The Second (The Immortal Prophecies: Book I)

X. Lincoln

Day two: let's see how this one ends, Linc.

It could be worse, I reassured myself, I could still be stuck with someone who could actually try to plan my murder in front my own eyes--like I haven't been there before. But who's to say she wasn't?

That face was real close in being the perfect poster for a wanted serial killer. And the right thing to grab people's attention much quicker.

"Any chance you could fake a smile? At least until we get to my grandfather's house?" I whispered, wary of everyone watching us. They were gonna suspect something was wrong, and that was going to lead to questions. And that was leading to trouble. Big trouble.

"I'm trying, all right? But the darn thing is doing quite the job on me," she replied, nearly tripping over air. On impulse, I grabbed her gloved hand and wrapped it around my left arm, acting like the gentleman men were supposed to be back then, hopefully giving us a good disguise. You had no idea how badly my mind was punishing me at the moment.

She flinched, but kept her hand there, allowing her hat to shun her face away from me. Straightening my own, we continued on the way to my grandfather's, aware of how surreal our world now was. Balanced, we crossed the street to the small building beside a small shop from an abandoned building the mirror had sent us to.

"So you're French?" She asked me, letting her curiosity free after I let her know where we were earlier. Toulouse, France, 1907. Favreau would be twenty nine, thirty in two months.

"A small fraction on my mother's side. Great grandfather moved to England during World War II, and in turn his children migrated to America after, my mom was born and met my dad. Voila, here I am walking in my own history. My great grandmother was English though, so that changed our bloodline."

She gave a curt nod. "And what is your second great grandfather's name exactly?"

"Sìmon Favreau. Wild guy, last time I met him. Funny, too. Try not to get so offended by him, though."

"Offended?"

"I've traveled enough, and have a family, too, to know about the little British-French hatred between the two of you--he likes unsulting the life out of them. Lucky he doesn't know about his future lineage either."

"It's not hatred. Just a mutual agreement to dislike each other because of our lovely history," she defended. "Then what am I supposed to do when he finds I don't speak a single French word? At this time, we were still a bit...weary. The people staring already know I don't belong."

"Calm down, he knows everything he needs to about the Pillars, you're not the only English member he's stumbled apon. At least, you're the first purpose one." I noticed the slight shift in her walk, but chose to ignore it. "You're a woman, he'll behave."

If I had a pound for every time I heard someone say that...

Should've kept my mouth shut.

We arrived at his two story home, something catching our attention on the top floor. Cucooned in a robe, a woman began to sway on the railing of the small balcony, balancing an empty glass in between her hand, laughing in mania and shaking her blonde head back and forth before a man carried her inside laughing the same way. Instead of giving another explanation, I dragged us toward the door and knocked hurriedly. So much for not attracting attention.

"Please tell me that wasn't--"

"I said he was wild, but not that type." Slowly, she slid her hand away from my arm, crossing her own over her chest, head down. Great first impressions run in the family, trust me.