A Narrow Escape

The cobblestones were slick beneath Carter’s worn sneakers, each uneven surface threatening to send him sprawling. Behind him, the roar of the mob was a tangible wave, a hot, suffocating breath pushing him forward. Shouts, guttural and laced with a fear that was quickly curdling into rage, echoed off the timbered buildings. “Witch! Sorcerer! Seize him!”

Carter risked a glance over his shoulder. A sea of angry faces, contorted in fury and suspicion, surged through the narrow street. Torches, held aloft by trembling hands, cast dancing, distorted shadows that seemed to mock his desperate flight. He was a stag caught in the headlights of a medieval stampede, his modern clothes a glaring beacon of his otherness. He’d thought the stares were bad, the hushed whispers and pointed fingers. But this was different. This was primal, visceral terror, directed squarely at *him*.

He ducked into a side alley, barely wide enough for a single cart. The stench of refuse and damp earth assaulted his nostrils, a stark contrast to the clean, if slightly sterile, air of his own time. He pressed himself against a rough stone wall, his breath coming in ragged gasps. The sounds of pursuit grew fainter for a moment, then swelled again, closer now, as they rounded the corner.