Tempus Fugitive by Nicola Rhodes

enough that he was here at all without him being a ghost too.
    ‘He believes he is,’ said Hecaté.
    ‘From the fire and sword wielding hands of the infidel, I was delivered unto the sanctuary of the kingdom of Heaven,’ confirmed the priest in lugubrious tones.
    ‘Great!’ said Stiles. ‘So, what are we supposed to do with him then?’
    ‘And his dog,’ he added, suddenly noticing a Great Dane sniffing around the back of the chair.
    ‘I doubt it is his own dog,’ said Hecaté, as if this was relevant.
    ‘Who cares? How do we get rid of them?’
    ‘I imagine they will go on their own like the other,’ she said.
    Stiles laughed. ‘Oh boy is he in for a shock,’ he said. ‘World’s first “near death experience”. He won’t be too happy to find out he’s not in Heaven after all will he?’
    Hecaté frowned. ‘That is true,’ she said. ‘It could cause problems.’
    ‘Changing history and all that?’ asked Stiles.
    ‘Precisely,’ Hecaté affirmed.
    ‘Well, there’s not really a lot we can do about it is there?’ he asked. ‘It’s not as if we can keep him here… no … no, no, no!’
    * * *
    Tamar floated along the riverbed, waiting for the townspeople to disperse; it was calm down here, cool and refreshing.  She had, of course, given herself a handy set of gills.  She could vaguely hear shouting, but, through the water, could not make out the words. ‘Celebrating no doubt,’ she thought, scornfully.  ‘No wonder I never liked mortals much – until Denny.  I hope he’s all right.’
    After a while she got bored, the scenery under water palls quickly, fish and weeds, and more fish, with some more weeds. Deadly dull, so, she decided to swim upstream and climb out, somewhere away from public view.  She dragged herself, inelegantly on to the shore – just in case anyone was around, and lay gasping on the bank.  Just in time, she remembered to get rid of the gills. 
    She sat up and looked around. She could not see anyone, so she manifested herself some clothes, and dried her hair.  Ah – magic – so much more efficient than a hairdryer.
    Now, blonde or redhead?  She had to go back and find Denny, but turning up, back in the town, looking like herself was definitely a bad idea.  Blonde, she decided, the more contrast with her usual appearance, the better – and blue eyes, for that Nordic look. 
    She made her way back to the town. Now that she was no longer either in a burning church, or being harassed by a bloodthirsty mob, she had leisure to look around a bit; she thought she might be in Plymouth.  Any minute now, the Spanish Armada might be sighted.  ‘Oh, well,’ she thought.  ‘I’ve already seen it.’ 
    There was no sign of Denny, not a black cat in sight, in fact. ‘Why did I do that?  What a stupid thing to do.’  But she did find his clothes; the Athame, however, was gone. 
    * * *
    From inside the bag, slightly muffled, Denny heard an authoritative and cultured voice demanding loudly to know just what these people thought they were up to.  The bag was swung through the air, and daylight appeared as the bag was opened.  Denny saw a pale faced man looking curiously at him. 
    ‘You people were about to drown this cat.’  It was not a question.
    ‘My lord, it is no ordinary cat, it is a witches familiar, sir.’
    ‘What nonsense,’ said the man contemptuously.  He sighed.  ‘When will you peasants learn to do without all this ridiculous superstition?’
    ‘We saw it change from a man into a cat, sir. The witch did it.’
    ‘And where is this witch?’
    There was a silence.
    ‘I asked you a question,’ snapped the man.  ‘Where is this supposed witch?’
    A small boy came forward.  ‘At the bottom of the river sir,’ he said, before he was hustled away by what was presumably his mother.  Denny had a first class view of their discomfiture, from his rescuer’s arms. 
    ‘I see,’ said the man coldly.  ‘There will be no more of this, do you