Chronal energies dissipated, leaving Rip ankle-deep in the muddy waters of Havana's bay.
Seagulls wheeled and cried. A warm salt-breeze pressed against his back. Only moments before he'd been fighting for his life in the relative cold of southern England, trading blows with Saxons and sorcerers. He shook his head. The far-off time of King Arthur collapsed like a daydream.
Next to him, Dr. Berlin groaned. Rip whirled to catch the wounded scientist before he fell. Blood dripped from the front of his woolen robe. Rip was no doctor, but he could tell by Berlin's ashen face, his breathing, the man was in serious trouble.
"When are we, Rip?"
When indeed. Find out as Garnett Elliott picks up our story in
A Rip Through Time: Chaos in the Stream.
