Time Rider (Rise of the Skipworths) Read online

  TIME RIDER

  Rise of the Skipworths, Book 1

  by

  Mallory Kane

  Copyright 2013 Rickey R. Mallory

  DEDICATION

  To Michael, who is my heart.

  Books and Short Stories by Mallory

  It’s In His Kiss

  September Rain

  Deathsinger

  Reunion

  Sword Song

  Waterfall

  Harlequin Published Books

  No Hero

  "The Journey Home"(ss)

  The Lawman Who Loved Her

  Heir to Secret Memories

  Bodyguard / Husband

  Bulletproof Billionaire

  A Protected Witness

  Seeking Asylum

  Epiphany: Merry's Christmas

  Lullabies and Lies

  Covert Makeover

  Six-Gun Investigation

  Juror No. 7 / His Runaway Juror

  A Father's Sacrifice

  Silent Guardian

  The Heart of Brody McQuade

  Solving the Mysterious Stranger

  High School Reunion

  His Best Friend's Baby

  The Sharpshooter's Secret Son

  The Colonel's Widow?

  Classified Cowboy

  Her Bodyguard

  Double-edged Detective

  The Pediatrician's Personal Protector

  Baby Bootcamp

  Detective Daddy

  Private Security

  Death of a Beauty Queen

  Cover Me: Bayou Justice

  Star Witness

  Special Forces Father

  CHAPTER ONE

  He was still out there, frightened, hurting, furious.

  His anger and pain flowed like a red watercolor wash over Kristen's dreams. Giving up on sleep, she dragged out of bed and wrapped a wool robe around her. There was no escaping him. She'd tried. Music, wine, even the sleeping pills left over from Skipper's death, and still his pain and fury reached her.

  At first, she'd thought the insidious feelings were a return of the sympathetic aftershocks that had rocked her after Skipper died. But those echoes had long since faded. So when the fear and pain had reverberated inside her two days ago, she'd been plunged back in time to the harrowing weeks after her twin brother's funeral. Back to nights of black panic when she would jerk awake out of a sound sleep, senses alert, only to remember for the twentieth, or fiftieth, or hundredth time, that it couldn't be Skipper. Skipper was dead.

  Finally the ghostly sensations had faded, like the phantom pain of an amputated limb, and Kristen had been left with an aching void where her twin brother—her other self—had been. She'd always lived with him inside her, linked to him in a way other people could never understand.

  When he'd died, a part of her self had been ripped away. It had taken her a year to get over the worst of it, a year before Skipper's song had completely faded.

  Sometimes now, the silence left by his death overwhelmed her. Oh, she gleaned things from others around her, but they were just feelings, a weak manifestation of the empathy she’d shared with her brother. They’d always been there, as much a part of her as the sound of the wind. She'd learned a long time ago to detach herself from them. She'd been doing really well too, until two days ago, when he had showed up in her mind.

  Tonight was the worst so far. She pushed her hair away from her damp forehead, wishing she could push him away as easily. Wandering into the kitchen, she opened the refrigerator and stood for a couple of minutes letting the cool air drift around her. Tonight his intrusion was almost total. Tonight he was stealing her identity. She squinted in the harsh refrigerator light. He was so weak, so thirsty. She sniffed carefully at a container of orange juice before turning it up to swig the contents like water. A dribble of juice ran down her chin and she wiped it with the back of her hand. Her hand? What was she doing? She had never guzzled juice straight from the jug before—it was almost as she drank to assuage his thirst. She thrust the carton back into the refrigerator and slammed the door, wiping her mouth again.

  As she started to turn away, her gaze caught twin circles of bright gold shining from the top of the refrigerator. Her heart leaped into her throat.

  "Sam, you scared me!" Damn, she was jumpy tonight. It wasn't as if her cat didn't perch on top of the refrigerator every night. "Get down! You know you're not supposed to climb up there." She wrapped her fingers securely around the cat's supple middle and pulled him down, ignoring his growl of protest. "Now stay off this time."

  He pointedly ignored her, waving his tail like a banner as he strutted toward the door. Kristen frowned at him. "I don't want you going out, Sam. Okay?"

  An irritating yowl was her only answer, so she sighed and opened the door. "How did I get mixed up with a tom cat like you? Moira would say you're just another stray I picked up."

  A deep sadness settled on her as she went into the living room and gazed out over the city. The city was always sad. Sometimes she thought she would rather die than have to feel the anguish of all the mournful souls. Thankfully, Skipper had helped her learn to detach herself from their pain, or she might have been locked away or killed herself by now. He'd taught her the careful balance between empathy and detachment that made her such a good doctor. She'd gotten pretty good at it.

  But not good enough to block him. He was still out there. His pain was getting worse.

  She put her palms on either side of her head, wishing she could squeeze him out of her brain.

  He knew he was going to die. Kristen moaned quietly, pushing her fingers through her hair.

  "Get out of my head," she muttered. "I don't want you in here! I don't want to know who you are, or how much you hurt!" She hated it, these new realizations she was having. "How in the hell did you get inside my head?"

  He was going to die. Not from his injuries, not even from starvation, although if she concentrated she could smell the yeasty odor of a body feeding on itself for lack of any other nourishment. He knew he was going to die, but he wasn't frightened of dying. No, the knowledge of his dying lay within him like his soul. It nourished him. He embraced it like a lover. That wasn't the fear that was eating at his guts. He was afraid of something entirely different. He was afraid of her.

  Kristen jerked. Had she fallen asleep standing up? As she looked out over the city again, the lights seemed brighter somehow, and harsher. Savagely she pulled the drapes closed, shutting them out, wishing she could shut out his pain as easily. Her thoughts were getting crazier and crazier. Why would anyone be afraid of her? Especially someone she'd never met, never even seen. Pulling her robe more tightly around her, she curled up on the couch, dozing fitfully, disturbed by strange dreams of falling through a dark abyss, hurtling toward hell.

  When Sam's indignant yowl woke her, she realized she'd overslept. She squinted sleepily at the clock as she jumped up to let him in. "Sam! You're late!"

  His meow managed to combine righteous indignation and martyred patience.

  "Well, all right. I slept late, but you should have yelled louder. I was up half the night." She fed him and put on coffee, then rushed to dress. It was already after eight on Friday morning and she was due at the Street Clinic at nine.

  #

  "Dr. Skipworth, just what is the problem here? You sick?"

  Kristen looked up startled, to find Moira standing, fists propped on ample hips, glaring at her.

  "No, Moira,” she removed her headset with its mic and set it on the desk. “No. I'm just tired I guess. I haven't slept well the past few nights." Kristen stretched her arms and flexed her neck, toying with the idea of confiding in Moira. But no. She'd given up try
ing to talk to anyone about her empathy years ago. No one understood—no one but Skipper.

  She'd spent all afternoon trying to catch up on her progress notes, but he kept intruding, kept wrenching her attention away from her notes. He was getting weaker. Today, his fury and fear were tempered by a weary resignation that frightened her more than his anger and pain had. As he grew weaker, his emotions became harder to ignore.

  Somewhere between this morning and now, she had begun to care what happened to him. She wanted to run to the windows and shout "Don't give up!" But she didn't know who she would be shouting to.

  "Kristen?"

  She wrenched her attention back to Moira, brushing the nurse's hand away from her forehead. "I'm not sick. I've just got something on my mind."

  "I'd say so. You know what time it is?"

  "No."

  "It's after five, and you didn't eat lunch. You not going to eat supper either?"

  "I ate lunch! Didn't I?"

  Moira shook her head, her lips pursed. "No, young lady, you did not. What you did was wolf down a stale doughnut with your third cup of coffee. Now you going to tell me what's going on?"

  Kristen stood up, groaning at the stiffness in her back. She stretched again. "Nothing's going on. I'll leave in a few minutes, okay?" In the middle of her stretch, a searing pain stabbed her. She gasped and doubled over.

  Moira reacted instantly, moving to her side. "All right, Miss Doctor Smarty Pants, out with it. You still have your appendix?"

  Kristen laughed shakily, trying not to grimace. "Moira, I don’t have appendicitis. My stomach's just cramping from hunger. I'm getting ready to leave. You go ahead. Bill's here, isn't he?"

  Moira's black eyes snapped as she assessed her. "Okay, I'll go on. But you be careful. Do you want a ride?"

  Kristen shook her head. "It's only a couple of blocks and I could use the exercise." She rubbed her rib cage. It almost felt like cracked ribs. What was going on?

  "I'll tell you what you could use, young lady. You could use some fun. You could use a social life. You work too much. When was the last time you went out on a date?"

  Kristen wrenched her thoughts away from the pain. "A what? A date?" She shrugged. "It's been—a while."

  Kristen shook her head as she stacked case files on the desk. What would Moira think, what would anyone think, if they knew just how long it had been?

  "Well, you might think me cold, but your brother's been dead for two years. You need to get out, have fun, quit moping."

  Kristen couldn't concentrate on Moira's words. Another searing pain ripped through her side, and her head began to throb. A frightening thought had just occurred to her. Was her empathy growing? Getting stronger? Her heart drummed in her throat. If that were it, wouldn't she be feeling it with other people, not just him? How would she ever stand it without Skipper's help?

  "Kristen?"

  Kristen looked up. "I'm sorry, Moira. I guess I'm more tired than I thought."

  "Go home. Call a friend. Go to a movie."

  Kristen waved her hand at the nurse, still overwhelmed by the pain and fear she could feel in him. "I'm fine. Really. But you're right about dinner. I am hungry. I'll pick up something on the way home."

  Moira shook her finger at her. "Good. And Doctor Skipworth," Moira said. "Don’t pick up any strays. You got that? One of these days one of them poor souls you're always dragging in here is going to turn on you."

  Kristen shook her head wearily. "No, they won't, Moira. You don't understand."

  "I understand you trust people too much."

  "It's not trust, exactly." She spread her hands. There was no way to explain. "Besides, this is different."

  Moira propped her fists on her hips. "What's different?"

  Kristen's head jerked up at Moira's question. Had she said that aloud? She was letting it get to her tonight. "Never mind, I'm just tired. I don't know what I'm saying." She shrugged and smiled sheepishly.

  Moira just shook her head and left, muttering to herself.

  Kristen shut her eyes. Suddenly, he wasn't there. She couldn't feel him any more. Oh God, had he died? She covered her eyes with her hands and pressed hard. She had wanted him out of her head, but this void was worse.

  Where was he? She felt a faint echo of the pain in her side and breathed a sigh of wary relief, unsure if it was because he was still alive, or because she'd been given a respite from his insidious, oppressive sensations. He must have gone to sleep or lost consciousness.

  Shutting down the dictation program and saving her work, she walked out into the receiving area. "I'm going, Bill. This was one of the slowest days we've had in a while."

  Dr. Bill Maxey looked up from the laptop where he was logging the daily count of controlled drugs. He gave her a sharp look, then smiled. "Good, maybe it'll be a quiet night, too. I could use one. Today was a rough day at the hospital."

  "When are you going to quit working two jobs?"

  "When Anne decides we have enough money to put the baby through college."

  "So when are you getting a third job?" Kristen grinned and Bill laughed appreciatively.

  "Oh, by the way," she said, "Walt is in there." She gestured toward the exam room. "He's just about slept it off. You can kick him out if anyone comes in."

  Bill grimaced. "I thought I smelled cheap wine. How long you think his liver's got?"

  She shrugged. "I'd have thought it would have given up years ago. Bye."

  Kristen breathed deeply of the cool air, allowing its clean bite to clear the dregs of pain and fear from her head. The city was growing dark, the haloed streetlights barely making shadows on the mist-damp streets. There were fires burning in drums along the alleyways, their flames bent by the chill breeze wafting in from the bay. Small groups in tattered clothes huddled around the drums, reaching out with claw-like hands toward the flames, begging for warmth.

  She shivered and drew up her shoulders, trying to insulate herself from their desperation as much as from the cold, but both still seeped inside her jacket. She only lived a few blocks from the clinic, but on nights like this, when her senses were flayed open like a wound, she wished for a fast car and a house in the mountains—miles from another living soul, where she could hide from their pain. Or maybe she could get on Skipper's boat and take off across the seven seas.

  "Lady, got 'ny change?"

  Kristen looked toward the voice, squinting in the darkness. It sounded too young, too vibrant, to be another of the pathetic homeless people who crouched in doorways. A small form huddled back against the shadow of a building.

  Kristen considered walking past—for about one second. There were so many people who needed help, and so few who were willing or could afford to give it. She remembered Moira's warning, took a few steps onward, then turned back with a sigh.

  As she approached, the small figure crouched even lower to the ground.

  "Only asked for change," the little voice grumbled, cowering as if Kristen were going to smack it.

  "Who are you?" Kristen whispered. "Aren't you awfully young to be out here like this?" She tried to see underneath the hooded jacket, but the figure just huddled deeper. "Why don't you let me take you to the clinic, and you can call someone?"

  The voice changed, grew older somehow, and less hesitant. "Ain't you been told not to pick up strays?"

  Kristen recoiled in shock at the familiar words Moira had spoken only minutes before. "Who are you?" she asked.

  The cowled head raised and Kristen looked into eyes as black as deep space shining out of a small, pinched face. She was buffeted by a total absence of emotion, as solid as a wall, as if the tiny figure was deliberately holding itself apart from her.

  "I'm nobody, and I don't need nothing," the vibrant voice said.

  As Kristen stared openmouthed, the figure melted back into the shadows. For an instant, she debated going after the little waif, but a grinding pain caught her in the midsection.

  She drew in a deep breath, wishing she'd accepted Moi
ra's offer. She didn't like to walk this way at night, although it was the shortest route home. There were too many weirdos, too many vestiges of despair wafting from the dark corners of the alleys, waiting like the fog to seep into her soul.

  Sometimes, she questioned her decision to become a doctor. She'd thought her empathy would make her a better physician. It had, but the constant assault was wearing her down. Sometimes after a busy week at the hospital, she would sleep for twenty-four hours straight.

  She'd almost quit after Skipper died, but then Bill had asked her to help out at the Street Clinic, and she'd found a measure of peace there. It was fulfilling work, gave her a paycheck, gave her something to do besides sit at home and feel guilty.

  Cold mist gathered in her hair and ran in rivulets down her forehead and cheeks as she turned down the deserted street. She walked as fast as she could, hoping she could outrun the returning sensations of otherness he was evoking in her.

  He was still out there. Weak, resigned, hurting.

  A shudder not born of the misty cold racked her. There were no words for the hollow fear and desperate agony of someone else's pain. No poems celebrating empathy, no sonnets sung to it.

  She considered the questions that had always plagued her. Why didn't everyone feel the misery of the sick? Why weren't others crushed under the hopelessness of streets full of homeless people? She was sure that other people didn't have to work so hard to steel themselves against the world's pain.

  She didn't think she could bear it if this one died. She wiped water out of her eyes. His pain weighed heavier on her than her anyone’s ever had, heavier even than losing Skipper.

  Suddenly, an ice-cold hand wrapped around her ankle and pain and terror shot through her. The edge of her vision went black, and she hit the pavement with a bone-jarring thud.

  When she could focus, she found herself staring into shocking blue eyes glazed with fear and agony and locked on a space somewhere to the left of her head.

  "You!" she whispered, her pulse pounding in her throat.

  A shard of coherence flashed in the eyes for a brief moment, then they glazed again.