by Lanie Bross
He flipped to the last entry as his heart thundered in his chest. This was it. The day she died. His stomach rolled and he took a deep breath. He knew the details already.
Heart failure due to acute drug overdose.
But it was different reading about it in his mother’s words—like being inside her mind. The slow slur of images as she lay in a dirty alley, just steps from the ocean, bruises covering her thin arms, too tired to go any farther.
But he reread her last thought over and over.
I love you. I love you both so much. Maybe I’ll sleep for a while, and then I’ll come and see you in the morning.
He didn’t know how long he stood there, staring at the words, reading them over and over. Corinthe had believed in fate. She believed that everyone’s destiny was already determined. Had that been his mom’s destiny all along? To die alone, exhausted, a stranger to her family?
It wasn’t fair.
He closed the book with sudden fierceness. He put it back on the shelf, then stood, staring at it, feeling anger build and crest inside of him, coursing into his arms and fists. It was too much. He slammed his fist into the bookcase. Wood splintered and books fell at his feet, but he didn’t care. Voices, murmurs, whispers seemed to rise and then float away in the quiet. Fire burned in his stomach. He wanted to rip the library apart with his bare hands.
Some memories should go unrecorded. Maybe it was best to forget.
But almost as soon as he thought it, he had another thought: Corinthe.
Her book would be here. Had to be.
Maybe there was a way to undo it, to rewrite the end. Maybe that was why the Crossroad had brought him here, to this horrible place. But books lined the walls; there were multiple floors above him. He’d never find Corinthe’s book without a card catalog or something to point him in the right direction.
The archer!
Luc pulled it out and opened it. It began to spin slowly, and Luc ran in the direction it pointed. He followed the archer like a compass until it stopped completely. When he looked up, he saw it.
FATES AND EXECUTORS
There was a single shelf. Fates were immortal; Executors were not, but could be killed only with difficulty. But Corinthe’s book was missing.
He felt a flicker of hope. Maybe she wasn’t really dead. Maybe he was fated to bring her back, somehow. If only he could figure out how Rhys had …
He stood, stunned, struck by an idea.
Rhys. Rhys had been dying when Luc left him. That meant his book should be in the library. His life. Everything he’d done in his life. How he’d turned back time to save the woman he loved.
The secret that allowed him to use the tunnels to turn back time.
Luc again held up the archer, focusing on Rhys’s kind voice.
Luc ran through the stacks, guided by the archer’s tiny arrow. He was terrified he wouldn’t find Rhys’s book. Radicals were anomalies of the universe, created by chaos, not born in the traditional way. Would their life be chronicled among all the rest?
Then, the archer slowed to point at a far, dark corner of the library. Luc saw a small plaque that said FREE RADICALS. The stacks were shrouded in darkness, hidden away from the rest.
When he turned the corner, his steps faltered. A girl stood there, holding a book. He hadn’t considered that other people might be in the library.
She slowly closed the book and turned her head. She did not seem surprised to see him. Her hair was twisted into dreadlocks tied with canvas strips. There was a wild energy simmering just under the surface of her skin. The look in her eyes reminded him of Miranda, and he instinctively reached for the knife that was no longer there.
“Tess,” he said. It wasn’t a question.
She came toward him. When she stopped, they were practically nose to nose. She looked human, but he could tell, he felt, that she wasn’t. It was like watching a really convincing movie in 3-D—you could tell it wasn’t real.
“And you are?” she said. Even her voice was a very convincing imitation. He knew, instinctively, that she was more powerful than either Miranda or Rhys. He forced himself to not be afraid.
“I’m Luc,” he said. “I’m a friend of Rhys’s.”
The black of her pupils swallowed all the color at the mention of his name. “Rhys sent you?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
It was strange looking in her eyes—like staring down two dark tunnels. But Luc refused to look away first. “Rhys changed time once. He went back to save someone. I need to do the same thing.”
Tess stared at him for a second longer. Then she turned away, shaking her head. “He was a fool for doing it,” she said quietly. “What he did nearly cost him everything. He died in exile.”
“He saved someone he loved,” Luc said.
“She didn’t deserve it.” Tess turned back to him, eyes momentarily flashing white, and in that second, he had a fraction of an idea of who she really was, what kind of power she controlled, and he lost his breath. Then the impression passed, and her eyes returned to normal.
“He said you could help me. That you were the only person who could.”
“He was wrong.”
Tess tucked the book into her belt. Luc glanced at the binding. Rhys’s book. She started to turn away, and Luc grabbed her arm. She froze, staring at his hand, as if unused to being touched.
“Please,” he said. “Please. Just tell me how.”
She was still staring at his hand, as if she had never seen one before. “Time is not a single place,” she said quietly, almost as if she were talking to herself. “Time is space. It’s a tunnel that moves in infinite directions. It carries more energy, more possibility, than the force that created the universe itself.”
Luc seized on the only words he’d understood. “A tunnel,” he said. “Okay. So how do I get there?”
She lifted her eyes. Now they were violet and reminded him of Corinthe’s. “I already told you. I can’t help you.” She sounded sorry. “This is much bigger than you can understand. Go back to your world and forget.”
“I’ll never forget,” Luc said fiercely.
Tess smiled sadly. “Everybody forgets,” she said. “Everybody, in every world, is forgotten. All libraries go to dust, and all books will someday be unread.” She gestured to the thousands of shelves extending toward the ruined ceiling. “That is the rule of the universe.” She detached herself gently from his grip. “Go home. Before it’s too late.”
She turned away from him. Could he grab the book from her belt? He doubted it. She was stronger, much stronger than him. But he wouldn’t need her if he had Rhys’s book. The risk was worth it.
But before he could move, two flashes of light blinded him. He stumbled backward, blinking. When his vision cleared, he saw that two more people had materialized in the gray light.
Except they weren’t people, not really. They looked like abstract watercolor paintings, their features sketched improperly, as if the painter had been too lazy to do it right. Luc knew that this was closer to how Tess must look when she wasn’t trying to assume a human form, and he felt awed and also afraid.
“I’m being followed now?” Tess said. She sounded unconcerned.
“You helped Miranda escape.” The person—or thing—that spoke had no discernable mouth. But Luc heard the words perfectly.
Miranda had kidnapped Jasmine. Miranda had raised Corinthe and then betrayed her.
It was Miranda’s fault Corinthe was dead.
And Rhys had sent him to beg for help from someone who was on Miranda’s side?
“Miranda was right about one thing,” Tess snapped. “We have become just as bad as the Unseen Ones.”
The shapes lunged for Tess, and Luc saw his chance. Just as he grabbed the book from her belt, her belt, her body, her face—all of it evaporated. It was as if she just exploded. Suddenly, the room was full of sparks. Flames leapt across shelves like eager fingers, and columns of smoke spiraled toward the ceiling,
but Luc had the book. Now he just had to get out before the whole place went up and took him with it.
He covered his mouth with his sleeve, fighting the urge to gag.
The smoke was so thick, so instantaneous, he couldn’t tell which way was out. He stumbled toward what he thought was the hallway, only to find himself in yet another recessed portion of the library, an alcove with no exit.
The fire had eaten up almost a whole wall. The air was thick with heat, with the roar of the flames. Luc’s lungs were burning. He knelt, trying to catch his breath. Through the smoke, he saw a huge table, the same one he’d passed when he first came into the library. The exit. It had to be there.
Crawling on his hands and knees, Luc made his way to the far side of the room. Heat weighed down on him like a thick, wet hand. The dry wood of the rafters snapped; showers of bright sparks rained down on him. He dove under the table, panting, but each breath felt like a burn. He huddled under the table, unable to see more than a few inches in front of him. His breath rasped in his throat.
He crammed the book into his backpack, then tried to figure out which way was out. Thick smoke filled the room and Luc fought to take a breath. He stumbled toward the exit, doubled over to avoid the thickest of the smoke. His eyes were watering.
All around him, the library was full of screaming. Howling, shrieking voices crying out in agony: the screams of millions and millions of pages, of souls, shriveling to dust.
The noise was like an ice pick to his brain. It sent him to his knees. He crawled the last few feet to the door. Once outside, he pushed to his feet and ran, his chest burning, his backpack slamming against his back.
Even blocks away, he could still hear the books screaming.
It wasn’t until he threw himself into the shimmering Crossroad that he’d come through earlier that the voices finally stopped.
When Jasmine opened her eyes the next morning, sunlight streamed through the filmy white curtains, bathing the small room in brightness. For a second, she couldn’t remember where she was. Then she took in the old desk, the lace doilies that covered her bedside table, the collection of small, stiff teddy bears on the wooden bookshelves, and the smell of cats. Of course. Aunt Hillary’s house. She rolled over to check the clock.
11:24.
She’d slept for more than twelve hours?
Jas had never found her cell phone, but Aunt Hillary had a vintage rotary phone on the table—everything Aunt Hillary had was old-fashioned—so Jasmine sat up and dialed Luc’s number. After several rings, it went to voicemail. Again. She’d tried him a dozen times last night, but never got through.
“Just me again. Call me so I know everything’s okay.”
After she placed the receiver back in the cradle, she pulled her knees to her chest and leaned against the iron headboard. The bed squeaked every time she moved, and the sound echoed in her head. She tried to sit as still as possible.
Somewhere outside, a bicycle bell rang; then Jasmine heard a thump. A newspaper, she thought. The bell came closer. Curiosity sent her to the window, and when she pushed back the curtain, she saw a kid riding his bicycle, occasionally tossing a paper onto a porch.
At the end of the block, a man stood outside his house talking on his phone. Baby, I’ll get there as soon as I can. Don’t be like that. I miss you, too, and can’t wait to …
A woman stood at the window of the same house, watching the man. A sudden wave of suffering washed over Jas, and she stumbled away from the window.
What was happening to her?
She dropped her head into her hands. Though she wasn’t trying, she could still hear them, feel them, and more. Pipes popped and creaked inside the walls of Aunt Hillary’s house, like gunshots echoing in her head. Even her own pulse sounded overly loud. The thump thump thump of her heart was like being in a front-row seat during a rock concert drum solo.
The smell of lavender and black tea filled her nose. Aunt Hillary had made toast earlier, too.
Jas heard Aunt Hillary’s footsteps long before she got to the door. Then the door squeaked open and her aunt poked her head into the room. “Oh, you’re awake. I thought you might sleep all day. Saw on the news that your school is closed today, some kind of water main problem, so you can help me do some gardening.”
Aunt Hillary knew where she went to school?
“Are you hungry?” her aunt asked.
Jasmine shook her head. She really wasn’t. They had had turkey and bacon clubs last night for dinner, and apple pie for dessert. Despite her meanness, Aunt Hillary could bake amazingly sweet pies.
Maybe, after all these years, there was a chance she wasn’t so bad after all.
“Brush your hair. You’re a wreck,” her aunt said, and shut the door.
So much for fresh starts. Jasmine stood and slipped out of the T-shirt she always slept in, then pulled on her jeans and favorite sweatshirt. Luc hadn’t called yet, but there was no way in hell she was staying there a second longer.
She pulled her hair into a loose ponytail and stood in front of the gilt-framed mirror. Dark circles ringed her eyes, and she looked paler than usual. A faint bruise shadowed the right side of her face, and she ran her fingers over it, willing herself to remember.
Nothing.
What was Luc trying to protect her from?
“Sorry, Luc,” she whispered to the mirror. She wanted answers. She stuffed a few things into her messenger bag and tiptoed into the hall.
“Aunt Hillary?” she called out experimentally. No answer. She moved to the window that overlooked the backyard and saw Aunt Hillary bent over her bed of pansies, up to her wrists in dirt. Perfect.
Jasmine went into her aunt’s room, wrinkling her nose at the overpowering smell of mothballs and lavender-scented candles. She pulled her notebook from her bag and scribbled a short note.
Went out for a bit.
Short and sweet.
She went down the stairs and out the front door. For a second, the noises of outside—the whoosh of cars on the road, the flushing of toilets, someone warbling in the shower—threw her off. She fumbled in her bag for her earbuds and shoved them in her ears. Better.
It was a quick two-block walk to the bus station. They’d passed it on the way in last night and Jas had made a mental note exactly where it was in relation to her aunt’s house. Without her cell, she felt exposed, naked. What if Luc called their aunt’s house and she wasn’t there? He’d be worried and mad.
Jasmine almost turned around and went back.
But what if Luc had really done what he’d said—had tried to track down Jasmine’s attackers? Luc could be super overprotective—she didn’t trust him not to do something stupid. What if he was in trouble? A chill ran down her spine, despite the sun. She had to find him.
She had a few twenties and her metro pass in her wallet. The bus ride to Richmond would give her time to think. When the 44 pulled up, she swiped her card and made her way to the middle, where she could sit alone, leaning up against a window. She tried not to gag; there were only a dozen people on the bus, but they were producing a thick, cloying aroma of perfume mixed with sweat and soap and coffee. She switched to breathing only through her mouth. But then she could almost taste the odor, which was a hundred times worse. Her stomach flipped over and she swallowed, then gave up and just breathed normally.
Maybe she had some kind of neurological condition? She’d read about that once—epileptics who smelled funny things just before they had seizures. Or maybe she was pregnant.
Except she wasn’t having sex. And pregnancy wouldn’t explain why she could hear better, and why she could feel things, too.
She closed her eyes. Friday. What was the last thing she remembered?
She followed the thread down.
Four o’clock. She’d gone to the marina to meet T.J. around four. He was stoned already, offered her a joint. It took at least three tries before he understood that she was breaking things off. She was sick of the fact that he screened her calls whe
n he was out, that he flaked on plans, that he always said he’d drive up the coast with her and never did. She was sick of how much he smoked, and she was sick of getting messed up with him.
The doctors said she could have died. And T.J. just blew the whole thing off, like she was making a big deal out of nothing, like getting your stomach pumped was no big deal.
Still, she’d felt crappy after she dumped him. T.J. was the first guy who’d ever really paid attention to her—Luc’s friends were scared to even look in her direction. She’d taken the long way home that night. Luc was at Karen’s stupid boat party, and Jasmine wasn’t in the mood to be at home by herself.
What else did she remember? Her ring. She had realized her ring was missing when she got home. So she’d left a note for Luc, because she couldn’t reach him on his cell. Service by the harbor was crap, she knew. Then she’d returned to the marina. She remembered: black water glittering in the moonlight, boats silhouetted against a sky sprinkled with stars.
The next thing she remembered was waking up in her bed Sunday morning.
How could an entire weekend just … disappear like that?
She felt someone approach. When she opened her eyes, she saw that a middle-aged woman had sat down next to her. Her hair was long and black. She looked vaguely familiar, but Jas couldn’t place her. When the woman caught Jasmine staring, she smiled. There was a gap between her front teeth.
“It’s going to take awhile to clean up this time,” she said, nodding toward the streets outside the window.
Jasmine glanced out and saw a crew with a bulldozer pushing a pile of brick and concrete out of the intersection. The building at the corner was missing its entire facade. Twisted wires and metal stuck out at odd angles from where the bricks had been.
“You probably weren’t even born yet when the last big one hit in ’89 …,” the woman said.
When she stared a little too long, like a peddler waiting for a handout, Jasmine gestured to the earbuds in her ears, universal sign for sorry, I can’t hear you—even though she could hear perfectly. The woman smiled and made a gesture of understanding. The feeling was still there, and the déjà vu of the situation unnerved her. It was important, but why? There was something there, behind the woman’s eyes, that reminded Jas of someone. But the association remained out of reach.