Saving Yesterday (TimeShifters Book 1)

by Jess Evander

  My feet aren’t touching the ground anymore, and my body feels bigger than the space around me, stilting my breath. Wind rushes past my ears. Darkness comes like a heavy shroud. I hear whispers and screams from a distance—other Shifters passing through time. They’re unable to control their own future.

  Just like me.

  Maybe I’m getting better at this, because I land on my feet. Then again, maybe not because I feel like I’m going to puke. Hands and knees still trembling, I try to concentrate on my surroundings, but I can’t shake the time travel induced haze. My ears register sound, but nothing in particular. It’s like listening to the hum of conversation in the middle of a packed cafeteria and not actually hearing anything. As if there’s a blindfold over my face, my eyes refuse to focus.

  “Out of my way, lady!”

  My vision clears just in time to see a huge team of horses hooked to a carriage clip-clopping toward me. The driver yanks on his reins. Luggage attached to the roof of the carriage wobbles like crazy. The people inside probably bang into one another. Both horses thrash their heads to the side, but their progress barely slows. Just in the nick of time, I dive out of the way, toppling onto the road. Crawling quickly in the other direction, I miss being crushed under their pounding hooves by a couple paces. A twister of dust coats me as they thunder away.

  Near death experience number four. Or more? I don’t know. It’s only been a few weeks and I’ve already lost count. Breathe.

  On my hands and knees, I take equal turns gasping and coughing up dirt. I spit once to clear the taste from my mouth. It doesn’t work. Dirt clings gritty and bitter to my tongue. What I wouldn’t give for beef jerky right now. But the bag with provisions is gone, left in Pinkerton’s time somewhere in the middle of the woods of Tennessee. Will the Norms find it? Or does it become camouflaged? At least Michael and Lark are safe back in Keleusma. Please let Lark be alive.

  More hoof beats. I swivel my head only to discover that I’m in the middle of a large road. Night cloaks the area, but I’m in a city of some sort. Despite the late hour, pedestrians clog the street, weaving in and out of people on horseback. Intricate glass and iron lampposts line the road, casting circles of light and painting shadows in between.

  I scramble to the edge of the road, pulling myself out of traffic. A small boy with blazing red hair watches me from a few feet away.

  He tilts his head. “Are you all right, lady?”

  I tap my chest and rise to my feet. “Me?” I brush off the dirt clinging to the back of my legs. “I think so.”

  His eyebrows furrow. “You don’t look too well.”

  “Thanks, kid.”

  Large green fields stretch out on either side of the road. There are more trees in the area than I would have thought. I’m used to cities from my time where we tear down every hint of wilderness. Throw up concrete and steel monstrosities and paste every inch of the land with urbanization. Only to add a square block of park with shabby grass, toss some greenery on a building’s roof, and plant a couple saplings along the road. All because we want to be tricked into thinking we’re still around nature.

  The city I’m in now seems to be constructed around large trees. Maybe they lack the ability to yank them down. Or maybe they appreciate the beauty. Who knows?

  “You like my outfit?”

  I jump. Totally forgot that kid was nearby. I glance his way. Capri type pants meet long socks. Wearing a coat that cuts a few inches above his waist and a funny hat, he looks a bit like a character from a movie.

  I shrug. “Sure.”

  Not the right thing to say. His gaze bounces to the ground. Okay, I’m not getting better at this shifting stuff. What would be time appropriate? Think like Michael or Lark. Become these people. I glance around. Who are these people? I don’t know where or when I am. I shouldn’t even be wasting time with this kid right now. That is, unless he’s a part of my mission.

  Why did Nicholas send me here? I bite my lower lip and ball up my hands. Why can’t Nicholas just speak to me plain and simple instead of turning everything into a colossal game of pin the tail on the donkey? There’s no one here to spin me around and direct me the right way to go. Fine. He can sit somewhere with his feet up while I do all the dirty work. I unfurl my fists, letting the blood flow back into my fingers. I can do this without his help.

  I put my hands on my knees, bringing myself to the kid’s eye level. “Your outfit is very handsome.”

  A blush masks his freckles. “Ma said I had to wear my new duds for service today.”

  Perhaps it’s a clue. “What kind of service?”

  “For church tonight. Good Friday. Sometimes the President comes to our night service.”

  “So the President is in town?”

  “Of course, Miss.” His lips pull, like I’ve said something very wrong.

  I force my smile bigger. “I apologize. I’m new here. Can you tell me why the President is in town?”

  “Why, he lives right there.” The child points behind us. Bathed by lamplight, a house glows in the distance across the large field. I have to squint to make it out. It’s two stories and has a circle driveway. The white house doesn’t look that impressive.

  Wait. “The White House. We’re in Washington, D.C.?”

  The kid hides a chuckle behind his hand. “You sure are a strange lady. I don’t know what you mean by D and C. This is Washington City and Georgetown’s yonder that-a-way.”

  If that’s the White House, then—I look across the street. Dad and I went to D.C. once when I was younger. I remember more from photos than the actual trip. But I recall enough to know that the Washington Monument should pierce the sky just across the street from here. I crane my neck. Sure enough, the start of the monument gleams white against the curtain of night. It’s only about a third of the way built.

  “So he—the President, is at your church right now? Maybe you should show me where that is.” Anyway, a child like this shouldn’t be wandering the streets of a big city alone. Where are his parents?

  “Naw. He didn’t come to service tonight. Caused a stir among the parishioners. Ma and Pa are back talking it over with all the adults. I could bring you there.” He motions me to follow, but I don’t.

  For some reason, a tug in my gut tells me I need to locate the President. “Where did he go instead?”

  “To the theatre. Can you believe it? On a Christian day?”

  My mind races over any bit of information I might have retained from history class. Anything to do with a president and a theatre, but I come up void. “That does sound odd. Why would the President … I’m sorry, who is the President again?”

  “Are you certain you didn’t hit your head on the road? My pa is a physician if you need help.”

  “I just need you to tell me who the president is.” A bell tower somewhere across town rings out half after the hour. But what hour? What time is it?

  He backs away from me a few steps. As if he’s afraid to catch my crazy. “Mr. Lincoln, ma’am.”

  Mr. Lincoln. “Can you show me where the theatre is?”

  “No, Miss. I don’t know the way.”

  I take off running without thanking the boy. Without knowing the direction to go, I stay on the street where I landed. What I wouldn’t give for a cell phone with Google Earth. Surely Nicholas wouldn’t put me far from the target, would he? I don’t even know. Nicholas is still ambiguous to me. Is he all good? Worth following? I can’t answer either of those questions. All I know is that people I care about—Michael, Lark, Eugene, and Darnell—all trust him. So for now, my best option is to imitate what I’ve seen them do.

  Something else wiggles its way into my brain. People like Donovan also follow Nicholas and do his bidding. I shake that thought from my head. Confusing myself now will only lead to despair. And I don’t have time for that, at least not now.

  I’m sprinting down the side of the street. A large crowd parts for me. Women gasp as I pass. Amidst complaints, I shove through a group heade
d in the opposite direction. Like lightening bugs, candlelight winks out of windows as I pass. There are buildings on either side of the road now. Two, three stories at most, they stack side by side. No alleys in between like we have in Chicago. The air reeks of animals and trash and mud. Every intake of air sears my lungs, making a cough tickle my throat. How long have I been running? A stitch pulls at my side and I stop. I cup my waist as I drag in deep breaths.

  My eyes burn and I blink them a couple times. Is Lark alive? She has to be. I have to believe that Michael got her back in time. Will the Shifters in the medical center be able to fix Michael’s face? I relive the gun hitting him, and my stomach coils into a tight knot. If only he never had to shift again. He’d be out of danger forever. Although, I don’t think he’d agree with that plan. Something inside of him lives for helping people, and putting himself at risk to rescue them. At this point, I just hope I get to see him again someday. Don’t even consider that.

  A shiver races through me, drawing a crop of goose bumps to my arms. I trail my fingertips back and forth over the raised skin, trying to warm myself. Good Friday means the beginning of spring. Where I grew up, this translates into cold evenings.

  I don’t recognize anything on this corner. Fewer people travel here. A sandwich board plaque is propped near the intersection. Hopefully it lists the cross roads. I shuffle forward to read it. No luck. The sign announces that tonight is the last evening to see actress Laura Keene in a play called Our American Cousin. The play will show at the Ford’s Theatre on Tenth Street.

  I’m halfway across the street when my muscles freeze.

  Information rushes into my mind. President Lincoln. Ford’s Theatre. The name John Wilkes Booth. Booth killed him. Right after the Civil War ended, President Lincoln was assassinated.

  I finish crossing the street. Touch the spot on the back of my neck. It’s ridiculous that I remember the assassination only because of the time when Emma, Porter, and I went paintballing and Emma came up behind me and shot me at pointblank range in the back of the neck. She called it getting Abe Lincolned. It hurt bad enough that I gave up paintballing from that day on. With no clue what she was talking about, I laughed, but looked it up on Wikipedia later.

  I can picture the internet page. There was a cartoon drawing of Abraham Lincoln, his mouth open, and his arms thrust forward as a man with a dark mustache shoots him from less than a foot behind.

  I’m supposed to save him.

  Impossible.

  My skin feels feverish. Who am I to fend off a madman with a vendetta and a gun? Oh sure, I’ll just wrestle the weapon from his hand and do a couple fist pumps with the president. Come on. I pinch the bridge of my nose. Close my eyes. I don’t have to do this. It’s my choice, right? I can spend the evening touring Washington City. Go dip my feet in the river and let Lincoln get shot. It’s happened before and the world carried on fine.

  Someone needs help. And I’m going to ignore it? My dad taught me better than that.

  What transpires tonight is completely up to me. The knowledge feels like a fifty-pound weight around my neck.

  I snap my eyes open, and my vision lands on a castle across the street. From where I stand, it appears to be made of stones. Tall towers flank either end. It belongs somewhere in Europe, not here. The building is beautiful and somehow familiar. Using both my pointer fingers and my thumbs, I make a frame, looking at the tall spires. I have a photo like this at home. It’s me in front of that building. I’m ten and wearing frayed, cut-off jeans shorts and an oversized pink T-shirt. The Smithsonian. In my old picture, you can see the street signs. Constitution and Tenth Street.

  A bell tower rings out, closer now than before. I count the loud dings. Eight … nine … ten. I search the sky for the tower. Maybe it’ll lead me to Lincoln. My palms sweat. Have I already failed my first solo mission? Do I care?

  I start running again.

  Yes. I do care. I do want to save Lincoln.

  I will save him.

  Not because I have to. Not because Nicholas wants it or even because that’s what Michael would do if he was here. I’ll complete this mission because I am a Shifter. This is what I was born to do. I am not my mother.

  I have to stop focusing on getting home. I mean, what if I never figure out how? My life needs to count for more than just existing. My shoes pound the ground harder, faster. I can do this. My good record will wipe away my mother’s in Keleusma. Then they’ll want me there.

  I never fit in my time. Porter and Emma were kind and Dad needed me, but I always felt like a fish stuck in an aquarium when I wanted the ocean.

  Maybe, if I follow the rules and complete my missions, I can belong in Keleusma. With Lark and Michael and the others. As long as I can convince people to see me for me instead of for my mom’s mistakes, they’ll accept me. I just have to do this. Acceptance will be based on my success. If I can’t change their minds, I don’t know what I’ll do, because then I’ll belong nowhere.

  That’s a future I refuse to face.

  I keep running.

  Like a beacon leading the way, the bell tower I heard earlier comes into view. Churchgoers clad in their finest spill out the front of the building. I stare at the bell tower for a moment. What time was Lincoln shot? Why aren’t history teachers more interesting? If they were, I might have actually listened in class. The notes Emma and I passed back and forth were hilarious, complete with cartoon scribbles of our teacher, but they’re definitely not coming in handy on these missions.

  Am I too late? No. If Lincoln was dead already, I’d have shifted. Right? I should have asked Michael about that. I have no money and no place to sleep tonight. Unless I go the homeless route, but that seemed like a better idea when Michael was nearby.

  Up the street twenty or more carriages are hitched along the front of a building. Sticking to the drier parts of the road, I squint at all the signs I pass. Right above the line of carriages, a plaque reads Ford’s Theatre. I dart across the street and push through some coachmen standing together in conversation.

  “Watch where you’re going!” one man snarls.

  I trip on the lip of the raised boardwalk and thrust my hands in front of me. The uneven wood rips into my palms when I land, blasting pain into the cut from earlier. In less than a second, I’m back on my feet. My heart pounds into my ribcage like a battering ram against a castle gate. With a grunt, I shove the heavy front door open and stumble inside. Rich red carpeting covers the floor and marches up a wide set of stairs with a polished wood railing. Spotless white walls are decorated with framed paintings and yellow details.

  I catch my breath. Lincoln is upstairs. They’d have him seated somewhere alone, probably in a private booth. I try to recall the picture from Wikipedia—which side of the theatre?

  A young man approaches me at a quick clip. He wears a coat the color of the carpeting with large shiny buttons that catch the glare of electric lights hanging above us. I hold up my chin like I saw Lark do. Hopefully he’ll see me as a refined woman, late for the play.

  He extends his hand, palm up. The smell of cigar and cinnamon clings to him like an overcoat. “Ticket?” His voice has a squeak to it and he’s fighting a losing battle with acne.

  I make a show of patting my sides, which makes his eyes pop. “Oh, dear. I must have misplaced mine.” I move to walk around him and he sidesteps to stop me.

  “You can’t enter without a ticket.”

  “I don’t have one on me, that doesn’t mean I’m not supposed to be in there.” I gesture toward the theatre. A twitter of laugher echoes from behind the closed doors. The audience must be enjoying the play. If they knew….

  “I have to ask you to leave.”

  Another usher paces over and stands next to the younger one as if they’re some intimidating ticket taker gang. “Please exit the theatre or else we’ll have to assist you out.”

  I cross my arms. Glare at them. “You’ll have to make me.”

  Each man grabs one of my upper arms
and hauls me back out onto the street. They weren’t kidding. I drag my feet. Make them rumble over the ground.

  I latch onto their shoulders, steadying myself. “Listen. The President is in danger. You have to let me see him.”

  The young usher narrows his eyes at me. “You stay out of here.”

  They both brush me away.

  I stagger. “You have to believe me.”

  The front door slams hard. I rush forward and grab the handle. Locked. I slam the heel of my hand against the door. “Let me in. You don’t know what you’re doing. This is a huge mistake.”

  The coachmen have all stopped talking.

  Heat rises to my cheeks and tears threaten to tumble from my eyes. Lincoln is going to die. I’m so stupid.

  I kick the door, then spin around. All the coachmen are watching me. They part without a noise as I stalk into the street.

  The building is sandwiched between others. There isn’t a side alley with an escape ladder that I can climb. And the bricks wall looks too high even to attempt to scale. Yeah right, like I would have even tried.

  I doubt the ushers will unlock the door anytime soon. So I’m left with the back of the building as my only option. I just have to hope that none of the coachmen grow curious and follow me.

  With careful steps, I fade into the shadowed area that lamplight doesn’t reach. I back away slowly, then pick up my speed when I’m a good distance away from the theatre. Because of the way these blocks are built, I have to make it to the very end of the block first. When I do, I swing around the corner and slink against the side of the end building. The smell of alcohol and the twang of rowdy music pour from a tavern just across the street. It makes me think about my dad. Is he okay? What has he eaten for dinner all these nights? I halt my thoughts. None of that will help me right now.

  Finally I locate the back alley. I spread my hand along the brick wall and hope I’ll be able to recognize the theatre from behind. Lamplight doesn’t reach into the alley, and the buildings are angled so close together that not much moonlight slips down here either. The alley is only six or seven feet wide. The stench blisters my nostrils, worse than a full garbage truck on a one-hundred-degree day. Breathing through my mouth doesn’t help at all. In fact, that just makes it feel like I’m tasting trash. I pull up my shirt, and breathing through the fabric helps. Not much, though. It looks like people heap all the waste from their businesses right back here, but who cleans all this up?