6

Ten of the thirty minutes Petofi had allotted to Quentin and Barnabas were left. William sat talking and discussing mythology with the seemingly ruthless alchemist as they shared a bottle of brandy between them and discussed the idea of old gods and their existence in the ancient world. Outside, Aristede stood watch and smoked his cigarettes as he waited for Quentin's return.

"So," Petofi chuckled a bit. "Is it your contention that these beings

actually exist?"

"Well," William looked at the small Victorian clock near him. "The time-lining I've done lines up with other dates. Gilgamesh with the dates of a Sumerian flood, Deucalion with the explosion of Thera, the history of Troy with the Roman Empire."

"It's a shame your gods can't save you." Petofi stood as he checked his timepiece. "I don't think Quentin is going to make it back in time. You are the best company I've had in years."

"Oh," William grinned connivingly. "You can break one promise."

"I never break my promises."

William glanced at the surroundings in the room as he realized that Petofi with all his girth was probably not in good enough shape to fight him. Aristede was another matter. One lucky shot with that pistol and he would not have a present to return to at all. William passed his fingers over a silver candelabrum as he looked around then stepped back as Aristede came down the steps.

"Master," He started. "The artist wants to see you."

"Really," Petofi looked up. "Charles, what brings me the honor of your visit?" William turned nonchalantly to the wall as he recognized Tate from the studio.

"Petofi," Tate was seemingly agitated. "I have one... What's he doing here!"

"Mr. Coleman?" Petofi looked over. "He is our guest at the moment."

"Coleman?" Tate was incredulous. "Is that what he's calling himself? I created him like Amanda less than six hours ago!"

William bolted over Tate and leapt for the top of the stairs. He felt Aristede's hands on his collar grab him and throw him hard to the wall and felt the breath knocked out of him. Aristede pulled out his curved blade and threatened the young man with it as he danced it across his face.

"Aristede!" Pefofi stopped him then looked to Tate. "One of your creations?" He advanced on William. "How does an artificial being have such knowledge of such a convoluted subject as myth and history?"

"Let's kill him!" Aristede implored as the thought of murder excited him.

"No." Petofi raised his hand and placed it on William's heart then over his eyes. "Your will is mine, you have no will except what I give you. You will tell me the unbridled truth. Tell me who you are!"

"No!" William scuffled against Aristede's weight as he felt his mind being clouded by other images. His vision was being impaired as if he were drifting off. He had an urge to tell the truth and he couldn't stop himself. "My name… Is… William Benjamin Collins. I was born

September 9, 1971. My parents are Barnabas and Angelique Collins..."

"What!" Tate reacted with intense disbelief.

"Extraordinary..." Petofi glanced to him and back to William.

"... I'm a student at Collinsport High School." William rambled on unable to stop. "I'm a member of the Class of 1989. I'm a member of..."

"Enough of these rambling trivial minutiae..." Petofi grinned. "So, you're another time-traveler like Barnabas and Mrs. Hoffman. My dear, Charles, it looks like your extraordinary gifts aren't as infinite after all."

"What do you mean?"

"You created a face out of nothing…" The mad alchemist continued. "And the likeness yanked young Mr. Collins out of the future." He turned to William. "Tell me boy, is Quentin a part of that future?"

"He's my uncle." The answer made Petofi start laughing.

"Master," Aristede loosened a bit. "I don't understand. How could..."

"Charles's painting of Quentin has given him eternal life." Petofi grinned pompously as his distraction allowed William to listen. "When I place my mind in Quentin's body, I shall turn him over to the gypsies, and then return here and send my spirit into the future to live my life anew as Quentin Collins."

"Like hell you will..." William punched Aristede as hard as he could in the face, then grabbed his arm and flung him into Charles Tate. Petofi watched as William's foot struck him hard to the stomach as the violent youth remembered how to fight. Tate felt Aristede's flintlock in his side and grabbed it. Barely aiming, he pulled the trigger as Collins tumbled from the stairs.

William started screaming as his stomach exploded. He looked up where he was and saw that Tim Shaw was over him now. Older, greyer and with a stethoscope behind his ears, he hovered over him and pushed him down to his bed. It was 1989 once more and his spirit had been violently ejected back to his body in the present after being killed, but the taste of his mortal death was bitter and poisonous.

"Shot me!" William screamed. "I've been shot!"

"William!" Shaw forced him to the bed as Angelique and Barnabas watched. Barnabas grabbed his son's arms and held them from flailing around.

"William!" Shaw fought the young man. "That was penicillin to fight your infection! You're hallucinating!"

Angelique screamed as she saw blood under the blankets.

"Oh my god," Dr. Shaw pulled back the comforter and saw his patient bleeding to death as the bed became stained with shades of dark crimson pouring from under the blankets. "Where did that come from! Mr. Collins, call an ambulance!"

"William," Angelique looked to her son as he went calm and stared up to her. "Where did that happen!"

"Tate shot me in Petofi's hide-out." William mumbled as Barnabas returned from the phone in the hallway and stopped at the door. Husband and wife passed glances as they recognized those names.

"Doctor," Barnabas turned to the grandson of the first Timothy Shaw. "The ambulance is on its way..."

"Barnabas," Angelique whispered. "Those names, could he..."

"No," The father in her husband was interested only in his son. "Quentin tells those stories all the time. He couldn't have been there. We would have met him."

"I can't believe it." Shaw was trying to stop the blood. William's wound was only in the muscular tissue under the skin just short of penetrating any organs. As he forced pressure against the numerous broken veins, the bullet had popped out through his fingers. He held the tiny round ball up in one hand. "It's the pellet from an old Nineteenth Century flintlock!"