Saving Yesterday (TimeShifters Book 1) (4 page)

Michael points to a sign in the road.
Wall Street
. Then he ducks beside some stairs and motions for me to follow. I glance down the street again, and I’m left in the same position as before. If I break into a run, where will I go? To the cop? No way. While I don’t know much about history, I do know that they used to not hesitate before locking a person in an insane asylum. Especially someone spouting time-traveling madness. Besides, the chill induced by the shadow people still clings to my skin. Michael saved me from them. I can trust him—for now
.

I crouch beside him.

He turns to me and studies my face with an intensity that makes me drop my gaze to the ground. Seconds later, he clears his throat, drawing my eyes back to meet his.

“You’re Gabriella Creed, aren’t you?” He shakes his head, flipping some of his hair out of place. “I’m so stupid. I should have known right away.”

Tension floods my body. “How do you know my name?” I bite my tongue before asking him if he’s a stalker.

“They called you Gabriella back there.”

I lick my lips. “But they didn’t say my last name.”

“Still, I should have known.”

A group of people pass near where we hide. Michael wraps his arm around my waist and drags me further into the building’s shadow. It’s then that I notice the pungent smell of trash and fish. Right, New York doesn’t have alleys. I really miss Chicago.

Once we’re safely hidden, Michael releases me.

I scrunch my nose, taking small breaths through my mouth. “But why? It’s not like we’ve met before.”

“No.” He rubs his jaw. “We sure haven’t.” Clearly straight-to-the-point answers are not Michael’s strong suit.

“Yet you know who I am, why?”

He shakes his head, letting me know the topic is closed for discussion. Crossing my arms, I level a glare in his direction. Michael shrugs back. Oh well. I can play nice, but only because I need his help. If he stops being useful, I’m out.

“What were those things? Those creatures in the forest.”

“Shades.” He lets out a sigh. “Hey, back there, did you wish to be somewhere else?”

“When those scary things were hot on our trail? Absolutely.”

Slowly, Michael reaches over and touches my bracelet. “May I?” He doesn’t wait for an answer. He cups my wrist in one of his hands and twists the metal around to examine every inch. When he arrives at the section snug against my inner wrist, he taps on a small black mark on the bracelet. “Fascinating,” he mumbles. “None of the rest of ours has this.”

Michael’s lost in his own thoughts, so I consider him. Now that I’m seeing him in daylight, I can make out all his features. His lips are thin. His eyes are gentle. The skin around them crinkles the couple times I’ve caught him laughing. For that matter, the fact that he has smiled at all during our exchange speaks to an even-keeled personality, someone who smirks at danger yet takes action when the stakes are high. If he’s not intent on killing me after all, then he might be someone worthy of friendship. The jury’s still out.

The edge of his thumb brushes against my wrist. His touch shoots electricity up my arm. My heart thuds erratically. I jerk my hand from his and the feeling stops. I look at him, and he’s examining my face. His eyes narrow, but not in an angry manner. No—they’re curious, full of silent questions.

Michael inches away, putting space between us. “It doesn’t happen like that.”

“What? The time traveling?” Heat rushes up my neck, either from my reaction to Michael’s touch a second ago or from voicing pure absurdity. It’s a toss-up.

Relief washes over his features. “Of course, yes, the time traveling.” He lifts his arm, tapping the metal bracelet on his wrist. I failed to notice earlier that he wears a matching one. “We have no power over when and where in time we’re pulled. We stay in a place until we accomplish our mission. Then we either return to Keleusma through a Portal or we’re pulled to wherever we’re needed next. Never by our own power, not like you just did. It’s not possible.”

I tuck my bangs back behind my ears. “But I didn’t
do
anything.”

“They feared that you’d be special ... powerful. They’ve been debating it for a generation.” His eyes rake over me.

“Me? Special? I’m hopelessly ordinary. I’m clumsy. Bad at math. Completely normal in every pathetic way.” I jab him in the ribs like I so often do to Porter. “Maybe you completed your mission. Didn’t you say you shift once a mission’s complete?”

“No.” He cups his face in his hands. “I know I didn’t. I was supposed to save Pinkerton. He’s going to be captured at some point. My mission was to spring him or to make sure it didn’t happen. I didn’t get a clear reading.”

My brain hurts from the string of riddles. “But before ... I mean, you seemed surprised to find out who that man was.”

“I was. I didn’t know ... didn’t
feel
what my mission was until after you kicked me. When I hit the ground a thought coursed through me—
save Pinkerton
. In that split second, I had to decide if I should follow you or fulfill my calling.” He mumbles, “I messed up.”

“You saved me from those things.”

“Shades. I suppose that’s important too, but I’ve never failed a mission before. There are long-term consequences.”

“You’ll get in trouble? Is there a Shifter police force or something?”

Michael turns pleading eyes on me. “It’s not just about me. There’ll be effects for everyone. Don’t you get that, Gabriella?”

“Honestly? I don’t get any of this.” My leg cramps, so I stretch it out. “And it’s Gabby.”

“Hey, don’t do that. People might see you.” He motions for me to scrunch against the wall again.

“Are we supposed to stay hidden all the time?”

“Just you. You’ll scare the good citizens of New York in that outfit.”

Fuming, I look down at my plaid button-up and jean shorts. My hands automatically form fists. “And you’re the master of style? What, in a black t-shirt and jeans. Please. The boy bands of the world called, they want their outfit back.”

A muscle on his jaw pops. “You’re impossible. It wasn’t an insult. You look good. Believe me, more than good, but let’s just say my clothes blend more with the time period than yours do.”

More than good?

Ignoring that, I thrust my hand to indicate the traffic on Wall Street. “These guys are all in suits.”

“My clothes are from Keleusma. If I walk out onto the street, the people will see me dressed how they are.”

“How is that even possible?” I cross my arms. This has to be a dream. And if it is, I have to commend my subconscious. It deserves a cookie. Michael’s pretty cute for a made-up person.

He shrugs. “People see what they want to see. It’s always been that way in human history.” Then he freezes. His eyes focus off to the distance, and he tilts his head. Like he can see and hear something I can’t. I want to clap to break his daze.

Michael’s trance snaps. “What day is it? We’re wasting time.” He shoots to his feet. “Stay here, I need to find a newspaper.”

Before I can answer, he’s gone. I hunch, drawing my knees to my middle. What if those shadow people—those Shades—are here? I suddenly don’t want to be separated from Michael, ever. I hate the thought of depending on someone, but I’m in over my head. If I stand any chance of making it home, I need information and Michael’s my personal Obi-Wan Kenobi. Now, why couldn’t I have been paired with Ewan McGregor?
Red Rover, Red Rover, send Ewan right over.
I would have trusted him instantly.

Craning my neck, I spot Michael across the street. He’s talking to a small boy hawking newspapers. Seconds later, Michael’s eyes flash to mine, and I notice he’s gone pale. Jamming his hands in his pockets, he dodges a carriage. He makes his way back to the stairs where I hide.

His voice holds an urgent tone. “It’s September 16, 1920.”

My brow scrunches. “Okay.”

“It’s September 16, 1920 ... on Wall Street.” He jerks a thumb toward the street sign like I’ve forgotten.

I rise to my feet, brushing off my shorts. “Is that supposed to mean something to me?”

“Your dad didn’t even school you in history? This is unbelievable.” He grabs fistfuls of his hair. The poor guy is going to go bald if he has to spend any more time with me.

I pop my hands onto my hips. “Why would he? I hate history. My friend Emma and I passed notes just so we didn’t fall asleep during class.”

He takes my shoulders. “Don’t you understand? Your history is your future.”

“It doesn’t have to be.” I pull away. “I don’t agree with that.”

“It doesn’t matter.” Michael pinches the bridge of his nose. “We have less than five minutes to find a man named Thomas.”

“Five—” I try to take a step back, but run into unyielding stone.

“Don’t speak. There will be a bombing. A huge one. We need to find him and keep him safe. I have a feeling he’s inside the bank being targeted. Then I need to catch the bomber. This act of terrorism has never been solved. Don’t you see? We can change that today.” His eyes blaze with intensity.

“How do you know?”

“It just came to me. Don’t worry. It’ll start happening to you soon enough. No more questions. Stay here for now. I can’t deal with people seeing you yet.”

Then he leaves.

I notice my hands shaking and tuck them into my armpits, but my knees wobble, too. I’m afraid my legs will buckle any second, so I slump against the wall.
A bomb?
Could I really die in another time? Is that even possible? I wish I’d followed Michael, even though he told me not to. He needs to stop leaving me alone.

I scan the streetscape, and my gaze lands on a little girl walking hand-in-hand with her parents. They turn toward a store, but the little girl pulls back. The father goes down on one knee and hugs her.

It makes my thoughts bounce to Dad. He’s alone now, maybe forever. My eyes swim with tears.

The father gets back up. The little girl nods. The man and woman enter the store, leaving the little girl on the steps. She’s smiling, swinging her tiny feet in time with a song she’s humming. I really must be in another time period, because in my world, no child is safe left alone.

A clip-clopping, old bay horse blocks my view. A man with his hat pulled low leads the horse and buggy slowly westward down Wall Street. I squint. For a moment, it almost looked like a Shade hobbled beside him, but it has to be a trick of the light. Or I’m paranoid.

I jump when Michael bursts around the corner. He’s dragging an older man who sports an impressive white mustache. Michael shoves the man up the stairs. “Quick, Gabby, there’s only seconds! Get inside.”

Seconds?
My eyes immediately go to the little girl. Before I have time to change my mind I’m sprinting across the street. A horn blares, tires skid. I hurtle out of the way.

Michael’s inside now, probably making the man, Thomas, duck under a desk or behind a cement wall.

I wave my arms, yelling, “Run! Take cover! Bomb!” Hopefully some of the people will notice and be spared. To my relief, a few people scatter away.

Without breaking my run, I grab the little girl and tug her down in front of me. She screams. We tumble to the ground, and I position her against the wall. My body blocks her from the road.

I snap my eyelids shut, waiting for the explosion. I hear only the sound of my heart racing in my ears.

In my head I say good-bye to Dad.

Quick footsteps sound from behind and Michael throws his body over me and the girl. He braces both hands on the wall near our heads, forming a human shield. 

Less than a heartbeat later, a large boom echoes just down the street. It’s followed by screeching tires, punctuated by terror-filled cries. The force of the blast slams us into the pavement, making me bite my lip. A warm, metallic taste swirls in my mouth. I hear air whoosh from Michael’s lungs. His head bangs into mine, but his fortress-like arms hold fast around us. I pull the girl tighter against me and shut my eyes so tightly it hurts.

People shriek.

Windows explode, showering glass into the mayhem. Unknown fragments tear through the air. Metal clanks across the ground.

A moment of eerie silence follows.

The little girl trembles in my arms. High-pitched ringing clouds my hearing, and I realize I’m shaking too. A heaviness that I can’t make out shoves at my back.

The world rushes back in. People are screaming and wailing. Others run down the street. The smell of burning hair and fuel makes me gag.

The door to the store we huddle near flies open. A man stands on the stairs. “Mary!” He grips the railing, his knuckles turning white. His knees wobble on the next step.

Recognition washes over me, but not before the little girl springs from my grasp.

“Papa!” She launches up the steps.

Her father envelopes her in a fierce hug, tears in his eyes. He cups his hand to the back of her head, protecting his daughter from the terrifying image of carnage the eruption left on Wall Street.

Straightening my spine, I brush glass off my legs then sway backwards. But I freeze when limp weight presses against me.
Michael
. He wails in pain. The sound is harsh and short, like he’s biting it back.