Shifting Sideways : The Rift
By
Jennah Sharpe
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Shifting Sideways: The Rift
Copyright© 2007 Jennah Sharpe
ISBN: 978-1-60088-153-4
Cover Artist: Croco Designs
Editor: Tracey Seybold
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.
Cobblestone Press, LLC
www.cobblestone-press.com
Dedication
For George,
because he puts up with the sound of typing while trying to watch TV.
Chapter One
Charlotte Allen was sitting behind her desk, looking over the inventory list she’d just completed when the bell on the door of her bookshop jingled. She glanced up to see an elderly woman enter the store.
“This is for you.” The woman’s raspy, tremulous voice sounded as old as the yellowed book she presented.
Charlotte’s specialty was rare books, the kind only collectors searched for. The worn, hardcover book entitled The Rift was special. Gilded copper script scrolled across the front and its pages were tattered at the edges and yellowed with age. The cover depicted a gold etching of a fanciful dragon, holding his snout high as it breathed fire. Long, sharp talons reached for the heavens. Blessed with a vivid imagination, she could easily picture the dragon taking flight into the night sky.
The woman wore a long dress dotted with tiny rosebuds. Her grey hair was wound into a knot on the top of her head and a crocheted, cream-colored shawl hung over her hunched shoulders. The wrinkles on her face and hands told of a life full of happiness and joy. She had no calluses, no frown lines, and no bags under her eyes.
“For me?” Charlotte asked, returning to the here and now.
“For your collection, dear. Someone else must have a turn to read this story. It’s a very special book. Not one for the faint of heart. You must have a strong soul to survive reading such a tale.”
For a moment, the book held her attention. It was innocuous enough. Beautiful, well crafted and seemingly harmless. How could a book be anything else? Still, having the warm leather in her hands gave her an uneasy feeling. The title wasn’t one she’d heard of. Forgetting the woman before her, she trailed her fingers down the spine, awed by the book’s age.
“What’s the genre? A drama? Sounds pretty intense.” Charlotte was intrigued.
“You could call it a drama with a smattering of romance tossed in. And yes, the plot’s intense.” The woman stumbled over the word intense as if it wasn’t in her vocabulary.
“How much do you want? I’d love to have it.” Charlotte resisted the urge to stroke the book’s velvety cover as she would a puppy.
The woman waved her hands. “No, no. This book’s not for sale.”
“But you said—”
“I said it was for you. For your collection. All I ask is that you treasure it as I have.”
Charlotte wasn’t sure what to say. In the book business, money always came into play. In fact, donations of quality books were very rare.
“Thank you. It will have a good home here.” She gestured to the back of the shop. “If you want to have a look, you’ll see my books are well cared for.”
The woman shook her head. “That’s quite all right. I know it’s in good hands, dear. I wouldn’t have brought it to you otherwise. I must be going. Errands to run, you know.” She pulled her crocheted shawl around her shoulders and turned to go.
“Wait,” Charlotte called. “What’s your name? I’d like to mark you down as one of our donors.” She scanned her desk, searching for a pen and something to write on. “I have a little certificate that’ll go up on the wall.”
Hand on the doorknob, the woman raised her chin as if her head was weighted down and looked at Charlotte as though unsure how to answer. “I’m called Marie-Claire Duchene McEwan.”
Charlotte felt her response was given somewhat reluctantly. Frowning, she watched as the woman pushed open the door, sending the bell above the door into a jamboree of tinkling.
“Nice to meet you, Ms. McEwan,” Charlotte called. The woman continued down the street.
Strange, she thought.
The golden velvet cover beckoned her hand. She reached out to stroke the book, guessing there would be no copyright date. Some research was called for. She’d be lucky if she could find the author listed in the first few pages. She adjusted her reading glasses and very carefully lifted the front cover. The lovely whoosh of paper thrilled her. Her first journey into a new book was always exciting.
Hunching over her desk, she searched for a date of publication, an author’s name, a location, anything really. There was nothing. Nothing except one small sentence. Our land is your destiny. Funny. That didn’t sound like a dedication. Someone very talented had written the beautiful, intricate script by hand. Here and there, the ink was smudged but readable.
She slipped a long fingernail beneath the cover page and gently lifted it, but a loud hum inside her head stopped her. Her hand flew to her forehead and nausea grew in the pit of her stomach. She let the book fall closed, took off her glasses and rubbed at her eyes. Her stomach rolled once more before settling into an uneasy calm.
The light faded outside as dark clouds slipped in front of the late afternoon sun. She would wait until she got home to take a look at the book. She wouldn’t enjoy it here, when she wasn’t feeling well. There would be few customers between now and closing. She could afford the risk of closing early.
She stood, scooped the papers on her desk into an orderly pile, flicked off the lights and locked up. She glanced up and down the street, hoping she hadn’t alienated any customers before she took her first step.
With The Rift tucked under one arm, she hurried down the block to her townhouse before the rain started. Marie-Claire Duchene McEwan had entrusted her with an heirloom and she didn’t want to ruin it. Besides, the thought of a damaged book hurt her insides.
The clouds burst just as she reached the door to her building, a brownstone left to her by her grandfather. This financial freedom also allowed her to purchase Pages, her own business. She was a lucky woman and she knew it. Boy, did she know it. All her friends lived in stuffy rooms shared with others. There was nothing affordable for those without a steady and profitable career in downtown Newburg. She knew her friends envied her and she shared in her good fortune by hosting the odd get together, New Year’s party or birthday surprise. Having company also gave her a chance to use her good plates.
Shoving the book up the inside of her knit sweater, she fumbled with the sticky lock then reached inside to flick on the light before entering. Satisfied nothing was out of sorts, she stepped inside and shut the door. Her cat, Shakespeare, met her with a loud, annoyed mewl.
She gently tapped the cat with her toes. “Go on, sweetie. I’ll get your milk in a minute.”
Shakespeare squawked again before pattering down the hall toward the kitchen. Charlotte followed the cat to the kitchen where, instead of beginning dinner, she decided on a hot bath. If she was coming down with something, a hot bath would stave it off for a little while.
After soaking in a lavender scented bath for almost an hour, repeatedly adding hot water, she pulled on her two-piece flannel pajamas and crawled under the quilt on her bed. She pulled the heavy book from her nightstand to her
lap.
She’d eaten a decent dinner of Caesar salad with grilled chicken washed down with a glass of red merlot and felt better than she had at work. Coming home early was a good decision. She’d needed some rest. A flu bug was not going to lay her up for the rest of the week. She simply could not afford to get sick.
She admired the cover of the book a bit longer before carefully opening it and rereading that mysterious first line. Our land is your destiny.
With any luck, the book would explain some of the background behind that sentence. Tomorrow, she intended to Google the book, but tonight she wanted nothing more than to relax in bed and get caught up in a good story. Briefly, she wondered why she’d not thought to take down what Ms. McEwan knew of the book. She hadn’t even asked for her phone number. Usually she was more organized. Hell, she almost forgot to ask the woman’s name. She could try to look her up in the phone book or do a 411 search but strangely, the thought of speaking with Ms. McEwan again seemed intrusive.
She adjusted her reading glasses and turned the page. Sudden pain assaulted her, and her hands flew to her ears. They ached with that same strange humming. The sound grew louder and more incessant. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to block the noise. When she opened them again, her eyes blurred. She grabbed for her glasses and found them still perched on her nose. Tossing them on her bed, she rubbed frantically at her eyes. A stroke, she thought. Do twenty-four year olds have strokes? I must be having a stroke. What do I do? Call 911?
Paralyzed by the noise in her head, fearful thoughts and images of her death and subsequent memorial service assaulted her. Her father! He was a doctor. She could call her father. He’d tell her what to do.
Charlotte pushed the book off her lap, flinging it closed with complete disregard to its fragility. She froze, eyes closed, hand halfway to her bedside telephone. What the hell? The hum dissipated and the room came back into focus. She remained still, praying the sickness would stay away.
Chapter Two
Sweating, her heart thumping with adrenaline, Charlotte dialed her father’s line.
“Hey, doll,” he answered when she greeted him.
“Dad, something’s wrong with me. Can you come check me out?”
“What’s wrong? What’s going on? Tell me now.” The change in his tone indicated his concern.
“I’m having weird symptoms. Is there any history of stroke in our family?”
“You’re not having a stroke, Charlie. What makes you think that?”
Charlotte described the strange sensations to her father while he listened attentively.
“That’s not a stroke. I can’t say I know what happened without further tests but I’ll come over and stay with you. If you need to be taken to the hospital, I’ll take you. Would that be all right?”
Her father had always been so patient. Since her mother passed away ten years earlier, he’d been her source of hope and encouragement. Despite his own grief, his thoughts centered on his only child and they’d come through the tragedy together.
“Could you, dad? I’d feel so much better.”
“Of course I will. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes. You go to sleep. I’ll let myself in. We’ll go in for tests tomorrow.”
“But the shop—“
“Ah-ah, Charlie. The shop shouldn’t be of concern right now,” he scolded.
“But, Dad, I can’t just not open.”
“Yes, you can. After you get checked out, you can go to work. Deal?”
She never could say no to her father. Why start now? “Deal.”
They said their goodbyes; Charlotte turned off her light and snuggled down under her quilt. She left the book on the bed beside her. Tomorrow, she’d try to get some reading in…if she wasn’t dead by then.
* * * * *
The next morning, Charlotte woke to the pervasive and mouth-watering scent of fried bacon. Immediately, she began salivating. She sat up slowly, testing her senses. With all systems go, she climbed from bed, pulled on her housecoat and headed downstairs.
In the kitchen, her father hustled between the stove, the toaster and the fridge. He wore faded jeans and a navy cable knit sweater he’d owned since Charlotte was a little girl. She walked over and hugged him around the waist.
“There’s my doll,” he cooed. “How do you feel this morning?” He turned from the stove to face her.
“Like nothing ever happened. It was so strange.”
“Sounds like it. You’ll go in for tests though?”
“I suppose I should. Don’t you have to work today?”
“No, just so happens today’s my day off. Well, I’m on call anyway.” He scraped scrambled eggs onto a plate and handed them to her. “I’ll drive you in and back home and if everything checks out, you’re on your own.”
She took a seat at the table. “You didn’t have to do this, you know.”
He grinned. “I know but I need to make sure you’re eating okay. Besides, I’m hungry. When we’re finished, you get dressed and we’ll head over to St. Margaretha’s for some blood work.”
She picked up her fork. “Are you sure I need to go in?”
Her father glared at her. “You’re kidding, right? Blurring of vision is not something to be taken lightly. Wouldn’t you feel better knowing what’s going on or if it’s serious?”
Charlotte took a bite of the eggs she’d smothered with ketchup. She nodded her head in agreement as she chewed. “All right. You’re right. A check up won’t take long anyway.”
“Not more than a couple of hours.”
Now it was her turn to send her father a look of reprimand. “A couple of hours? You can do better than that, can’t you, Dad?”
“Not when it comes to blood work. You’ll be in line just like everyone else.”
Great. Not only was she sick, she would lose a whole days worth of customers. And if something were wrong with her…what would happen to her business, her life? Her hand trembled as she reached for a slice of sizzling bacon.
Her father reached for her hand, cupping it in his. “It’s all right. You’ll be fine.”
* * * * *
Three hours later, Charlotte sat behind her desk once again, disease free and happy to be back at work. Starving, despite the enormous breakfast her father lovingly cooked that morning, she picked up a meatball sub for lunch. With the wrapper spread out on her desk to catch the crumbs, her gaze rested on the scene out her window.
It was another cloudy, damp day. The low clouds wafted through the streets as if searching for a place to call home. That home seemed to be Minerva Street, where Charlotte’s shop, Pages, was located. Inside, with the low lighting and glow of her desk lamp, she felt as if the shop was more of a home than her grandfather’s townhouse. She loved the scent of oak and cedar, the quiet, respectful manner of her customers, the trickle of the coffee brewing in the sitting area. Nothing could make her happier. Now that the doctors had assured her there was nothing wrong with her, she felt even better.
Sitting at her desk with her warm sub in front of her, she placed The Rift in front of her. She took a bite of sandwich followed by a swallow of hot tea. As she chewed, she opened the cover. Flipping to the first page, she gasped as her eyes swam, and the letters on the page swirled before her.
God, doctors knew nothing! She dropped her sandwich, waiting for the now familiar hum to pierce her brain. The nauseating sound didn’t come. She focused on the pages in front of her, trying to read the small script. The city endured the tortuous rainfall—the first line of the book. Then, the words disappeared.
She heard voices, shouts, wondered briefly if she’d passed out, and then caught a glimpse of grey buildings shadowed by mists and falling rain.
A man in a long coat dashed by on a black horse, his hat pushed down around his ears by the rain. Just as suddenly, her eyes cleared and she was back at her desk. What the hell? What kind of disease made you see things that didn’t exist?
Taking a deep breath, she adjusted her glasses and
looked down at the page again. Her eyes swam. That’s it! The book was causing this. Her guts told her to toss it out into the street and let the next poor soul to walk by pick it up, but her mind insisted she was hallucinating.
She sucked in a breath, pushing a stray strand of hair behind her ear. With a dark purpose, he fled through the streets, soaked to the bone by the incessant rains…and suddenly Charlotte was there again.
The warm comfort of the shop vanished. Cold and heavy, the rain quickly drenched her hair, plastering it against her forehead. Wiping her eyes, she blinked twice and then sneezed. She shivered. Afraid to move, she wrapped her arms around herself, disoriented and not at all certain she wasn’t dead. Maybe she’d had a stroke and this was some conjuring of her injured mind.
From around the corner, the man on the horse reappeared. The horse pulled to a halt in front of her, prancing impatiently and snorting disgust at being out in this weather. She couldn’t run. There was nowhere to go.
“What are you doing out here? Are you daft, woman?” Not nearly as harsh as she’d imagined, the smoothness of his voice warmed her just a little.
“I just might be,” she muttered.
“What? Never mind. There isn’t time. Get up here.” He reached down his arm and because she couldn’t think of a reason not to, Charlotte stepped forward. Grabbing her wrist, the man hauled her up behind him. This wasn’t real, she assured herself. Therefore, the man posed no threat to her. Might as well find out where this dream would take her.
She wrapped her arms tightly around the man’s waist. He was tall and solid but very dark in his black clothing. She could see nothing of his face under his sodden hat. She leaned into his warmth. Closing her eyes, she felt suddenly tired. She held on as the horse wheeled around and headed down the dirt alleyway.
She wondered if she’d been hit on the head. Perhaps her store was being robbed. How much money was in the register? She couldn’t think straight. Oh God. What kind of mess had she gotten herself into? She should have stayed longer in the hospital. Maybe she would have had this spell while she was there and they would have admitted her.
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