Saving Yesterday (TimeShifters Book 1)

by Jess Evander

  Saving Yesterday (TimeShifters, Book One)

  Copyright © 2014 by Jessica Keller

  March 2015 Edition

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, scanning, recording, photocopying, or otherwise—without written permission from the publisher. For information visit: www.JessEvander.com

  Cover by Steven Novak

  www.NovakIlliustration.com

  Edited by Charity Tinnin and Amanda G. Stevens

  www.CharityTinnin.com

  www.twitter.com/amandagstevens

  Interior Design by D. Robert Pease

  www.WalkingStickBooks.com

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously.

  Summary

  Seventeen year-old Gabby Creed discovers that she’s a Shifter—a time traveler entrusted with saving human history and guarding people from creatures called Shades. But Gabby’s not so sure that she wants to be a Shifter if it means following strict rules and obeying the Elders.

  –For my dad and my brother–

  Looks like all those hours you forced me to watch Star Trek and your sci-fi shows paid off.

  “Surprises belong in YouTube videos and April Fool’s Day pranks. Not my life. But I made the dangerous wish to be more than I am. So maybe I’m to blame. Because being special sucks.”

  —Gabby Creed

  “Gabby!” Dad’s holler booms up the steps. He’s waiting. Probably in some rumpled shirt and dirty jeans. Making me pancakes. It’s tradition on my birthday. Even if he doesn’t say the words, it’s his way of letting me know he remembers.

  I finish braiding my long black hair, tucking awkward bangs behind my ear. No make-up today. I’ve got my Mom’s dusky skin, so I hardly ever wear the stuff. A splash of apple-cinnamon body mist because Porter once told me he liked it. Not that I care what Porter thinks. I don’t.

  In the hallway, I pass a collection of photos, captured moments from Mom and Dad’s life. They grew up as next-door neighbors, so pictures of them together from grade-school days grace our walls. I guess that’s why everyone gives me knowing looks when I talk about Porter, but they don’t understand.

  I pound down the stairs and into our odd-shaped kitchen. It’s not big enough for two small children to stand together in, let alone two adults. The smell of alcohol rolls off Dad in waves and I grind my molars as my stomach revolts. Really, I should be used to it by now, but today the potency flips a switch in my mind. Who says he gets to check out on life?

  He drops a kiss on my cheek. His mustache scratches me. “Hey, baby doll.”

  I hold my breath, hugging him back as I rein in my anger.

  It’s not his fault—the self-medicating. How many times have I caught him holding a photo of my mom, begging the image to come back home? Endless bottles of whiskey are better than heart-wrenching tears. A teetering drunk I can deal with. Shove him an Advil, pour water down his hatch, and tiptoe around the house. Easy.

  But talk sense to a sobbing man? Make him come to terms with his loss? Yank him out of an endless depression?

  Impossible.

  In those moments, when I catch him with the pictures, I dig my nails into my fisted palms, and hold back the words: She’s not coming back. Once someone’s smashed in an airplane collision they can’t come back.

  Dad never acknowledges my birthday. Not ever. Maybe he doesn’t want a reminder of the years he’s missed with his one true love. Maybe as I get older, I look more like my mother—so his pain intensifies. Maybe he just can’t remember how old I am. Who knows?

  Maybe can’t solve anything.

  Whoever said time heals pain lied. Time’s incapable of helping anyone. Lies, on the other hand, they go far in the healing department.

  “So, what’s on the agenda today?” Dad plops a plate with three slightly burnt pancakes onto the table.

  I drop into a faded blue chair and use the side of a fork to slice a piece of pancake and pop it into my mouth. More char than taste. I swallow. A generous amount of syrup might help. I snatch the bottle from the table and cover my plate.

  I shrug. “Not sure.”

  “Care to go to the cemetery?” He leans against the counter.

  I take a deep breath, pushing a chunk of pancake around and around through the syrup puddle on my plate. “Not really what I want to do on my—”

  “Don’t.” Dad covers his face. Shoulders hunched, flannel shirt missing a button.

  I shoot out a long stream of breath. It roughs my bangs.

  It would be so easy to snap, but I’m not capable of being rude to him. Not to the only family I have. After pounding back the rest of my orange juice, I smile at him. “I was thinking. What if we go to Molly’s for lunch? And maybe we can rent a boat and go fishing on the lake.”

  Mind you, I’m terrified of fish. I won’t even go into a lake because—what if they brush up against me? Irrational fear, but I own it. Dad, however, thinks fishing is the be-all, end-all of activities, and for my birthday it would be nice to see a smile light his face. For once.

  He grunts. “Thought you didn’t like Molly’s Diner? Called it a grease pit last time we were there.”

  It is a grease pit. Complete with the splotched yellowing walls, ripped vinyl booths, and stained Formica counters. Every waitress is old enough to be my grandmother, if I had a living one, that is.

  A look around our kitchen shows the same disrepair. The last few weeks I’ve been immersed in taking finals and addressing graduation invitations. During my absence, the normal few dirty plates have spawned into mountains. No matter.

  I might not be able to fix my dad, but I can fix the mess on the counter.

  I grab my dish, shuffle over to the sink, and start rinsing. “Oh, I’m not backing down on my theory. I still believe the cooks at Molly’s use raccoon meat in their patty melt. But who cares? Cheese covers a multitude of sins.”

  One by one, I stack the mess into the dishwasher until it’s full. I squeeze the last of the dish soap into the compartment and make a mental note to run to the store for more tomorrow.

  My late-model cell phone vibrates and skitters across the counter. I snatch it and glance at the screen. A text from Emma.

  The Park. Twenty minutes?

  I wipe my wet hands on a dishtowel that should have been washed a week ago. Add laundry to my growing to-do list. I flip the phone open and text Emma back.

  Sure.

  It’s hard to be eloquent when you lack a keyboard.

  Dad lifts his eyebrows. “Is it that boy?”

  “No, it’s Emma.” I slip the phone into my back pocket. “What’s your problem with Porter, anyway? Why do you suddenly not like him?”

  He scrubs his hand over his grizzled jaw. “I don’t like the thought of you with boys. Not at this age.”

  Okay, side note: I might be graduating high school next week but I’ve never had a steady boyfriend. A few group dates and a pity-induced yes for prom doesn’t count. Besides, Porter’s just … Porter. That’s it. His mom used to babysit me, so we’ve known each other since diaper days. We’re friends in an I-know-all-your-secrets-and-have-embarrassing-pictures-of-you way.

  “Well, not to worry where Porter’s concerned.” I slip my bag onto my shoulder. “I’m meeting Emma at the park. I’ll see you at the diner around noon, okay?”

  Dad pulls me into a hug. “I love you, baby doll. You know that, don’t you?”

  “Love you too, Dad.” And I mean it. />
  He snags my shoulders before I can leave. “Be careful out there.”

  We live in the quiet suburbs outside of Chicago. Not dangerous—at all. Unsure of his meaning, I start to pull away, but there’s a look in his deep brown eyes that scares me.

  To ease the mood I throw my hand into a salute. “Scout’s honor. I’ll look both ways before crossing the street and everything.”

  He gives me a gentle shake. “I’m serous, Gabriella. I have a mind to lock you in the house today.” His eyes roam back and forth, like he’s thinking a million things at once. “If I didn’t know that you’d crawl out the second-story window and go see your friends anyway, I would.”

  A tremor goes down my back.

  Tense lines form around his mouth. His fingers are now digging into my skin. “It’d be so much better … safer if you stayed with me today. I can watch you. Make sure nothing happens.”

  I swallow hard. He’s been delusional before, but usually not this early in the day. My vision darts to the window. A perfect amount of buttery sun paints across the room, announcing a cloudless day. The florescent pink leaves on our burning bush plant sway in a light breeze. Our neighborhood doesn’t even have coyote sightings.

  “Dad”—I shrug out of his hold—“you’re hurting me.”

  “Sometimes a little pain keeps us safe.”

  Enough. I’ll spend the rest of my birthday eating at the indigestion-inducing diner he loves and trying not to gag as he tosses suffocating fish into a cooler on the boat. This next hour is mine. He can’t steal it.

  “I’ll see you. At noon.” I tap my watch and force a smile. “Maybe I’ll even be early.”

  Without waiting for a response, I back onto our rotting porch and then turn and hoof it across our yard. All the while praying he doesn’t burst outside and make a scene.

  I duck under the clothes flapping on the neighbors’ laundry line. The crisp, clean scent mixes with sweet honeysuckle in the wind. I hop a fence. Someone must have just finished mowing, because the smell of freshly cut grass makes me stop and close my eyes. With five months a year spent under snow piles, we Chicagoans know how to appreciate the small joys of summer. Even the distant sound of a jackhammer breaking apart a sidewalk sounds like music, albeit not the best-selling sort.

  Grover’s Park comes into view. A playground that looks like a spaceship takes up most of the area. Stay-at-home moms huddle around a park bench as their children shoot down the slides. One small kid near the swings is eating sand.

  “Gabby!” Porter’s deep voice makes my stomach drop. I thought only Emma would be here. Not that Porter doesn’t have every right to be. But after my dad’s strange behavior, I’m suddenly on edge.

  Porter stands up and waves from the picnic table near the small sledding hill. I make my way over to him. The summer sun has already begun to bleach his hair blond. He greets me with his easy smile, his green eyes dancing. Most of the girls consider him handsome, and I can’t argue with their assessment. His years playing forward on the soccer field have kept him in top shape and assured him a full ride for college. But when I look at him, he’s just the kid who buried a time capsule with me. The one I used to race on dirt bikes.

  I drop my bag onto the splintering wood of the picnic table. “Why are you here?”

  He crosses his arms and makes a tsk-tsk sound with his tongue. “What? Not happy to see me?”

  I shrug. “Emma told me to meet her here.”

  “Because I told Emma to tell you to meet us both here. She’ll be another ten minutes or so.” Porter laughs. “Who am I kidding? Knowing Emma, we have another half hour before she gets here.”

  “At least she’s predictable. Unlike you, might I add.” I break into a grin. It’s hard not to smile around Porter.

  Fingers looped in his front pockets, he takes a step toward me. “But it works out well, because I wanted some time just for us.”

  I back against the table, and the wooden bench nettles into my legs. “For us, huh?”

  “You don’t have to pretend with me, Gabs. Tell me, how are you doing? Really?”

  Right. Not only is Porter attractive, but he has a second superhero trait. He sees straight through a sham and calls it like it is. A characteristic I often hate about him.

  “I’m fine.” Suddenly the button on the bottom of my shirt has become the most interesting thing in the world.

  He tucks my bangs behind my ear. “Are you thinking about your mom? It’s probably hard, on days like today.”

  I brush his hand away, casually, so I don’t offend him. “What’s to miss? I didn’t even know her. My dad on the other hand—he acts like the accident happened yesterday.”

  “It’s okay to wish she was here.” He squeezes my elbow.

  “I honestly miss my dad more than her. Is that terrible?” I search Porter’s eyes for understanding. “It’s like I lost them both that day.” I scoot so I’m sitting on the tabletop.

  “He tries.”

  “I know.”

  Porter takes a seat on the table next to me, and our knees and shoulders touch. “Okay, enough of that. I don’t want to bring you down. It’s not every day you turn seventeen. Got big plans today?”

  “Just doing stuff with Dad.” My phone in my back pocket is uncomfortable, so I pull it out and lay the thing next to my purse.

  “Can you ditch him and spend the day with Emma and me instead?”

  I knock my knee into his. “I really want to, but you know how he is. I couldn’t do that to him.”

  “Well, anyway.” He jabs his elbow into my ribs. “I have something for you.”

  “You didn’t have to.”

  But Porter’s already pulling a little wrapped present from his cargo pocket. He slips it into my hands. “It’s not much, Gabs, but happy birthday.”

  The moment the words happy birthday escape Porter’s lips, chills race over my arm. Goose bumps erupt on my flesh.

  A metal bracelet materializes on my right wrist. Out of nowhere, it just … appears. It bites into my soft skin, much too tight.

  I shake my wrist. “Get it off!”

  Porter tries to stand, to help me, but it’s like something has him immobilized.

  The ends of the bracelet merge and fuse, and the metal starts to heat. I jump to the ground and paw at the thing. But then there’s a flash of light like an electrical zap.

  The gift clatters out of my hand, onto the concrete.

  At the same moment I feel like my feet are yanked out from under me. The air seems to press in from every angle, as if space has become too small to fit my body. Wind rushes past my ears.

  Horror etches itself into the lines around Porter’s gaping mouth. He’s finally able to reach for me, but it’s as if I’m not there. His hand grabs at air.

  “You’re fading! What’s—?”

  I can tell he’s yelling. Even though we’re only a few feet from each other, he sounds like he’s calling from half a mile away.

  Porter disappears.

  The park too.

  I’m falling, but I’m not moving. I hear something whisk by my head, but there is only darkness. I try to scream, to move, but my muscles freeze.

  Then—the sensation stops.

  I land on my hands and knees in a mud puddle. Sputtering, I hunch back and a wave of nausea rocks through me, the same panicky feeling that surges through you at the precipice of a roller coaster. I swallow the acidic tide rushing up my throat and blink to clear my vision. With a deep breath, I push my braid onto my back. My body starts to shake.

  The air is still. I squint, trying to identify the buildings in the distance. A small town? This sure doesn’t look like my neighborhood. Where am I?

  Darkness closes in on me. Coldness from the dirt beneath my palms seeps into my bones. A distant sound that can only be horses jingling in their harnesses makes me look up. The sky bursts with an eerie amount of stars.

  I stare at the sky. Where did all those the stars come from? I’ve never seen so many
—

  And that’s when it hits me.

  This is not home.

  A man, quick as a spider, crouches down next to me. I didn’t notice him standing behind me when I first landed. Before I can react, he clamps his hand over my wrist.

  “Cover your bracelet. You’ll freak people out if they see the metal when it’s like that.” His voice has a kind, lyrical quality.

  I jerk my arm away and put space between us. “Don’t touch me.” I burn him with my best glare. “Who are you?”

  My eyes lock with his chocolate brown ones and I realize he’s younger than I first thought. Close to my age, maybe a little older, but not much.

  When he reaches for me again, I bring my right arm up to make an instinctive shield. I freeze. My gaze fastens to my bracelet. “This. Thing. Is. Glowing. Why is it glowing?” I drop my arm and claw at it again. My heart pounds a staccato rhythm against my rib cage.

  At first, I thought this whole stunt might be an elaborate birthday hoax. Porter and Emma are always up to some sort of mischief. But block out the sun? Change the landscape? Even a master prankster can’t pull that off.

  The guy shakes his head, a mixture of amusement and pity crossing his face, like he’s watching a puppy trip over its paws.

  Then he slips his hand over mine to cover the bracelet again. “It’ll go back to normal soon. I promise.”

  I push him away, but cup my hand over the cooling metal.

  He cocks his head to the side, eyes narrowing. “Don’t tell me you haven’t done this before?”

  I clench my fist. “Done what? What’s going on?”

  A groan escapes his lips. “Wow. Seriously? They sent a newbie? Not what I needed on this mission.”

  Mission? I scoot back. Hopefully he won’t notice. A casual glance shows an open field and, about two hundred yards away, a small wooded area. If I dart to my feet, I might be able to outrun him. Then what? I harbor no desire to be this guy’s next murder victim, but what’s to say there isn’t something worse lurking in those trees? I need to bide my time, gain my bearings before bolting. I probably only have one chance.