The Surviving Trace (Surviving Time Series Book 1)

by Calia Read

  Livingston and Nat turn at the same time. They wear expressions of pure shock, as if they had no idea I’d been standing behind them.

  “Oh, it’s Serene.” Livingston shares a well-practiced look of confusion with Nathalie. “I didn’t know she was there. Did you, Nat?”

  “I did not.”

  Damn, these two are good. If this were real life, we’d be fast friends. From how they play off of each other’s body language and words, I know they’re siblings; my brothers and I covered for each other the same way.

  I can’t see the man’s expression, but I’m willing to bet he’s not buying anything they’re saying.

  “Step aside. I need to talk to her.”

  No one makes a sound. My legs shake.

  When Livingston and Nat don’t budge, he says, “Move. Now.”

  Nat’s shoulders slightly sag in defeat. I’m half-tempted to tell her not to give in to his demands, but my tongue becomes three sizes too big for my mouth.

  As she steps to the right, she gives me a quick once-over and whispers, “I tried to warn you.”

  They move away, and it feels as if I’ve been thrown to the wolves. Now I’m facing the leader of the pack. The first thing that comes to my mind once I see him is, Shit. I should’ve listened to Nathalie.

  Because this isn’t the good ol’ boy every mother wants their daughter to end up with. No. This is the man every mom has warned their daughters about. You run, not walk when you encounter someone like him.

  I stand there as though I’m nailed to the floor and watch as the man gazes around the room. He sighs as if everyone is wasting his precious time.

  Then he turns his eyes to me, and when he does, the realization hits me like a bolt of lightning.

  It’s my mystery man.

  The man from my dream.

  The man from the picture.

  Standing inches away from me.

  “COME HERE,” HE says, barely containing his fury.

  Wordlessly, I shake my head. Pictures, to some degree, show you how someone looks. But they’re not one-hundred percent accurate. And in this case, the precious photo I obsessed over is no match for the flesh-and-blood version of this man.

  My picture couldn’t reveal how genuinely terrifying he is in person. How his razor-sharp cheekbones create a hollow space around his lips. His crooked nose is the same, but what wasn’t apparent in the picture is the white, jagged scar that runs from the top of his forehead, dips all the way down to his right brow, and stops near his temple. His dirty-blond hair is shoulder-length, disheveled, and streaked with golden strands. Stubble a shade darker than his hair is scattered across his cheeks and chin.

  The most prominent shock is his chartreuse eyes. They’re hard and intelligent, showing that he misses nothing.

  Most men in the room are wearing waistcoats and have their dress shirts perfectly pressed. But not him. He’s wearing black trousers and a simple white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to reveal golden forearms.

  Everything about him screams masculinity and power.

  At five feet ten, I’m far from short. In heels, I’m the same height as Will’s six-foot stature, but standing next to this man makes me feel like a grasshopper. The top of my head grazes the underside of his chin.

  Fight or flight instinct finally kicks in, and I quickly take a step back. Then another. And another. He anticipates my movements, and with lightning-quick reflexes, reaches out and grabs my arm. His lips go into a flat line as he all but drags me through the crowd. My heart furiously pounds as we pass everybody. Some people wear sympathetic expressions, and others stare at me smugly, as though I’m getting what I deserve.

  This can’t be happening. The grip on my arm and the pain shooting through it tell me it is.

  And it’s that discomfort that helps me find my voice. “Get your hands off me right now.”

  He ignores me.

  Before we exit the room, he abruptly turns around and faces the crowd. He doesn’t let go of me, and he doesn’t squirm or become embarrassed with all eyes on him. No, he’s comfortable with having all the attention. All the power.

  “The party is over.” His voice carries across the room like a roar. All eyes veer his way before they drift past him to me. “You all need to be out of my house within five minutes.”

  Two. That’s the number of seconds it takes for people to scatter across the ballroom like ants on a sidewalk. I hear hushed tones all around me. Ladies I’ve never seen in my life pass me and tell me they’ll see me soon. Some of them give me small pats on the shoulder, almost as if to say, “Sorry for what you’re about to go through, but glad it’s you and not me.”

  A few minutes later the last guest is rushing down the stairs. There are four people left: Livingston, Nat, me, and my mystery man who now has an actual name.

  Étienne.

  Étienne.

  The name suits him.

  He glances around the empty, trashed room with barely disguised contempt, then he looks back at me. His expression never changes. “You’ve outdone yourself. Torn curtains, broken wine glasses. A room trashed all in hours. I think this is your personal best.”

  “Étienne, maybe you should have this conversation in—”

  He whirls around. “Nathalie, that is enough!”

  The room becomes deathly quiet. Étienne exhales loudly, turns on his heels, and leaves the room. His fingers are still firmly wrapped around my arm. As we move down the hall, I elbow him in the stomach as hard as I can, but other than a soft grunt, he’s unmovable.

  It’s only when we’re halfway down a dimly lit hallway that he lets me go. There’s no warmth in his eyes. He watches me with barely restrained fury. I have a feeling that if he could, he’d have his hands around my neck.

  Instinctively, I step back and turn in the other direction, intent on getting the hell out of this place. At first this dream was fun, but the second this man came into the picture, everything went downhill.

  I’ve worn out my welcome. It’s time for me to wake up.

  He bands an arm around my shoulders, pressing my back against his front. “Oh, no you don’t,” he says against my ear. His voice is low, almost hypnotic, and he has an accent that I want to say is Southern, but I can’t place it.

  “Let go,” I snap.

  “If I do, will you run?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then we’re at an impasse, aren’t we?” He turns me around and holds me at arm’s length, looking me in the eye. “Do you not remember our last conversation?”

  There’s no way to describe how bizarre it feels to be this close to a complete stranger, only to have him speak to me as though we share a broad history.

  He waits for my answer. I’m so scared and confused though that I can’t utter a single word. A muscle along his jaw jumps. Finally, he shoves me away. I stumble a few steps back and lay a palm on the wall to steady myself.

  With his hands on his hips, he paces. Furtively, I look over my shoulder, trying to gauge how quickly I can get away from this whack job with him distracted.

  “Are you gonna play dumb tonight?” he asks. I say nothing, and he snorts. “Very well. I told you there would be no more parties that’d smear our last name and under no circumstances were they to be held here. Does that sound familiar?”

  I shake my head. My mind can hardly keep up with everything he’s saying. But what I can pick up on is the fact he’s barely keeping his temper in check. He’s like a bomb, seconds away from going off. I need to treat him with kid gloves. That’s my only chance of escaping.

  “We may not act like husband and wife, but this is still our home, Serene. Can you give me some respect?”

  I stare at him in disbelief. Everything comes to a grinding halt.

  Our home.

  Husband.

  Wife.

  I finally find my voice. “What did you say?”

  He snorts. “What is wrong with you? How much have you drunk tonight?”

  I advance on
him. “Did you call me your wife?”

  He closes his eyes and squeezes the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger and takes a deep breath. “I’ve had a long night, and I don’t have the patience for you right now.”

  His hands heavily fall to his sides as he gives me a blank stare. Then he turns and walks down the hall.

  I stare at his retreating form, feeling sick to my stomach.

  He said wife. I know he did.

  Someone comes up behind me, yet I remain frozen in place.

  “It is gonna be okay,” Nat says. She puts her arm around me and gives me a small squeeze. “Whenever my brother gets like this, it’s typically best to give him some space. He’ll calm down in a few days.”

  “Wife,” I say faintly, looking at Nat with wide eyes. “He called me his wife.”

  She smiles. “Yes, wife. Have been for three years.”

  “Three years?”

  She guides us down the hall, and I’m too fixated on everything Étienne said to protest. My fingers and legs are going numb, and the feeling spreads throughout my body. Somehow my heart is furiously beating. I wonder if this is the beginning of a panic attack.

  Wife. That man called me his wife.

  Nat leads us down the hall. We pass pictures of old, unsmiling people who have to be ancient family members. If I weren’t so freaked out, I would’ve stopped to get a better glimpse. We make a sharp right and enter the first door to my right.

  “Here we are,” she says.

  I stop in my tracks because this isn’t my bedroom. Nat immediately goes to the bed and pulls back the covers. Closing my eyes, I drag my hands through my hair. Taking deep breaths isn’t helping. I doubt counting to ten will either. I can pinch myself, but that will only give me a bruise. I’ll still be stuck here because something is seriously wrong with this entire situation.

  When I open my eyes, Nat is standing by the bed. “You don’t look well.”

  “I don’t feel well.”

  “I think you should lie down. Tonight has been overwhelmin’.”

  But I don’t give in and stand still. “What’s today’s date?” My voice is barely above a whisper.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Today’s date. What is it?”

  “April 12th.”

  Her reply feels like a punch to the gut. When I fell asleep on the couch, it was December 20th.

  But strange things happen in dreams. Impossible things. Stuff that when you think about it the next morning makes you laugh and wonder why that cycled into your dream to begin with.

  So why don’t I feel reassured?

  Asking the year is on the tip of my tongue, but I’m almost afraid to hear the answer. Why is my dreaming starting to feel like such a nightmare? Maybe Nat’s right. Perhaps I do need to lie down, and then I would wake up and this would be over.

  I nod. “You’re right. I need to lie down.”

  She smiles brightly and leads me toward the bed. “Sometimes a good night of sleep is what I need to make me feel better.” Nat interprets my silence as compliance and continues to fill the quiet. “Étienne will be okay tomorrow. You’ll see.”

  With my hands in my lap, I replay Étienne’s words in my head. “We may not act like husband and wife, but this is still our home. Can you give me some respect?”

  He has it all wrong. He doesn’t know what he’s talking about.

  “I should open the windows. Some fresh air might help!” Nat hurries over to the windows lining the other side of the wall.

  I glance at the end table and see a picture of myself. I quickly grab the photo, holding the frame so tightly my fingertips turn white. The photo is black-and-white, and it’s my profile. My dark green eyes look toward the distance. A half-smirk plays at the corner of my lips. My hair is swept up in a large bun. The wavy strands appear full at the sides, and there are short curls around my ears. I see a smattering of freckles sprinkled across my cheeks and nose.

  This is my face. However, it isn’t me. I think I’d remember taking this picture.

  Dream. This is all a dream, my mind urgently reminds me.

  My hands shake, so I gingerly set the picture back on the end table and pick up the magazine next to the photo. In caps is, THE PERSONAL NUMBER and directly below, THE LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL.

  The cover has a red background and features a woman dressed in all black. A hat with a huge black feather is perched on her head. Her elbows rest on a white desk as she leans into a candlestick phone, her mouth close to the mouthpiece while holding the receiver to her ear.

  To the far left is the cost of the magazine–fifteen cents. Above the price is the date the magazine’s publication—February 1912.

  For a second, I feel as though my heart has stopped beating.

  “1912?” I whisper.

  “The year of Serene,” Nat remarks.

  I jump once I realize she’s standing beside me. “What?”

  “Durin’ the New Year’s Eve party, when the clock struck midnight, you announced 1912 was gonna to be the year of Serene,” Nat smirks then shrugs. “Granted, you say that every year, but you were quite adamant about it this time.”

  “1912,” I repeat. “It’s not possible.”

  “I’m afraid it is.” Nat’s eyes can’t conceal her worry. “The bed is right behind you. Sleep this all off, and everything will be okay.”

  Numbly, I watch as she fluffs the pillows. I lie down and allow her to draw the sheets up to my chin.

  1912.

  No matter how many times I try to wrap my brain around the year, it doesn’t sink in fully. But does it matter if I believe it or not? Hopefully, within a few minutes, I’ll wake up and be back in my bed with Will.

  Will.

  I don’t care that he tossed the picture into the fire. I desperately want to see him and be consoled by a familiar face and arms that know how to wrap around me just right.

  Nat walks away, and I’m tempted to ask her to stay; I’m scared. Scared of what’s happening and what will happen.

  Before she shuts the door, she gives me one last smile. “In the mornin’, everything will be fine.”

  The door quietly clicks shut, yet her words linger. Not for a second do I believe her. Deep in my gut, I know something isn’t right.

  “Sleep, Serene,” I whisper.

  My eyes flutter shut once, twice, and a final time before I slip under, Nat’s words lulling me to sleep.

  A SOFT, WARM breeze caresses my skin, making me sink deeper beneath the sheets. I know it’s time to wake up and start the day, yet this bed is so comfy and I’m so tired. But a small humming noise is pulling me out of my blissful sleep.

  Instinctively, my hand slips out of the sheets, reaching for my phone on the nightstand; there’s nothing worse than being half-awake and your alarm blaring in your ear. I keep reaching for my phone, but my hand repeatedly swipes at thin air only to hit the side of the bed.

  That’s when my eyes fly open. In one big rush, the night before comes back to me. The ballroom was overflowing with people. The angry man who thought he was my husband.

  1912.

  1912.

  19 fucking 12.

  This isn’t happening. Last night I told myself it was a dream—an elaborate dream that only a crazy imagination could spin. But I’m still here.

  No dream can last this long. What’s happening right now is real.

  “What is happening to me?” I whisper.

  When I was a kid, my family used to tease me for being a daydreamer. My mom was convinced that I was a lucid dreamer who could control the narrative of my dreams. If that were the case though, I’d be lying in my bed right now.

  “Wake up, Serene,” I say. “You have to wake up.”

  Movement coming from the other side of the room yanks me out of my panic. I sit up in bed and see a woman quietly moving about. She’s wearing a black cotton dress with a white collar and a white apron tied around her waist. There’s not a trace of makeup on her face, and her l
ight brown hair is pulled back in a loose bun. She can’t be a day over eighteen.

  Once she sees me staring at her, she gives me a small smile. “Good morning, Mrs. Lacroix.”

  My heart beats against my rib cage as I watch this small woman. My ears ring, and I’m pretty sure that what I’m feeling is the beginning of a heart attack.

  Good morning, Mrs. Lacroix.

  Her words echo in my ears, gaining momentum with each passing second until it’s all I can hear. With both hands placed over my racing heart, I stare blindly at the stark white sheet draped across my legs.

  I went to bed convinced that when I woke up, everything would be back to normal. In the harsh light of day, everything seems worse. I feel as though I drank all night long and now have the world’s worst hangover.

  My thoughts are running at lightning speed. What am I doing here? How did I get here? And the best of all—how do I escape this nightmare?

  What I need to do is take a deep breath and think things through. Panicking and freaking out won’t get me anywhere. Last night, in my own time, I argued with Will. I remember him tossing the picture in the fire. I remember trying to remove it but being too late. I remember sitting on the couch and getting up to throw the charred remains of the picture back into the fire. That’s when I blacked out.

  And then I was here.

  And then I met Étienne.

  And then he told me I was his wife.

  It can’t be right.

  When I glance at my left hand, I see a massive diamond on my ring finger. I’m one hundred percent sure that wasn’t on my finger when I went to bed. Besides, this monstrosity of a ring would be damn near impossible to ignore. My engagement ring from Will doesn’t come close to this thing.

  If that’s changed since last night, what else has?

  I look down and see that my dress is gone, replaced with a long, pink nightgown with lace trim. I grab the thin material and pull it away from my body. Pink? I hate this color and don’t own a piece of clothing in that shade.

  I don’t remember changing myself. Who did then? Nat?

  Last night, I was in such complete shock over Étienne’s words that I didn’t take in the room. Glancing around, I notice I’m in a mahogany bed with a half canopy and ornate crown molding. The bed’s so high there’s a small step stool next to it. On the end table is a lamp with a stained-glass brickwork shade. The same magazine and picture I saw from last night are still there.