Capturing Today (TimeShifters Book 2) (16 page)

I pace the sidewalk like a dog at the edge of its electric fence, watching the crowd, but I don’t spot her. There are alleys between each building. One just feet from the corner where I saw her. She could be anywhere by now.

People always say to stay exactly where you are when you’re lost, but I’m not the one who’s lost. She is. And sometimes a lost person needs someone to go looking for them, someone willing to take the risk of leaving safety to find them. I’m willing.

Movement in my peripheral vision catches my attention. Two Shades disappear beyond an escape ladder at the far end of the nearby alley. Neither are my mother, but they might know her. A Shade helped me rescue Michael, and I’m starting to believe that Erik’s probably not as bad as I’ve been told. I mean, maybe he is as evil as they say—either way—these Shades may point me in the right direction. Presently, they’re my only option for action.

I jog after the pair. Trash is piled on either side of the alley, making the way narrow at times. Something slimy catches on my arm, but I keep running. Mingling smells of rotting food, damp fish bones, and molding fabric assault my nose, climb into my throat, and make my eyes sting. I reach the next block and stumble out onto the sidewalk. Spin in two helpless circles, looking for a sign of my mother, the Shades, anyone. But there are only people—Norms—huddled together speaking in hushed voices about the
Eastland
.

“Such a tragedy.”

“I heard that boat had troubles before.”

“Do you suppose it could have been done on purpose?”

Determination propelling my steps, I stalk past the next building and the next. Peek down another alley and then stop. Someone is lying on the ground down at the other end. I squint. It’s not my mother. This person has blonde hair. But that’s all I can make out. When I get back home, if I ever get back home, I need to get my eyes checked.

Go
.
Help.

Purpose surges through my chest. A leading?

I take off at a sprint, hurdling more piles of trash and skirting past a hissing rat. If I never see another rat again … I slip in a rain puddle and catch myself against the wall. Uneven bricks tear against the palm of my hand, causing scrapes. I’ll live. I right myself and turn toward the person lying on the ground. At first, all I can process is blood. So. Much. Blood.

I gasp as realization washes over me.

“Lark.” I drop to my knees beside her.

Her eyes stay closed. In fact, she doesn’t flinch or show any sign of hearing me.

Frantically, I search for a place to touch her—to assess the damage—but there’s far too much blood covering her. I don’t want to hurt her more. And I have nothing to doctor her with. No backpack full of supplies. Just me. Useless me.

“What happened to you?” I fight back tears as my hands shake and then whisper, “What am I supposed to do?” I don’t voice the question at Lark, just out into the air. As if someone will come offer me guidance.

Instead, coldness works its way through my body. My throat feels hollow and dry. I swallow, trying to find the right words and locate my courage. A cut or a broken bone I could deal with.

But this?

Blood seeps from three deep, gaping gashes in Lark’s torso, pooling underneath her. Her legs are bent in odd angles, and an arm is completely extended with her hand cupped near the gathering blood. She looks as if she dropped from the sky and landed that way. It’s not a natural way to fall. But
there
… a rattling breath parts her lips. The muscles in her face all tense, and her brow furrows, as if taking in air is the most painful torture she’s ever endured.

It shouldn’t hurt to live. Not like this.

I grab her shoulders and squeeze. “Lark. Talk to me.”

Say something
.
Open your eyes.

“You’re the smart one. What am I supposed to do? How can I help you?” I pull on my hair as if the movement might force my brain to come up with an impossible solution.

There’s so much blood. She’s dying. She’d dying, and I can’t help her.

“Someone!” I scream, panic giving my voice a shrill edge. “Someone help me!” I look to the opening of the alley, but no one is there. “Help.” They’re still all across the street with the
Eastland
.

I blink, trying to clear my eyes, but tears cloud my vision. Who cares about tears now? They course down my face and land on my friend. I pull her head into my lap and run my hand over her hair. 

“I’m so sorry.” I rock back and forth slightly, my fingers running through her hair.

Don’t die. Don’t die. Don’t die.

Was she caught on the boat? Did this happen to her in the water? If so, how did she end up in the alley? The wounds are sucking the life from her veins—literally. They look like they were made by a knife or some other large, sharp instrument. Did she run into something while trying to rescue people?

Her breaths are shallow.

“Please don’t die,” I whisper. I can run for help, but all the nurses are busy helping survivors. I probably won’t be able to convince one to leave the scene of devastation to assist my friend. And we’re in the middle of a city, so there is no hope of finding a nearby Portal. Not that I could carry her even if there was one. And my shifting bracelet is completely cold—lifeless on my wrist.

There’s nothing I can do. I can’t save her. I can’t make her better. I can’t even figure out how to comfort her. She’s not supposed to be here. This was my shift. My fault. 

Why didn’t Nicholas prevent her pain?

Lark’s body jolts, and she takes a deep, gargling breath. Her eyes flutter open. She reaches to try to cover my hand with hers, but she doesn’t have any strength left. I meet her halfway, cupping her hand between both of mine. The sight of all her blood sends bile racing up the back of my throat. I force it back down, my eyes burning from the effort.

I focus on her face, but her eyes are dim and fading. I’m losing her.

“I need to get you back to Keleusma, but I don’t know how.” My voice sounds scratchy—weak.

“This.” Her voice is faint, almost like she’s speaking from a distance. She works a bracelet off her wrist and presses it into my hand. “Will … take you …” She closes her eyes again, and her nostrils go wide as if she’s summoning energy. “Back.”

The bracelet looks similar to my shifting one, but where mine is completely silver in color, this one has a band of gold that weaves across it. I slip it onto my wrist. It’s larger than my shifting bracelet, so it rests on top of it. “What—”

“My dad’s.” She licks her lips then starts to cough. Blood trickles from the corner of her mouth, and droplets spatter across my shirt, my chin, my arms.

Donovan’s shifting bracelet? Or another piece of jewelry with mysterious powers? I don’t care. If I can get her back to Keleusma, she can be saved. She’ll be fine. They patch up everything. We have a way out. Lark is going to be fine.

“We need to get you out of here.” I wrap my arms around her.

She moans loudly and latches onto my upper arms. Her nails bite into the tender flesh there. Lark looks up at me with pleading eyes. “Don’t … go.”

“We’ll go together. I promise. I won’t leave you.”

She shakes her head, her eyes rolling. “Don’t … go.”

Enough listening and waiting, we can talk when she’s better.

“We’re getting out of here. Now.” I press her against my chest, carefully cradling her. How does her father’s bracelet work? I stare at it. “I want to go to Keleusma.”

There’s a flash of light, and we’re immediately pressed into the darkness that always comes with traveling, but where my normal bracelet takes a while to heat up—giving me a warning—this one is instantaneous.

We land on the hard, cold floor of the lobby in Keleusma. I expect Lark to cry out when we hit the ground, but she’s limp, her head lolling onto my shoulder. No breath.

She can’t die. Not now. I got her back to Keleusma. Darnell will use wonder drugs.

“Help!” I scream. “Someone help us. Medic!”

Other Shifters come running. Surrounding us. They murmur together, but it only sounds like a dim hum—not actual words. Enough to drive me mad. I’m straining to hear Lark’s intake of air, or a groan, a cough. Anything. I want to yell for everyone to shut up. Don’t they understand? We need to save Lark.

“You’re safe. I got you back. Darnell will fix you.” My hands flutter over her body.
Move. Don’t die.

A woman with deep red hair, dressed in a white lab coat like Darnell’s, eases Lark from my grasp.

I catch the woman’s gaze. “She’s going to be all right? You can save her? Can’t you?”

The woman looks away.

 “Hey … Gabby?” Eugene is behind me. He leans around me to catch my attention. When his eyes travel to Lark, his face loses all color. He hooks his hands under both of my elbows. “Let’s get you out of here.”

Someone places a blanket over Lark—completely over her, face and all.

I lurch forward. “Stop. She can’t breathe like that. She’s having a hard enough time—”

Eugene drags me backwards, which I wouldn’t normally allow, but my muscles are trembling so much I can’t stop him. The group of people around Lark has grown. I can’t see her. I need to stay with her. I promised her I would.

I shove back against Eugene. Doesn’t he understand? Can’t he see how much pain she’s in? “I’m fine. Help Lark.”

Eugene wraps his arm around my waist and pulls me to my feet. With more strength than I realized the lanky man possessed, he hauls me backward even farther. Away from Lark. I spin in his grasp and try to get back to her side.

“I want to go with her to the medical ward. I want to be there when she comes out of surgery.” I shove against him, leaving a bloody handprint on his chest. Lark’s blood.

“Gabby. Stop.”

“Let me go.” I growl as I jam my elbows into his chest.

Eugene catches my wrists in each of his hands. “Gabby. Look at me.”

“No.” I turn away. “I need to get back. She’ll want me. I have to help to—”

“Gabby.” His voice is sharp. I finally meet his eyes which look ready to spill over. “We can’t help her.”

“But when she wakes up …”

He shakes his head. “She’s not going to wake up. Not ever.” His shoulders sag. Releasing one of my arms, he runs his hand down his face, swiping at his tears.

“No. I don’t believe you.” I swing back around.

The medics have backed away from her body and a couple of the Teal Team members lift her onto a stretcher. They covered her with a blanket, but her hand slipped out during the transfer, and it hangs limp just below the edge of the sheet.

“She can’t,” I whisper.

Eugene steps beside me. “She’s gone, Gabby. Lark’s dead.”

Dead.
The word stabs through me.

She shouldn’t have been on my mission. Anger flashes hot through my body. My fists twitch to pound against something.  Find a door. Or a wall. Or a pillow. But please, don’t hit Eugene.

“Gabby!” Michael’s shout rings across the lobby, etched with panic.

I turn a circle to locate him. He’s on high alert—searching for me.

“Gabby!” he yells again. His eyes rove over the crowd and finally meet mine. For a heartbeat, I can’t breathe as a surge of strong emotions almost knocks me over. Relief and longing and guilt and anger all bubble to a boil inside of me. Will they all explode at once?

Michael staggers a bit, unsteady in his first steps toward me, but then he breaks into a run and has me enveloped in his arms a moment later. “Thank God you’re okay.”

Fisting my hands into his shirt, I burrow my forehead directly against his heartbeat and drag in a breath of his familiar woodsy and mint scent. A sob tears from my heart, causing pain to lance through my chest. We stand—clinging to each other like twin life preservers—for what must be ten or fifteen minutes. Both shaking as we cry.

Finally, his embrace tightens as he drops his mouth near my ear. “No one would tell me anything. I heard people in the hall saying someone died. They said your name.” Michael’s breath comes out hard and hot against my cheek. “I thought—” His voice croaks with emotion. “I’m never letting you out of my sight again. I can’t—couldn’t—”

I push against his chest, but he only loosens his hold by a few inches. It’s enough for me look at him, but I can’t meet his eyes completely. Not after what’s happened. What I’m responsible for.

“I should have hugged her.” My knees wobble. If not for Michael, I would have sagged to the ground. “I’m a horrible person.” My shoulders shudder as I cry harder. I bring my hand to cover my mouth. “Why didn’t I hug her?”

“She knew you cared about her. We all cared about her.” Michael pulls me into his arms again. When he does, something pokes my elbow. I glance down to investigate, glad for distraction in any form. Until I see what the distraction is—leftover tape from the IV that should still be in his arm. A line of blood drips from the spot near his elbow.

I grab his hand. “What did you do?”

“I ripped my IV out.”

“You—”

“I had to. I had to come.” He tucks my hair—still wind whipped from standing outside in Chicago—behind my ears and then cradles either side of my face. His thumbs lay soft against my jaw. “I had to know.”

Society wants us to believe that a man is weak if he cries. Don’t believe it. With red patches on Michael’s cheeks, moisture darkening his eyelashes, and a mixture of raw grief, tenderness, and compassion flooding his gentle mocha eyes—this isn’t weakness. It’s strength.

I step away from his touch. “Where did they take her?”

“I don’t know. People don’t usually die here.”

“Oh.”

He watches me intently, like he’s afraid I’ll collapse at any moment. And maybe I will.

“Will there be a funeral?”

His gaze finally moves from me and roves over the floor where Lark used to lay. “We’ve never had one before. Not here.”

A cleaning crew descends on the area washing away the smears of blood from the tile. Removing all traces of Lark. As if she was never a part of Keleusma.