forgotten the other woman even existed, she was so quiet and mousy. What was her name? Crap.

  “You are most welcome, Miss...” Her name, dammit! What was her freaking name? “...Talbot.”

  The girl, who couldn’t have been more than eighteen, blushed furiously and returned to staring at her plate. It didn’t surprise Branwen at all to find her with such a creature as Mrs. Farrington. Women of Mrs. Farrington’s ilk enjoyed having minions to lord over. Unfortunately for the girl, if she didn’t get out from underneath the Farrington woman’s thumb, she’d never have a life of her own.

  Branwen felt her lips curving in a smile. She could feel that giddiness coming on. That little spark that said: Project!

  “Ladies,” she rudely interrupted Mrs. Farrington’s prattle. “I think I shall host a ball.”

  “Why Mrs. Nash. I do think that quite the most splendid idea,” Mrs. Farrington gushed.

  As the annoying woman droned on and on about menus and colors and sets, Branwen kept her eyes on the shy Miss Talbot. The girl’s cheeks were flushed pink and while she kept her eyes downcast, Branwen detected a distinct sparkle. Interesting.

  “Miss Talbot,” she interrupted the Farrington woman mid-sentence, “you will, of course, be my very special guest.”

  Miss Talbot’s eyes grew wide, her cheeks even more flushed. “Oh, Mrs. Nash,” she breathed, “you are too kind.” Her teacup rattled precariously against its saucer. It was a wonder the girl didn’t pass out on the floor she was shaking so hard. Hopefully with excitement and not abject fear.

  “Not at all, my dear.” Branwen nodded regally. Regal she could do. She was, after all, a goddess. Even if a fairly minor one. “You must visit me again tomorrow so we may have a private discussion regarding our gowns and other such matters.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Nash. I would be delighted.”

  It was clear that Mrs. Farrington was not at all delighted, but there was nothing the harridan could do but sit there gaping like a fish. Branwen was well aware that she’d most likely made an enemy, but hopefully she wouldn’t be around that long. And, after all, she was supposedly the widow of the first son of a wealthy baron and Mrs. Farrington was only a baronet’s grandniece or some such thing. Which meant, in a village like this, Branwen had enough leeway to cut Mrs. Farrington if necessary.

  “For now,” Branwen said, plucking another cupcake from the tea tray, “let us discuss whom we shall invite. Are there any young eligible gentlemen of good fortune in the village?”

  * * *

  The brass plaque on the plain wooden door read simply “Mr. Henry Pease, Esq.” Nothing to get excited about, but it was a step in the right direction to returning to the twenty-first century. Granted, the Regency had its pluses, but Branwen was a woman fond of her modern creature comforts, for all she was an ancient goddess.

  Her brisk rap on the door was answered by a plump, middle aged woman in maid’s dress. Clearly trade in this neck of the wood wasn’t enough to keep Mr. Henry Pease, Esq. in more than modest comfort.

  “Mrs. Nash to see Mr. Pease.”

  The maid bobbed a curtsey and ushered Branwen into a small room off the hall which was mostly taken up very large desk and a vast number of books. Behind the desk sat a small man with thick lensed glasses and a valiant attempt at a combover.

  “Mrs. Nash! Please, please, come in. Welcome. Emily, bring tea.” The man leapt from the desk and rushed around to etch out a surprisingly elegant bow, before offering Branwen a seat on what was clearly his best chair. In fact, as far as she could see, it was his only chair. Although from the state of things, there might have been one or two others hiding underneath the mounds of books.

  “Thank you, Mr. Pease.” She smoothed her skirts as she perched carefully on the edge of the chair. Thank goodness Thor hadn’t sent her to the Victorian era. She’d have never managed those damn bustles.

  After the appropriate amount of pleasantries, Branwen decided it was time to charge forward. Niceties be damned. “Now, Mr. Pease, the reason I have come is that I need to retain your services.”

  Mr. Pease’s eyes widened and a flush stained his throat and cheeks. He spluttered a bit before finally managing, “Mrs. Nash, you are most gracious, but surely
your man of business has a solicitor...”

  “Mr. Pease, I am not accustomed to being told how to do my business.”

  “My apologies.” He somehow managed to make another bow from behind his desk. “How may I be of assistance?”

  Branwen pulled a letter from her reticule and laid it on his desk. “This letter, Mr. Pease, is of extreme importance. I wish you to hold it in your possession, and that of your heirs, until exactly this day two hundred years hence.”

  As she spoke, the man’s eyes grew wider and wider until she was half afraid they might pop out of his head. He opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again. “Mrs. Nash, this is a most unusual request.”

  “Of course it is,” she said. “That is why I am giving you this.” She laid a certain sum next to the letter. His eyes got even wider, if possible. “I know it is crass to speak of such things as money, but it is necessary. I want this done properly. Do you understand?”

  “Mrs. Nash, I really do appreciate your faith in me, but I cannot guarantee such a thing can be done. I am...” He spread his hands. “As you see, without wife or heir. I have no partner. Likely this firm will not survive my death.”

  Branwen gave him a smile that could only be interpreted as knowing. She had just enough power to check in with a few otherworldy friends and they’d told her exactly what she needed to know about a very prestigious law firm in London that had started out in 1802 as a one man band in a hick village somewhere in rural England.

  “Don’t you worry, Mr. Pease,” she said. “Just make sure it stays safe and that someone delivers it to the address noted two hundred years from today.”

  “Of course, Mrs. Nash. I will do my utmost. May I ask what it is?”

  Branwen’s smile widened. “Of course, Mr. Pease. It is an invitation.”

  * * *

  For the next month Branwen was kept too busy to think about her visit with Mr. Pease or the expected outcome of her endeavor. She was arranging what would no doubt be the ball to end all balls. The denizens of Merriwild would no doubt speak of it for generations to come. Just as she liked it. Between that and keeping Miss Talbot out of Mrs. Farrington’s clutches, there wasn’t time to worry about anything else.

  Pausing in the middle of the ballroom entry, Branwen surveyed her handiwork with a smile. Impressive, if she said so herself.

  The bright light of the chandeliers and grandioles spilled across the ballroom floor, showing the chalked arabesques to great advantage. The artist had charged a ridiculous sum, but Branwen was determined that her ball be as good as anything the ton, England’s cream of society, had to offer. Probably wasted in the country. Still, they were incredible pieces of artwork and Branwen adored pretty things.