1790

It was with a restless energy that Thomas Jefferson approached the guestroom. He didn't enjoy hosting Jack Stiles at Monticello--he was not unpleasant company but it was near impossible to keep the man out of his good wine, no matter how tightly he locked it up--but these were unusual circumstances.

To be frank, despite all logic, he was not completely convinced that the man lying unconscious behind that door was Stiles at all. Thomas opened said door quietly. The drapes had not been drawn, allowing the sun to light the room.

The man had not moved from the last time he had stepped foot within. The only visible change was the freshened bandage covering his left temple.

The man's features were undeniably a match for Stiles, and the brief words he'd heard spoken--panicked as they were--had been in his voice. Had they not been, he may not have been as quick to respond to the shout, but Stiles had been a trusted soldier for many years. A command to 'get down' wouldn't have come from him without good reason. Of course, if he had not responded, the collision of the man with the shooter would have assured the shot to go wide. It was merely bad luck that he had stuck his head in the fall.

It was worrying that he had not awoken in the fourteen hours since.

Until then, or until someone could discover where exactly Jack Stiles was, if this was not him, there was little to be done but tend the wound and wait.

Thomas circled the side of the bed to get a better look at the man. For all that the face and voice were correct, it was the rest of him that left doubt in his mind. His hair, for example. It was shorter than Stiles preferred to keep his and a haircut would not explain the white streak that ran the side, clashing against the dark brown where the strands mixed. Nor the thinness of this man's build. Combined with the gauntness of the man's cheeks, he appeared half-starved. A stark difference from when he had last seen Jack, only months before.

No. The more he observed him, the more convinced he was that this was not the person he knew.

So who was he?

1803

"You should be more careful."

"It's just a scratch." Jack tried not to fidget on the stool as Emilia bandaged the wound. It really was just a scratch. A bleeding scratch, but the biggest victim of the sword had been his trousers, the cut there was going to need sewing up. Something else he'd prefer to do himself. Em'd probably use it as an excuse to have the seamstress come in again and get a new wardrobe that, in his eyes, would look exactly the same as her old one.

"This time." Her hand felt hot against his calf. He tried to ignore it.

"Aw, come on, Em, it was just a lucky break for 'em." Considering he hadn't noticed it right away, he doubted whatever soldier had nicked him had even realized it at the time. "Hey, think Brogard'll give him a bonus for hurting me?"

She yanked the bandage tight, and Jack winced. "Be serious, Jack."

"Sure, tell me what Serious is like and I'll be him." His teasing grin grew strained when she pulled on the bandage again. "Knock that off, will ya? You're doing more damage than the soldier."

She was silent as she tied it off.

"That letter shook you up, didn't it?"

"Don't be preposterous." She laughed--that awkward, fake laugh she only used when he'd hit the nail on the head and she didn't want to admit it. Emilia stood. "Why would such an obvious inaccurate claim bother me?"

Because it bothered him. 'Course, that was for completely different reasons. Ones he wished he could come clean on, but now really wasn't the time to start breaking down the deception their partnership had been founded on. Mainly because he couldn't afford to literally break down right now. Then again, maybe some manly tears would keep Em from being too pissed at him about the lies. Besides, he was only following orders, she would have to understand that, considering the things she'd done to follow her own orders. Especially, the things she'd done to him--he might've forgiven her for having him thrown in prison, but he wasn't about to forget it.

She'd give him some leniency, wouldn't she?

Either way, he could make a pretty good guess as to why it got to her.

Jack leaned over to straighten out the folded-up leg of his trousers but kept an eye on her back as she put away their little makeshift first aid kit. He took a moment to get his thoughts together. Expressing himself hadn't always been hard, but finding the right words... Yeah, words had always given him problems. Some bigger and deadlier than others. "This is a dangerous profession, Em. But when things are going well, it's easy to forget that. It wouldn't be outrageous to think the letter reminded you that we're risking our lives here."

"I never forget that, Jack." Her voice was soft as she raised a hand to her chest. "But I believed you would've grown bored of running around in a cape by now."

"I'd be in as much danger without it." Besides it was fun. Em might not believe that could go hand-in-hand with espionage, but he sure did.

"Be as that may, provoking the soldiers more than necessary is going to get you hurt." She finally turned to face him. "You're not getting any younger, Jack."

"Neither is Brogard."

"No, but his soldiers are."

"Then they're green behind the ears and easier to disarm." He had noticed that the newest soldiers assigned to the island were young, all bright-eyed and eager for a fight. But hey, so was he. Eager for a fight, anyway. He'd lost the bright-eyed part a long time ago. "Really, Em, I know I got some years on ya, but I'm not that old."

Her eyes flickered from his face further up, and he couldn't tell if the quick glance was intentional or not. Jack patted his hair, half expecting to find a twig or something stuck in there, but felt nothing. "What?"

"It's nothing."

"It's somethin'." He got up from the stool, beelining for the nearest reflective surface. Some section of shiny metal she was working with. He tried to stay out of the way of her experiments--he was perfectly fine with her thinking his disinterest in them was from a lack of understanding--which meant he didn't actually know what she was up to with it, but it worked as a slightly warped mirror.

"I don't see--" the words dried up his throat. Wrapped or not, his reflection's mouth should be moving with his, not staying stubbornly closed-lipped. He stumbled back from it.

Fuck.

Fuck.

Fuck.

The reflection stayed front and center. It stared at him.

"Jack?!" Emilia called in concern, Its eyes shifted towards her voice. "What--?"

"Emilia! Stay there!" He didn't know if she couldn't see it from where she was or if she couldn't see it. Either way, he probably was making himself look insane. Well, that was just great. "Don't say anything."

C'mon, ignore her. Ignore her. It's me you want.

Slowly, its gaze shifted back to him. Its lips pulled back in a silent snarl before it fell back, mirroring his position until only his own widened eyes were meeting his.

This was... not good.

 ▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰

He booked it out of the lab, completely ignoring Emilia's calls, both to come back and demands to know what happened, what was wrong. He couldn't get out the front door fast enough.

He had to get away from there. Away from mirrors. Away from her.

He couldn't avoid her forever. But he didn't think It could hurt her if he wasn't near her. It needed him.

It felt like everything had gone from zero to thousand in an instant. And he didn't think it was going to start slowing down on its own.

He had the vague destination of the docks in mind as he ran.

He needed to know what happened in England. He knew some. The last letter he had received had spoken of rumors. An expedition had uncovered a buried chest containing a book. A very familiar sounding book.

He'd told him to leave it. To stay away. Nothing good ever came from being around the Book.

He hadn't expected him to die.

Somebody must've read from it. It was the only explanation.

He'd have to go there himself.

Emelia would be safe here with him gone.

Okay, so, Jefferson might be pissed he was abandoning his post, but this was more important. This was end-of-the-world shit. Napoleon was small time compared to that.

He cut through the marketplace.

And slowed as a wind whipped up.

The sun, shining brightly only seconds before, seemed to dull despite the lack of clouds.

He stopped, noticing late that the place was empty. Sure, he'd fought the French there earlier but everyone normally went back to their daily routine once it was over.

Make that almost empty.

A lone figure stood at the far end, back to him, as their cloak fluttered in the wind.

His hand went to the sword carefully, and painstakingly, hidden down the back of his tailcoat as he approached. "Sir? Uh. Ma'am?" No response. He began to draw the sword. He was close enough to strike, if need be. He was really hoping need wouldn't be.

He blinked. And recoiled.

The figure had turned. Face twisted and sunken. Eyes glazed white. Unidentifiable as male or female. A finger pointed to his chest. "We have found you." The voice echoed in his ears. "No matter where you travel, as long as you live, you will never be rid of us, Ashley."