Yesterdays Gone

Bitter tears stung his eyes and burned his cheeks, just as the winter rain was freezing his flesh. He gazed down at the freshly turned earth and the solitary wreath, his heart clenching as he swore to avenge her murder. He would never forget the moment he had found her mutilated body and if it took a thousand years, he would find and punish the one responsible!

Sulphurous grey smoke coiled from the tip of the cigarette. It glowed red for a moment as the nicotine was inhaled and burning white ash fluttered to the ground. For a moment, the flakes seemed half suspended before the snow bank opened to receive them and they melded into its' icy depths. The expended filter tossed to the floor, joined them a moment later. Within a very few minutes the evening street in Downtown Vancouver bore no evidence that anyone had ever stood there, watching the unusual little shop. He smiled to himself as he walked, head down into the gathering snow storm. The woman had been enjoyable. He wished he could have had the pleasure of seeing the look on her husband's face when he found her. Still, needs must and his next conquest would be a little more of a challenge – intellectually if not physically at least. He glanced up at the clock on the tram stop shelter. He would have to hurry if he were to make the Meeting in time.

South Coast of Cornwall, Near Falmouth, 1613

The sails hung ragged from the three masts of the eighty foot Dutch Flute; beating madly in the howling gale that assailed the tiny ship. Waves crashed across the decks, drowning out the screams of both crew and passengers as the tide drove their ship inexorably towards shore. The Captain had long since given up on his desperate attempt to guide his vessel onto the relative but tentative safety of a sandbar. Below decks, timbers creaked and splintered ominously. The flat keel of the Flute had struck the wicked rocks that guarded this section of the coast like jealous sentinels. Wedged, the ship was helpless as the sheer ferocity of nature continued to pound her to pieces. By the time the sun rose, the storm had long gone. Of the ship, there was nothing left except a few pieces of floating timber, gradually carried onto the shore by the tide. One of these carried a passenger. A small boy clung to flotsam, all that was left of the foremast, his limbs stiffened by cold and fatigue. It was mere reflex that kept him holding on as a wave bore him up the beach. He had survived.

British Columbia, Early 21st Century

The mid December sun which shone weakly through the mountains and skyscrapers, upon the city of Vancouver served little to dispel the biting winter cold and harsh icy wind. The sky was clear and ice lay treacherous upon the unsalted pavements. Martin Penwarden shivered and turned up the collar of his black woollen coat against the chill, trying to tuck himself deeper into his scarf as he made his way towards the destination of his choice. In the midst of a block of otherwise ubiquitous storefronts lay one that had caught his eye. He remembered the name from the online store that he had briefly visited from the laptop in his hotel room a few days previously. It was an unusual place, with two distinct specialities - Sci Fi memorabilia and occult supplies. The shop was called "The Lion; the Witch and the Tardis".

As Penwarden came to the end of the street, he ran into a large crowd of people, lined up against police tape. They were eagerly gawking at the scene beyond the tape. Frowning slightly, Martin looked over the heads of the couple in front of him. The street was filled with scaffolding and what appeared to be camera equipment. A man was shouting instructions at both camera crews and (Martin assumed them to be) actors. Next to him a woman pushed through the observers to lean against the lamp post near him. The warm scent of very strong coffee reached his nostrils and almost despite himself, Martin glanced at her. A very faint shiver of... something touched his mind; seemed to whisper and then was gone. The girl – woman (he had to keep reminding himself) was certainly striking; crowned with a mane of black hair that seemed to glow like burning coal whenever the sun glinted off it.

"Nothing like a hot drink on a chilly day" Penwarden offered, politely.

"You're not wrong..." his new companion grinned. "Though why anyone would want to stand in the street in this wind is anyone's guess".

"What's going on up there? It looks like some kind of filming?"

"Yeah, that new Crime Drama that's been advertised in all the gossip rags. Wasn't too bad earlier, then a bunch of fan boys showed up looking for the lead woman's autograph. Cops closed the street when the company threatened to shut down production".

"That must hurt the local businesses, surely?" Martin observed.

The woman sipped her coffee and shrugged. "Compensation's been offered... and the lucky few will get their frontages unobscured on screen. I know I'm not the only one who wouldn't say no to a bit of free national advertising" she grinned and Penwarden found himself chuckling.

"Very wise" he laughed, feeling in his pocket. "Actually, perhaps you can help me if you're local. I wouldn't want to be hanging around for hours if I'm in the wrong place". He proffered the printout from GoogleMaps that he had had the foresight to bring with him.

"Oh yeah, you're on the right street" Coal-Hair nodded. "Nice little shop, that... cosy... good atmosphere. The manager's a decent sort, nothing is too much trouble. I don't think there's ever been an order she couldn't fulfil. It's that purple and silver front you can just see through the production vehicles".

Martin nodded gratefully and was about to introduce himself when a police officer with a loudhailer announced that shop workers and residents who had been issued with permits could return to their homes and places of business. There was a sudden urgent rush of movement and he lost sight of the coal haired, coffee drinking woman.

Another half hour passed before the street was fully open to the public. Penwarden made his way along the pavement to the distinctive purple paintwork that had been pointed out to him. He pushed open the heavy wooden door and was instantly welcomed by the warm sent of Nag Champa and the light tinkle of a set of wind chimes that hung over the door in place of a bell. Once the chimes had died away, the soundtrack from one of the 'Harry Potter' films could be heard playing on the store stereo. He grinned; the work of John Williams was instantly recognisable and unforgettable. For a few seconds he took in the brightly lit and well-stocked shelves around him. The shop seemed to be split into its' two themes almost down the middle and decorated to match.

Suddenly that distant soft whisper murmured in the back of his mind again. A feeling of alertness perforated his every sinew. Furtively, Martin's eyes swept the store seeking the presence of Another.

"So you found us then?" The speaker was a slender, young woman in her early twenties. Stripped of the ankle length sheepskin coat that she had worn in the street, Coal-Hair looked quite different. Her eyes twinkled with gentle good humour and here, out of the glare of the sun and the interference of the wind that had whipped her black mane across her face, Martin could easily see that she had the unusual genetic quirk that gifted its' recipients with one blue eye and one brown.

Martin had lived too long to take appearances for granted. He straightened up, drawing himself up to his full height. His posture was relaxed but he was more than ready to draw his weapon in an instant if the need should arise. He wasn't sure what the sensation was, but it was enough to make him on guard.

"Can I help you?" she smiled.

Penwarden nodded, smiling gently. "I hope so" he replied. My name is Penwarden… Martin"

"So which is it? Penwarden or Martin?"

"Uhm… both… actually…. Martin Penwarden. So... are you the owner?"

She chuckled and ducked her head. "You got me... Guilty as charged. Are you looking for anything in particular?"

"Actually, there is something I have been looking for; quite a rare and hard to find action figure. Someone outside told me that you've never had to turn an order down" he grinned back.

The woman pulled a notepad and a pen towards her. "I can try. What is it you're after?" As Martin told her, she notated it down on the pad. The Cornishman observed that she continued to massage her neck as she wrote. "Are you feeling alright?" he enquired.

She nodded. "Just a headache. I get them occasionally. It will pass".

Martin's face was filled with honest concern. She was pale and had dark shadows under her eyes. "Has this been happening for long?"

She shrugged. "Three or four weeks. Probably stress or something. It's a busy time of year".

Penwarden nodded. "I suppose it is. I'll call back in a day or two. Do you have a business card?"

"Somewhere around here". She rooted around and then made a sound of victory before she plucked a card from a pile beside the till and handed it to him from between her fingertips.

"Thank you". Penwarden accepted the proffered card, noting that her nail art was chipped and in need of being touched up. It was not like women to neglect such things was it, surely? As he left the shop, he turned the card over and examined it. The name of the shop, a telephone number and a Website address were printed on one side. And, at the bottom, the thing he was looking for; a name. Morgan Doyle. Soda bread or clotted cream? Penwarden wondered, irrelevantly.

Amidst the late evening commuter rush two days later, few people paid any attention to the group of men and women walking through a downtown commercial district. They might as well be a group of Friday evening revellers or tired business people making their way home. As it was, they were neither. The Leader paused and stared up at the dimly lit signage with open revulsion. The store was still open for another few minutes and the creature within tainted his godliness with her very presence. "Cleanse the Devil!" he growled.

"Cleanse the Devil" his followers murmured back. The Leader nodded to his right hand man, who turned the door handle and entered the Witch's store.

Morgan glanced up and the words of welcome died upon her lips. "Hey what..." she yelped as several men turned over a bookshelf. "What the hell do you think you're..." she rushed forward, trying to protect her business, only for a meaty fist to strike her eye socket. She fell to the floor, stunned. Around her, items of stock and displays tumbled to the floor.

"Let's get out of here!" a woman screeched as Morgan struggled to clear her head and get up. The burglar alarm on a case of jewellery was howling urgently after a commemorative 'Dalek' cookie jar had been used to smash the glass. "The cops will show up any second and the Church doesn't need to be involved in an assault case!"

Morgan's hand stretched out, fumbling in the debris on the shop floor. Finally, her fingers closed around her dropped cell phone. A brief thrill of success was all she felt before pain shot up her arm and a man's booted heel ground the device into the floor, breaking her hand with it. For a few moments, all was blissfully silent and, thinking that the looters had gone, Morgan groaned softly. Her bruised muscles let out screams of protest and she forced her eyes open. She wasn't alone.

White blonde hair framed a cruel face in which milky blue eyes were set close together; just a few inches above her. He smiled, showing his teeth as his hand closed around her throat. Instinctively, Morgan struggled, thrashing against a display cabinet. It wobbled and a bronzed resin statuette of Cernunnos tumbled to the floor, cracking in half as it rolled to a stop in a pool of blood that had spilled from a head wound. "Your idolatrous 'gods' cannot help you" the man sneered as he tightened his grip. He was strong and it took only moments to choke the young woman into semi consciousness. Her eyes rolled back in her head and he started to draw his blade, almost salivating at the thought of the fresh innocence in the power to come. However, a distant sound gave him pause. The approaching wail of Police sirens was not conducive to what he had planned. He swore and allowed the sword to fall back into its' hiding place. At his feet, a moan of pain indicated that his conquest was starting to awaken. He dropped to one knee, fisted a hand in her raven mane and half lifted her, dragging her head and shoulders off the ground so that he could gaze straight into her eyes. "My name is Ziegler" he announced. "Edward Ziegler". With disturbing suddenness he lowered his head and kissed her possessively, almost bruisingly, on the mouth. "Remember it, my dear. We will meet again". With that he rose swiftly to his feet and turned on his heel towards the rear fire escape, almost as an afterthought, callously drawing a silenced Glock 17 and pumping several fatal rounds into Morgan Doyle's head and chest.

Martin Penwarden lingered over his breakfast on Saturday morning. The concierge had found a British broadsheet and thoughtfully brought it to his table. The Cornishman hadn't the heart to protest that he did not read newspapers. He sipped his Earl Grey (taken unsweetened and black like the traditionalist he was) and chased the last forkful of egg around his plate. Finally his quest was victorious and he was ready to venture out into the Vancouver streets. Today Martin chose to investigate the Skytrain. If he was honest, he thought the tram would have been quicker, but he was in no particular hurry to get Downtown.

On his earlier visit he had encountered the police line at the end of the street. This time, however, it was clear and he was only slightly disturbed to find his progress impeded much closer to 'The Lion, the Witch and the Tardis'. Nearby several cameras and what seemed to be reporters were jostling for position. Penwarden frowned darkly and glanced about. A bored-looking police officer guarded the line of tape. "I thought all the filming was finished?" He enquired civilly.

The officer shrugged. "Smash and grab in the weird shop" he answered.

Martin's frown deepened. "My... friend owns this shop. Was anyone..."

Before he could finish what he was saying, the strange awareness peaked in his mind again. Beyond the smashed windows of the shop there was a rustle and rattle. Men wearing the uniform of the CSI teams opened the door as two others in black boilersuits manoeuvred a gurney bearing a bodybag into the street. Unbidden, Martin's mouth opened, slackjawed. Somehow, even without the power of the full Quickening, he knew what he was dealing with. The knowledge was so instinctive, so deep within his brain that he did not even bother to question how it came to be there. He could not allow a new Immortal to revive for the first time on the cold unforgiving metal of an autopsy table. He could not in good conscience leave her at this vulnerable time. Inhaling deeply as he racked his brain to remember what had been printed on that two inch squared piece of card stock, Penwarden took action.

"Morgan!" he screamed, apparently distraught as he lunged for the body bag.

A burly cop caught his arms. "I'm sorry, sir... this is a crime scene".

"My girlfriend... she worked in that store... is that her!?" He turned wide, panicked eyes on the other man, then glanced at the coroner's assistants. "Hey you aren't going to go cutting her up are you?! That's against her religious beliefs! You gotta bury the body intact!" In truth, he didn't know anything about Morgan Doyle's faith, but it was the only thing he could think of to delay an autopsy.

"...next of Kin? Sir... Sir!" A detective tried to get his attention. "Are you Miss Doyle's next of kin?"

"Yes... yes I am... Please, let me see her?"

The cops glanced at one another. "We have to preserve any trace evidence on the body" one of them tried to explain uncomfortably. "You'll be able to see her when the ME's examined her".

"Please... five minutes... one minute... I swear I won't touch the bag" he put on what he hoped was his most lost and desperate face. "I love her... I need to... tell her that. We argued this morning... I have to tell her I'm sorry I said those things... I have to tell her I love her... I have to pray for her!" He near enough threw himself into the arms of the nearest cop, howling and gulping in a most undignified fashion. As he had calculated, the man was extremely uncomfortable and couldn't get away quick enough. Two or three minutes later, Penwarden found himself seated in the back of the Coroner's van, with the doors all but closed. He was just in time. The sense of impending urgency was getting stronger. The weak spark of a Quickening starting to burn in the back of Martin's mind. Wasting no more time he broke the seal of the body bag and unzipped it.

Morgan Doyle let out a harsh gasp. Her body convulsed and her hands grasped at air. As her eyes fluttered open, she saw Penwarden leaning over her. He had been around long enough to recognise the signs of a woman about to scream. Quick as a flash he put a hand gently but firmly over her mouth to stifle any cries. "Don't scream" he warned in a whisper. "I swear I'm not going to hurt you. I'm here to help, but if you scream then we're both in big trouble. My name is Martin Penwarden; I shopped in your store a couple of days ago. Do you remember me?" Morgan's head bobbed slightly in a jerky half nod and carefully Martin moved his hand away. "Come on" he said, kindly. "Let's get you covered up and out of here". He removed his coat, momentarily regretting the loss of the garment. Still, Miss Doyle's bloody clothing would invite far too many questions as they made their way through the city. "Do you mind if I call you Morgan?" he asked, turning his back while she dragged herself out of the body bag and pulled the coat on.

"...s'fine" Penwarden had to strain to hear. The voice was distant, almost answering without thought.

"Excellent. Now, if you feel up to it, let's get out of here". He glanced out of the van and, seeing the coast was clear, pulled Morgan out. She was nearly a foot shorter than he and had to half run as he led her to the end of the block and around the corner. Back on the main street, he hailed a taxi and bundled the two of them into it.

The vehicle had been moving for a good five minutes before the Immortal looked across at his companion. Morgan looked ill, as was to be expected. "Are you alright?" Martin asked.

After a moment's hesitation, she shook her head, then thought better of the move and clutched it. "My head's on fire" she complained. "What happened? I don't remember anything just..."

"Just?"

"Doesn't matter... I can't remember what happened..." she closed her eyes, swallowing convulsively and tucking up her body as much as she physically could in the confined space of the back seat of the taxi.

The drive took much longer than Penwarden would have liked. He wanted to get Morgan Doyle somewhere quiet and private as fast as possible. It was all he could do not to let out a sigh of relief when their taxi finally pulled up in front the Sheraton. Morgan opened her eyes and frowned. "What are we doing here?" She asked warily.

"I've got a suite here... It's the safest place I could think of to bring you for now. You need to get cleaned up; some fresh clothes... then we need to talk..."