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And the Groom Wore TulleBy Lynn Kurland
PrologueScotland, 1313
Ian MacLeod lay in the Fergusson's dungeon and, not having much else to do, contemplated life's many mysteries.
How was it that the Fergusson could be so hopelessly inept at growing grain or raising aught but stringy cattle, yet have the knack of producing such a fine, healthy crop of rats? Ian would have been annoyed by this if he'd had the energy—especially given the fact that one of the rats was currently making a nest in his hair while the rodent's fellows sat in a half-circle around Ian, apparently waiting for the nest maker to finish and invite them to have a closer look at his building skills—but Ian didn't have the energy to even shake off the offender, much less muster up a good frothy head of irritation.
Secondly, he gave thought to the location of his sorry self. It wasn't often that a MacLeod found himself in a Fergusson hall, much less in his pit.
It wasn't as though his kinsmen hadn't made attempts to liberate him from their bitterest enemy's dungeon. They had and he had appreciated their efforts, even though they'd been to no avail. He would have liked to have forgotten about the entire affair, and the accompanying indignity of it, but he was, after all, the one sitting amongst the vermin, so thinking on it was almost unavoidable.
And then lastly, and by no means the least of any of the things clamoring for his attention, he thought he just might be dying.
That, however, was the only good thing to come of the past two months.
Ian settled back against the wall—or pretended to, as there wasn't much movement in his once finely fashioned form anymore—and gave thought to the whole business of dying. It was actually the only thought that had cheered him in days. His time in 1313 was obviously over and no one would miss him if he perhaps managed to elude death's sharp sickle and sneak off to the forest near the MacLeod keep. And if by some miracle he reached that forest and happened to find the exact spot that would carry a man hundreds of years into the Future, well, who would begrudge him that? What would one fine, manly addition to the Future hurt? It was either escape to there or toast his backside against the fires of Hell.
Unfortunately, Ian had no illusions about his sins. He'd spent too much time at the ale kegs, wenched more than any man should have without acquiring scores of bastards, killed with too much heat in his blood, and—surely the most grievous of all—wooed Roberta Fergusson to his bed and cheerfully robbed her of her virginity.
It was the last, of course, which had earned him a place in Roberta's father's dungeon.
It wouldn't have mattered so much had Roberta possessed any redeeming qualities besides her virginity. More was the pity for Ian that she sported a visage uglier than a pig's arse and the temper of an angry sow. Her guaranteed virtue had been her only desirable trait and she possessed that no longer.
Ian suspected that her new unmaidenly condition didn't trouble her overmuch. After all, he had taken great care with her and spared no effort to make the night memorable for her. 'Twas rumored, however, that her father had been less than enthusiastic upon learning of the evening's events. Ian had known there would be retribution. He also knew that 'twas almost a certainty that the Fergusson was in league with the Devil, which left him wondering what conversations the two had already had about him.
Best not to think on that overmuch.
He turned his mind quickly from the contemplation of Hell and settled back instead for speculation about where he would have gone had he had the choice.
The Future. Even the very word caused his pulse to quicken. He knew as much about the distant future as a man in Robert the Bruce's day should—likely more. He'd had a young kinsman travel to the Future and return briefly to tell of its wonders. And then another miracle had occurred and a traveler from the Future had arrived at the MacLeod keep. She had married the laird Jamie and carried him home to 1996 with her. Ian had grieved for Jamie's loss, for he was Ian's closest friend and most trusted ally, but he'd been afire with the idea that one day he too might travel to a time when men flew through the skies like birds and traveled great distances in carts without horses. At the time Jamie had forbidden him to come along with him to that unfathomable point so far ahead, telling Ian that his time in the fourteenth century would not be over unless he escaped certain death.
Ian was certainly facing death now.
Ach, but if that wasn't enough to make Ian ache for the chance to walk in the MacLeod forest, he didn't know what was. Ian dreamed of how it might have been had he managed to gain the Future. He would have been dressed in his finest plaid, with his freshly sharpened sword at his side and a cap tilted jauntily atop his head. Future women would have swooned at the very sight of him and Future men would have envied him his fine form and ability to ingest vast quantities of ale yet still outsmart his shrewdest enemies—and all this, mind you, before even breaking his fast in the morn.
He would have searched for his kin soon after his arrival. Jamie would have been pleased to see him, and Ian would have been pleased to see Jamie. First he would have hugged Jamie fiercely, then planted his fist in Jamie's nose—repeatedly.
Jamie being, of course, the reason Ian found himself wallowing in the slime.
Ian found the energy to scowl. If he and Jamie just hadn't been in that one tiny skirmish together, Ian might have avoided having a rat fashioning a home upon his head. Jamie had caught William Fergusson's son scampering off to safety, boxed the lad's ears in annoyance, then filled them full of a message for the boy to take to his father. Of course, Jamie had informed the lad in the most impressive of details just how thoroughly Ian had bedded Roberta, then wished the family good fortune in finding a mate for her.
Ian's fate had been sealed.
Ian tried to shake the rat off the top of his head, but found that all he could do was sit in the muck and give a grim thought or two as to whether or not he should be repenting while he still could. Perhaps Saint Peter would have pity on him and let him squeak through the gates. Ian spared a thought as to whether those heavenly gates swung inward or outward, and the means of defending them if it were the latter, then he found that even that was too taxing a thought to ponder.
Death was very near.
Ian mustered up the energy to give one last fleeting thought to the Future. Perhaps if he vowed to leave off his wenching ways and settle down with one woman. Aye, that he could surely do to earn himself a place in heaven…
Suddenly a piercing light descended and blinded him. He closed his eyes against it, fearing the worst. Apparently not even his last-minute bargain was enough to save him. From behind his eyelids he could see that the light flickered wildly.
Damn. Hellfire, obviously.
Ian sighed in resignation and took one last deep breath.
And then he knew no more.
"Did ye get him?" "Aye."
"Sword too?" the first asked.
"Aye," the second said, hefting his burden over his shoulder with one hand and holding onto the blade with the other. "Ye can see I've both."
"Is he dead, do ye think?"
"Dunno." The second would have taken a closer look, but his burden was heavier than he should have been after all that time in the pit. "Looks dead to me."
"Well, then," the first said, apparently satisfied, "take him and heave him onto MacLeod soil. Sword too. The laird wants it so."
The second didn't need to hear that more than once. Best to do what the laird asked. He had no desire to see the bottom of the Fergusson's pit up close. The riding would take all night, but 'twas best seen to quickly. He would return home just as quickly, for he had no desire to be nearby when the clan MacLeod discovered their dead kinsman.
"Was that a moan?" the first asked suspiciously.
"Didn't hear it," the second said, walking away. Dead, alive, he couldn't have cared less in what condition his burden found himself. He'd do the heaving of the man, then be on his way. If the MacLeod fool wasn't dead now, he would be in a matter of hours.
"Leave the sword near the body!" the first called.
"Aye," the second grumbled, tempted to filch it. But it was a MacLeod blade and he was a superstitious soul, so he turned away from thoughts of robbery and concentrated on the task before him. He'd return for his payment, then find a dry place to lay his head, hopefully with his belly full of decent fare and his arms wrapped around a fine wench. He'd do it in honor of the almost-dead man he prepared to strap to the back of his horse. The man might have been a MacLeod, but he was a Highlander after all, and deserved some kind of proper farewell.
The second man set off, his mind already on his supper.
Chapter OneNew York, 1999
Jane Fergusson sat with her chin on her fists, stared at the surroundings of her minuscule cubby at Miss Petronia Witherspoon's Elegant Eighteenth Century Wedding Fashions, and contemplated the ironies of life. There were a lot of them and her contemplating was taking up a lot of time. But that wasn't much of a problem, mainly because she had a long weekend stretching out in front of her and no beach house to retreat to. No, what she had was herself trapped in Miss Witherspoon's shop with only her imagination to keep her company.
What a waste that was. There she was in New York, city of designers, and she had the talent and ambition to design ultra funky clothes in a rainbow of colors. She had her health. She had panty hose in her drawer without any nail polish stemming the tide of runaway runs. She even had an apartment she could afford. Surely with all those things in her favor, she should have been working at a fashionable house designing incredible things for only the long-legged and impossibly thin to wear.
But where did she find herself?
Trying to keep her head above the water line while drowning in vats of faux pearls and more lace than a Brussels seamstress could shake a seam ripper at—all for use in the design and construction of wedding gowns.
The problem was, Jane didn't particularly like bridal gowns.
In fact, Jane wasn't even sure she liked brides.
She sighed, closed her eyes, and let her mind drift back to how it had been in the beginning. She had come to New York with her head full of bold, energetic designs and her suitcase full of funky, short things in black. She'd heard that the truly chic of New York dressed all in black and she had cheerfully pitched every colored item she owned on the off chance that the rumor was true.
She had hoped for a place with someone big, really big; someone who was so ultrahip that even her stuff would look a little frumpy by comparison.
It was then that her course had taken a marked quirk to the left.
She'd been pawing through an upscale antique store's selection of vintage fashions, on the lookout for the elusive and the unusual and muttering to herself about how she would have designed the gowns differently, when she'd felt the imperious tap of a bony finger on her shoulder.
"Are you a seamstress, dear?"
The term alone should have sent up a red flag, but Jane had been so thrilled that someone might think her something akin to a designer that she'd bobbed her head obediently and waited breathlessly for some other gem of recognition. And when she'd been offered a place at Miss Witherspoon's salon, she'd leaped at the chance.
Little had she known that she would wind up designing wedding gowns for a woman who made Oliver Twist's Fagan look like a philanthropist. And not only was she designing all those eighteenth-century wedding gowns, she was watching Miss Witherspoon's niece take credit for it. It was pitiful.
Jane planned to leave. She'd been planning to leave for almost three years, but what with one thing and another—mostly rent and food—she found herself staying. After all, she was actually doing a great deal of designing, and that wasn't something she could turn her back on lightly.
So she invested a lot of time trying to ignore the fact that she was basically an indentured servant. That invariably led to questions about where her Prince Charming was hiding his white horse. Surely there was someone out there who would rescue her from the acres of tulle she'd gotten herself lost in.
She sighed and turned her mind away from the rainbow of colors she could be working with to more productive thoughts—such as if hari-kari were possible with dressmaker's pins. Before she could do any experimenting, the phone rang, making her jump. She was, of course, the only one left at the shop, having been assigned the task of closing up for the three-day weekend. She picked up the phone.
"Hello?"
"Jane, dear," Miss Witherspoon said, sounding rushed, "just a few last-minute things before we visit yet another royal residence. So many beautiful gowns preserved for the discriminating eye, you know. Remember that we'll be hopping back over the Pond on Tuesday."
Yeah, on the Concorde, Jane thought with a scowl.
"Europe has given Alexis such glorious design inspiration…"
Not even Europe will improve her stick figures, Jane thought with a grumble.
"… Christy and Naomi will be in early next week, so you'll want to be sure to remain behind the scenes. Alexis will do the showing of the gowns, of course, for we all know she has the beauty to complement them while you do not!"
Jane had no reply for that, so she merely rested her chin on her fist and thought Gloomy Thoughts about her less-than-arresting face.
"Oh, and one last thing, dear. I want you to check in the workroom immediately. There was a rat heard frolicking about there this afternoon."
Rats. What else? Jane put the receiver back in its cradle, her head down on her desk, and sighed. Miss Witherspoon never would have asked Alexis to check out a rat rumor. Alexis wouldn't have been any good at rat patrol anyway. Alexis was from California. If they had rats, which Jane doubted they did in Alexis's neck of the woods, they were no doubt tanned, relaxed, and unaggressive. Alexis was not up to the New York rat, a hearty, belligerent beast. Jane, however, was unafraid.
At least that's what she told herself as she picked up a yardstick and headed for the back room.
She opened the door, flicked on the light, and spared a brief moment to look at her creations hanging so perfectly on the long racks against the wall. Every pearl in place, every tuck just so, every drop of lace dripping as if it had been poured that way. Jane had to admit that even though she wasn't all that fond of bridal wear, the gowns were beautiful. She had taken the styles of the period and put as much of her personal stamp on them as she could get away with. It wasn't much more than an unexpected tuck here or an unusual bit of lace there, but at least it was something.
It was then that she was distracted by the sound of crunching.
She glanced down and saw a trail of junk food wrappers leading over to the corner.
And she muffled a squeak of fright.
Well, it was obvious that the rat wasn't dining on satin, so what was the use of chasing him out right then? Jane let the benevolence of the moment wash over her as she quickly retreated from the room. She left the light on and shut the door. Maybe the light would convince the rat that he'd wandered into the wrong place and he would abandon his designs on the workroom.
That sounded much better than trying to convince him to leave by means of a flimsy stick.
She quickly packed up her bag, put on her sneakers with the rainbow shoelaces—not chic maybe, but definitely colorful—and hurried out into the Manhattan evening. The colors and smells of the twentieth century assaulted her, assuring her that she wasn't trapped in a Victorian sweatshop. She took a deep breath, slung her bag over her shoulder, and set off down the street to her sublet, thoughts of rats temporarily forgotten.
By the time she reached her building, she was sweating and cross. She trudged up three flights of stairs, stood outside her door until her breath caught back up with her, then shoved her key into the lock and welcomed herself home to her glorified attic apartment. She turned on the lights, then closed the door behind her and leaned back against it, letting her bag slide to the floor. A quick survey of her surroundings told her she was indeed in the black-and-white space she had created for herself upon her arrival in New York. She had been convinced a monochromatic scheme was perfectly in keeping with her chic, designer self and would do nothing but enhance her creativity.
Lately she had begun to have her doubts that this was good for her state of mind.
She pushed away from the door with a sigh and headed toward her bedroom to exchange her requisite working uniform of anything black—heaven forbid we should compete with the brides, dear!—to something at least in a comforting sweatsuity shade of gray. She usually found her bedroom, with all the purity of its white contents, soothing. Today it just felt sterile.
Jane quickly took stock of what she'd consumed that day, decided that the M&M's had pushed her over the edge, and vowed with a solemn crossing of her heart to stay away from the vending machine at some point in the very near future. Perhaps before she turned forty, in another decade or so.
There was one deviation from her color scheme and that was the hope chest her parents had insisted she take with her. It was a beautiful, rich cherry and it sat under her tiny window and beckoned to her with all the subtlety of a lighthouse beam at close range. Jane knew what was in the trunk.
She was tempted.
But she also knew where looking would lead, so she turned sharply away and rummaged in her dresser for something appropriate for her aprez work Friday night activity of watching an old movie.
Once she'd shed her Witherspoon image for something more comfortable, she made herself a snack and settled down with the remote. She couldn't afford cable, but the public broadcasting system always had something useful on Friday nights.
"Great," she groused, tuning in and getting ready to tune out. "Sheep."
Ah, but it was sheep in Scotland and that was enough to keep her thumb off the remote. Scotland and all those sheep who worked so hard to donate all that wool. Jane's fingers itched at the very thought of it. Truth be told—and it was something she didn't tell anyone at work lest it ruin her image as a user of already woven goods only—put a pair of knitting needles in her hands and she could work miracles.
And yarn came in such a rainbow of colors.
She watched until she knew more than she wanted to about sheep and their habits, then she turned off the TV and crawled into bed.
And she dreamed of Scottish sheep.
Chapter TwoAnd back in the workroom…
Ian lifted his sword and plucked from the end another of the bags of food he had gathered. He broke open the outer coating and reached inside for some of the crunchy inner meat. While he ate, he looked at the words engraved upon the outside of the pouch. Cheetos. He nibbled, then looked with concern at the orange residue left upon his fingers. It only added to the acute alarm he felt. He continued to chew, certain he would need whatever nourishment he could have, and contemplated the direness of his situation. He was dead, obviously, for he was surely no longer in the Fergusson's pit. It concerned him, however, how much his mortal frame still pained him. He'd been certain he would have shed his body on his trip to the afterlife. But possess it he still did, and an uncomfortable thing it was indeed.
He looked about him. He was in a chamber full of white gowns. He hadn't seen them at first, as he had woken to complete darkness. Then a faint light had forced its way through a window, leaving him with the knowledge that he was no longer in the Fergusson's keep. He'd heaved himself to his feet in a desperate search for food and water.
It was then he'd espied the little box full of pouches. Drink he'd found there too, in little boxes and tasting of strange and exotic flavors. The drink he had enjoyed. The food, less so.
He'd staggered back to his corner and settled down for a rest when a light so bright it burned his eyes blazed to life before him. He'd been so stunned, he hadn't moved at first.
Heaven? he had wondered. Or perhaps a chamber assigned to those who awaited their journey to Hell. He couldn't be certain, but he strongly suspected that he had somehow, while being out of his head with weariness, escaped the Fergusson's guards and landed himself in a chamber containing gowns for future angels. There were, after all, all those garments in white to consider. And those little black machines on the tables. Ian hadn't dared touch them, but he'd read the words inscribed on them easily enough. Singer. If that didn't cause a body to think of singing angels, he surely didn't know what would.
But there had been no angels roaming about fingering the gowns so Ian had been left to ponder other alternatives. He'd eventually come to the conclusion that he wasn't in either Heaven or Hell, he was in Limbo, that horrible place between the two. The food alone should have told him as much. He looked about him at the remains of what he'd consumed. Cheetos, Milky Way, Life Savers—and aye, he could have used those in truth—all in colors he hardly recognized and tastes he'd never before set his tongue to. All in all, he couldn't help but wish heartily that he were back in Scotland braving the fare at his clan's table.
Then another more disturbing thought occurred to him. Perhaps the powers that were deciding his fate were still struggling to make up their minds about him.
He looked about him and frowned at the leavings scattered here and there. He'd had to remove the slippery outer coatings of the food—once he'd discovered those outer shells weren't fit to eat, that is. Perhaps 'twould make a better impression on Saint Peter's gate guards if Ian tidied up his surroundings. He struggled to his feet, using his sword to help him get there, then merely leaned upon his sword and caught his breath Never mind where he was; what he needed was a decent meal and a fortnight's rest to recover from his stay in the Fergusson's keep.
Ian started to bend down to see to his clutter when a door at the far end of the chamber opened. He froze, afeared to draw attention to himself when he was looking less than his best.
A demon walked in. It could be nothing else. It was dressed all in black, its hair pulled up and pinned to its head with half a dozen sticks of wood. Ian spared a thought about what kind of pain that must have caused the beastie, then realised that it likely felt no pain. Dwelling in such a place as this would surely numb the senses.
The creature looked over the angels' gowns, thumbing through them with the air of one familiar with such things. The gowns hung on shiny poles in a most magical manner and Ian spared a bit of appreciation for such a finely wrought manner of hanging the clothing. Perhaps Limbo was a more advanced place than he'd thought at first.
The demon finished with its work, then turned his way. He watched its eyes roam over the chamber, then watched those eyes widen. The she-beastie, and he could now divine that it was a she and not a he, opened its mouth to speak—but no sound issued forth. Ian took the opportunity to assess his opponent before she spewed forth things he likely wouldn't care to hear.
Her face was unremarkable, but fair enough, though Ian wasn't of a mind to examine her too closely. She was passing skinny. Perhaps she was only allowed to make a meal of her victims on an occasional basis. Ian was almost curious enough to ask her, but he was interrupted by the low whine that suddenly came from her. It started out softly enough, then increased in volume until it became a most ear-splitting shriek. Ian threw his Cheeto-encrusted fingers up over his ears until the beastie's mouth closed. Then he hesitantly took his hands down. The beastie blinked, shook her head, then blinked again.
"Only in New York," she said in a particularly garbled tone. "This could only happen in New York."
She repeated that as she turned and left the chamber by the door Ian hadn't dared open before.
New York? Was that what they called the place, then? Ian reached up to scratch his chin over that piece of news, then realized how unkempt he must have appeared to her. Then a more disturbing thought occurred to him. What if she had gone to tell the Deciders of His Fate about his less-than-pleasing appearance? By the saints, with the way he looked at present, the very last place they would think to send him was up the path to the Pearly Gates.
He looked about him frantically for aid. He had been strengthened somewhat by the ghoulish fare and felt certain that he had the vigor to make himself more presentable. Perhaps if he looked the part of an angel, they might mistake him for one and send him along on his way.
'Twas nothing short of a miracle what he was surrounded by.
Angel gowns.
He set his sword aside, peeled off his plaid and shirt, and set to work looking for something in his size.
Jane walked into her office, very proud of herself that she was still breathing normally. It wasn't every day that a woman saw a filthy, sword-bearing, bekilted man six inches taller than she loitering in her workroom. Her hand was very steady as she reached for the phone and dialed 91—
Her finger hovered over the last number . What was she going to tell the cops anyway—hey, there's a grubby guy standing in the middle of junk food wrappers in the room down the hall? For all she knew, they would come get her and haul her away. She slowly set down the receiver and took stock of the situation.
It was the Saturday before Memorial Day and given the fact that Miss Witherspoon had given the entire staff the long holiday off—except Jane, of course—it was a safe bet that she would be the only one in the salon until Tuesday.
Alone with a crusted-over Swamp Thing.
Jane looked around her for a weapon. Damn, nothing but a handful of dressmaker's pins—and she had already determined their lack of usefulness in inflicting fatal wounds. It looked as if her only option was to beat a hasty retreat and face the remains of the mess on Tuesday with everyone else.
Her hand hadn't gone halfway to her bag before she realized that wasn't an option either. The best gowns in that workroom were one-of-a-kind creations that she had put together herself. She had spent hours rummaging through estate sales, garage sales, and dusty antique shops to find the unique bits and pieces that went into making her additions to the salon truly special. Could she really allow those creations to be ruined because she'd been too cowardly to face the man nesting in the workroom? Besides, he really hadn't looked too steady on his feet. Maybe he needed help.
She squelched the Florence Nightingale thoughts before they could bedazzle her common sense, then gathered up what she hoped was defense enough: a Bic pen and a pair of very long, very sharp dressmaker shears.
"Here goes nothing," she muttered as she left her office and tiptoed down the hallway to the workroom.
She stopped outside the door and put her ear to it. Damned old metal things. Where was a good old-fashioned hollow core wooden door when a girl needed one? With one last deep breath, she flung open the door and stepped inside.
Swamp Thing squeaked in surprise and spun around to face her, his skirts rustling loudly in the sudden silence. Jane would have squeaked as well but she was too dumbfounded by what she was seeing.
He was wearing the most modern of their gowns, a nineteenth-century Southern Belle special. It was an off-the-shoulder number with dozens of hand-placed pearls and enough lace encrusting the bodice to turn the upper half of the dress into the stiffest noncorseted creation ever worn by anyone who'd ever said "y'all."
Well, at least he wasn't toting the matching parasol.
Jane felt her mouth working, but she found that all sound refused to come out. There was a man in her workroom wearing a bridal gown. It was too small by several sizes, the hem hitting him midcalf. His relatively hairy arms poked out at an awkward angle through the sleeve holes and the neckline barely reached midsternum. Jane decided right then that men with any amount of body hair at all were not meant for shoulderless, sleeveless bridal fashions.
And then Swamp Thing spoke.
"Would ye perrrchance be one of Saint Peterrr's ilk," he began, sounding rather nervous, "or are ye belonging to the… errrr… Deevil's minions?"
His r's rolled so long and so hard, they almost knocked her down. It occurred to her that he was a Scot, which explained what had looked like a kilt before, but it didn't explain what he was doing in Miss Wither-spoon's shop.
And then it sunk in what he had asked her.
"Huh?" she said, blinking at him.
He took a deep breath. Then he put his shoulders back—no mean feat given his attire. "Be ye angel," he asked, "or demon?"
She was sure she'd heard him wrong. "Angel or demon?"
"Aye."
"Well," she said, wondering what planet he'd just dropped down from, or, more to the point, what asylum he'd escaped from, "neither, actually."
"Neitherrrr," he echoed.
That Scottish burr almost brought her to her knees. Jane put her hand to her head to check for undue warmth there. There was a lunatic standing ten feet away from her and she was getting giddy over his accent.
He gave his bodice a hike up and scratched his matted beard. "Limbo, then," he said with a sigh. "And here I am, having taken such pains to look my best."
"Look your best," she said, watching him lean wearily against one of the worktables. "Is that why you put on one of the dresses?" "Wacko, she decided immediately. And one for the books.
He nodded, then explained, his r's rolling and all his other vowels and consonants tumbling and lilting like water rushing over rocks in a stream. Jane was so mesmerized by the sound of his speech, she hardly paid attention to what he was saying.
"So, I was thinking that if you were indeed someone keeping watch for Saint Peter that perhaps I'd make a better impression if I wore something that would make me seem more angelic"—and here he flashed her a smile that just about finished off what his r's had done to her knees—"and spare me a trip to Hell." He sighed and rubbed his eyes. "But if you're trapped in Limbo as well, I can see my efforts were for naught."
"Limbo," she repeated. "Why do you keep talking about Limbo?"
He looked at her as if she was the one who was seriously out of touch with reality. " Tis the place between Heaven and Hell, and you know nothing of it? 'Tis worse for you than I feared."
"Pal, we aren't in Limbo, we're in New York."
His expression of resignation turned to alarm. "New York? Is that closer to Hell, then?"
"It's actually closer to Jersey than Hell, but we try to forget that bit of geography, except when the wind's from the south, then it's an inescapable fact." She tucked the pen into her hair and loosened her grip on the shears. "Look, let's try to get you back to where you came from, okay? You tell me how you got here and I'll help you get home." That sounded reasonable enough.
He leaned more heavily against the table. "How can I go home? I'm dead." He shifted and a snootful of his aroma hit Jane square in the nose.
"Nope," she said definitely, "you're not dead. I told you, you're in New York. Different state of being entirely."
He looked very skeptical, but she pressed on.
"Do you have any family?"
"I've kin in the Highlands," he said. "I've also kin in the Future, but I daresay I've bypassed them to get to here."
A wacko with delusions of time traveling, she noted. She'd read those time-traveling romances and knew all about how it worked. Standing stones, faery rings, magical jewelry—those were all devices necessary for the time traveler. Since there were none of the above in the vicinity, it was a safe bet the guy was kidding himself. Jane wasn't familiar with any of the local sanitariums, so she decided to ignore that alternative for the moment. She took a different tack.
"You got family in the area?" she asked. "In Manhattan? Queens?"
"I'm first cousin to the laird of my clan," he said wearily. "But I fear there are no queens amongst our kin."
Jane opened her mouth to ask him what he meant, then shut it and shook her head. Better not to know.
"Okay," she said slowly, "how about your name instead."
"Ian MacLeod."
...
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