Saving Yesterday (TimeShifters Book 1) (5 page)

When I turn, he moans again, his body sagging. “Michael!”

“My back.” His eyes are closed tightly.

My gaze rakes down him. His shirt’s on fire. I jolt to my feet. Without thinking, I start smacking at the small flame racing up his back. It extinguishes instantly. Michael yelps in protest, but I don’t know how else to help.

I drop to my knees beside him. “What can I do? Tell me what to do.”

Sweat breaks out across his brow and upper lip. His shoulders convulse. Before I know what’s happening, he leans toward me, and I cradle his head on my knee. There’s soot in his hair and a large gash across his left cheek. Will it leave a scar? I hope not. He shouldn’t have to look in the mirror every day for the rest of his life and remember me. The fact that I didn’t follow instructions shouldn’t mar him. Using the bottom of my shirt, I press it to the cut on Michael’s face to stop the bleeding.

He winces. “Is Thomas safe?”

That’s when I look up. The bloodshed strewn across Wall Street makes my throat clam up. What’s wrong with humanity? Why do we do this sort of thing to each other? There has to be a better way to get a point across. Some way that doesn’t involve needless and cruel murders. Senseless destruction.

Smoke hangs in the air like a funeral shroud. Cars are flipped on their sides, packages spilling from their trunks. People lie in the street, moaning, crying, bleeding. Others run to their aid. Chunks of entire buildings are missing. I see an arm on the ground that’s not attached to a person. I swallow down a wave of bile.

At least the building across the street, where Michael stashed Thomas, looks sound. “If he was in there, then he’s safe.”

Michael closes his eyes. He’s shivering even though it isn’t cold outside. I wish I knew first aid. Why did I decide to work at Slushy Stop instead of becoming a lifeguard or something useful? Making frozen confections will hardly come in handy as a Shifter. I’m useless to Michael.  

Instinctively, I run my hand over his forehead and down his hair. “What now? If you saved him, shouldn’t we shift? Maybe it’ll move us to a hospital.”

“It doesn’t work like that.” His teeth are clenched.

I keep trying to soothe him by combing my fingers through his hair, but anxiety works like a horde of ants in my stomach. I’m so completely unable to help. It’s the same way I feel when Dad gets plastered. I usually lock myself in my bedroom and draw the covers over my head until he sobers up.

But I can’t do that with Michael. I can’t hide from his pain. It’s my fault he’s hurt. Besides, he saved me when I was in trouble.

Tears pinch out of my eyes. “Then how does it work? How do I help you?”

“Honey.” His lips barely move.

I’m not a fan of endearments, but now isn’t the best time to pick a fight. I nod, hoping to encourage him. “Yes, tell me what to do.”

“Honey.”

“I’m here,” I whisper and offer his shoulder a companionable squeeze. Maybe he just needs someone beside him for a moment.

Michael rolls off of me with a heart-tearing moan, palms landing on the ground. Ugly blisters are rising on his burned back. Tears scorch my eyes. The smell of burnt flesh is more than I can handle, but I have to. He’s trying to stand, but his legs wobble. Making sure to place my arm where there are no burns, I wrap it around his middle. He drapes an arm across my shoulder.

I catch his deep gaze and want to make the lines etched in his brow go away. “On the count of three, stand.”

“One ... two ... three.”

Michael grunts, and I can tell he bites back a howl, but I get him to his feet. His fingers dig into my shoulder, making me turn my head to look at him. His hot chocolate eyes flood with concern. “There are so many people hurt. We have to help them.”

Once again, I’m convinced he’s insane. “You’re in no condition to play doctor.”

Police officers surge past us, on their way to Wall Street.

“But it’s what we’re made for. We’re supposed to help ease human suffering.” His teeth start to rattle. Shock? “Or else they win.” He points, indicating the havoc caused by the explosion.

I squint. Then I see them. The shadow people—Shades. They’re limping out from the shadows cast by the buildings, but the people don’t seem to notice them. Shades move closer to the ones that are injured and crying, and they bend close to their faces—sucking in the air.

A tremor works its way up my spine. “Wh-what are they doing?”

Michael leans more of his weight into me. “They feed off human despair. They’re growing stronger.”

We need to get out of here before they see us. “Tell me where to take you.”

He nods. “You’re right. We can’t let them see you. Leave me. Just run, Gabby.”

 I tighten my arm around his middle. “I’m not leaving you.”

The door to the storefront jingles, and the family from earlier shuffles outside. Mary’s father has her in his arms, her head buried against his chest. Her mother gasps as she looks down Wall Street. She dabs at her eyes.

Mary’s father approaches us. “Are you the ones who saved my girl?”

He’s a towering sort of man. I gulp. “Yes, sir.”

He hands Mary to the mother and reaches for Michael. “Here, I can help him. Our vehicle’s around the block.”

I don’t have time to argue. Michael hobbles beside the man and I fall into step with Mary and her mother.

Don’t look back. Don’t look back.

Within minutes, we’re in their old style pick-up truck. It rides low and in the back, where Michael and I are, the sides are made from wooden slats. Michael’s lying on his side, his head on my thigh again. Even though I have a blister growing from when I slapped out the fire, I rub the palm of my hand back and forth on his shoulder. Every bump in the road causes him to groan.

“Michael,” I whisper. “What year was burn cream invented?”

My words elicit a small smile. “Not yet. Shh.” He closes his eyes.

The truck rumbles past the city limits, and fields roll into view. I’m sure in my time there aren’t farms so close to New York. It’s surreal, seeing a field and the city in the same instance. I peek at Michael’s oozing back—charred flesh—and wish I hadn’t.

We turn up a long drive, and the truck stops. The man helps Michael out of the truck, and I follow them into their home. The house is small—one story—a kitchen, a family room, and a bedroom or two. Mary’s mother sets water boiling and hands me a jar of amber goo. 

“Here,” she smiles at me. “This will help your husband. You may have him lie on the table.” She presses a wet rag into my hand. “My daughter has experienced a trying day, and I’m disturbed too. I’ll see to my family and you see to yours.” I can tell she ties to smile and just can’t.

“My husband?” My voice ratchets up five decibels, but I catch Michael’s gaze. He shakes his head subtly. Two young people traveling together. I guess it’s best if they assume we’re married. I run my tongue against the back of my teeth. “And what do I do with this?”

Before I can finish my question, Mary’s mom backs out of the room. I turn to Michael.

“Don’t mind her. She’s being proper. They won’t come in here again.” He’s trying to struggle out of his shirt without yowling. I cross the room and help ease the fabric from around his wound as we slip it over his head. Evidently they have a gym in this Keleusma place, because Michael’s more ripped than I would have guessed. I try not to get caught gawking as I help him onto the table. He lies, stomach down.

I freeze. “I don’t know if I can do this. Help you.”

“You can.” His voice is so soft. How can he do that? Use his strength to sooth me when he must be in an incredible amount of pain?

I swallow. Hard. “Okay. Tell me what to do.” My hands shake.

 “Make sure there aren’t any pieces of my shirt stuck in the burn. Then use this.” He taps the jar of goo.

I pick it up and unscrew the lid. “Is this stuff safe to use?”

“Honey? Sure.”

I dab at his back with the damp cloth, biting my tongue and blinking my eyes to keep back the tears that are burning to drop. Michael grips the edge of the table. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s holding hard enough to leave marks. I should have found a stick for him to bite before starting. That always seems to work in old movies.

The muscle in his jaw pops. “Now, honey.”

“You don’t have to keep calling me that.” I pour a glob of the goo onto his back.

“Not you. In the jar. It’s honey. Only thing to help with burns,” he says between pained gasps.

I’m glad he can’t see my face. My cheeks flame with embarrassment. Of course he wasn’t calling me honey.

There’s a light tap on the door, and Mary’s mother walks into the kitchen, averting her eyes from Michael’s back. She lays a wad of fabric on the counter. “These are clean. You may use them as bandages.” She hesitates at the door. “I have this for you as well.” She holds up a bundle of clothes. “I noticed that something happened to your clothing during the blast.”

I look down at myself. Besides some soot and scrapes, I’m fine.

Oh, right. Modesty in the twentieth century. My shorts are acceptable by my standards, but to her, I probably look like I’m in my underwear.

“Yes, um, thanks.” I slip down into a seat again, hiding myself behind Michael.

Mary’s mother sets the clothing beside the fabric scraps on the counter. “Thank you for saving my daughter. We can never repay you, but please let us try. You’re welcome to stay here until your husband has mended. We don’t have much. No spare rooms or beds to offer, but I’ll bring some quilts. Will it suit to leave him on the table?”

I nod and she disappears.

When I look back at Michael, he’s studying my face. I tuck my bangs back behind my ear. “Do you need something else? Are you in a lot of pain?”

A slight smile tugs on his lips. “I told you you’d scandalize them.”

I cross my arms and glare at him.

He shuts his eyes again and his shoulders rise with a long breath. “Actually, there is something you could do.”

“What?”

“When you ran your fingers through my hair—that felt nice. Distracting.”

I lean forward and slip my hand into his mocha hair, smoothing it back into place. Its slightly damp, but soft.

After a while, Michael’s breathing is deep and even. Hopefully he’s fallen asleep. I relish the silence for a minute. I guess everything’s happening so quickly, my mind hasn’t had time to process. But in this free moment, I fight the urge to run out the front door and leave Michael again. Not because I’m afraid of him any longer, we’re past that now. I just can’t deal with this.

I shove back from the table, but Michael’s hand snakes out and grabs mine. “Hey, you said you wouldn’t leave me.”

Guilt claws at my stomach. “I won’t.” I sit back down. “Could those people on Wall Street see the Shades?”

Michael props his head in his hands. “No. Only Shifters can see them. I’ve heard that normal people can sense them, but I don’t understand it all.”

“So you’re saying, back in my time, there are Shades wandering around? Wouldn’t I have been able to see them?”

“Have you ever walked into a room and felt the creeps but couldn’t place why? Or been somewhere that suddenly went cold? Have you ever had the feeling that someone was following you, and no one was there?”

Only all the time. I bite my lip, nodding.

“That means Shades were nearby. I never sensed them when I was still normal, but then, I wasn’t a threat to them.”

“Are you saying I am?”

“I’m saying I don’t know.” He closes his eyes.

I can hear the fire in the next room crackling, and the floor boards creaking with tip-toed steps.

I clear my throat. “Why haven’t we switched—er—shifted? Is there something else left to do? Tell me, and I’ll do it.”

He blows out a long stream of air. “It doesn’t always work like that. Sometimes you do what you’re supposed to, and you still have to wait until he’s ready to shift you.”

“Hold on!
He—
as in, someone is controlling all of this?”

Michael laughs softly. It must have hurt because he groans. “Did you really believe you were in control?”

My hands ball into fists. “Who then?”

“Why are you so upset?”

“I don’t believe in someone else calling the shots in my life.”

“Well, learn to.” His eyebrows lower. “I assumed you heard him.”

“If you’re talking about the ‘leadings’ you mentioned earlier, no.”

“But the little girl? Didn’t you feel a nudge to save her?”

“If by ‘nudge’ you mean did the right thing to do whiz through my mind, yes. I did the only decent thing that could have been done. But I don’t think that’s what you’re talking about, is it? Michael, you need to start giving me plain answers because I can’t stick with you if you don’t. I think I’ve done well so far but—”

He taps the table. “One, if you don’t stop talking and just let yourself be quiet every once in a while, you’ll never feel a leading. Two, you’re driving me crazy. Let’s just not speak for a little bit.”

“But—”

“Not speaking.” He sighs.

I work my jaw back and forth. Maybe I should leave him. Leave all of this. Go and live on my own without having to worry about another person.
Right.
Then let the Shades claw me again. Not likely.

I close my eyes, willing myself to take ten deep breaths, one after another. Mary’s mother comes in again at some point. Tells us they are going to bed now and that they’ll see us in the morning. I block everyone out and see only darkness.

“Gabby.” The whisper wakes me with a jolt.

I must have fallen asleep in the chair because it’s now dark in the kitchen. Michael’s beside me, a make-shift bandage tied around his middle. “Sorry if I scared you, but we’ve got to go.”

I rub circles over my eyes. “But the woman said we could stay as long as we wanted.”

“This isn’t a vacation, Gabby. We’ve got work to do. Come on. I need you to be my crutch again.” He motions for me to stand.

I stretch. “Shouldn’t we at least say good-bye to the family? Thank them for helping?”

He shakes his head. “It’s better this way. Less questions.”

“We can’t go out there with you hurt like this. It’s not like I can protect you.”