Saving Yesterday (TimeShifters Book 1) (12 page)

I tell them about when I first shifted and ran away from Michael. Relive the horde of Shades converging on me in the woods. Their sharp nails. Feel their cold breath. Hear the antiquated lilt in their speech.

“Did they speak to you?” Eugene butts in.

I play with my napkin. “They said, ‘Welcome home.’” It’s a whisper, but they all hear it. The three at the table exchange horrified looks. Their actions confirm my worst suspicions. I’m weird. An oddity who can’t fit in during my own time, or this time. Any time. Michael bows his head, raking his hand through his hair a few times.

With fierceness I didn’t know the spindly guy could possess, Eugene reaches across the table and seizes my hand. “They will try to persuade you to go with them. Don’t, Gabby, don’t ever give in. You’re better than that. Don’t ever take anything from them. No drinks. Hear me? If they offer you anything or try to take you away, you do everything in your power to get away.”

“Of course.” I wince because of his hold. I want to pull away from him, but the message written in his eyes is clear. For a reason I don’t understand, Eugene cares about me. He’s afraid for me. I want to say something. To let him know I appreciate his concern, but the best I can do is, “They’re freaks. I don’t ever want to see one again.”

Eugene releases me then. Hiding my arms under the table, I rub my wrists, willing the blood to return. As my thumb traces over my skin, my mind preforms a triathlon through my scattered thoughts. I’m going to be in situations where I’ll have to sword fight other people. Maybe kill someone. Or be killed. I picture myself, hovering over a ticking bomb as a crowd of hostages depend on what color cord I snip. Not only those things, will I also have to ward off scary-looking creatures who want to acquire me?

Life was so much easier only a few days ago.  

My muscles scream to get up and run away from these people. This madness. But where will that get me?

Michael’s not ready to drop the conversation. “Not seeing a Shade again ... that’s not an option. You
will
see them again. There’s no way around it. They’ll try to talk to you, Gabby—persuade you that their way is better.”

“Um, I don’t see them succeeding.”

Michael shakes his head slowly. “Don’t underestimate them. They have a certain kind of freedom that we don’t have. A Shade can be really convincing when they want to be.”

“Convincing?” I grab my knees to stop them from jiggling.

Lark seems to be biting her lips, but then she blows out a long stream of air that ruffs her hair. “Shades aren’t born. They’re made. You don’t think Shifters get to choose for themselves, but know how a Shade becomes a Shade? A Shifter chooses to become one. That’s the only way. They choose to turn their back on Nicholas and leave Keleusma forever. All it takes is one swallow of this drink they call the Elixir and you’re a goner. Don’t let them get near enough to speak to you because everything they say—the life they describe—it’s tempting.”

 Somehow I managed to forget that Lark—otherwise known as the daughter of Donovan—sat right beside me. Great. Just great. Surely she’ll tell her father about my encounter with the Shades. And he’ll have me marched right back to the dank cell for, oh, the rest of eternity. Or longer.

She taps my arm. “Come on, we can’t put this off all day.”

My gaze bolts to Michael. He isn’t going to let her take me. Is he? But he gives me a chin-up in the form of a good-bye. “See you later. Have fun.”

What did I miss? “Wh-where are you going?”

He turns an apple over and over again in his hand. “Earth to Gabby. You weren’t listening at all. There’s a meeting I have to go to, so Lark’s going to show you the swords.” He points to Lark. “Play nice.”

Most of the other Shifters have already cleared out of the dining hall when Lark and I leave. She leads me back to the gym I noticed on my first day here. Human sweat and the smell of plastic and rubber mingle together. Along the edges are standard issue weight-lifting and cardio machines. Blue padded mats line the walls. Almost every machine is occupied. Rhythmic, pounding feet of people on the treadmills intertwine with the clinking of metal near the weight-lifters.  

“Are all Shifters annoyingly in shape?”

Lark waves her hand in a gesture of dismissal. “Of course we are. We need to be prepared for any type of mission. That means being able to run for long periods of time, out-wrestle someone, and move quickly through obstacles.”

I disguise a snort with a cough. Lark wrestle someone and win? It’s too ridiculous to imagine. She might be ninety-five pounds, and that’s only if she’s soaking wet and wearing steel-toed shoes.

In the middle, multiple groups of partners cluster together in hand-to-hand combat. On the left is a boxing ring, but my eyes go right to two men wielding axes. Their grunts and howls echo off the high ceiling. Sparks fly when their axes meet. The sound of metal clanging makes me grit my teeth.

Palm to my heart, I jump when Lark steps into my vision. She thrusts a bat wrapped in fabric toward me. I take it. “We’re fighting with these?”

Her hands go to her hips. “If you want to start with axes, we sure can.”

Point taken. I follow her to a circle of mats where she runs through the basic information.

First lesson of sword-fighting: always keep your feet shoulder-width apart. Never let them cross. Instead, slide when moving. Doing otherwise causes tripping, and makes onlookers laugh. Live and learn. Second, align your wrist with the hilt, not your thumb. I get this after a few failed tries. Third, block your opponent’s attacks using the portion of the sword closest to the hilt so there is power behind the defense. Using the tip of the sword will cause more laughter. Last, swing like mad. Which is easier said than done.

We run through a few slow practice moves. Then Lark smiles, which makes her looks scarily like Donovan. “Now for some real fun!”

She jabs at me, catching me off guard. Forgetting my stance, I totter backwards, arms waving. Before she can get to me again, I bring my makeshift sword in front of me. Defend. I press her back, but she does a circle move and smacks my back with the sword when I’m trying to recover.

“Dead!” She laughs.

Hands resting on my knees, I try to catch my breath. Warm, nasty gym air fills my lungs.

“Again.” Lark gets into ready position.

I bring my sword up. Less than a minute later, she cuffs me across the side, and I fall. Ouch. For the record, a fabric-wrapped bat still hurts like the dickens when it’s bashed into your ribs. She pulls me up, and we start a new round.

People have gathered around us, cheering and taunting in turn, the latter intended for me. My blood starts to boil. I dust off my pants and bring my sword back into position.

She moves to strike me, but I slide backwards. Now I have enough room to add my lessons from self-defense class into the fight. I shoulder-roll forward and it lands me under her aim. I’m moving too fast for her to keep up. With a groan, I heave the sword and cut her legs out from under her. She drops onto her back. Her weapon bangs onto the floor, rolling out of her hand. I spring forward, straddling her. Press my sword into her jugular.

The sound of clapping snaps me back to my senses. I lift my sword and offer Lark a sheepish grin. After snagging two bottles of water we spend another hour in practice battle. Then she brings me to a place called the education center.

“No bomb making?” I tease.

“Another day.” She leaves me in the hands of a wrinkled old man who smells like clothes from a basement. Supposedly he’s a professor.

He makes me sit on a rough, wooden chair. As he speaks, I drag my fingers over the wood grain in the table in front of me. A touch screen appears on the wall, and he pulls up images that are a hundred years old. He drills me on historic dates, culture, and manners,  wagging his finger mercilessly each time I answer wrong. Hopefully, his finger is prepared for the amount of wagging I’m going to cost him. I feel like I’m back in history class, accept I don’t have any friends to pass notes to. I’m stuck here for lunch and dinner. Hours later, I’m thinking a fork to the eye would be a better fate to endure.

Back in my room for the night, I ease the fastening off my braid. Running my fingers through my hair, I examine my area. Someone’s been here while I was gone. A maid of some sort. My bed is tidy, and the dirty clothes from yesterday that I left bunched on the ground have vanished. I throw myself onto the couch. Okay, this someone cleaning up after me part I could get used to. At my dad’s I was the main cleaner. If I’m lucky, maybe they’ll even iron my clothes before bringing them back.

Suddenly I freeze. My eyes go back to where I left my dirty clothes the other morning. Including the pair of pants that held a note in the back pocket—Michael’s note. It’s gone.

Oh, no. What have I done?

Breathe. Don’t flip out.

They probably tossed the clothes into a pile on the floor of my closet. That’s what I do when I want my room to look nice but don’t want to actually clean it. I stride across the bedroom and slap my palm to the wall. The light beam waves over me and my closet opens. I paw through the drawers. Glance around for a suspicious lump. Drop to my knees and peek under the dresser.

Nothing.

Without thinking, I leave my room and march out into the hallway. All the lights are off. Looks like Keleusma closes down for the night. From the direction of the main lobby, a vacuum’s running, and someone’s having a muffled conversation. I slink against the wall and try to find carpeted patches to tip-toe across.

No one said anything about a curfew here. What will they do if they find me out of my room at night? More importantly, what about the note? Hopefully, they’ll just think it’s some joke and toss it away. But the way people act here, the maid probably brought it straight to Donovan The Terrible. Yes, he deserves the caps.

Terror skitters like marbles down my spine. Not for me. With the way things are going, I’m bound to come to blows with the Elders one way or another. I can figure that part out. Deal with it.

What propels me forward is what they might do to Michael. If it wasn’t for him, I’d be the one with a huge burn scar on my back. Maybe not even that, because without Michael, the Shades would have dragged me who knows where. In the short amount of time we’ve known each other, he has stood in the gap and saved me more times than I can count. I owe him this.    

Laundry is usually done in a basement, right? Why do people clean things in the dankest, darkest part of a building? Beats me. But every house and apartment building I’ve even been in has the washing machines on the lowest level. Does Keleusma even have levels?

I pause a moment, allowing time for my eyes to adjust to the dark. Once I can see, I make my way, feeling against the wall. There isn’t time to worry about whether or not there are surveillance cameras. Probably not since this place is supposed to house a bunch of world heroes…. On the other hand, they do have jail cells.

Most of the service-oriented stuff has been located at the easternmost end of the compound. Food prep, a hair-cutting room, and the medical facility are all in this direction. Logic says something like laundry will be this way too.

When I turn the corner, I have to tread across a tiled section of flooring. I step heel to toe, to make the least amount of sound. Darkness floods this area, more so than before. Splaying my hands out in front of me, I feel for any obstacles. But I miss a small trash bin. My shin bashes into it, and the metal rattles on the floor, echoing like a hubcap spinning on an abandoned street. The momentum flings me forward. Arms flailing, I drop to my knees. The trash can falls on its side, rolls ten feet, and lands with a hollow
thunk
against the wall. 

Footfalls announce someone’s approaching from the residential wing. Seconds. That’s all I have. I swallow hard.

My heart’s pumping in my throat. Blood pulses like a rock concert in my temples. Frantically, I crawl forward. When I feel carpet under my hands, I claw my way to the wall and gain my feet again. If somebody discovers me, I want to be found standing. Not like a kid on my hands and knees. Although, not being found at all sounds a whole lot better.

No longer caring about noise, I take off at a sprint down the corridor. Behind me are footsteps, closer ... closer. Alarm heightens my ability to see. I hurdle the next stupid trash can. I’m by the cafeteria now. The doors to the dining area are blessedly unlocked. Shoving them open, I rush to a couple of huge shelving units on wheels, similar to a baker’s rack, where the clean dishes are stored. I try to move one, but it’s far too heavy.

The door to the dining area starts to open. I wedge myself into the small space between the shelving unit and the wall. My rib cage is smashed. Each breath hurts.

A man I don’t recognize paces into the room, his boots galumphing on the hard floor even though he walks slowly, deliberately. What will they do to me if I’m discovered?

Hand on top of one of the tables, he peers underneath. In the shadows, he looks behind each large trash can. He even lifts the lids in case I’ve climbed inside one of them. As he steps closer, I hold my breath, and my lungs burn with a stabbing intensity that makes my eyes water.