Time Spell

by T. A. Foster

  The house looked dark and the shutters were closed. If he hadn’t just asked for this meeting, I would guess Jack wasn’t home.

  My witchy instincts started to tingle. I relied on my instincts like birds trusted their feathers to help them fly. It was as if a string tugged on my senses, alerting me to a change in the energy. Usually, it wasn’t a good change. Sometimes it felt like my nerves were on fire trying to sort through the awareness.

  I surveyed the surrounding houses. Jack’s square yard was manicured, but there were no flowers or pots to greet guests. I wondered if he had guests, especially female guests. I felt my eyes narrow at the thought. Geez, Ivy, this is a business meeting. I calmed my unnecessary pangs of jealousy.

  It was the beginning of spring in Sullen’s Grove, but chilly winter evenings were hesitant to retreat. Smoke curled from the chimney. I straightened my cream-colored jacket and pulled the low V-neckline of my T-shirt down so it was at just the right dip. I was especially pleased I had bought these leather boots as I swung my legs out of the car and hit the gravel. My jeans were the right amount of snug, I thought, as I pushed my phone into my back pocket.

  I scanned the desolate street again. It was hard to ignore the witchy tingle. It was getting stronger, but before I could ring the doorbell, the door jerked open just enough for an arm to reach toward the porch, grab hold, and pull me into a dark hallway.

  As my eyes adjusted to the lack of light, my nose inhaled an aroma mixed with the faint scent of leather, bourbon, and Jack’s cologne. My mind flashed forward to what it would be like to spend time in this house with Jack and to smell that wonderful Jack-smell every day, but I snapped-to in a blink when I heard his voice.

  His hand gripped around my upper arm, cutting off the circulation from my shoulder. My heart raced and my breath quickened as he leaned closer. I searched his eyes for an explanation, but all I saw was fear.

  “Ivy, I need to know who you are. It’s time you tell me the truth about you and your books, and you don’t have much time.”

  I REFUSED to blink or to turn away from his radiating glare. Maybe it was the crispness in his voice, or the death grip he had on my arm, but my legs locked in rebellion.

  “What is going on?” I tried to wriggle from his hold, but with a fierce grip on my arm, he pulled me toward the living room. If the circumstances had been anything but this, I would have oohed and awed over the book-covered walls and the stone-stacked fireplace complete with a glowing fire. I had imagined so many times what the inside of Jack’s house would look like and the image always held piles of books, scattered manuscripts, and this same fireplace. There was no doubt this wasn’t playing out like my daydreams.

  Lying across the coffee table was a manila package with a handwritten note perched on top. I couldn’t quite make out what was scribbled on the paper.

  “Ivy, you need to tell me what’s going on. Who are you?” His tone had softened, but his eyes had not. He released my arm.

  “Why don’t you tell me what’s going on? What are you talking about?” I massaged my arm where his hand had been. I had never seen him like this before. I guessed we were skipping the usual pleasantries today. “Why are you acting like this? Did we get some bad press about Vegas Star or my new book? Because if that’s it, just tell everyone I’m working on it. Really, I’m working on trying to put something together. It’s only been a few weeks, and I just can’t turn out books like a news article. It takes time. You know that.” I kept rambling, not knowing what was happening. Why was he looking at me like I was sprouting horns?

  Unsure if I should sit or stand, I opted to sit, hoping it would lessen my fidgeting tendencies. I nestled myself in the closest chair I could find and looked at my riding boots. I felt silly for worrying about impressing Jack with a new outfit. Obviously, he wasn’t going there.

  “What is it? What is so serious that we couldn’t meet at the office?” I huffed.

  That should put him in his place. He was always concerned about our professional relationship; I just turned this right back on him.

  The creeping realization that this was not a business meeting was impossible to ignore. My witchy instincts were on high alert with every passing second. Nothing about this was normal.

  He paced toward the fire and propped both hands on his hips. He ran his hands through his hair and turned to face me. His five o’clock shadow was dark enough to cover the soft cleft on his chin. It gave him a simultaneous rough and sexy look.

  “This. This is what I’m asking about.” He pointed at the open package resting between us. “I got something in the mail today. Something about you.”

  “Me?” My stomach churned. “May I?”

  I didn’t wait for Jack’s answer as I reached across the coffee table for the package. I tried to meet his gaze, but he had already turned toward the fire. He pushed the sleeves up on his arms. He couldn’t stay still.

  At first glance, it looked like a regular query letter with all of the markings of a business correspondence, only handwritten and not typed. Jack probably got hundreds of these a week and if Ann, his assistant, was doing her job, he should only read ten a week.

  Ann sits directly outside of Jack’s office and fields all of his calls, impromptu drop-ins, and sorts a mountain of snail mail. Rarely did I stop by the office when she wasn’t dropping letter after letter into the black basket labeled return. She had a way of matter-of-factly picking up each letter, skimming the contents, and then immediately depositing it into one of the two baskets. She often adjusted her glasses, and took a sip of coffee before picking up the next request.

  Something about Ann always reminded me of the eighties. Maybe it was because her hair was always swept to one shoulder, or maybe it was her matching gold jewelry and skirt sets. It was possibly the way she decorated her workspace with a photo of her husband and two children.

  I watched her letter-sorting routine on each visit to Jack’s office with curiosity. My biggest fear as a writer had been that my work would end up in that dreaded return pile. On those days, when I sat outside of Jack’s office watching Ann, I felt tinged with bits of guilt and sadness for all the writers who took the chance to submit their work, not knowing that ultimately it was up to Ann to sort their mail into either read or return.

  I wondered how many manuscripts had been sent back unopened, never to have Jack’s guidance or direction. He had done so much with my work. He truly understood how I wrote and what I was trying to say. In the end, I guess I owed Ann for not sorting my letter into that black basket.

  I looked at the outside of the envelope and noticed it was addressed to Jack Coleman at 1207 Corinth Avenue and not to the Raven Publishing address. I unfolded the letter, eager to unscramble the riddle I had walked into.

  My shoulders shuddered when I scrolled down to the end of the page. This couldn’t be happening. A wave of nausea surged through my stomach as I jumped from the chair and raced for the door. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t think. I reached for the handle, but Jack was already between the exit and me.

  His hand slammed into the top of the door, pressing it closed. “No. You’re not leaving until you tell me what’s going on. I’m a part of whatever is happening and you need to fill me in. Tell me.”

  I felt his breath on the back of my neck. It was rapid and hot. He spun me around, gripping my shoulders firmly.

  The door was rough against my back, but Jack seemed determined to hold me in place. We had never been this close before—in each other’s space—inhaling the same heavy breaths. My eyes darted to his, but the only emotion I recognized from the pools of deep brown was confusion. Confusion brimming with fear.

  I thought about using magic to freeze him or extinguish what little lights were left on in the house, but that would be catastrophic. I didn’t have the kind of magic to erase his thoughts or memories. Darn my cousin for getting that gift and not me. I had to face this on my own.

  He towered over me and I could feel the strength in his arms. The
y were the only thing keeping me standing at this point. My knees were wobbly. “I’ll tell you what I can, but just promise me you’ll listen, and you won’t judge.” I searched his face for a semblance of pity or sympathy, anything but the doubt and irritation staring at me. “I might be able to explain.”

  “Good, because I’m about five minutes away from calling the police.” His eyes shot to the cell phone sticking out of his front pocket, but I could sense his hesitation to use it. He wanted to know what was happening and how I could be a part of it.

  “No, no, don’t do that. Let’s figure this out. Let me tell you what I know about Vegas Star.” My voice cracked and tears welled in my eyes.

  He freed my shoulders and stepped backward. I fought the urge to grab his hands and put them back on my arms just to feel some kind of warmth and connection. I hated the look in his eyes. The new swell of fear growing between us. As if we had hit the reset button on my first entrance, he held out an outstretched arm and waved me to a chair by the fire. I followed him to the living room and sat.

  “Do you want a drink?” He walked over to a wet bar set back in the corner of the room.

  I had missed it when I first walked in because a stack of books blocked the decanters. Each was filled with a different dark liquid. The gesture seemed to say he was willing to give me another chance even though I had done nothing to prove I wasn’t still a flight risk. It was hard not to eye the door. It was my only viable escape from this nightmare.

  “Um, yes, I think that would be good.” I tried to smile.

  Jack picked up one of the decanters and poured the mysterious drink into two crystal glasses. He clanked the classes, and I watched as he wiped up a spill. He was noticeably shaken from our exchange in the hall, but I didn’t know if it was from his anger at me or his reaction to how close my body had been to his. My heart was still pounding.

  He walked over and handed me a rocks glass. The brown liquor swirled as I took it between my palms. He knocked his back in one swallow and discarded the glass on the table. I took a small sip and inhaled the bourbon scent. If I was going to get through this, I would need a drink, maybe a few.

  Two years ago, I met Jack for the first time, in his office of course. I sat outside of the frosted glass walls that separated his workspace from Ann’s desk and those ominous sorting baskets. I chewed on the end of my pen while pretending to write some oh-so-important notes for our meeting. Really, I didn’t have anything to write. I didn’t want my new editor to think I spent my time idly sitting around not writing. I borrowed my mother’s pearls for the occasion. It felt like an interview, although I had already signed a contract for my first book.

  When my editor appeared in the doorway, it took some major effort to keep myself from whistling, gasping, blushing, or tripping over my five-inch heels. Instead, I rather gracefully collected myself from the loveseat I had been parked on for thirty minutes and reached out to shake his hand. He looked over my black skirt suit, the pearls, and my half-eaten pen and invited me into his office.

  “Ms. Grace, sorry to keep you waiting, Jack Coleman, your new editor.”

  “Hi.” I reminded myself I was supposed to let go of his hand. I tried to think of something clever to say, but one look in his eyes and I was tongue-tied. All I could do was follow him into his office.

  He smiled. “Welcome to our small publishing family. I’m ready to get to work. I hope you are.”

  With that first meeting, my writing blossomed, along with my career, and a crush I could never brush aside.

  The fire crackled and one of the logs broke in half. He looked annoyed as he glanced at me and back to the letter. “Ivy?”

  I knew I had to choose my words carefully, and I needed to slow this all down. It was happening too fast. I wanted space and time to think, and Jack was affecting me more than he ever had.

  “You have to know I don’t know who sent this letter. I didn’t have anything to do with it. I’m at risk here as much as you are. You see that, right?” I waited for some kind of acknowledgment. “We need to put our heads together and figure out what to do with it now that it’s here.”

  He exhaled. “I’m giving you another chance. You took one look at that letter and ran for the door. You ran out of here, fast. You know something and you’re going to tell me what’s happening or I’m calling the police. I probably should have already called them instead of even asking you to come over, but I thought you deserved a chance. I thought we had worked together long enough that I should at least ask you what you know before I get the authorities involved.” He sat across from me now with his elbows digging into his knees. He pressed his fist into his chin.

  The bourbon hadn’t calmed me enough. I panicked. “You read the letter—you can’t do that. Don’t do that. These are dangerous people. More dangerous than in any book. We’ve got to think through everything before we make any decisions. Lives are at stake. Our lives, our families.”

  My heart ached as I spoke those last words. I hoped he could hear in my voice that I had regained my composure and was back in control of my thoughts. I couldn’t believe I had bolted, and my cheeks started brimming crimson as I thought about my idiotic move to run from him, although it was clearly a better choice than vanishing in a sparkly, unexplainable exit.

  I twisted my grandmother’s ring back and forth across my right ring finger and caught specks of the firelight bouncing off the deep blue stone. The room felt calmer now that he was sitting across from me, and it seemed his anger had receded for the moment.

  “Why don’t you start by telling me who you really are, or maybe who you think these people are? Something happened when you were in Vegas, and you stumbled on more than just a love triangle.” He stood again and paced in front of the fire.

  The momentary calmness dissolved, and I shivered.

  The flames darted in and out of the logs and bounced around the room creating dancing shadows. The bourbon’s prickling waves worked through my body and started to give me a little courage. I gulped another swallow. I let the ideas ricochet around my mind, but no matter which way I approached it, I knew there was only one way to do this. I had to tell him the truth.

  Las Vegas 1968

  I DREW back and arched my shoulders, narrowly avoiding a collision. An irritated waiter forged ahead with a squeaky cart donned with silver trays and a champagne bottle on ice. Close call, Ivy, I scolded myself. A quick peek around the corner curtain of where I had traveled, and I knew this was the right spot. I could feel the energy buzzing and my witchy instincts were happy.

  I turned to make sure I had my eye on exactly where the seam was and surveyed the hallway again to listen for the busy waiter and his squeaky cart. Once I could see the faint glow swishing back and forth and knew the hall was clear, I stepped closer to seal it.

  The seam, along with my grandmother’s sapphire ring, was my only way in and out of the past.

  I pointed my fingertips toward the glow and whispered, “Eclipse.”

  The ripples ebbed to a quiet stillness and the glow faded. All that remained was the wall I had just walked through. On the other side of the velvet drapes lining the catering corridor, smoke rings curled, people laughed, and the high notes of a trumpet echoed. It sounded like I had chosen a good spot for my Time Spell. I smiled.

  Now it was time to find a story.

  Magic isn’t complicated and neither is time travel. I mean, I don’t let it be complicated. Like all parts of magic, there are certain rules that apply. Everyone in my family has been blessed with a certain inner skill on top of all of our regular witchy talents, at least that’s how we like to look at it. It is a blessing for us. My skill is being able to leave the present moment for another moment in time. After years of training, I finally taught myself how to travel to the past. I call it my Time Spell.

  I never had any interest in changing history or making a mark on the past—I’ll leave that to the revolutionaries. I want to see how people who don’t have magic have lived thro
ughout history. Mostly, I want to write about them and share their stories.

  As long as I decide to keep myself cloaked in invisibility, no one sees me, and I can’t leave a footprint on the past. I’ve jumped in and out of decades looking for amazing stories. The kind of stories that make people want to feel love, intrigue, and mystery. If I wanted to, I could reveal myself, but that’s where the rules come into play. There is always a consequence to unleashing magic. If I unveil my presence, I risk never being able to return to that moment, or worse having some sort of irreversible impact on the past.

  Ian often asks if I get lonely on my trips. “Really, Ivy, you don’t want to start talking to the people you see? You’ve never been tempted to start a conversation?” he prods every time I come home from a trip.

  My answer is always the same. “You know I can’t do that. This is how I keep it safe.” By my own rules, I can’t talk to anyone or interact with the people of the past.

  Until he mentioned loneliness, it had never occurred to me how isolated I was. I was always so wrapped up in absorbing everything around me—the clothes, the music, the conversations, the architecture, and the people—that I never stopped long enough to feel the solitude. My trips were usually short. I was in and out in a day or maybe two. Sometimes it only took ten minutes to realize I was somewhere I didn’t want to stay. On this trip, however, I could feel it—there was a story within these Vegas walls waiting for me to find it.

  The first novel I published was Masquerade. It was a love story about a young couple I followed in New Orleans in 1945. By complete accident it landed in the hands of my cousin and best friend, Holly, and after much prodding and harassment, she convinced me it was worth sending in to test the publishing waters. I didn’t even want to dip my little toe into those waters, much less immerse my life into the actual literary world. Writing was so personal. It felt like I was sharing innermost thoughts from the pages of my journal.