Saving Yesterday (TimeShifters Book 1) (28 page)

There’s no handle, so I press both hands to the door and give a push, and it opens. I inch inside and slowly close the door, hoping not to draw attention. Somewhere in here is a guy with a gun, and the only weapons at my disposal are a hard elbow and a quick wit. Let’s face it, my odds aren’t great.

As far as I can tell, I’m in a room filled with props. Dust and mildew invade my senses. The voices of the actors on stage boom across this small back area.

I squeeze behind a giant ship on wheels, making sure not to get snagged on any of the handholds. At a muffled footstep to my right, I angle backward. My heart lurches into the back of my throat as a hand comes down on my shoulder. I want to scream, but I hold it in. Spin around. Just a mannequin. A creepy one dressed as a bullfighter complete with a swirly, painted mustache, but he’s fake. A prop. Welcome to the club, buddy.

I weave deeper into the maze of props. Will there be any way up to Lincoln other than the main stairs at the front of the theatre? I can’t risk seeing those ushers again.

Voices drift closer to me. A group of off-stage actors press together, their whispers too low to make out any actual words. I drop behind a fat wooden elephant, crouching until they all pass. Are they all in on the assassination? It takes a few more minutes, but I reach the edge of the curtain without anyone noticing me.

I spot Lincoln right away. Still alive. He’s directly across the theatre from where I stand. Not that I’ve ever met him, but I’ve seen his likeness in enough President’s Day mattress sale commercials to recognize the real man. He’s seated in a booth on the second level at stage left. Bright red wallpaper behind him, yellow drapes framing where he and three other people sit. I imagine the one holding his hand is the First Lady. I have no clue who the other two are, but the man of the couple wears an army uniform. Four American flags hang near them. They might as well have painted a bull’s eye right on Lincoln’s forehead. Or neck.

The rest of the audience area is unremarkable. The same red carpeting covers the floor here as in the lobby, and the same white walls close us in. On the main floor and in the two balconies, most of the seats are filled. The people are dressed in their best, rich-colored fabrics splashing across the sea of the crowd.

Since I have no idea what John Wilkes Booth looks like, warning Lincoln is my only viable strategy. That means venturing out where the ushers might capture me again. Sweat has gathered in the creases of my palms, and I rub my hands on the thighs of my pants. Shake my shoulders. I can do this.

Working my way along the side of the backstage area, I find a door that leads to the main theatre hallway. I poke my head out first. The coast looks clear, but just as I step into the hall, an usher storms at me. Act fast. Using his momentum, I grab his arm and spin him toward the open door leading to the backstage area. He’s flung off balance and topples over. I sweep his feet out of the way and shut the door as quietly as I can. Blessedly, there is a lock on my side of the door. I know I’m breaking every fire code known to man, but this is a national emergency. The usher will either have to rush out onto stage, or use the back door and run to the front of the building, which might still be locked as well. Either way, I need to move.

Right as I’m trying to make up my mind, I see a spindly man with a coat that falls to his knees. He has dark hair and a thick mustache. Just as he disappears into a side stairwell that I hadn’t noticed before, I catch the glint of light flashing off a gun in his hand.

I spring into action, grabbing the door handle before it has time to click closed. Booth is at the top of the steps, almost out of sight.

I launch up the first set of stairs, using the banister for leverage. “Stop! Mr. Booth! Stop!”

He tosses one crazed look over the railing and vanishes.

I can catch him. I can stop all this.

Taking the stairs two at a time, I make it to the second level and fling open the door. From this direction, Lincoln’s seating area must be to my right. A couple of the doors leading to the balcony are open. People glance back at me as I dart down the hallway, arms pumping. At the end of the hall is a final door. This has to lead to where Lincoln and his party are. Booth must already be in there. Jerking the door open, I waver between jumping on the assassin and kicking the gun so it unloads into the ceiling. I grit my teeth, prepared to do whatever it takes.

Behind the door is not what I expect. This is a small room, and there’s still another door to get through until I’m in the booth. Just as my hand touches the doorknob, the audience breaks into a round of laugher, hooting louder than I’ve heard them all evening. I yank open the door, and the ring of a gun discharging echoes through my chest.

I’m too late.

Curtains hang in my way. I shove the billowing fabric to the side and rush forward. Blue smoke clouds the area, and it takes me a second to adjust. I cough twice as gunpowder stings my nose and throat. The play continues as if something horrible didn’t just occur. Maybe they don’t know yet. Lincoln’s head is slumped, almost as if the play bores him and he’s fallen to sleep. But I know better. Dead. My knees wobble.

As I clear the last sheet of fabric I see Booth. Teeth bared, he wrestles with the man in uniform who sat near Lincoln. Booth wrenches a large machete-type knife from under his coat and slashes at the man. He cuts two deep gashes across the man’s chest and another slice across the soldier’s head. A woman shrieks. My ears throb from the pitch.

Blood gushes from the soldier’s wounds, covering his coat before he staggers back against the wall. Lincoln’s wife rocks back and forth, her whole body taken over with tremors. The actors on stage stop talking and audience members swivel their heads in our direction.

Booth leaps a chair and runs to the edge of the balcony. Diving forward, I snag his foot before he can clear the ledge. His boot is polished and slips right from my hand. Not that I would have been able to hold the weight of a man dangling upside down, but I had to do something. At least I’ve done enough to pitch him off balance. When he lands on the stage there is a loud crack and he groans in pain. He limps badly. I hope his leg is broken.

I point at Booth. “Get that man! The President has been shot!”

Women in the audience screech and flap their hands. A few men rise to their feet. Others clutch their hearts. Collective gasps echo in the high-ceilinged chamber.

Booth hobbles across the stage, his bloody knife brandished high. “
Sic semper tyrannis!
The South is avenged.”

I turn to the First Lady. She shakes Lincoln’s limp arm and starts to sob. The other lady seated nearby is visibly shaking. Great. Neither will be of any help to me. What I wouldn’t give for a little Lark Power right now.

I tug a shawl from the headrest of one of the chairs and press the thin fabric to the back of Lincoln’s head. “Don’t die. Don’t die.” I can still make this work. Think. Why did he die? Was it the bullet? Or because they took it out? Did he bleed to death?

Lincoln’s head tips back, the wound cradled in my hand. His eyelids flutter and, for an instant, his eyes open and lock with mine. Brown, deep, soulful. 

“I’m so sorry,” I whisper.

Lincoln’s eyes roll, sliding closed again. Unshed tears sting the back of my throat.

Someone brushes past me. “I’m a doctor.”

The young man eases Lincoln out of my hold and lowers the President to the floor. He starts to strip Lincoln’s coat from him, feeling his shoulder.

I look down at my trembling hands. They’re covered in the President’s blood. I try to wipe them on the shawl, but it’s full of blood as well.

The doctor’s on his knees, pressing all over Lincoln’s torso. He looks back up at me. “I thought you said he was sh—” His words still as he stares at my hands.

One drip of blood falls from my finger, cascading to the ground. “His head.”

There’s a rumble of footsteps behind me as more people pile into the private booth.

The doctor stares at the blood dripping from my finger, then explodes to his feet. He reaches for me. “Who are you? What have you done to the President?” I jerk away from his outstretched hands. “Someone get her. She needs to be questioned.”

Both of the ushers from earlier close in.

“She told us the President was in danger. Acting very peculiar just minutes ago. She’s in cahoots with the shooter.” The pimply usher lowers his eyebrows as he descends upon me.

I raise my hands to block them. “No. You’re wrong. I was trying to help.” More people, seven now, are advancing toward me. My back hits the edge of the booth.

Save me!

Too much has been happening all at once. I didn’t feel my bracelet searing my wrist. I didn’t see the metal beginning to glow. Just as the ushers grasp at me, light floods around me, blocking them from my sight. Every hair on my body stands on end as I’m thrust into time again. As quickly as it came, the light evaporates, leaving wind and darkness and a tight, closed-in space. My lungs scream for a breath.    

I land on my hands and knees in in a patch of long grass. Not just any grass—I scan the burning bush plants that line the lot, the rotting porch—this is my backyard. I claw across the ground, haul myself to my feet and creak over the uneven two-by-fours that make up our porch. The back door’s unlocked. I grab the handle, leaving a smear of Lincoln’s blood across the door’s white paint.

If they had captured me, what would they have done? Burn me alive like the Elder twins?

I’m shaking so bad that I bash my hip into the kitchen counter when I shut the door. I wince, hobbling to the sink. “Dad? Daddy!”

He’s not home. I know he’d come running if he were. With quaking hands, I turn on the hot water and let it scald my skin. I scrape my fingernails over my palms again and again until it hurts. But I still feel blood. Under my fingernails, seeped into my pores. I’ll never rid myself of the President’s blood.

I mean to go up to my bedroom, but as I stumble into our front room I know my legs won’t carry me up the stairs. The howling starts before I realize that I’m crying. Correction. I’m all out bawling. Tears paint my face, dribble down the side of my neck. Crumbling to my knees, I yank on my hair.

I failed. I’m done for. No better than my mother.

I hug my arms around my stomach, around the hollow ache inside that will never be filled. Always throbbing, reminding me of all the wrong I’ve done. I want it gone. I don’t want to be able to feel anything.

I ball up my hands. I never asked for this—the life of a Shifter. I don’t want it.

One of my father’s wrenches rests on the coffee table. I scramble across the room, pick up the heavy metal and stretch out my arm on the floor. With all the force I can muster, I slam the wrench into my bracelet. Pain lances through my bones, up my arm and down into my fingertips. I don’t care. I bash the bracelet again, and again, and again. It has to break. I want out. After ten hits, the thing doesn’t dent. The wrench clatters to the ground and I paw at my bracelet, trying to yank it over my hand.

“It won’t work.”

I still.
Michael.

When I look up, the same calm washes over me that always does when I’m in his presence. I don’t know how he got in here without me hearing him, but Michael can break and enter into my house anytime.

He’s a few feet away, his head tilted to the side as he watches me. “I’ve tried to take mine off too. It’s not possible.” The corners of his lips lift in a sad smile.

“Michael,” I whisper, and then I leap from the ground straight into his arms. I grab his face in my hands. Run my finger over the new scar near his temple. “I’m sorry for this.”

“Shh. It’s nothing.” He catches my hand and kisses my palm.

I press my head against his heart. Close my eyes as I listen to the steady thump inside. My fingers twist into the back of his shirt, pulling him tighter. His scent, fresh and minty, rolls over me and I breathe deeply.

His arms come around me, pressing me protectively to his chest.

I start to cry all over again, my tears soaking his shirt.

Michael strokes my hair. “You’re okay, Gabby. I’ve got you.” His lips are near my ear. His breath rushes hot against my neck.

“You don’t get it.” I press back, but I’m only able to lean six inches from his face because he doesn’t let go. “Lincoln’s dead. It’s my fault.”

Michael shakes his head. “He was dead before and the world survived. It will again. The important thing is that you’re safe.”

“I was so scared. Alone.”

“I know.”

“Why does Nicholas set us up to fail?”

Michael works his hands up and down my arms, squeezing slightly, as if he’s warming up a shock victim. “He doesn’t. He gives us an opportunity to succeed, and even if we fail, he always gives us another chance. Nicholas isn’t upset with you. Don’t lose hope in him, okay? He hasn’t given up on you after one failed mission. Neither have I.”

“How are you even here? Did Eugene send you?”

“It doesn’t work that way. You know that.”

“But then how?” I latch onto one of his hands.

“I shifted.” Using one finger, Michael brushes a chunk of hair back behind my ear. Where his fingertip trails, my skin burns with heat I can’t explain.