Mirrored Time (A Time Archivist Novel Book 1) (11 page)

When he next opened them, Gwen laughed with glee as his eyes widened with surprise. They stood on a thin metal beam, the busy city street terrifyingly far below. A gust of wind sent Rafe’s arms windmilling, and he grabbed on to a metal support beam.

She grinned widely, arms outstretched as her hair whipped in the wind. “Empire State Building, 1931.” She paused dramatically. “Over 1,000 feet above New York.”

He went green as he looked at the ground below them. “Fantastic.” He beckoned her with one hand. She noticed he kept a death grip on the metal beam with the other. “Come here, please.”

Gwen thought of teasing him further. When another burst of wind had him clutching the beam now with both hands, she gave in. At least now she could understand the desire to spend lunch breaks with feet dangling in the free space.

Sparing one last look at the amazing view, she walked over to Rafe and freed one of his hands from its white-knuckled grip. Instead of making him jump back to the Archives, she closed her eyes and released his hand when they were back in the familiar mirrored-lined room.

Rafe wheezed, eyes still closed.

“Not such a fan of heights, are we?”

“Not such a fan of falling to my death.” Cracking open an eye, he peered at her. “Was that another revenge attempt for the lake?”

She laughed and held her hands palm up, a gesture of supplication. “Completely innocent, I promise. I’ve seen pictures from the 30s and always wondered what the view would be like.”

“Of course, who doesn’t wonder about that? Silly of me to ask.” He shook his body, as if the lingering fear was water he could just fling off. He circled her, a calculating expression on her face. Then he smiled, any paleness gone from his face.

“And now for the
pièce de résistance
!” With a flourish, Rafe pulled her through a mirror and into … Gwen’s jaw dropped.

“Oh my God. Are we where I think we are?”

“I prefer Rafe. Guess I can answer to God.” He laughed when she rolled her eyes.

“Honestly, you’re impossible.” She shrieked when he picked her up by the waist and whirled her around. Their twirling figures reflected to infinity in the shining hall.

“Welcome to Versailles, Gwendolyn.”

Her delighted laughter echoed around the golden room as he continued to spin her.

A clatter drew her attention, and she turned in time to see a group of guards tumble into the room. They ran forward yelling angry words in French. Gwen didn’t need to know what they were saying to understand the general idea.

Rafe set her down, a smile on his face. “Oops.” She laughed as he pulled her in the direction opposite the guards. “Time to go!”

With a blink, they stood in the quiet calm of the temple. Still laughing, Gwen braced her hands on her knees. When she stood up again, Rafe sat perched on a fallen marble column, smiling at her.

“Your turn.” There was an unspoken challenge in his voice.
Top
that.

Lips pursed, she thought of all the places and things she wanted to see. When she settled on a destination, admittedly it was a little less fantastic than the Hall of Mirrors at Versailles. With a cocky smile, she reached for Rafe.

They appeared in a paved alleyway, an icy bite to the air. Rafe saw the building at the end of the alleyway and shook his head with a laugh.

Gwen crossed her arms in mock defensiveness. “What? I was hungry.” She nudged him with a shoulder before making her way down the alleyway.

Ahead of them stood one of her most favorite places to eat. She discovered it on a trip to Edinburgh with Maggie one summer. Little more than a hole in the wall, the small shop sold the best fish and chips she had ever tasted. Her mouth watered at the thought.

Not long after walking into the small shop, they sat on a hill overlooking the city, eating their food. Taking her last bite, Gwen wiped her fingers on the thin paper napkin and rolled up the wrapping her fish had come in.

“You love this, don’t you?” she asked him as he was taking a bite, and he made a mumbled noise of inquiry. “Time traveling—you love it?”

He took his time answering, jumping up to throw away their garbage before sitting back down next to her. “I was born … at a dead end. So maybe there are downsides, but this gift gave me a chance at a real life—” He gave a soft laugh. “—or lives, if you want to be accurate.”

She wanted to question him further. His tone made her hesitate. She never appreciated it when people asked about her own past. Maybe he would tell her someday. For now, she would rather keep the mood carefree. “How does it all work?”

At his questioning glance, she clarified. “I mean for you, traveling the streams. I can focus on a place, on a time. And—” She snapped her fingers. “—I’m there. How does it work when you can’t control where you go? Aren’t you ever afraid you are going to end up in, I don’t know, Pompeii right when Vesuvius is exploding?”

“It was a beautiful tragedy.”

She glanced at him, unable to tell if he was joking or serious. He continued before she had made up her mind.

“Not to get too poetic, but think of a tapestry. A tapestry of lives that spans across history.” His lips quirked into a crooked smile at his own particular phrasing. “One of those ancient hand-woven ones made up of thousands of strands of string. Your power allows you to pick out a string and follow it for as long as you want. For me, and for other Creators, it’s a bit more random. Think of facing the tapestry, closing your eyes, spinning around, and pointing your finger at one spot. Odds are, every single time you will find some place different. Ancient Egypt, modern Australia, France in the 1700s.” He shrugged. “Sometimes you may find yourself in places not so exotic. Still, it’s always an adventure.”

She frowned. “How is it random if you picked every place we went? You planned on taking me there, right?”

He leaned back, bracing his frame on his elbows as he watched the clouds. “It is random, don’t get me wrong. Doesn’t mean I can’t pick and choose what mirrors I keep. That’s what most Creators do, some even for economic gain. Most travelers use pre-existing gateways to get around. Otherwise, you’d have no real control of where you end up. The Archives is one of the biggest collections of saved gateways, although others do exist. So, Creators can save their favorites, but we can’t create a gateway to a particular place. Only Locators can link to specific times.”

Gwen chewed her lip in thought. “Alistair did say your power protects you. How does it work if it’s so random? Shouldn’t more people be aware of us if we are popping in and out of existence?”

“Your guess is as good as mine on how it works. Still, there’s something inherent in our power. Usually, you show up somewhere hidden and out of view,” Rafe explained. “Sometimes, though, it’s like there is a delay. People don’t seem to notice your appearance at first. When they do, they just seem to accept your presence. I mean, showing up suddenly in a crowd of people should create panic. Instead, people adjust. Time adjusts.”

Thinking, Gwen stared out at the city below her. The cool air teased the ends of her hair. “How do you create a gateway?”

“Reflective surfaces work best. I’m not sure why. It just feels natural,” Rafe said. “Other Creators work better with different mediums.”

“How do the links work, though?”

“It’s like, if I can focus, there are all these strands of time floating by. I don’t know what any of them mean, but I can connect them to the mirror. Most of the gateways I create are more jumps than actual doors. There are a few mirror connected to mirror. Most are like the lake, born out of necessity rather than any thought on my part. The lake opens up to the mirror, and vice versa.”

“When I touched the lake mirror …” She continued on when he nodded. “… when I touched that mirror, I fell on top of you. I didn’t come up in the lake.”

He frowned. “Explain what it was like.”

She described the glowing; how the silver lapped up her arm; and how it felt like she had fallen through the mirror.

“It’s possible you didn’t go through the mirror. It sounds like you activated it. What were you thinking about?”

Her cheeks turned red and she mumbled.

“Pardon?”

Huffing, she spoke louder. “Revenge. I was thinking about revenge.”

“What’s new?” He grinned, dodging from her half-hearted punch.

“I saw you go through the mirror before. When I touched it and it was solid, I figured you had tricked me. I wanted revenge for the prank you played on the new girl.”

“You probably activated the mirror by your touch. When it started to pull you through, your panic triggered your own power. Then, since you were thinking about me,” he winked, “that’s where your power took you.”

“How is that possible? I thought the compass activates my power?”

“Not necessarily. Just like the temple mirror doesn’t control my power. Think of it more as a conduit. Your power is, and has always been, a part of you. The compass can help you control your power. Without it, you would still be able to travel. Your jumps just might not be as accurate.”

“If I’ve always had this power, why am I only finding out about it now?”

“It may have always been a part of you. It just needed to be triggered. Stress will do it. There are a lot of young children who activate their power by accident. Adults are too limited by what they think is possible. The older you are, the more likely you will need an outside stressor to force the power from you. Children are less restricted by their beliefs. Luckily, instinct brings most of them back home again, full of stories their parents will never believe.”

“Is that what happened to you?”

Rafe shook his head. “Now that is a story for a different day, young lady. Besides, I thought we were supposed to be practicing.” He stood, offering his hand and pulling her upright. “You pick next.”

His change in topic hadn’t fooled her. In her excitement to continue practicing, she was willing to drop the subject. She closed her eyes and thought of her next destination, but not before making a mental note to ask him again.

C
HAPTER THIRTEEN

S
HE WAS A
SMALL CHILD standing in front of a large mirror. Her reflection stared back at her, but something wasn’t right. The bright green eyes were the same shade, although not as round; the brows above them darker and heavier; the lips less full; the chin not as soft. Yet when she smiled and waved at the reflection, after the smallest of delays, the mirrored image waved back.

When she tried to speak, a thin fissure ran up the middle of the mirror, spidery cracks snaking out to the edges of the frame. She felt her own eyes widening in surprise. The reflection didn’t react.

More flaws appeared. The image in the mirror rippled and distorted becoming a tall indistinct figure.

Flinching, she stepped back. It reminded her of something—something she would rather forget. As more fissures broke across the mirror, the figure continued to twist and writhe, looking more and more like the smoky figure was wracked with torturous pain.

Then the cracks in the mirror began to bleed. And in a thousand refracted images, it was only her panicked reflection staring back at her.

In gushing rivers, the blood streamed out of the mirror and hit the ground with a sickening splash, lapping in frothy red waves at her feet. Her head spun, and the far off sound of screaming made her ears buzz.

The puddle became endless, and she fell, kicking and screaming, against the weight pulling her down farther and farther. All she could see was red; all she could taste was coppery, thick blood. She fought, but she only sunk deeper, the color around her turning a deep burgundy.

Her heart ready to burst, she took a huge painful gulp and screamed into the airless sea of red.

Gwen jerked awake. She stood in front of the office, her hand resting on the glass next to Alistair’s name. Swallowing, she fought the nausea rising in the back of her throat. The sleepwalking was worse, so much worse.
How did I get to the
Archives?

Closing her eyes, she leaned her head against the cool glass. She could still taste blood on her tongue, and her lungs burned from lack of air. Each detail from her dream replayed itself in vivid color. She recognized the mirror in the dream and the smoky black figure who staggered towards her, even if it was an image she had been trying to forget since the test.

A groan escaped her lips. The link could no longer be ignored. At first, the nightmares and sleepwalking could be explained by the stress of a new job. But this time she had made it all the way to the Archives. And her dreams kept borrowing images from her test, using them in new and horrible ways.

It was time to accept the truth. Her dreams had to do with the Archives. She needed help. Alistair might be surprised to find his assistant knocking on his door so early, but she knew he wouldn’t turn her away.

The decision of telling Alistair about her dreams had a weight falling from her shoulders. She was about to go inside when a squeak drew her attention. In the dim light of the hallway, she could see someone approaching. It was the hunched figure of the courthouse janitor, his eyes too large behind his glasses.

Realizing how she must look, standing in the hallway in old sweats, she raised her hand in what she hoped was a nonchalant wave. He didn’t answer her, and Gwen wondered if he couldn’t see her.
Is his vision that bad?

The fluorescent light gleamed off the thick lenses of his glasses. Instead of making any acknowledgement of her presence, the janitor continued to shuffle by her. He passed by her before Gwen spoke up. “Hello?”

He stopped and swiveled his head so his pale eyes were focused on her. She yelped when his cold fingers shot out and clamped around her arm.

“What are you—” She never got the chance to finish before everything went dark.

Seymour stared at the unconscious girl in front of him. The thrill of it filled his blood. It had been so very easy to get her into his grasp.
So very right.

There had been other times when he could have taken the girl. Something inside of him had always cautioned him that the moment wasn’t right. His master in the black mirror trusted him enough to share with him the plans involving Gwen’s dreams. So to find the girl in the Archives, deserted and alone, as she was waking from a nightmare? Well then, it was too lucky a chance to give up. After all, his master first found him in dreams. It was right that Seymour begin his plan after Gwen experienced one of the dreams his master crafted for her.

Waiting for the girl to wake up, he puttered around the small utility closet he called home. With nervous hands, he touched the scattered knickknacks; some he stroked with a fingertip, others he moved slightly. They weren’t much, but they were the only real things he valued.
My trophies.

The Guardians hadn’t seen it fit to test the prematurely white-haired young man he had been when he had first discovered his powers. Instead, they mocked his pathetic gifts and consigned him to a life trapped in one universe. If the Guardians had only given him access to the time gateways, Seymour knew he would have experienced fantastic and varied lives. Because of them, he was stuck.
In one pitiful universe.
His dismissal by the Guardians ignited a fire of loathing, which, decades later, still burned in his chest.

If the Guardians forced him to one mundane life, then he did his best to make up for it. With a touch, his gift allowed him to make people misremember, or even make them forget. Perhaps not for long, although he had grown adept at using what little power he had been granted by the gods.

In the beginning, it was petty crimes: missing watches, wallets, even robbed homes. No one thought to connect the odd young man with crimes no one could remember happening. Then common thievery hadn’t been enough, and he had grown bolder.

At first, he amused himself by playing with people’s memories. He enjoyed seeing how the small gaps he could put in someone’s memory affected their lives.
Like ripples spreading on the surface of a lake.

Even that hadn’t been enough, not for a person born for greatness—as Seymour knew he was. The first time it happened, he blamed it on the Guardians. If they had recognized the flame of glory burning in his eyes, then he would never have done it. He would never have stooped so low.

But soon there was no need for excuses; he enjoyed it far too much. There was never the need for an alibi, not when no one ever remembered him in the first place. He could still taste the fear of each of his victims, the fear of those last moments when they recognized him for what he was. Whatever limitations there were to his powers, it was still pathetically easy to end a human life.

The girl moaned, and he moved to peer at her. He was disappointed when she stayed unconscious. He wished she would wake up soon so he could begin. It had been too long since he enjoyed using his gift. Most people were too weak, too easy to manipulate.

In Gwen, he knew he had found a worthy opponent. His master had told him how important she would be. He preened with the knowledge that his gift would help realize this outcome. Even now, his master was using Gwen’s dreams to manipulate her into bringing about his freedom, although the goal couldn’t be achieved without Seymour. He was given the important task of separating the girl from the two men in the Archives by destroying the thin bond of trust that was growing between the three of them.

Seymour’s smile was a twisted thing.
To see the Archives fall and burn.
His master would extinguish the Guardians and their petty political constructs. He could think of nothing better than helping to unleash such a destructive force. The Guardians would soon regret their laughter, their hasty dismissal of his powers.
Oh, how they would regret it.

His impatience grew, and he walked over to face the girl. He touched her shoulder, first gingerly, and then he shook her with more force. Her eyes fluttered open, confusion and then horror dawned on her face.

“What happened?” When she tried to move and found her arms constrained, she opened her mouth to scream.

He put his hand on her cheek, and her green eyes went blank.
Now for the fun part.
“You won’t remember this. Forget this room. Forget my face. Forget my voice saying these words.” He put his other hand up so both of his hands framed her face—a perverse parody of an intimate embrace. “Remember this: You won’t trust Alistair. You won’t trust Rafe. And you will never tell them of your dreams. The dreams are a secret. If you tell them, they will leave you, abandon you, forget you.” He focused on making her remember the meaning behind the words.

Gwen moaned and struggled against his hands. “No … please ….” A tear ran down her cheek and pooled up against his hand. He felt it burning his skin. “I won’t believe you.” In contrast to her brave words, her voice was weak.

He smiled when he spoke. “Oh, you will.” His head started to ache, and he pushed through the pain. He wouldn’t fail his master. Seymour knew he was strong enough. “Alistair is cold and selfish. He cares only for your power. Rafe is weak and treacherous … a thief and a liar.”

Whispering those words and more, he wove threads of distrust and pain around her. A web of words she wouldn’t remember, but would still snag on her unconscious mind. He needed to be sure she wouldn’t go to either of the men with her dreams. They might see the trap before it snapped closed.

And the relationship with Rafe must be tarnished. His master had whispered to him of the plans for the younger man, what Rafe needed to do and how the girl was the perfect tool to make him do it.

She fought him, weak as the brush of butterfly wings in the back of his mind. So he pushed harder, weaving layer upon layer of lies and distrust. When a line of blood trickled out of her nose, he let go of her face. The vibrant color was beautiful, and he stared at it entranced. The red tempted him, but he moved away from the girl. She was too important to his master. The downfall of the Guardians was too important to Seymour.

Fascinated, he watched as the drops collected on the front of the girl’s shirt. Had he done enough? Seymour thought of forcing more memories into her mind, but he didn’t want to damage the girl. So, instead, he began the process of untying her, pleased to see there were no permanent marks on her wrists. With a struggle, he grasped her under her arms and dragged her from the room.