Chapter 18
Chapter
Eighteen
PORTIA
Three days later, I knew I was never getting home.
Morning sunlight rose over the tops of Manhattan’s skyscrapers, the glare making me wince and step into the shadow cast by an awning.
Humans in work clothes streamed past, some with newspapers tucked under their arms. Many of them sucked on cigarettes or stopped to light cigarettes or ducked into shops to buy cigarettes.
The first day, I’d charged down the streets looking for an opportunity to interfere.
The last three times I’d opened the chronomancer’s bag, I’d landed in the middle of the past I was meant to change.
Medieval England. Bucharest. The demon plane.
On each occasion, I’d stumbled directly into the arms of interference.
But this time was different.
I wandered through Central Park until dusk, then made my way to Times Square.
But the famous tourist attraction was a lot different from what I’d seen on day trips with Malcolm.
The theaters glittered, and plenty of neon lights buzzed overhead, but danger hovered in the air.
Humans stared as they passed me, some sizing me up like a hunter examining prey.
A woman with hair teased into a small mountain stepped into my path, the edges of her red lipstick extending past her lips. “You lost, honey?”
“I’m fine,” I mumbled.
She turned as I moved around her. “You wanna make some money?”
“No.” I walked faster, reaching for my dragon as I went. But the beast stayed hidden in the deep valleys of my mind. When I needed her chaos and temper the most, she was absent.
Moments later, a man tried to sell me a hot dog. The tangy scent of ketchup and the sizzle of beef from the portable grill on his cart made my stomach clench with hunger.
But I had no money, and I blinked away tears as I shook my head and hurried past.
I spent that first night on a bench in a park. The temperature plunged, and I tugged at my dragon, begging her to rouse and help me fly somewhere safer. But she stayed silent.
The second day was harder. Hunger was a ceaseless, churning grind in my gut, and fresh blisters formed on my heels. My body couldn’t heal wounds when I was starving and exhausted, so I stopped every hour and eased my shoes off.
Later, I stole an apple fritter from a stand while the vendor helped another customer. Guilt gnawed at me, but I licked the sugar from my fingers and wished for more.
And I wandered the streets, waiting for something to happen.
Instead, the city moved around me, the noise and clamor of humanity indifferent to my struggle.
When a security guard caught me sleeping in the lobby of an office building, I’d stumbled back to Central Park and cried myself to sleep in the shadows under a bridge.
Now on the third day, hunger was a constant, throbbing ache. My dress was stained, and some of the beadwork had unraveled. My blisters screamed with every shuffling step.
I’d stolen rolls from the back of a bakery truck while the driver carried deliveries into a grocery store.
Memories of Tavish smiling in the hotel bathroom’s doorway tightened my throat as I sat on the edge of a fountain in Central Park.
A little boy threw pennies in the water while his mother watched with a soft smile.
What would I wish for?
Home.
Tavish and Albie.
At some point, the two things I wanted most had become one and the same. Tavish and Albie felt like home—and I couldn’t get to them.
The child’s mother slanted a look in my direction. Bustling forward, she grabbed the little boy’s hand and pulled him away. When he protested, she shushed him and scooped him into her arms. Her words drifted back to me.
“…not safe to be around people like that.”
People like me. Now I was frightening children. I stood and headed back to the street. Late morning sunlight warmed the top of my head, making my scalp itch. My hair was one giant tangled knot. I caught a glimpse of my reflection in a department store window and quickly looked away.
Don’t cry, I told myself, but tears burned my eyes anyway. Humans rushed around me. Cars rumbled and honked. Everyone hurried, eager to reach their destinations.
But I didn’t have one. I was just…adrift.
My feet carried me down streets that had become familiar. Eventually, the sidewalk cafe from the first day came into view. Its tables were empty, and I sank into the same metal chair. The waitress didn’t emerge. I probably looked too horrifying to approach this time.
More tears threatened, and I leaned my elbows on the table and dropped my head into my hands.
“Don’t dawdle, Georgina,” a woman muttered. “Your mother will have my head if you’re late. Everything is riding on this meeting.”
The voice drifted past, and I looked up out of habit.
A frazzled-looking woman walked hand in hand with a little girl who couldn’t have been more than four years old.
They both wore long coats that looked too heavy for the weather.
The girl’s glossy black pigtails bounced on either side of her head as they passed.
When they got a few steps down the sidewalk, the little girl locked eyes with me over her shoulder.
“Hey, pretty lady!”
My heart stopped.
Her eyes were purple.
The woman tugged her hand. “Come on, Georgie. We can’t be late.” A sudden breeze ruffled the hem of the girl’s coat. A barasta reached to her knees, the black fabric covered in embroidery.
Spells. The little girl was Georgie.
The woman hurried her forward, and they disappeared into the sea of pedestrians moving down the sidewalk.
I shot to my feet. This was it! This was why I was here.
Heart thundering, I pushed into the crowd, weaving between humans in business suits and pillbox hats. My hunger and pain were forgotten, the dragging exhaustion replaced with a surge of adrenaline. I had to find Georgie.
A man stepped in front of me, his briefcase swinging wide. I dodged, stumbling over the curb. Smothering a curse, I started forward again.
I got half a dozen steps when a taxi splashed into a puddle beside me, spraying brown-tinged water all over my dress.
Ahead, a pair of black pigtails bobbed between two men carrying briefcases.
I raced forward, but a group of tourists with binoculars moved into my path. They craned their heads back, pointing at one of the buildings. I tried to push past, but they were a solid wall of bodies.
“Excuse me,” I said, raising my voice over their chatter.
They didn’t budge.
“Please,” I said, rising on my tiptoes. “I need to get through.” I shouldered around them, earning glares and muttered complaints about “rude New Yorkers.”
I ignored them as I stumbled forward. Ahead, Georgie and the woman disappeared around a corner.
“Wait!” I called, breaking into a sprint. My shoes slapped against the concrete. The beads on my dress clattered. A man carrying a cardboard box stepped into my path. I bolted around him and pounded the last few steps to the corner. Chest heaving, I rounded it—
—and collided with something hard and unyielding.
The chronomancer staggered back, his arms windmilling. His hair was the same wild, white shock, but his coat was a deep forest green.
He recovered, then shot me a disgruntled look. “In a hurry?”
“You!” I snarled. We stood in a short alley between buildings, the traffic behind us a muted clamor.
The chronomancer squinted at me from behind his square glasses. “Do I know you?”
My hand itched to slug him in the jaw. “Your spell keeps dumping me in the wrong time. You said you’d get me home.”
He folded his arms, his expression unimpressed. “I told you not to interfere.”
“I haven’t!” I paused. “It wasn’t my fault.”
He raised his brows.
“We tried not to interfere, but we kept getting dropped into situations where it was impossible not to.”
He pushed his sleeve back and looked at one of the watches that climbed to his elbow. “Great, now we’re both running late.”
“Late for what?” I demanded.
He lowered his arm. “You did what you were supposed to do. Good job. Gold star. Pat yourself on the back. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m in a bit of a hurry.” He stepped around me and headed toward the street.
“Oh no, you don’t,” I growled, lunging forward and grabbing his arm.
He stopped, giving my hand on his arm a deliberate look.
“I’m sorry,” I said, releasing him. He was my only shot at finding Tavish and Albie. “It’s been a long three days. What do you mean I did what I was supposed to do?”
A shrill noise emanated from his pocket.
“Oh, for the love…” he muttered, stuffing his hand inside.
He pulled out a cheap-looking plastic timer like someone might use in their kitchen.
He silenced the alarm, then shoved the timer back into his coat.
“Look, I really need to get going. I don’t have time to—”
“Then just tell me how to get home!” I cried. “I lost your spell bag on the last jump, and now I’m stuck.” All the heartache and frustration of the past three days rose up, and I flung up my hands as fresh tears burned my throat. “My father was right. I should have never gone near those stones.”
“And your women would have never been saved,” the chronomancer said.
I stilled. Because I must have heard him wrong. “What?” I breathed.
“I told you,” he said. “You were meant to accomplish certain tasks, and you did. You’re not a time traveler. You’re a Timekeeper.”
My blood pumped faster. “Timekeeper?”
“It’s a rare gift.” The chronomancer lowered his voice like he was sharing a secret. “It’s also a pain in the ass, but I have a feeling you already know that.” He sighed. “Gifts from gods usually are.”
I knew I was staring like an idiot. “So I’m…like you?”
“Hardly, and thank your lucky stars, all right?” He plucked at a loose thread on his jacket. “The gods don’t choose Timekeepers often, and for good reason. Time is a heavy burden.” He looked up. “We all think we want to know the future, but do we, really? I’m not so sure.”