THE BEFORE
Regge’s travel adventures
Richmond Park, England, 1601,
Outside Queen Elizabeth I’s Palace
The stench of blood and black powder hung in the air, clogging airways and stinging eyes. Men’s curses and the clash of blades clanged over me as my vision dimmed. I stopped. The smallest of movements stabbed blinding pain in my chest, obliterating my other aches—the cracked ankle, the cuts on my palms, day-old bruises. It hurt to breathe. To move. Isabelle urged me on. Though she was next to me, I barely heard her words, but the panic and strain came across clearly.
“Regge, I’m sending you through. It’s the only way to save you.” Her hand tugged at my good arm. My other hand was curled around me, holding flesh together.
Leaning heavily on her, I blinked away my graying vision to see the vertical pool in front of us. A shimmering green blob about the size of a barn door, its edges undulating in the sunlight. A portal. My gut clenched.
“No.” I balked.
“We’ll be right behind you.” She tugged me closer, and I could feel it now, like some great muck about to swallow me.
I’d seen this once before. During a lightning storm, my friend had whispered foreign words under a large oak tree. When the orb appeared, she walked through it like she was going to see the Queen. Fine as you please. But I hadn’t seen her since.
Isabelle was my friend. I could trust her, yet I resisted. I’m no coward. I’ve faced ruffians and cutthroats, even death, but this was different. Death might find us here, but at least I’d be with her and Theo, fighting to the last. I looked around to see my guardian—sword flashing, blood flying as he battled two of Locke’s men. Locke was dead. I killed the bastard, so why were his men still here? Still fighting?
Locke wasn’t the firstthingI killed, but he was the first man. I was a thief, sure. A damn good one, a fair con man, but murder was something else. I felt no guilt at my actions. There were a lot of monsters in the world, and Locke was right up there with the worst of them.
The vision of him slitting my lover’s throat would never leave me—Locke’s men dragging me away from Charlie’s body. Theo and Isabelle had come after me. It hadn’t been a fair fight, two against many and me in shackles, but Theo was fae, with the strength and cunning not of this world. And I’d held my own. That is until now.
Isabelle’s hands touched the musket wound in my side, and I flinched with the pain. With her help, I stepped forward, but it took all my strength to stay upright.
“I can’t hold the gate long. I’m sending you to forward. Go.” With those words, she gave me a shove. I stumbled through the murky door. Archie’s shrill cry rang in my ears as he flew into the unknown with me. At least I had him.
The actual voyage was quick as a blink, but the sudden stop at the end was mind-numbingly brutal. A cold floor, a dank, dark room save for the glowing orb I’d fallen through. My knees and elbows struck and skidded across the smooth stone. A dungeon of some kind then. My mind went to the prisons of my London—places of death and despair.
Rolling over, my stomach lurched at the sudden nausea, and I struggled to keep my innards on the inside. I blinked, the room gradually coming into focus. Looking back, waiting for Theo and Isabelle to appear from the bilious green doorway, I held my breath.
The portal snapped out of existence, leaving me alone in an unknown world. I sagged to the ground. A slight man stood close by, his white hair falling to his shoulders, his hands out in front of him, danger blazing from his eyes.
The pain in my chest was fading, leaching from my body along with my blood. Falling back, I knew I was dying. I was so tired. Charlie was gone. Theo and Isabelle far away—centuries from me now. Theo oft times referred to me as lad or kid, but today I felt like an old man.
A gentle hand landed on my shoulder. I opened my eyes to see a sharp-chinned man, his short locks sporting peacock feathers—no, his hair was that color. How odd.
“You’re safe. It’s okay,” he said. His chestnut eyes were soft, the corners lifting when he smiled. I felt myself smile in return. Tearing my gaze away, I found a golden-eyed African wielding the sword of Romans. I cursed him, for he was surely a demon with that face, those eyes. “No. He won’t hurt you.” Peacock feathers turned to the beast. “He’s a friend, Abraham. Call Ziggy. He needs a doctor.” He focused back on my face.
Wondering how he knew I was a friend, I croaked out Izzy’s name. She was from this place and could speak for me. I closed my eyes against the spin of the room.
“You’re safe, okay? We’ll take care of you. I’m Hunter, Bruce. Hunter.” He repeated. “You’re safe now. I’ve got you.”
“Hunter Bruce,” I mumbled as this new world went black.
Hunter, four months after Regge’s arrival
During that sweet spot between spring and summer, before the oppressive heat and bugs had yet to bloom, the queer citizens of Philly congregated to bust a move at Reckless Abandon—a club on Spruce Street.
“HB.” Regge North leaned to speak low into my ear. “I fear for this bloke’s health. It is far too cold out here to be wearing only his underclothing.” In front of us, a guy in a crop top and booty shorts was sporting goose bumps in the neon light of the club sign.
“That’s his outfit. Club wear. You’ll see.”
The last dregs of someone’s blunt wafted through the air, mixing with the scent of hastily chewed spearmint gum.
Beside me, Regge stared down at his usual Vans and faded denim, the muscle shirt accentuating finely toned arms. His worried look was adorable, and I assured him that he looked amazing, and judging by the looks his way, I wasn’t the only one who thought so.
