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Table of Contents
Title Page
Greyson Part 1 - Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Greyson Part 2 - Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Greyson Part 3 - Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Greyson Part 4 - Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Bonus Novel - One Sweet Summer
 Greyson
The Complete Serial – Parts 1-4
The Silver Moon Pack Series
By Cali MacKay

Now With a Bonus Novel…

One Sweet Summer

Book 1 in A Maine Island Romance Series
By Cali MacKay
Greyson
The Complete Serial – Parts 1-4
The Silver Moon Pack Series
By Cali MacKay

Copyright © 2016 by Cali MacKay

Published by Daeron Publishing
Http://calimackay.com
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be
reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express
written permission of the publisher or author, except for the use of
brief quotations in a book review. The story contained within is the
work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the
author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons living
or dead, is entirely coincidental.

This story contains explicit sexual scenes and adult language and is
only for readers over the age of 18.

Printed in the United States of America

First Printing, 2016, edition 1.0
ISBN: 978-1-940041-47-6
Greyson – Part 1
Chapter One

Greyson knew he should have called the pack to let them know

he’d finally come home—and yet he couldn’t. Not after the way he’d
left. Besides, chances were good they already knew of his return,
and were giving him a bit of much-needed space, knowing he’d find

them when he was ready.

At the moment, he just wanted to get settled in at his cabin
and enjoy the peace and quiet of the woods and the mountains.

There’d be plenty of time for pack politics and rivalries, even if he

wanted nothing to do with any of it. Unfortunately, he had a role to
play, and no one was going to let him walk away from his position in

the pack.
Luckily, he’d built his cabin on the outskirts of pack territory,

and though that came with its own set of troubles, he was happy for

the solitude it afforded him. He’d always been the odd man out—the
lone wolf—and he was fine with that, even if others were trying to

force a change. But all of that could wait until he’d had a chance to
run the woods and shake off the city.

As the setting sun painted the huge sky red, Greyson grabbed

a seat on his front porch with a cold beer in hand, taking a deep
breath as the scent of pine and musty leaves was carried in on the

brisk October air. Although he’d come back to visit for a few days

here and there between jobs, it’d been a good four years since he’d
come back to stay for any length of time.

Something had called him back, though. It’d nagged at him

until the feel of this place, the mountains and streams, the wood

fires and the full moons were all he could think of, and he found
himself packing up his few belongings onto the back of his bike and

taking the long road home to Wild Creek.

The wind shifted, bringing with it a new variety of scents.

There was the pine and the leaves, but this time, there was more:

the musky scent of a buck, wood smoke, and two unmistakable

scents—that of a human woman and a bear. Greyson couldn’t help

the growl that rumbled deep in his throat, nor could he stop or quiet
the energy that coursed just under his skin, even though he could

control the change—for now.

The woman was unfamiliar to him, but given that this territory

was that of the Silver Moon wolf pack, and it bordered the lands

belonging to a surly group of bears, whoever was wandering the

woods this far into the wilderness was asking for trouble, especially
when there was a bear on her trail, and everyone’s hackles were up

with tensions between the shifter packs riding high.

He should just stay out of it, and yet…he couldn’t leave it

alone. Fucking hell…he was already regretting this.

He quickly stripped naked, leaving his clothes in a discarded

heap as his muscles tensed with the sharp pain of his change. The

energy coursing through him felt like he’d been juiced with a

thousand volts. His form shifted and changed until he’d shed his

human form for that of his wilder half, his massive paws already
hitting the ground in a mad run.

Everything was sharper now, more pronounced, allowing him

to pick up on every scent, so he could see as if it were daylight,

could hear even the slightest of sounds. He sprinted into the forest,

winding effortlessly through the trees, heading in the direction of the

woman’s screams and the bear’s growls when he caught the

pungent scent of blood—and something more that still eluded him.

He burst into the clearing and immediately spotted her, the

sight of her like nothing he’d ever seen before, even though she’d

yet to see him, distracted as she was by the massive black bear that

now lay dead before her, a massive mound of thick black fur.
 Except that this wasn’t just any black bear—this was a shifter

from the Black Ridge bear clan, and there would be hell to pay in

retaliation and revenge. The woman standing before him was as

good as dead.

She started to back away from the bear when her eyes landed
on Greyson, who was still in wolf form, and went wide with disbelief

as she shook her head no. Not that he could blame her. Stumbling
across a bear and a wolf, minutes apart, would be a lot for most to
handle—and the woman before him didn’t look like she had the

foggiest clue as to what she was dealing with.

Even in the darkness, Greyson could see that the last place this

girl belonged was in the woods, let alone woods filled with shifter
packs that were barely holding the peace.
With her eyes locked on his, she stood there frozen to the

spot, like a fluffy little bunny about to get eaten by a big, bad,
hungry wolf. Greyson closed the distance between them—but this

time, when he caught her scent, he was hit with something more,
something that had his cock going rock hard in response, something

so very primal, it’d be impossible to ignore. This could not be fucking

happening—and yet it was.
 The woman standing before him was his mate—the one he
was fated to be with.
If he’d been in human form, he’d have cursed up a storm, and
as it were, he refused to believe this was actually happening. Him—

mated to a human? No fucking way. It had to be a mistake. The

pack would never go for it. Not in a million years. And this was one

more problem he didn’t need.

But before he could figure out his next move, the bear shifted
and shook, despite being dead, and what once was the body of a

bear was now that of a naked man. The woman’s scream was
deafening.

Fucking hell…
She was backing up, her eyes shifting from the dead man to

him, before turning and bolting as he leapt after her—only to have

her trip over something in the dark, and go down in a heap, laying
there, not moving as the pungent smell of blood hit him again.

Focusing his energy, he shifted back to human form with a

growl, the pain rippling through him as his muscles tensed and

contracted, and his bones shifted once more. Shaking off the last
remnants of the wild, he dropped to her side, and lifted her
unconscious body into his arms, relieved that she was still breathing.

She must have struck her head on a nearby rock when she tripped.
Greyson carried her over to the shifter, just to make sure that
he was indeed dead. He was—though there was no visible wound,

and the only blood he could smell was hers. Greyson recognized the
shifter as Atticus, a real asshole and no real loss that the guy was

dead. And yet a dead shifter, even if the guy was a dick, was a
headache he didn’t need. A shifter was dead and revenge would be

had.
He needed to get her the fuck out of there before someone
figured out this guy wasn’t just missing but dead. Not that Greyson

had a damn clue as to how he’d keep her safe if the bears came
looking for her—and they definitely would come looking. The only

thing that might slow the bears down was the fact that the attack
had happened on wolf territory, which meant Atticus had been
trespassing.

Lifting her back up into his arms, she started to stir awake,
which was not a good thing, given that he was taking her back to his

place, whether she wanted to go or not—and he was still naked.

Fuck… This was not going to go over well.
 Holding her tightly to him, he sprinted through the woods,

heading back to his cabin, just as she finally came fully awake and
started to scream. “Hush—I’m taking you someplace safe. Or would
you rather take your chances with a pissed-off group of mangy

bears?”
“Put me the fuck down, or I swear I’ll murder you with my

bare hands.” She kicked and squirmed, bit and scratched, though
there was no way he was letting her go until he got to his home—

and thank fuck, they were nearly there, since holding onto her was
like trying to hold onto a rabid hellcat.

He took the steps up to his porch two at a time, practically

kicking in his front door before he was finally able to put her down

on the sofa. “For fuck’s sake, woman…you’re hurt—and if you’ll stop

fighting me, I can take a look at that cut on your head.”

“No fucking way. You’re naked—and hard. Pervert! Get the

fuck away from me—I saw what you did…what you are.” She
jumped to her feet as if to make a run for it—or deck him—when she

swayed and her knees gave out from under her.

Leaping to her side, he scooped her back into his arms before

she had the chance to hit the floor, and laid her down on the sofa.
“Stay. Do you fucking hear me? I’m not going to hurt you, and if you
Other documents randomly have
different content
Deborah had to pluck at his sleeve to remind him she was there. She
said, "Verily thee are far from me much of the time."
"Not so far," he replied, leading her into his cubicle. At once her soft
strong young arms went around him, her lips sought hungrily for his.
He summoned the strength to thrust her from him, said, "Not now,
honey—we've got a lot of thinking to do and we may not have much
time to do it in."
She subsided meekly and sat down beside him on the portable cot.
She said, "I too have the same feeling, Darling Charles."
"Listen, honey," he told her after a minute. "You say you have never
dreamed of a man like me?"
"How could I?" she countered simply. "In my time no man such as
thee exists. Perhaps the king in London Town, or the Crown
Prince...."
"Listen, honey—the only chance we have to stay together is to go
out of here together on the same bed." He gave the couch beneath
them a slap.
"Durst we?" Her voice was tiny but there was a compensating blaze
of sudden hope in her blue eyes.
"We'll dare anything," Justin retorted, "because the worst thing that
could happen to either of us right now is to be separated. We durst—
now the question is, who goes back into whose time?"
"I should love to visit thine era, Darling Charles."
"I'd love to have you," he replied. "But for ten years now I've been
wanting to see yours. We're going back to your life together."
"But Charles!" Her eyes grew round with fright. "Ye can't! Think on it
—we might awaken in bed together and—"
"Would that be bad?" he asked.
"Nay—but there is my mother. She well might—"
"And what about my wife?" he countered quietly.
She seemed to leap a full foot away from him, her eyes blazing. She
whispered, "Charles—you never told me you were married!"
"I'd be a pretty poor man if some woman hadn't picked me out," he
replied. "Furthermore, I have not been in love with my wife for a
good many years—nor she in love with me."
"But this is horrible!" the girl moaned.
Justin scowled at her, utterly taken aback by her reaction. Other
hints she had dropped came back to him, Dr. Phillips' pitying words
about her problem. He said, "I take it then that you are involved with
a married man in your time."
She flared at him, "Nay, I am not involved—though all about me,
even my father, aye, even my mother, seem to wish me on my
backside with this horrid old man. They say 'tis for the good of this or
the welfare of that that I should give myself to him—me, who cannot
stand the stench of his very breath!"
Justin had slipped from the cot. Facing her he said softly, "All the
more reason that I should go with you. I can take care of this
unwelcome suitor and at least I shall not have a wife in your time for
almost two hundred years to come—unless of course I marry you."
"That would be highly improper, not to say felonious," she retorted
but he could sense the softening in her voice.
He said, "No more improper than coming to my world and having my
wife catch us in bed together. How would you explain that to your
sweet New England conscience? Or perhaps we'd better call off the
whole thing."
"Nay, Charles," she said simply and stood up and was briefly in his
embrace. After a little, her face puckered with worry, "But Darling
Charles, how am I to explain thee? And how will ye survive? Ye'll
arrive in midwinter in ye'r outlandish costume without a groat to ye'r
name."
"Wait a minute." He thrust her from him again and pondered the
problems that would face him should he and Deborah actually be
successful in their effort to flee Belvoir together.
"Yes, Charles?" she asked him after awhile.
"It'll be all right," he told her, "if we can just get over the hurdle of
your parents. I'll need a little money, some clothes."
"Those I can get ye," she replied promptly. "I have a small savings in
my cupboard—'tis not much—just what I've saved from dress-
making these two years past. And I can get ye some of father's cast-
off garments. But what will ye do then, Darling Charles?"
"I'll have my problems, never fear," he told her. "But you seem to
have forgotten one thing in my favor—I have lived two centuries in
the future, Debby."
"And prithee, how will't avail thee in my time?" she asked him.
"Just this way," he stated confidently. "I know what the course of
great events will be in thy—in your time, honey. Once I have
obtained the ear and trust of someone with money to speculate I'll be
able to take care of myself, never fear."
"And that is work for a man like yourself?" Deborah looked at him
doubtfully. "Somehow it seems to me dishonest," she told him. "Ye'r
taking unfair advantage."
"And what is fair in love and war?" he countered.
"'Tis a wicked and foolish saying—or so my mother has told me," the
girl replied.
"But you'll do it—you darling!" He pulled her close to him and she
made no resistance. They were still locked together when a throat
was cleared in the doorway.
Dr. Phillips regarded them benignly. "I must say," he remarked, "that
compared to some of the lewd sights I have witnessed here in
Belvoir, it is refreshing to see a couple as well-favored as yourselves
embracing. But that was not the purpose of my visit. I have come to
say farewell."
"Then it's coming soon?" Justin asked him quickly.
"Perhaps you two have been too—er—occupied to hear but the five-
minute signal sounded a brief while ago. I wish you both good luck."
Deborah broke from Charles, ran to the elderly don and planted a
buss on his cheek. He fluttered like a moth, visibly touched, said,
"Thank you, my dear," and added quite irrelevantly, "'Twill be a great
relief to return once more to my breeches."
"Come quickly!" Deborah whispered when they were once more
alone.
He needed no urging, raced on tiptoe behind her to her cubicle.
Hurriedly she scrambled onto her portable bed, reaching for Justin
as he climbed on from the other side. There was scarcely room for
both of them.
She whispered, "Charles, I'm afeard."
"We're together, darling," he whispered back.
She was silent for a brief while. Then she whispered, "Have ye no
children?"
"None," he replied. "Marie has no wish to spoil her figure."
For some reason this seemed to dispel both Deborah's jealousy and
guilt. She held him closer still and murmured, "Poor Darling Charles.
No wonder ye dreamt of other women."
"No wonder ..." he replied, scarcely knowing what he said. For at that
moment sleep crept over him irresistibly.
Once again he was in the extinct odd little train, emerging from the
choking tunnel. Miraculously, rumpled nightgown and all, Deborah
was with him. Her blue eyes were red with smoke and she was
coughing and frightened. She managed to gasp, "What is it—what is
this horrid thing?"
He held her close and said, "It's a part of my dream, darling."
Even as he spoke and wondered how and why his dream should be
dominant it changed. The rectangular windows of the old wooden
coach grew indistinct. The car roof seemed to grow dimmer, finally to
vanish altogether.
Against the starlit black of space were outlined the spars and ropes
and masts and sails of a full-rigged sailing ship. They stood on its
gently rocking poop and forward and below Justin could make out
the waist and, beyond, the rise of the forecastle and the sharp lift of
the sprit from the bow.
He looked at Deborah, saw how the breeze caught her hair and
whipped it like some magnificent pennant of brownish gold and saw
that she was speaking to him, crying, "This is my dream, Darling
Charles—and I like it far better than thine."
"So do I," he replied, over-whelmed utterly by the miracle.
They floated slowly down until the sky once more was blue above
them, first a dark unlikely blue, then lighter and increasingly familiar
in hue. Once more Justin saw the earth flatten out and the first white
woolly clouds appear.
But from then on all trace of similarity with his own dream ended.
They were entering Boston Harbor and in his excitement Justin held
Deborah's hand so tightly that she cried out and he relaxed his grip
with a murmur of apology.
"Castle William!" he murmured as they swept past the chief harbor
fortification, from which an English ensign flapped gaily in the
breeze.
Where the South End now rests was only water and, beyond it, the
highlands of Dorchester and Nantasket rose in wooded splendor,
innocent of the grime of industrial tenements and factories. They
rounded a headland and, slowly, Boston itself swam into view.
Justin let out a cry of sheer delight. There was the old city—little
more than a large town by twentieth-century standards with its fewer
than twenty thousand inhabitants—its numerous spires and church
steeples topping its hills, its houses and buildings crowding the
wharves to which were moored fishermen, coasters and ocean
ships, their masts making an intricate and fantastic pattern against
the sky.
Then darkness whirled briefly about them and they seemed to be
plucked from the deck of the white ship by a sort of whirlpool. Justin
cried out, involuntarily, again felt the firm softness of Deborah's hand
pressed against his lips. He was lying on the edge of a bed whose
bottom seemed to be spilling over the side.
"Deborah?" sounded a shrill matronly voice from somewhere beyond
a door, closed and invisible in the darkness. "Deborah, are ye all
right? I thought I heard ye cry out."
"Just a dream, mama. I'm quite all right," the girl called back. There
was a nervous silent wait, the sound of scuffling footsteps growing
fainter, then the slam of another door.
"I thought surely ye'r outcry would have them all about us," said the
girl reprovingly. "Ye'r really here with me after all and methinks ye'll
be a great problem, if not my ruination forever."

VII
The long winter night was unrelieved by any hint of dawn when
Justin scrambled through a hurriedly-opened window, dropped to the
gently slanting roof of a one-storey shed attached to the Wilkins
house and slid safely into a deep pile of snow.
Working his way clear to the rutted icy alley that passed for a street,
Justin's chief impression was not wonder at the miracle that had
actually transported him backward through time into the Old Boston
of his dreams. It was a combination of uncertainty, befuddlement and
utter physical discomfort.
In the first place the cast-off clothing of her father that Deborah had
managed to procure for him from an upstairs hall closet was
extremely uncomfortable. Made of coarse homespun it felt like steel
wool against his skin. There was no underwear to ease the contact,
nor had Deborah thought of any.

A chill east wind from the Bay knifed up the alley and chilled the
marrow in his bones. Bitterly he recalled that the climate of north-
eastern America had been growing steadily warmer for more than a
century in his own time. He had returned to the very depths of the
cold era.
Nor was he used to strange and narrow streets, slippery with ice,
littered with refuse and utterly without lights. Holding with one hand
to the cocked hat Deborah had loaned him, he groped his way with
the other stretched out before him.
From the Wilkins house he was to proceed east on Mills Street, past
Arch Street, until he came to Long Lane. There he was to turn right
until he reached, on the corner to his left, a house, a full storey
higher than the structures around it. He was to rap the knocker until
a Mrs. Cooper answered and tell her that Sam Wilkins had sent him.
The small "hoard" Deborah had given him clinked in the cloth pouch
she had tied round his waist. In spite of his discomfort he felt his
thoughts soften at her generosity, as well as at its pitiful smallness.
She was, in truth, a lovely thing to happen to any man.
He found the house and banged the heavy brass doorknocker with
congealing fingers. After awhile a faint light glimmered through the
fan-glass above the door, to be followed by the metallic sounds of a
bolt being thrust back. The door opened a crotch and, above a
wavering candle, a long-chinned toothless crone peered out at him
and said, "What devil's business brings ye to my door at this heathen
hour?"
"Mrs. Cooper?" Justin asked, his teeth chattering.
"Aye, that I be," was the wary reply. "And who might ye be?"
"The name is Justin," he replied. "Sam Wilkins sent me here in the
hope of obtaining lodging for the night."
"Hmmp—there's little enough left of it," came the sharp reply. "Ye
needn't think 'twill gain thee a short fee. That'll be a shilling and
tuppence extra for rousing me at such an hour."
Justin willingly disgorged the required sum with rapidly numbing
fingers and was led by the grumbling old crone to a small but
unexpectedly clean second-floor chamber overlooking the street.
With its white-washed walls, small mullioned window, wood fireplace,
bureau, bed, table and chair—all these of hard dark maple—and
knitted sampler on the wall, it might have been any of thousands of
"Colonial" restorations in suburban homes of his own epoch.
Since there was no wood in the fireplace, Justin undressed quickly,
glad to be out of his raspy clothing, and crawled naked between
sheets almost as rough. But fatigue quickly overcame him and he fell
into a dreamless sleep of sheer exhaustion.
He was awakened by a pock-marked mulatto girl who was
apparently in the process of changing his chamberpot. She informed
him as he rubbed sleepy eyes, "Ye slept through breakfast, Master.
Mistress Cooper ast me to tell ye there's a young leddy downstairs to
see ye."
Justin got out of bed in a hurry as soon as the slave had left. He let
out a gasp as his bare feet struck the icy floorboards, crawled hastily
into his ill-fitting clothing. He had to break ice in the basin.
Deborah was awaiting him downstairs in the parlor. Wearing a full-
skirted tight-bodiced gown of light blue wool that matched her eyes,
with blue-and-white bonnet, she looked to Justin delightfully quaint
and breathtakingly lovely. She rose from the settee on which she had
been waiting and came eagerly to him.
But when, after a warm kiss of greeting, he sought to embrace her
further she danced away, laughing and saying, "Not now, Charles.
Ye'll have Mistress Cooper saying dreadful things about me. 'Tis a
fine winter's morning outdoors. I came to show ye the sights."
He went upstairs for his own borrowed cloak and by the time he got
down she had already donned hers, a warm-looking grey wool wrap
with grey woolen mittens to match. Outside the sun was bright and
the night chill was off the air. Deborah said, watching her own breath
congeal and mingle with his, "I had to come and see that ye made
Mistress Cooper's safely. I lay abed and fretted for ye all night long."
"You don't look it," he told her.
Then he looked at the snow-covered city about him. There it stood,
the Boston of his studies, of his dreams, the quaint old shops and
houses and taverns, many with overhanging eaves and gables, the
ancient signs, some fresh, some weathered, the innumerable and
oddly-designed weather vanes and chimney pots.
Yet his next impression was one of dinginess. The snow, piled high
on either side of the street, looked almost as dirty as snow that had
lain for awhile in the side-streets of his own Boston. A narrow
passageway had been dug out and even as he and Deborah
watched a horse-drawn cart, laden with night-soil, and an ox-cart,
evidently proceeding north to market, stood motionless, facing one
another, while their drivers indulged in the mutual invective city and
countrymen have invoked in like dilemmas since the invention of the
wheel.
"What horrid words!" said Deborah, feigning shock. Justin took her
arm and they edged past the incipient combatants, about whom a
crowd of rough-looking customers was beginning to collect.
A gust of wind caused Deborah's cloak to billow about her and she
tugged him away to the half-shelter of the rope-walk, where despite
the weather a few hardy souls were engaged in splicing and reeving
and other intricate arts of rigging and sailmaking.
A gong rang in Justin's memory. He said, "Where does Sam Adams
live?"
"Ye know of him?" she countered, added, "That big run-down house
at the next corner. What would ye of Master Adams, Charles?"
"Never mind, honey," he told her but his thoughts were humming.
Sam Adams, of course—here was his opportunity, not only to survive
in Old Boston, but to do it creditably in Deborah's eyes. Surely the
so-called father of the Revolution would not be able to refuse the aid
of a man who knew the course of the future.

Anxiety struck him. He said, "You aren't a supporter of the Court

Party are you, Debby?"
Her eyes widened in surprise. Then she said, "Nay, not yet—but
unless certain folk cease plaguing me in the name of the Colony I
shall become so in self-defence."
"Don't switch," he assured her, relieved.
They walked the streets of the Old Town, down Belcher's Lane and
the Battery March, whence they could see scarlet-coated soldiers at
frigid sentry duty atop the Fort ramparts. They warmed chilling
bodies with boiled beef and bacon and steaming buttered Medford
rum at Stratton's tavern just off King Street, then on to the Province
House toward Beacon Hill.
Look at the palladian gable of that small but stately structure, at the
gilded lion and unicorn that adorned its cornices, Justin reflected it
looked scarcely younger than when he had paused on his way home
in the dusk to survey it a scant sixteen hours—or rather a hundred
and ninety-two years—away. If anything, in his own era, it was rather
better kept up.
Then they rambled back along Rawson's Lane to Milk Street and
Deborah's house, which by daylight proved to be a stoutly
comfortable dwelling in obvious good repair. To his surprise Deborah
bade him enter. He followed her inside, said, "How are you going to
explain me, honey?"
"I'm not," she replied with a flicker of dimple. "There's no soul here
but ourselves."
He pulled her close and for a few blissful moments they embraced.
Then, again, Deborah pushed him away. He looked at her, said,
"What's wrong?"
"Ye must leave quickly," she replied. "I have something to attend to
and with ye around I cannot."
"Is it your mission from Ortine?" he asked her.
"If that were all," she replied, "I'd willingly defy Ortine and all the
de'ils in hell for ye, Darling Charles—but there is far too much
involved."
He argued but to no avail, reluctantly took his leave. By a steeple
clock he saw that the afternoon was still young. He might as well, he
thought, put his time along to good use. So he made his way directly
to the ramshackle doorway of Sam Adams' ramshackled old house.
An immense shaggy Irishman, his face pitted by the universal
pockmarks of the era, opened the door to his knock. His free fist was
clenched about the handle of a large pewter mug and his accents
were slurred as he said, "What have we here?"
"I'd like to speak to Mr. Adams," Justin said.
The giant roared, "Sam! A peasant to see ye—with the voice of a
man fro' the moon!"
There was a murmur from within and Justin entered a house whose
interior looked as threadbare and ramshackled as its facade. He was
taken to a disorderly looking study where a tall red-faced genial-
looking man, whose coat was glossy with gravy stains, regarded
Justin not unpleasantly and said, "Ye wish to see me?"
"I do," replied Justin, his knees weak. Glancing at the glowering
Irishman behind him, he added, "On a matter of some confidence,
Mr. Adams."
Adams glanced at his companion and said, "I doubt me much that
this honest-looking stranger wishes me ill. Outside, Will."
Memory rang another gong within Justin's head. Will—that could
mean only Will Molineux, tough rugged South End mob leader and
soon-to-be captain of the town's Liberty Boys, a vital lower-bracket
cog in the machinery that ultimately set up revolt against the Crown
in Boston.
"Now, Master...?" said Adams inquiringly.
"Justin—Charles Justin," he said. "I must ask you to accept some of
my story on its face—otherwise I fear you will find it incredible.
However, I think I may be of use to you."
"I'll be glad to hear ye out—if ye take not too long," said Adams,
indicating the papers on his desk.
Justin decided to plunge directly into his proposition. He said, "To
what use would you be able to put a man who could foretell the
future in your behalf?"
Adams' face became hard as flint. He said, "I know not who ye be or
whence ye come—but I ha' not the time to sit and listen to such
childish prattle."
"Please, Mr. Adams—I shan't take long," Justin put in desperately.
"I'm a Bostonian like yourself but I come from a different time—from
two centuries in the future to be exact."
Something in the sincerity of his plea won Justin a reprieve. "Very
well, Master—Justin—if that be ye'r name. Ye'r accent is odd enough
to account for such a story—not that I credit ye with truth for a
moment. Since ye know so much of what ye term ye'r past, mayhap
ye can tell me something of mine own."
Justin said, "You and your father made the first open attacks on the
Crown, following the return of Louisburg to France in seventeen
forty-six after its capture by Massachusetts men. You have run
through a fine inheritance and are incapable of conducting any sort
of business because your interest lies in politics. You graduated
several notches higher in your class in Harvard than your young
cousin John of Braintree.
"At the moment you are seeking some means of renewing the fight
against the Crown. You are in the process of organizing the North
and South End mobs of Boston to that purpose, uniting them into a
controllable body that will obey your commands. Will Molineux, in the
next room, is one of your chief aides...."
"Thus far ye have told me nothing that is not common knowledge."
But Adams frowned slightly as he spoke.
"Is it generally known how well you have organized the mobs, Mr.
Adams?" said Justin. "Is it generally known that you are counting,
perhaps at this very moment, upon the enforcement of Writs of
Assistance to re-rouse the opposition to the Crown that has lain
dormant so long?
"Is it generally known that your opposition to the mother country is
based upon a snubbing you received from a British officer in an ale-
house fifteen years ago?"
"Enough, young man," said Adams. "Ye are either what ye say ye
are—in which case ye'r a wizard—or ye'r a spy sent here by my
enemies to muddle me with poor advice. Ye know too much about
me and I know too little about ye. Now get out!"
There was no mistaking the anger in those genial brown eyes as
Adams rose to his feet. All at once Justin realised he was going to
call Molineux, have him chased out of town, perhaps beaten. After
all, there was no police force in the Boston of 1761.
Moving quickly he picked up a heavy paperweight, evidently once an
Indian axe-head, that lay atop a stack of foolscap on the desk, and
struck Adams on the head with it before he could call for help. The
oft-called Father of the Revolution fell forward across his desk. Justin
bolted.
Molineux, who had been facing a front window in the other room
turned and made a menacing move. "In there!" cried Justin. "Mr.
Adams has fainted. I'll get help."
Feeling like an errant coward, Justin fled.

VIII
Behind Justin, moments later, Will Molineux, brandishing his pewter
tankard, emerged from Sam Adams' house, roaring his rage and
anger. Even as he cut for Long Lane, Justin once again felt a curious
undefinable flicker of memory—the same that had troubled him while
listening to Ortine—and once before recently on an occasion he
could not recall.
For a few brief moments, while Justin slithered up the uneven icy
surface of Long Lane, Molineux's shouts were blanketed by the
corner buildings. But before Justin had proceeded more than fifty
yards past his lodging place of the night before, a rising outcry struck
his ears—ominous not only because of its closeness but because it
no longer issued from one throat. Evidently Molineux's gang was
joining the chase.
To his right the uninviting walls of close-set shops and houses
offered no refuge. But to his left the houses were larger and fewer,
with stretches of solid wooden fence between. If he could only get
through into the inner-block area of yards and gardens, he might be
able to cut across them to Arch Street and thence to the Wilkins
house.
The hue and cry was growing louder by the moment—his pursuers
would emerge in sight of him and the chase would be as good as
over unless he did something and did it quickly.
Providentially he stumbled, stretched out a hand, struck a small door
in the fence which gave under his weight. With a sobbing gasp of
relief Justin lunged through it, shut it behind him, leaned against it,
panting, while the sounds of pursuit swept past.
Getting through the various yards and gardens was not easy
because of the deep snow. It took him a good fifteen minutes but he
finally worked his way through a manure-hole—mercifully the cold
weather kept it from reeking—into a barn.
Horses, well wrapped but chilly, stamped in their stalls as he made
his way to the front of the building. Justin found a small door, slipped
through it and made his way to the snowpile against the Wilkins
shed.
Luckily there was no lock on the window of Deborah's room. Justin
crawled through it, sick with relief, closed it after him—and promptly
skidded on the hardwood floor with a snow-covered heel and
crashed into a small table by the bed.
Before he had time to put the table back up Justin heard heavy
masculine footsteps on the stairs, heard Deborah protesting, "But I
promise ye—there's no one there. It must ha' been the old house
creaking."
The bedroom door was wide open. Justin stood there, unable to
think of a thing to do. He wondered what sort of man Deborah's sire
would be like.
While he waited helplessly, Justin irrelevantly saw the spider lying on
the floor, half beneath the bed. He must have left it in his pajama
pocket, Debby must have found it and put it on the table he had
overturned. Out of sheer reflex action Justin stooped to put it in his
pocket.
He rose reluctantly, his eyes first noting a pair of large black shoes
with silver buckles, then heavy white hose covering long sturdy legs,
grey kneebreeches and waistcoat and a maroon broadcloth coat with
silver buttons.
Atop this tall stocky body was a square not-unhandsome face,
distinguished by a rather flat nose, a low broad forehead, angry
hazel eyes and some of the fieriest red hair Justin had ever seen.
The hazel eyes were regarding him even balefully.
"And who in hell be ye?" the newcomer inquired. He swung about as
Deborah appeared behind him in the doorway, the back of one hand
to her mouth. He said, "Is this some scurvy trick to put me further still
in the thrall of my wretched wife?"
"Charles!" Deborah whispered reproachfully. "Ye promised...."
"I know it," Justin replied desperately, "but I had to hide somewhere.
There's a mob chasing me through the streets."
"But e'en so ..." the girl began, then hesitated as the faint sound of
the hue and cry could be heard from the streets outside.
The red-headed man's voice was sharp as the crack of an Australian
bullwhip. He said, "That's Will Molineux!" Then, fiercely, to Justin,
"What have ye done to bring Will and his cutthroats on ye'r tail?"
"I had a little trouble with Mr. Adams," Justin murmured.
"So!" The big man took a menacing step toward him. He glanced at
Deborah, who appeared stricken, then said, "'Twould appear there is
more in this entire episode than meets the eye. Mayhap ye'r one with
my wretched wife and her wretched Tory friends."
He took another step toward Justin, obviously measuring him for a
blow. Deborah gave a little cry and leapt forward, seizing his right
arm and dragging upon it with all of her weight.
"Please!" she cried. "Please, Master Otis...."
Otis! Justin was stunned. The resemblance to his well-known portrait
was unmistakable. Here was James Otis, the brilliant and powerful
young Boston lawyer who first, in that very month of February, in that
very year of 1761, stood up for four hours in the Province House and
defied the right of the Crown to issue the unlimited search warrants
known as "Writs of Assistance" in order to check smuggling.
Here was the man who resigned his lucrative position as King's
Advocate for Massachusetts, defied his wealthy Tory wife and all his
wife's friends to make the first open plea for Colonial freedom.
Here was the man who gave heart to the Adamses, to Hancock and,
in a vastly widening circle, to the Virginians Patrick Henry and, later,
Thomas Jefferson. Here was the man who led Boston toward
freedom until the tensions of his own career and domestic life drove
him at length to madness.
Worse, as Justin quickly realised, here was the man to whom
Deborah's friends and family were asking her to give herself. Justin
understood their motives all too well. Apparently, unless he found
some outlet away from his strife-torn home, Otis' friends already
feared for his sanity. Employing an age-old therapy they had
selected Deborah to supply that outlet.
Even in the misery of the moment, Justin found his mind ranging
back to Ortine and his motives in having the girl go through with her
assignment. In untampered-with history the girl must have turned
Otis down. Perhaps in that turn-down Ortine read the outraged pride
that had led Otis to stand up and make his revolutionary speech. By
having the girl acquiesce Ortine figured, probably correctly, that the
attorney would never be so inspired. The chain reaction that led to
Independence Hall, to Saratoga, to Yorktown, would not have been
touched off.
Justin saw, as if in slow-motion, Otis fling back his arm to clear it of
the girl's desperate grip—saw her tossed against the wall. Her head
struck with a sickening thud and she dropped to the floor in a
pathetic unconscious heap.
Justin forgot about his near-worship for James Otis and sprang
forward to do battle. He landed a hard right high on the lawyer's
cheek, then felt the snow on a heel again betray him into slipping.
Out of the corner of an eye he caught a quick glimpse of a large fist
emerging from a ruffled cuff and arching directly toward his own jaw.
He felt a jarring impact....

Justin found himself once more lying on a portable bed in one of the
cubicles of Ortine's Belvoir dormitory. His jaw hurt and there was a
tender spot over his right ribs that would, he knew, grow sorer with
time.
He sat up, rubbing his chin, discovered he was still wearing the ill-
fitting clothing with which Deborah had fitted him out. He glanced
around—and his heart did a ground-loop. Alongside his own cot was
another—and on it lay the girl.
Justin forgot his own sorenesses and went to her, put a hand on her
face, felt his knees turn to oil as he discovered her face was warm,
felt the rhythmic softness of her breath against his fingers.
She opened her eyes and smiled—and Justin felt his insides melt at
the trustful happiness of her expression. He said, "It's all right, Debby
dear—Ortine's brought us back to Belvoir."
"As long as we're still together," she whispered. Then, frowning, "My
head hurts in back—a little."
A familiar sardonic voice spoke from the doorway. "I am glad," said
Ortine, "that you find your return here so pleasant. I don't suppose
you have the slightest inkling of what this unexpected insanity of
yours has cost."
Justin considered for the first time the possible consequences of
what he and Deborah had just managed to accomplish. He said, "We
fouled up the works?"
Ortine stared at him for a long moment. Only by rigidity of manner
did he give indication of the anger he must have felt. He said, "You
show rather more discernment than I had expected, Justin—but I
fear you still fail to realise the enormity of your sabotage.
"Time, as you conceive it, has no meaning for me, of course—yet I
have had to spend vast amounts of it, searching, searching the
entire course of human history, to select the exact men and women
for my purpose, the exact moments in which they could be effective.
"The essence of my entire plan was simultaneous alteration of the
historic line," Ortine went on. "Only thus could the salvation of
humanity be effected without dislocation amounting to chaos. By
your insane romantic aberration you two have disrupted the entire
process."
Justin thought it improbable that Deborah could understand much of
what their host was saying, yet the impact of his tone upon her was
dynamic. She slipped from her bed, skirts whirling, marched up to
Ortine and said, "I care not what ye think, Master Ortine. Neither
Charles nor I asked to be brought here. Aye, and furthermore I'll not
have ye using that tone to Charles."
Ortine said to Justin, "Perhaps we'd better talk this over in private."
"So ye can soft-talk Charles into doing ye'r bidding—and leave me to
face Master Otis alone?" Deborah's defiance was magnificent and
Justin put an arm around her.
He said to Ortine, "Since time is of no account to you, perhaps you'll
give us a little of it together."
"As you wish." Ortine shrugged and turned to leave. "I shall await
your summons."
"What did he mean?" Deborah asked Justin, when he had gone.
Justin studied her briefly, kissed her, then said, "Debby, just how did
our friend explain himself to you?"
"Oh...." The girl looked vague for a moment. "He told me that if I
failed to heed Master Otis' plea the redcoats would come to Boston
and burn my home and kill my father and mother and brothers—aye,
and ruin me."
Suddenly Deborah's arms were around him tightly, her worried face
peering searchingly into his. She said, "Through my willfulness will
all these dreadful things come to pass, Charles darling?"
"Debby," he told her gently, "I don't know. But I'm going to find out."
"Ye'll not desert me?" she pleaded.
He smiled down at her. "Debby, I don't think I could desert you if it
meant the end of the world—and it may yet."
"Ye'r jesting," she said. "Kiss me."
He did—and again they were interrupted by a throat-clearing in the
cubicle doorway. Dr. Phillips said in his old-fashioned London
accents, "I don't quite ken why our friend has brought us back—but I
see things are the same betwixt the two of you."
"Why, Dr. Phillips!" exclaimed the girl. "Ye'r clad in ye'r breeks now."
"I thought it might be a wise precaution before returning to my nap,"
said the professor mildly.
Justin said, "Come in, Doctor." He set Deborah on her cot, swung
onto his own, while Dr. Phillips accepted the one chair in the cubicle.
He seemed not at all surprised to find two beds where one had stood
before.
"Dr. Phillips," said Justin, "I've been hoping you'd turn up here again.
On our first visit I saw a Roman soldier down the hall toward the
dining saloon. He was with a Mohammedan-looking female. Do you
have any idea of who he is—or what his assignment is?"
Dr. Phillips nodded. "Aye," he said. "I forget his name—it is of no
moment in history. He is—or was—a mere field officer in the suite of
a Judaean sub-Praetor during the reign of Augustus."
"And his assignment?" Justin asked quietly.
"I believe to the best of my memory—" Dr. Phillips frowned as he
delved into his own mind—"that this chap was supposed to arrest a
fellow named John Something-or-other outside of Jerusalem and
hold him on a trumped-up charge."
"I take it," said Justin, "that Roman Judaea has not been one of your
fields of study."
"Gracious no!" replied the don. "My only knowledge of Latin is
derived from an effort to study its imprint, if any, on the pre-Christian
tongues of Northern Europe—including Scandinavia."
"Thank you, Dr. Phillips," said Justin, slipping off his couch again.
"By the way, how do you summon Ortine when you want him?"
"Just press this button," said Dr. Phillips, indicating a circular buzzer
almost invisible against the wall near the corridor door. "Well, in that
case I'll be going."

IX
Ortine sauntered in. He nodded pleasantly, said, "That was quicker
than I'd dared hope. Thanks, Justin—and you too, Deborah Wilkins.
You have reached your decision together?"