The Guardian (Chronicles of Dover's Amalgam Book 1) by Elizabetta Holcomb Page B

enough to consider helping you.”
    “What a blessed lady you are,” Jareth said, and his smile was sincere. “But I am not quite as old as the dinosaurs.”
    He did not even care that she knew the time travel capabilities lie in wormholes. Nor did he worry that it was he who had given away the information. He was becoming sloppy with her already, and barreling uninhibited to his demise without a care. The truth was, he would reveal whatever she wanted to know, but she did not need to know that at this precise moment. The only thing he could not tell her was exactly what Jeremy would be.
    “I suggest we compromise.” Her tone was strictly business. While he had been prattling on, apparently she had been calculating.
    His smile faltered. “What is it you require?”
    “Nothing earth shattering,” she replied. Her shoulders rolled up a notch; her nose wrinkled. “For every one thing I agree to do for you, you have to tell me one of your secrets, or a little bit about you—”
    “My choice,” he interrupted. He knew where she was leading, and while he was open to honesty, he was medieval. Men set the course of things. She opened her mouth to disagree, but he swiped his hand through the air—so roughly that she stepped back. “I decide what you know. The more you know, the more vulnerable you become, and I cannot protect you while we are apart—in different times.” It was ironic that she made a game of something he was willing to give freely. But this way, he had an excuse to keep some of his secrets.
    “Okay,” she conceded. But her posture remained stiff. “At least let me choose the topic.”
    “No.”
    Elizabet’s face turned pink. “If it wasn’t against my nature, I would call you a bastard. You’re not being fair.”
    “Your nature is quite corrupt,” Jareth said, “so do what you must. Call me a bastard at your leisure.”
    A sound of annoyance came from her mouth. “How rude! I’m not corrupt.”
    “That is where you are wrong,” he argued. He leaned against the railing of the pig pen, his hands braced, his tall form at an incline. Now, this was a point he could debate with comfort. “We are all corrupt by nature of Adam. We need divine grace.”
    Her face scrunched up and a puff of air left her nostrils as they flared. “What are you? A man of the cloth?”
    He gave her a smug smile. “Actually, yes. I am one of the early Church’s first reformers. I aid The Morning Star of the Reformation to translate scripture.” He crossed his ankles, and reclined heavily on the rail at his back. “Does this count for the first of my secrets?”
    “It most certainly does not,” she stammered. She looked as if she wanted to kick dirt on his expensive boots. “I didn’t agree to let you decide.”
    Jareth laughed. A full belly laugh that both felt and sounded foreign. When was the last time he found anything that amusing? “They’re not your secrets, so that would be unfair.” His grin made it hard to speak. “But I will give you one concession. What will you ask of me?”
    Elizabet smirked and looked away. Her shoulder drooped a bit. His laughter dwindled to a bemused snicker as she pivoted to him. Her gaze was intense. “I want to know, why me?” His smile immediately dropped from his face. “Why me, when there are millions of people who could help you. Your people came out of nowhere to get me. Why?”
    His genetic makeup would have been an easy request. He could explain mild Asperger’s in detail, the why and how of what made him the way he was. Or concepts of doctrine in early church history perhaps. He could expound on the laws of physics, chemistry, medicine, or most definitely theology, until she screamed in boredom. He did not wish to speak of things he barely understood. She was unfair, just as she had claimed him to be a second ago.
    Jareth pushed away from the railing, his hands going to his temples where he raked his short-cut hair as he thought of something clever to say to