Cogs Of Fate

Overkill

The evening grew dark and cold. The storm had rolled in, rain began to fall onto the already wet ground. The wind had picked up, blowing a cold snap through those caught outside.

Rowan stood on the docks, hands shoved into his wool coat pockets as he watched the small ferry approaching the harbor. He was beginning to grow anxious as the boat slowed down to keep from striking the wood docks.

As the boat stopped, the crew hopped out, securing the boat to the docks, bringing the gangplank out for the passengers to use to exit the boat. Rowan waited patiently as he watched the people disembark from the small ferry.

A smartly dressed gentleman stepped onto the dock, fixing his bowler hat as he turned to see Rowan waiting. He approached him, hand outstretched to shake his hand. "Rowan, I presume?"

Rowan smiled. "Mr. Stoker. It's nice to meet ye."

Stoker blinked at Rowan's accent. "They didn't tell me I'd be meeting with a Scot."

"Hope that's not a problem?"

Bram shook his head. "I was born in Ireland. I guess I'll consider you my neighbor."

Rowan forced a smile. He wasn't sure what to make of the man's remark. He motioned down the dock toward the town. "Shall we?"

The two began their way down the lane. Stoker asked, "Do you happen to know why Miss Whitmore summoned me?"

"No, I'm afraid I do not," Rowan admitted. His eyes darted about the lane, hoping not to run into the Time Team.

"Where is Miss Whitmore anyhow?"

"At the cemetery," Rowan replied. "She's waiting for us there."

Stoker nodded before he turned his gaze back to Rowan. He whispered, "I have news from Reynolds."

Rowan stopped in his tracks. A hard lump formed in his throat as he blinked at Stoker in surprise. "What did ye say?" He thought perhaps he had heard the author wrong. The shock was apparent on his face as he froze in the middle of the lane.

Stoker smiled slightly as he repeated himself, "Reynolds has news for you."

"That's what I thought ye said..."

Stoker glanced up at the dark sky as the rain started to fall harder onto the two. "Perhaps we should move our conversation indoors?" Rowan nodded and Stoker added, "You seem like you could use a drink, my friend."

Inwardly, Rowan agreed. He knew better than to drink while on a mission. He wanted to keep all of his senses sharp but after this revelation, he contemplated having a drink anyway to process this information that just fell into his lap.

Rowan led the author down the lane toward the small tavern with his mind racing with questions.

Amy trudged through the muck and mire behind Emma and Paul as they entered the graveyard. The wind had picked up, whipping her dress around her body. The rain pattered all around them, soaking her clothes and causing her hair to stick to her face. She decided it was better to have wet hair stuck to her face than to have it blowing into her face.

The three stopped at the back of the cemetery, semi-hidden from the main road that led by the church and connecting graveyard. Paul lowered the shovel from his shoulder. He started digging in the freshly wet ground.

Emma glanced about the area, scanning for any approaching townsfolk. Her eyes landed on Amy. "Keep an eye out. Let me know if you see anyone."

Amy nodded, thankful to get some space away from the woman. She turned her back to them, peering out toward the town. She watched as the people scurried into the buildings as quickly as possible to get out of the storm.