Capturing Today (TimeShifters Book 2) (6 page)

“Sorry.” I shepherd him over to the single bunk in the room. “Wait here.”

He calls after me as I walk out of the tent, but it only serves to make me quicken my stride. I need to find food for him. A grizzled, older man wearing a different uniform than most of the others I’ve seen points me in the right direction. In less than five minutes, I’m back at Michael’s tent with what I’ve been told is food. I’m not certain I believe them though.

Still exactly where I left him, Michael has his head in his hands.

I drop down beside him and ease the bowl his way. “The man who gave this to me called it Slum. He promised it was safe to eat.”

Michael takes the bowl but doesn’t start eating right away. “Please don’t walk off on me like that again.”

“But you needed—”

“We’re in the middle of the highest causality war in earth’s history.” Every word seems to cost him something. I should tell him to eat instead of wasting energy talking, but selfishly I’m unable to deny myself the pleasure of hearing his voice. Usually he clams up when he’s uncomfortable, so I don’t think I’ll ever tell him to stop speaking.

“The trenches keep back the enemies most of the time, but it’s not unheard of for them to raid us at night. When they do, they quietly kill as many people as possible.” He wraps both of his hands around the warm bowl and stares down at the miniscule, blackened pieces of meat floating in the mush. “Just please stick near me. That’s all I’m saying. If something … after not seeing you in so long … not knowing.” He clears his throat and picks up the spoon. “I’d appreciate if you stuck near me.”

I stay next to him as he eats, rubbing my palms against the smooth fabric of my jeans. I should have grabbed some food for myself, because I’m not about to eat any of Michael’s. And after his warning about the night raids, I’m cured of any grand idea I might have harbored of wandering around later once he nods off.

Bracing my hands on the edge of the cot, I lean back and watch him. His movements are slow. As if his joints ache like an old man. A seed of worry plants itself deep inside my heart. Normally I’d press him for information. Find out what our mission is. Ask about Lark and Eugene and Darnell. Share a joke at Donovan the Terrible’s expense.

But Michael needs rest. Desperately. Answers will wait until morning.

Then again … what if I shift before we get to talk? Panic claws its way across my chest, making my lungs feel tight. Michael’s right. Sticking close is a must. Close enough to grab hands if one of us starts to shift. That’s how we did it last time.

When I look his way again, he still holds the spoon, but his eyes are closed. I sit up and press on his shoulder, trying to coax him to lie down. “Let’s get you comfortable.”

His head jolts, and he squints at me. “Gabby?” He shakes his head. “Right. You’re real.”

“Maybe I should go get one of the other doctors to look at you?” I try again to push him down onto the cot, but he shrugs off my hand. “You’re starting to freak me out.”

“I’ll be fine after sleeping.” With a wobble, he rises to his feet. “I’ll take the floor, and you can have the cot.”

“Absolutely not.” I cross my arms and give him my best
don’t mess with me
glare.

As if I didn’t speak, he lies down on the ground.

I loom over him. “This is ridiculous. You sleep on the cot. I’ll take the floor.”

“I’m fine.” He keeps his eyes closed. “I’ll be fine.”

“You’re clearly not. I don’t mind.”

He shakes his head and then moves to roll onto his side, but he releases a loud hiss and presses his hand against his side.

“Michael.” I drop to my knees next to him. “What happened?” Since he’s not about to let me check his side—stubborn man—I settle for running my hand over his head. My fingers work through his disheveled hair. “Why are you hurting?”

“I’m fine.” His eyes are scrunched shut. He probably knows I’ll see right through his
I’m fine
if I can see his eyes. “Sore. But I’ll be fine.”

I smooth my hand over his hair and take the opportunity to feel if he has a temperature. He’s a little warm, but he’s also wearing several layers of clothes. “I have zero chance of getting you to take this cot, don’t I?”

“Zero.”

Kindness isn’t going to win my argument because Michael can out-kind me any day of the week. Guilt or a challenge are my best allies. As mean as that seems.

I inch away from him so he’ll note the loss of contact. “What? Do you think I’m some weak girl who can’t handle a night on the ground?”

“No.” He rolls onto his back again and tucks his hands under his head. Finally, he opens his eyes again and looks at me. Watching me for a minute. “I think you’re strong. Which is why you have to take it.”

“All right, delusions have set in.”

Unsteadily, he props himself up on one elbow to face me better. “It’s not about women being weak. It’s about my belief that you are important—”

“I’m not—”

“To me.” He clears his throat. “You are important. You’re ten times more capable than anyone gives you credit for. Smarter. Quicker. More compassionate. And because you’re so valuable, it serves us better if you’re the one who has the best rest.”

A rush of emotions clogs my throat. Has anyone ever viewed me like Michael does? No. Because only Michael overestimates who I am. He sees me in a light I’m not quite sure will ever exist. Yet, I’d really like to become the person he imagines me to be. If I could.

I swallow hard. “You know, this cot isn’t as tiny as it looks. We could both fit on here and sleep if you want to try.”

“Do you honestly think I’d get a second of sleep beside you on that?”

“I don’t take up a ton of room. And I promise I don’t move a lot.”

“You don’t get what I’m saying—”

So guilt it is. “What if one of us shifts? I don’t want to …”
Leave you
.

“I hadn’t thought of that.” He sits up slowly. “I should have.” On his hands and knees, he starts to climb toward the bunk. “I’m sorry. My head. It’s not working like it usually does.”

Without another argument, he crawls onto the cot. I scoot to make room so he’s able to lie on his back. Wherever we are, it’s cold here. Fall? The end of winter? Who knows? I’ll ask Michael tomorrow. But with the chill that’s crept in as night tiptoed toward us, at least we won’t be uncomfortable cuddled so close.

Once he’s settled, I get situated. I nestle against his side and rest my cheek on his chest. Listen to the steady pound of his heart. I lay my left hand on his chest as well.

His right hand immediately covers mine as he works to lace our fingers together. “In case we shift.”

Then he’s quiet. Must be sleeping already.

“Gabby?”

I try not to jolt at his dream-slurred voice. “Hmm?”

“I’m glad Nicholas brought you to me.”

I bite my lip and nod against his chest.

I can never tell him about Erik.

For the past eight months, I’ve experienced nightmares. Every single night. Some nights I wake drenched in sweat. Others, I scream myself awake. Or jerk to sitting, feeling around my bed in a blind panic.

But I slept through the night last night.

A few feet away, Michael’s up, rubbing his teeth with something from a little tin. Which means he wiggled out of the cot without waking me. Impressive. Especially since he’s still moving as if his joints hurt. I stretch, causing the cot to moan.

Michael peeks my way, sending a wink. “Morning, sleepyhead.” The words are jumbled by the finger in his mouth. He spits into a bucket and wipes his mouth with his sleeve before holding out the small container. “Want some?”

“Is that your subtle way of saying I have bad breath?” I sit up and swing my feet to the floor. My shoes are still on. I can’t believe I fell asleep wearing them.

He holds up his hands in mock defense. The familiar, kidding half smile graces his face. “If you want to walk around all day with dragon breath, don’t blame me. You know, that would actually be an effective way to keep all the lonely soldiers away from you. So, I say, go for it. Then again, you’re pretty enough that they may look past the smell and flirt with you anyway.”

“You’re hilarious. Really. You should go on the road with that act.”

He holds the lid over the container, his eyebrows raised.

I jump out of bed. “Just hand it over.” I take the container and stare down into it. A grayish powder greets me. Figures. “Next time, can we put in a request to shift to when toothpaste was invented? Seriously.”

“It has been invented. It just hasn’t gained popularity yet. So tooth powder it is.”

Despite the fact that we must have slept a good seven hours—I’m taking a guess based on the fact that it’s light outside now—Michael’s eyelids are still only at half-mast. Our quick back and forth seems to have drained him. After he hands me the container, he slumps down onto a trunk located near the end of the bed.

I stick my finger into the powder and turn to face a small, chipped mirror hanging from one of the tent’s poles. I gag the second the powder comes into contact with my gums. The powder is evil. Pure. Evil.  Bad breath might be a better option. “This stuff is disgusting.”

Michael’s lips pull up on one side. But only by a fraction. “A little charcoal and ground bones never hurt anyone.”

Don’t think about it. Just do it. Or distract my brain from the awfulness. That might be better. “So, fill me in. What’s been going on since I left?”

“I don’t know what to say.”

Shifting time is different than my time at home is, so I know it hasn’t been eight months for him, but it’s been awhile. He has nothing to tell me? Not one story or bit of news worth knowing? My gut clenches. Keleusma and my friends went back to life as usual once I was gone. Michael went right along without me. Hurt sears across my chest like a knife against flesh.

 I work my jaw back and forth. Fine. If he won’t tell me about shifting, I won’t ask. I’m not going to beg for information like a fool. Not this time around. “Why not start with where we are?”

“France.”

“What?” I spit out the powder that’s now turned into a sticky—rancid—paste in my mouth. Spin around to face him. “I specifically remember Darnell saying we don’t shift to other countries.”

His brow furrows.  “I don’t know why he’d say something like that.” He takes a couple deep breaths. “Maybe you misheard him?” Another audible breath. “We’re sent to wherever we can manage. In a sense, you’re right thinking that you stand a good chance of not being sent to say, the Ming Dynasty.” He pauses. “You don’t know the language and wouldn’t be of much help.” He rubs his temples.

“You don’t look okay.”

Michael purses his lips, drops his hands into his lap, and rounds his shoulder a few times before straightening his spine. “There are shifters from every country that train in Keleusma. You might not have noticed last time because we can understand each other. Even when we’re speaking different languages.”

“Wait.” Curiosity overrides my momentary frustration with him, and I take a few steps closer. “Please tell me you speak English.”

He shuts his eyes and shakes his head but is unsuccessful at hiding his grin. “I’m from Chicago too, remember?”

“Yes. But this is weird. Why didn’t anyone tell me that before?”

“I guess you didn’t need to know.”

My nails bite into my palms.
You didn’t need to know
. This is exactly what’s wrong with the Shifters. Why not tell me everything? Why hold back pieces of information? I clearly needed to know. I could have been studying other cultures and world history when I was home. This is the kind of stuff that made me speak with Erik—at least he was willing to talk. He promised answers.

Any other time I’d pick a fight with Michael about this but not today. Not when he’s morphing into a half man, half zombie hybrid.  Maybe he’s paler than I remember because he’s been inside more than usual on this mission?

 He rubs the heel of his hand against his forehead. “We shifted to the Great War because we have every reason to be prepared to be here.”

“The Great War.” My mind clicks through everything I’ve read and studied during my time at home. “That’s World War One, correct?”

He nods.

Inwardly I happy dance because I wouldn’t have known that last time around. Perhaps my days of purgatory in the library haven’t been a total loss. “How long have you been here?”

“A few months.” He scratches the side of his head. “Or is it …” His eyes slide closed again, and he lets a lot of air out through his nostrils. “I sort of lost track of things in the last week or so.”

“That doesn’t sound like the Michael I know.”

“There’s been a lot going on.” He shrugs. “This war is, for lack of a better word, bad.” Finally, he meets my eyes, and the look in his makes me want to rip my heart out. It’s so hollow, like hope’s not even an option. “There’s so much death. Did you know that seventy-five percent of soldiers who take a bullet to the arm die because of it during this war. Seventy-five percent.”

“That’s a lot.”

“Antibiotics haven’t been discovered yet, and hygiene here is basically nonexistent. The smallest wound becomes a breeding ground for infection. They are dying from things that we don’t even bat an eye at in our time.” He pushes his hand into his chest, as if he’s fighting heartburn. “They’re still trying to charge each other on the battlefield while the other side plows them down with machine guns. Hundreds of men die to gain two or three feet. It’s insanity. And I can’t stop them.”