Twisted Fates Page 15

  Roman lifted an eyebrow. “You think it’s that easy? To find one moment, one second in years and years of seconds? And even if you did find it, what then? How would you know that whatever choice you were making was the right one?”

  Dorothy couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “You propose we do nothing?”

  He couldn’t be saying that, surely, and yet he didn’t argue.

  Dorothy had to work to keep her voice steady. “For the last year we’ve been planning to save this city. What was all of that for if you’re just going to stand by and let it be destroyed?”

  “We have a few years left.” Roman still wouldn’t look at her. “And, because of what we did this morning, those years will include heat and electricity—”

  “What does any of that matter if we’re all going to die?” Dorothy leaned forward. “I thought you’d left the Professor for this, so that you could change our past and give this city a chance—”

  But that wasn’t exactly true, was it? Dorothy didn’t actually know why he’d left the Professor. He’d never told her.

  I’m afraid we haven’t been acquainted long enough for that story.

  She looked up at his face and saw that he looked younger than he usually did, his face softened by fear. It made it easier for her to imagine him as he must’ve looked when he’d worked with the Professor. She pictured him sneaking out in the dead of night to steal the old man’s time machine. Traveling into the future again and again. Staring out at that desolate, black landscape, hoping it might change.

  Something twisted in her chest. She couldn’t imagine how lonely that must’ve been.

  She felt a lump form in her throat. “Roman—”

  Roman stood, abruptly, and made a show of tugging his jacket straight. He wouldn’t look at her. “It’s getting late.”

  “You aren’t leaving.” Dorothy sat up taller. “We need to talk about this.”

  “Later,” Roman said, glancing at her. He looked on the verge of saying something else but only shook his head and took up a glass of bourbon, downing it. He jerked his chin in goodbye and started for the door.

  The nerve, Dorothy thought. She stood to follow him, noticing as she did that the guy at the bar had twisted around on his stool and was watching her. Her eyes landed on him as she made her way to the front of the bar, and she froze, feeling slapped.

  Ash.

  Ash was sitting at the bar, staring at her. His expression was stormy, eyebrows pulled down low on his forehead, gold eyes blazing. Electricity seared the air between them.

  Dorothy’s heart was doing something complicated inside of her chest.

  What was he doing here?

  He was the one who broke their gaze first. He stood and wove his way to the door at the back of the bar. He lingered for a moment and, though he didn’t look back at her again, Dorothy understood.

  He wanted her to follow him.

  LOG ENTRY— JULY 2, 2074

  06:32 HOURS

  THE WORKSHOP

  Today’s crash: Dog darts across the street, causing a mother of three to swerve and drive her Chevy Avalanche into a tree.

  No one dies in this one—not even the damn dog—but I’m going to keep this mother of three from having to replace her windshield if it’s the last thing I do.

  Don’t even wish me luck. I don’t need luck. I’m a man of science, for Christ’s sake.

  UPDATE—12:33 HOURS

  This is almost comical at this point. Seriously, I’m sitting here laughing hysterically because I honestly don’t know what else to do. If I don’t laugh, I think I might cry.

  I found the dog. I figured this time, it might be easier to deal with a dog than a person, you know? How hard is it to control a dog?! All I was going to do was get the dog on a leash and keep him from running across the street as the woman’s Chevy Avalanche drove by.

  But the dog hated the damn leash. As soon as I clipped it onto his collar, he started freaking out, thrashing and barking and pulling. I tried to keep hold of him, but he was too strong. He knocked me off my feet and darted into the road—

  Right in front of the Avalanche. Which swerved. And hit a tree, cracking its windshield.

  You know what this means, right? It means I caused the crash. I grabbed the dog and put him on the leash, and that’s why he freaked out and darted across the street.

  Did I cause the other crashes, too? Did delaying that driver at the diner cause him to drive more recklessly to make up for lost time? Did I put the idea to get on his motorcycle that day into that kid’s head, just by showing up and telling him not to?

  Is all of this my fault?

  24

  Ash

  Ash moved down the hallway in a daze, his heart hammering in his ears. Black Cirkus posters blanketed the walls—THE PAST IS OUR RIGHT!—and any other time he might have ripped them down. But not now. Now, he barely saw them. His mind was focused on only one thing:

  Would she come?

  He hoped she would. It embarrassed him how much he hoped for this, but there it was. He felt like he was lit from within, like there was fire blazing in his chest, eating away at his skin and muscles and bones.

  The hall grew cooler as he made his way toward the bathrooms, and a shiver passed through him. Distantly, he heard the sound of water sloshing against the docks on the other side of the bar’s thin wall, wind pushing into the side of the building.

  There was an extra door at the end of the hallway, an exit. Ash glanced over his shoulder. Would Dorothy know to follow him?

  He pushed the back door open—

  Dorothy was just outside, waiting. Ash stepped onto the dock with her, letting the bar door close behind him. “You’re already here,” he said, surprised.

  “I thought you . . . wanted me to come,” Dorothy said, hesitant, fingers twisting around the braid hanging over her shoulder. It was messy, white curls escaping and frizzing in the damp. There were already a few strands plastered to her forehead and her neck, like she’d been out in the wet for a long time instead of just a few seconds.

  “I just meant that you got back here quicker than I expected.”

  “I know a shortcut.” Moonlight caught the silver locket at her neck. “I used to come out here a lot.”

  Ash waited for her to say more, and, when she didn’t, he crossed the dock, hesitantly. His skin felt alive. Was it out of the question to reach for her? He didn’t know. She seemed so different than she had the night before, at the masquerade.

  He rested his hands on the wooden banister just beside her, close enough that his thumb grazed her hip. He could feel the heat radiating off her body. It made it hard for him to think. He couldn’t remember what he’d wanted to talk to her about.

  “I looked for you this morning,” he said, and something dark passed over her face.

  “You looked for Dorothy,” she said. “I’m not Dorothy anymore.”

  He frowned. Is that what she thought? “A new name doesn’t make you a new person.”

  “It’s not just the new name, though, is it?”

  “You mean . . .” He brought his hand to the scar that cut across her face, but she inhaled, sharp, before he could touch her. He froze, fingers hovering above her skin. “Is this . . . okay?”

  She closed her eyes and was quiet, dark lashes trembling against her pale skin. “Yes.”

  He lowered his hand to her scar. Every nerve in his palm flared so that all he felt was spark and heat, and it was a long moment before his fingers processed the texture of her skin. He didn’t know what he’d expected. The scar looked like it would be rough to the touch, but it was soft and warm and familiar. It was her.

  She’d been holding herself stiffly but, the moment he touched her, she released a breath that was almost a sigh and seemed to melt into him. “Ash.”

  Ash lowered his forehead to hers. Her damp hair stuck to his skin, and he could feel the shape of her locket press into his chest. He was instantly transported back to the Dark Star, to the f
irst time he’d touched her, the first time he’d kissed her. Had it really been only three weeks ago?

  No. Not for her. Dorothy had lived a year between that moment and this one. The realization opened up a deep hole inside of him. Because of him, she’d spent a year here, alone.

  “Come back with me.” Ash hadn’t realized what he was going to say until the words were already out of his mouth. “Please, you don’t belong here.”

  “I wish I could.” She pressed a hand to his chest, frowning. “But that’s not why I came. There’s something I need to ask you.”

  “Can it wait?” he murmured into her hair. She still smelled the same, like soap and lilies. How was that possible?

  “It’s important. I need you to think back. Did the Professor ever mention Nikola Tesla?”

  The words were so strange that Ash frowned and leaned away from her, caught off guard. “What?”

  “The Professor was doing experiments with Nikola Tesla.” Dorothy cast an anxious glance at the door behind Ash and then shifted her gaze back to his face. “Did he ever say anything about that to you? Anything at all?”

  “I don’t think so.” Ash frowned. “What—”

  Dorothy cut him off. “They would’ve had to do with traveling through time without a vessel. Does that sound familiar?”

  It didn’t. Ash scratched the back of his neck. “It isn’t possible to travel through time without a vessel. A few people tried, back before the Professor built his time machines, but the anil is too volatile, and they were all badly injured.”

  “Yes, but the Professor went on experimenting with it, to see whether he could find a way.” Dorothy fiddled with the locket hanging from her neck, her fingers anxious. “Think. Maybe he wrote something in that journal of his? Have you read the whole thing?”

  Ash was already shaking his head when he remembered the ragged edges he’d found poking out of the binding. “Wait a minute,” he said, almost to himself. “There were entries missing. I don’t know where they went, but—”

  He was interrupted by the sound of wood creaking, a footstep on the other side of the door, and he shifted into the shadows, his skin humming. A second later the back door swung open and the bartender walked onto the docks. She brought a cigarette to her lips, withdrawing a pack of matches from her coat pocket.

  Ash turned to Dorothy—one hand lifting to point down a narrow dock that twisted back toward Dante’s—and froze, heart pounding.

  She was already gone.

  LOG ENTRY—JULY 12, 2174

  09:45 HOURS

  NEW SEATTLE

  I’ve made a huge mistake.

  I—I don’t know what I was thinking, really. I wanted to see it again, I suppose, to see what, if anything has changed.

  But I never expected this.

  I should explain. This morning, I once again took the Dark Star forward, into the future. But, instead of going just a few days ahead, this time I went one hundred years ahead.

  I suppose I wanted to see how our world was going to turn out.

  I exited the anil, and the world I saw before me was changed beyond my wildest nightmares.

  I’ve been here for only a few hours, so my findings are rudimentary, at best. Everything is black. Ashes cover the ground and block out the sun. It’s nearly ten o’clock in the morning, but it’s still as dark as night. There’s no vegetation, no animals, no people. I flew past WCAAT and found little more than a pile of rubble frozen in ice.

  My heart hurts, writing that down. The most advanced school of technology the world has ever seen, and it’s been reduced to nothing, to ashes.

  This can’t be happening . . . something catastrophic must’ve happened to have left the world like this. I have no way of knowing what it was, but I can only hope there’s still time to change it back.

  25

  Dorothy

  Dorothy moved down the docks like a shadow, ears pricked, listening for any sound besides the shuffle of her own feet. There was none, though something musty-smelling rose up from the water, making her nose twitch. She didn’t think she’d ever get over the smell of this city. How the perpetual damp left everything reeking of mold and rot.

  She paused beside the door to the Fairmont’s back stairwell, glancing over her shoulder to make sure she hadn’t been followed.

  The darkness twitched, and Dorothy steeled herself.

  But no one came.

  A moment passed and she still didn’t move. It wasn’t until she realized she was waiting for Ash to materialize in the darkness that she swore at herself and turned around.

  Come with me, she remembered. And she pictured Ash’s face as it had been the night before, his cheeks flushed pink, his eyes searching hers.

  She couldn’t go to him. Of course she couldn’t, it was madness, his even coming here. It was better that she find Roman and try to talk some sense into him. But her heart felt heavy as she slipped through the Fairmont’s door, and Ash’s voice stayed with her long after she tried to push it away.

  The door to Roman’s room was open a crack, and a thin line of yellow light dribbled into the hallway. Dorothy lifted her hand to knock—

  And then paused, frowning.

  Roman was talking to someone.

  Dorothy had never spied on Roman before. For the last year, he’d been her greatest ally, her friend, even. She trusted him, as much as she was capable of trusting anyone, and so she’d always extended him the courtesy of privacy.

  But, for the first sixteen years of her life, she’d been a con artist. A sneak and a thief. Her mother had been the only family she had, and Loretta believed that someone was a fool if she bothered with things like friends.

  Dorothy chewed on her lip. She knew perfectly well what her mother would do in this situation.

  And so, holding her breath, she crept closer and pressed her ear against Roman’s door.

  “Higgens looks just like I remembered,” Roman was saying. His warm tone surprised Dorothy. Usually he sounded like that only when he was speaking to her.

  She leaned in closer.

  “Thank God, I didn’t see that horrible dog of hers,” Roman continued. “I’m not sure I would’ve been able to resist giving it a good, hard kick. Do you remember when it got into a fight with Freddie and he came back with this huge chunk taken out of his fur? And then Higgens tried to pretend like her precious Pumpkin would never do something like that.”

  Dorothy frowned. Higgens? Pumpkin? She searched her memory for where she’d heard those names . . .

  It came to her quickly. Emelda Higgens was the woman from the past with the dandelion-puff hair whose solar panels they’d stolen that morning. And Pumpkin . . . that was the name of her little dog.

  Only, Roman was talking about her like he knew her. Had he lived on that street they’d looted? It made sense, Dorothy supposed. After all, he was the one who’d chosen the neighborhood, and he’d compiled the names of all the people who were going to die in the earthquake. Dorothy hadn’t even bothered asking where he’d gotten them.

  But why wouldn’t he have just told her?

  “Don’t worry, Cassia, I wouldn’t have actually kicked him,” Roman continued. “It was weird seeing her again, actually. You know, now that I know what happens.”

  Cassia? There wasn’t anyone named Cassia living in the Fairmont. Dorothy tried to remember if she’d seen Roman with a girl she hadn’t recognized at the Dead Rabbit in the last week or so, and couldn’t think of anyone.

  A horrible thought entered her mind . . . Mac had once offered to let the Black Cirkus partake of his services. Not for free, mind, but for cheap. Dorothy had been disgusted by the idea, but what if Roman had taken him up on his offer? What if he knew one of the girls Mac kept in that horrible motel of his?

  The thought twisted her stomach, and she quickly pushed it out of her mind. Roman wouldn’t do that, she felt certain. But, then, who was he talking to?

  She moved closer, and the floorboard beneath her foot gave a long, lo
w creak.

  Roman fell abruptly silent.

  Blast.

  Dorothy glanced over her shoulder, wondering how quickly she could duck back down the hall and around the corner. Before she could decide one way or another, Roman was pulling the door open and she was caught.

  “Dorothy.” Roman sounded surprised. “What are you doing here?”

  “I—I wanted to make sure you were all right,” Dorothy said. She’d never minded lying before, but it felt strange to lie to Roman, just as it had felt strange to spy on him. She struggled to remember why she’d actually come here in the first place. “You seemed upset back at the Dead Rabbit.”

  Roman studied her for another moment and then offered up a quizzical smile. “Right.”

  Did he know she’d been listening in on his conversation? Dorothy couldn’t tell. She rose to tiptoes, hoping the long cloak would mask the movement, and tried to subtly peer past his shoulder.

  His eyebrows went up. “Looking for something?”

  Her eyes snapped back to his face, cheeks flushing. “Of course not. It’s just . . . I thought I heard voices.”

  Roman’s expression sharpened, giving Dorothy the impression of someone caught in a lie. Before she could call him on it, he stepped aside, flinging the door open so that Dorothy could see the room behind him:

  Unmade bed. Dresser scattered with old photos. Armchair covered in dirty clothes. But no sign of who Roman had been speaking to.

  “There’s no one here,” he said. But the light caught his dark eyes, making it seem as though something within them was flickering.

  Staring back at him, Dorothy was reminded of a one-man band she and her mother had walked past while they were living in Chicago. The musician wore a mask, which he removed as Dorothy glanced back at him. Beneath, he wore another mask. Dorothy hadn’t looked back again after that, but whenever she thought of that moment she imagined that he wore another mask beneath the second, and another beneath that, and another, going on forever.