Cambiante: The Elsehere, #3

By Grace J Roberts

 

Emilio Hernandez has been rescuing people his whole life…

…but saving the whole world is a very different challenge!

Once a conquistador, his work as The Ghost has terrified generations of slave owners and political despots. But now he's facing something different.

An ancient elemental has gathered power and is rising to cleanse the world. Emilio is the only one who can stop it, but doing so is going to challenge even his powers of adaptability. It's a race against time…

…and time might just be winning!

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rachel Trench
• Release date: Apr 26, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201768140

Book preview

Prologue

December 8th, 1504

Emilio stood, amazed. After hacking their way through thick jungle for several hours, the vegetation had thinned, and at first, he thought they were nearing a clearing, but what he could see now was no simple clearing. It was a large city, easily the equal of anything left behind in the Old World: massive stone structures and wide boulevards as far as the eye could see. The only thing wrong with the scene was the screaming.

Women and children, running in fear.

Fear of him. Fear of the other soldiers, who were swarming out through those wide streets, looking for gold, silver, and anything else they could find. They were strangers in this land, armed with weapons.

The women were unarmed.

He felt physically sick.

The stone buildings were overlaid by the simple homes of his childhood village. The screams of the villagers in his memory mingled with the screams of the women now and he stumbled, disoriented. He wanted to run this time——knew how this was going to end——but which way? North? By the church? But there were soldiers there, tormenting Father Joseph. East? Towards the river? Soldiers were there too, shooting Mother Maria's cattle. South? By the smithy? He could already smell the burning, hear the soldiers’ laughter as Carlos burned with it. That left west, towards home. That path was still clear and he took it.

Perhaps this time he could make it home and save his mother.

Emilio stumbled in the direction he thought of as west, pushing through crowds of people, all trying to flee. And then he saw her: was it a girl? Or was it his mother? She was on the ground, screaming and begging a soldier to leave her alone, trying to protect what was hers.

Anger cut through Emilio's fear and he lunged for the soldier. Knocking him down, he ran him through with the soldier's own sword and for just a brief moment, he thought he'd saved his mother. But, as the soldier died, Emilio turned and finally saw the truth of it: he wasn't back in Medina. He was in the New World. The woman he'd just protected was not his mother, but a girl who spoke no language he knew.

She was speaking to him now. Words he didn't understand, though tone and expression were clear: she was trying to thank him. When he didn't react, she reached up to him in a gesture that made him flinch back.

Emilio shook his head. No. Just go. He gestured into the jungle. Run.

She looked to him once more. Said something and then ran, into the jungle.

For a heartbeat, Emilio thought to follow her. Then he heard a shout and turned. He could see Captain Mendoza headed his way, with his lapdog, Phillipe Suarez, as ever tailing on behind. He looked down at his victim—he didn't even know the dead man's name—then tossed away the stolen weapon. He didn't regret it. Wouldn't regret it.

He would accept what was to come.

A day later, a scaffold had been built in the main plaza of what had once been a bustling city, and Emilio was led to his fate. His hands were bound behind his back and he was flanked by two guards. The one in front was tugging him forwards by the rope that was intended to hang him; the other was behind, prodding him on with the tip of a sword. Waiting for him, below the scaffold, was a stool.

Have you nothing to say? Mendoza demanded.

Emilio silently shook his head.

The guard with the sword forced him up onto the stool, while the one holding the rope threw it up and over the scaffold, pulling it tight and then tying it off, ready.

Any last words at all?

Emilio just stared.

Then hang.

The stool was kicked away. There was a drop and a jerk and then, suddenly, he wasn't in that plaza anymore.

Hatchling.

He was in a cave. Dark—and yet somehow Emilio could see all the details of a rock face covered in etchings. The images showed a strange creature, feathered, like a bird, but drawn wriggling and writhing, like a snake.

Hatchling. The voice was impatient.

Emilio turned and found himself face to face with the being the pictures were describing. He reeled backward, crossing himself.

That wouldn't do you any good, even if you believed, said the being, shaking his head and causing his feathers to rustle like leaves in the wind. But you don't believe, do you? You haven't since the day the soldiers came to your village.

Emilio's jaw worked a couple of times. How?

The being laughed, or at least that's how Emilio interpreted the extended hiss. Emilio Hernandez Lorca, I know all about you. We may talk again, but for now, your time is short and you must choose.

Choose?

"Death at the hands of those bastardos, or life as an agent of protection against cruelty. Against brutality."

I— Emilio shook his head, trying to understand.

Choose, the being urged. Time runs out for you. If you do not choose, they will have chosen for you.

I—don't want to die, Emilio whispered.

The being smiled. Then live.

Emilio found himself back in the plaza. The knot came undone and he dropped to the ground, landing in a crouch. Before anyone could react, he rocked backward, tucking his long legs up so that he could bring his arms out from behind him before rolling up onto his feet. Hands still bound, he took a sword from one guard and stabbed the other before beheading the first with a clumsy backswing. He stepped forwards and sliced across Mendoza's gut, letting the momentum of that blow bring him round in a spin to come up facing his next opponent, Suarez. By this time, the others had regained their wits and their weapons.

Kill him! Suarez screamed.

Three others lunged in. Emilio dodged one blow, and defended a second but felt a third strike home, drawing blood. There was pain but the wound wasn't bad. And then it wasn't a wound anymore.

What are you waiting for? Kill him!

But the soldiers quailed. They could see what Suarez could not: that a sword wound had simply closed up and healed as if it had never happened, right before their eyes. Emilio smiled and lunged for Suarez, a move so sudden, the other man had time for just a single cry of surprise, and then he was run through. Emilio let go of the stolen sword and ran in the direction of the jungle.

No-one followed.

Chapter 1

December 8th, 2012

Waking slowly, Emilio enjoyed the feeling of a warm body pressed against him. Asleep, the woman in his arms looked so innocent and made him feel deeply protective of her, though he knew full well she was more than capable of defending herself. She was the God of Mischief and Lies. The Trickster. He smiled. She was a remarkable creature, he loved her deeply, and for some reason, she loved him in return.

He felt the moment she woke. Felt the way she momentarily tensed, then relaxed again.

Morning already? Her voice was drowsy but it didn't mask the note of disappointment.

It would seem so.

I don't want it to be morning. I want it to still be last night.

Emilio pressed a light kiss to the back of her neck. I don't know anyone who could make that happen, unfortunately.

She sighed. There is one being out there who could, but I'm not nearly stupid enough to mess with him.

If you mean Cronos, I'm glad to hear it.

I do. The Trickster sighed again. I wish you could stay.

Emilio smiled ruefully. I wish I could, too. Unfortunately, I have responsibilities. A week away is all I can manage.

And if you were the sort of man who could ditch his responsibilities, I don't think I would have fallen for you, she admitted. That would have made you entirely too much like me.

They do say opposites attract.

That earned a derisive snort and the Trickster wriggled out of his arms to get up. If you're going to use cliches, I'm not making your coffee.

Emilio laughed. I'll just steal yours.

Pulling on a long silk robe, she turned to face him. You're supposed to be pure and good. Isn't stealing something beneath you?

Not when it comes to coffee.

At that, she laughed. Then I'll make you your own cup and mine will be safe.

A much better plan.

She laughed again and Emilio watched her sashay out of the bedroom. For one brief moment, he allowed himself to entertain a fantasy about staying. He could make his home here, in Venice Beach, with the Trickster. They could be a proper couple, there would be no more issues or duty coming between them. They could both be happy... except it wouldn't work. She was right about that. As nice as moving here would be, as much as they would both love it initially, he would stop being himself.

Staying was definitely out.

He groaned softly, flung the covers back, and rolled out of bed. If staying was out, that meant he had to get up and start getting ready to leave.

Half an hour later, he joined the Trickster in her kitchen. She took in the fact that he'd showered and dressed, and pouted.

I suppose that means you are really going, she said.

Afraid so. Emilio helped himself to the mug of coffee she had prepared for him. Not that I'm looking forward to two days of travel.

The Trickster wrinkled her nose in disgust at the thought. Isn't there a better way?

If I was here on... business, perhaps, he answered. But not for a pleasure trip. They have to be done commercially.

They don't have to, said the Trickster. You're just too good to abuse your position.

Emilio sipped his coffee. Perhaps.

You're not embarrassed by this relationship?

Not even slightly, though, he added, I will admit to not wishing to be a target of Hermes' gossip, and I'd imagine you would rather remain off Freyja's radar.

The Trickster gave that a moment's thought and shuddered. Point taken. Commercial it is.

Besides, there are rumours that things might change. He sipped his coffee. Then again, there have been rumours of one sort or another about Cuba since the days of the revolution. It is what it is.

You could move, said the Trickster. There are other islands in the Caribbean.

Cuba is home. Emilio smiled faintly. And it's where most of my work is these days.

I suppose it would be, said the Trickster with a shake of her head. But it is getting better?

Emilio shrugged a little. Some days I think so; others, not so much. A little like the travel. Maybe one day it really will be better, but for now...

The Trickster nodded and sipped her coffee. Then she smiled. On a different subject: I have a gift for you.

A gift? Emilio was instantly wary; his partner had a very distinct sense of humour. Is this the sort of thing that TSA are going to enjoy?

The Trickster laughed. "Not that sort of gift. Though that does give me an idea for next time..." From the pocket of her robe, she pulled out a small box and held it out.

Emilio accepted it and was surprised to find it weighed more than he was expecting. On opening it, he discovered why: the contents proved to be a keyring with a single key attached. He looked up. A key to your apartment?

I know that you won't—can't—move in, said the Trickster, looking surprisingly bashful. But that doesn't mean you shouldn't be able to come and go if you need to... and, really, I should have done this years ago. I mean, you've always given me free access to your home in Havana, I just—

Have trouble accepting that good things are allowed to come your way, Emilio finished, smiling. I know. Thank you.

What you've done for me... Words failed the Trickster for once.

Emilio pocketed the key. I think we've helped each other. You've taught me how to have fun. That there is more to life than just duty. He wrapped his arms around her in a gentle embrace.

And you've always treated me as someone worthy of respect—

Because you are, said Emilio, kissing her. What was done in the past is just that. The past. It was ancient history when we met.

I doubt many of your kind will view it that way.

I've told you before, they're a lot more forgiving than you give them credit for.

The Trickster snorted and shook her head. No, you are just impossibly optimistic and see the best in people. It's a trait I happen to appreciate. Considerably. She stretched up and planted a light kiss of her own. What time is your flight?

Two o'clock.

Then I'd better shower and dress, and you had better finish packing.

And with that, the Trickster headed out of the kitchen, leaving Emilio to finish his coffee. Packing could wait until after the coffee.

It was nearly a full three days later that Emilio finally walked through the door of his Havana villa. Even by the standards of travel between the USA and Cuba, it had been a bad journey. His first flight had suffered a technical issue before they'd even left LAX. His second got cancelled, which meant a reroute and an extra layover and then, as a final insult, when he finally reached Havana, he had to wait for a taxi. He was exhausted and at least a little confused over which day it was. His watch said Monday, but he wasn't entirely convinced.

The Trickster's comment, that there were other Caribbean islands he could live on, came back to him as he dropped his bag at the foot of the stairs and for just a moment, he contemplated it. Then shook his head. As bad as the travel was, this was home.

He smiled faintly and turned to pick up his mail. His housekeeper had done her usual efficient job of sorting it into a rough priority order, and left it tidily on the table beside the front door. There were a couple of official-looking envelopes on top, but they turned out to be subscription notices. Everything else was art supply catalogues and notices about exhibitions. None of it, blessedly, required his attention until at least the morning, and most of it not even then.

Setting the mail down again, Emilio headed through the house and down a couple of steps into the kitchen. This was the heart of the house and always had been, even in the days when the house had been run with a traditional staff. Its dimensions were a relic of that era, and while he'd repurposed most of the extra storage and staff rooms, it was still a cavernously big room with an enormous but old-fashioned cook's table as a centrepiece. It was also the place he knew his housekeeper would leave any messages and, sure enough, sitting on the table was a note, together with a couple of protein bars and a bottle of beer.

Emilio smiled, unwrapped one of the bars and started to eat it before picking up the note. In it, his housekeeper confirmed she'd got his message about the travel delays and had done the grocery shopping he'd asked for that morning. He noted she'd clipped the receipt to the note and he made a mental note to repay her. She'd also, bless the woman, put it all away for him. The only thing she hadn't been able to get was bread—which was a nuisance, but was also not uncommon. He'd deal with that once he'd had some sleep.

He finished the first protein bar and started on the second. The beer was tempting, but in his current condition it would probably mean he never made it up the stairs. Not a smart move. Instead, he took a bottle of water from the fridge and then headed back to the stairs. He grabbed his bag as he passed and headed up.

As he reached the top of the stairs, his phone buzzed with a text message.