Twisted Fates Read online

  Dorothy was quiet, listening. She’d heard about the pop-up shelters that people had once called Tent City. It was in those shelters that the Black Cirkus had started.

  “But we were lied to,” Roman continued. “People died waiting for much-needed medication, and food, and electricity that was never restored. As of tonight, there are new people in power. And we’re here to tell you that it’s time to rebuild our city.”

  The crowd reached a fever pitch, their roar thunderous. Roman had to raise his voice to be heard over the cheers. “Tomorrow morning, the Black Cirkus will go back in time, to the year 2073, to the days just before the earthquake took out the solar grids in the University District. We’re going to take those grids back and bring them here, now. After five years of darkness, we’re going to restore electricity to New Seattle!”

  Dorothy felt a grin split her face as she looked out over the ecstatic crowd. They were cheering for them.

  For her.

  She turned to smile at Roman, but his eyes had landed on something at the far end of the room, and his grin had gone stiff.

  Dorothy followed his gaze to a boy with dusty-blond hair. He wore a charcoal-gray suit and black tie, but she could easily imagine him in a leather jacket and white T-shirt, skin slightly reddened from the sun.

  She felt everything inside of her go still as the boy lifted a hand to remove the black mask covering his face—

  And then it was Ash staring back at her, his expression stormy. His eyebrows were low on his forehead, his gold eyes blazing. The muscles in his jaw stood out in sharp focus.

  Dorothy swallowed. She knew what he saw when he looked at her: Quinn Fox, the monster, the villain.

  But she saw the boy hunched over the airplane in the clearing behind a church. She saw the boy who’d kissed her in a time machine.

  Her lips burned where they’d long ago brushed against his, and her palms felt suddenly clammy. What was she doing? Why was she standing here? Why hadn’t she gone to him?

  She was staring. She knew she should stop, but she couldn’t turn her head. It was like fighting gravity.

  She heard herself mutter, “Excuse me.”

  And then she was walking off the stage, calmly, like this had been planned, her head held high. There was a door just behind the platform. She pushed through it and, immediately, the noise of the crowd dimmed, muffled by wood and walls.

  She could’ve stopped there; she could’ve leaned her head against the door and breathed, but her skin still buzzed with nerves so, instead, she made her way down the long, twisting hallway as quickly as her skirt-bound legs would carry her. The hallway ended in a door, which turned out to be a bathroom.

  Thank God.

  Her heeled boots echoed off damp tile. There were no lights, but candles flickered at the walls, their flames reflected in the windows and mirrors.

  Dorothy stopped in front of the sink and switched on the faucet, forcing herself to breathe as she watched the water circle the drain. When the basin was full, she took a handful of water and splashed it onto her face. Handful after handful to her face, her neck.

  I’m fine, she told herself. It had just been too many people. She didn’t like being in front of a crowd. She didn’t like everyone staring at her, wondering where she’d gotten the scar. She felt better when her face was hidden, when she could control what people saw when they looked at her.

  Not people, a voice at the back of her head whispered. Ash.

  She closed her eyes, breathing hard. It was foolish to pretend this wasn’t true. She never should have let Ash see her standing next to Roman, see her scar. Why hadn’t she worn her damn mask?

  She went still, fingers curling around the sink. Water dripped from her nose.

  She’d thought she was over it. Over him.

  She’d chosen this.

  Dorothy switched off the faucet without lifting her head. She heard a stir behind her, almost an exhale, and she jerked around, water dripping from her face. Her pulse surged. But there was no one there.

  She shook her head, grabbing a towel from the rack beside the sink. She dried her face roughly and tossed the towel into the sink. Then she made her way to the door, throwing it open—

  She stopped breathing.

  Ash stood in the hallway outside of the bathroom. He had a hand raised, as though he’d been about to knock, but now he froze, his eyes fixed on hers.

  “Oh,” Dorothy said, on an exhale. She would’ve said more, but her lips felt like they might crack if she moved them.

  Ash was here.

  The air shivered. Her legs wobbled.

  His eyes were blazing, and, when he spoke, his voice was low and aching.

  “It’s you,” he said. “I found you.”

  12

  Ash

  Dorothy’s expression was raw beneath the curtain of her white hair. Ash felt a crease knit his brows. He didn’t know what had happened to make her face look like that, but he could imagine. Instinct rose inside of him, to touch her cheek, to comfort her. His hand twitched—

  Then something in her face shuttered. It was as though a door had slammed shut, hiding her emotions from view. She straightened, her shoulders going stiff.

  “Ash,” she said. “What are you doing here?”

  Ash flinched, her voice hitting him like a slap. It was so familiar, so instantly, achingly familiar.

  “What am I doing here?” he repeated. He felt numb. “I saw Quinn—I saw your broadcast, and I came to see how the Black Cirkus was able to travel back in time.”

  It wasn’t the whole truth, but Ash didn’t know how to say the rest of it. I came to find Quinn. I came to meet the woman who would kill me. I didn’t know it would be you.

  Dorothy cocked her head. Ash had seen her do this before, and it made something inside of him ache.

  “Surprised?” she asked.

  Surprised?

  “You could say that.” He’d imagined this moment many times, although, of course, he’d never imagined it like this. He choked out, “I thought you were dead.”

  He hadn’t let himself dwell on this, but he’d thought it. It’d been the thing that haunted him in the dark, as he was trying to fall asleep. That Dorothy was dead. That he’d killed her.

  And now . . .

  His eyes moved to the scar twisting down the side of her face. “What happened to you?”

  She seemed taken off guard by the question. “I was hurt,” she said, her hand moving to the scar. “In the fall.”

  Ash fisted his hand, not sure if she’d let him touch her. “I’m sorry.”

  “It was a long time ago.” Now her brows were drawn, her eyes fierce. “We didn’t know what would happen, did we?”

  No, Ash thought, studying her. We didn’t.

  He remembered how she’d been when he’d first met her in the churchyard: the mischievous curve of her lips, the laughter in her eyes when she teased him. Now she just looked hardened. Angry. The change was startling.

  He asked, “How long have you been here?”

  “A year,” she said flatly.

  “A year?”

  “You’re wondering why I didn’t come find you.”

  Ash shook his head, but he couldn’t dismiss it. She didn’t come find him. He would’ve searched every whorehouse in the city, would’ve shot every pimp and followed every lead. He had only a few days left to live, and he would’ve wasted them all trying to find her.

  And she’d been here, all along. There hadn’t been anything to stop her from coming to him.

  “Why didn’t you?” he asked. “I could’ve helped you. I could’ve—”

  “You said you were going to take me back,” Dorothy said. “Don’t you remember?”

  Ash swallowed. He remembered.

  It was just after they’d left the Fort Hunter complex. They were in the anil, on their way back to 2077, and Dorothy had crept into the cockpit to ask him if she could stay.

  “I could be one of you . . . ,” she’d said. “
I could be with you.”

  He could picture how she’d looked then, as easily as if it had happened a moment ago. Her dark curls had frizzed around her face, falling loose of her braid. Grease and sweat had covered her cheeks. She’d been the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

  But he’d told her no.

  I can’t had been his exact words.

  Oh, how he wished he could take them back.

  “It wasn’t that long ago.” Now, Dorothy’s voice was bitter. “For you, at least. For me it was longer.”

  Ash’s throat felt suddenly thick. He could tell her now, he realized. He could explain about the prememory. He’d told her that she couldn’t stay with them in the future because he’d known he was falling for her. It seemed foolish now, but he hadn’t thought it was fair to Dorothy to be with her when he knew he would fall for Quinn.

  Oh, the irony. He’d never imagined this.

  “Dorothy,” he started. “I—” He started to reach for her, but she shrank away from him, her hands going to her neck, where she’d worn a small silver locket once. Now her neck was bare.

  His hand fell, and he looked away, losing his nerve. “I should go.”

  There was a beat of silence. And then: “You should.”

  Was that disappointment in her voice? Ash couldn’t tell, and he couldn’t look at her again.

  He hurled himself down the hall and was gone.

  13

  Dorothy

  Dorothy hunched over the sink, eyelashes fluttering as she tried to hold back tears. She wasn’t breathing. She felt slapped. She felt . . . undone.

  She’d been fine until he’d said her name—Dorothy—and then it felt like someone had reached into her chest and squeezed the air from her lungs.

  She hadn’t been ready. Over the past year, she’d been so careful to avoid the school, and Dante’s, and anywhere else she might see him. But she couldn’t avoid him forever, and now, finally, he’d found her. He’d just been standing there, staring at her, and he’d seen her face, her scar. He knew who she was.

  He knew everything.

  Her heart was pounding. How often had she imagined this moment? She must’ve pictured it a thousand times, standing before Ash and telling him that she’d moved on. She had a new home, new allies. She didn’t need him.

  She hadn’t realized it would be a lie.

  And—God—now, she couldn’t stop seeing the expression on his face when he’d looked at her. The twitch of his lips, the narrowing of his eyes . . .

  He’d been revolted by her. In her darkest moments, Dorothy had never imagined Ash would look at her like that. She flinched, thinking of it.

  She curled her fingers around the sink, hating herself for thinking it could be any other way.

  It’s happened. It’s over.

  Dorothy closed her eyes and took a deep, uneven breath, letting the truth of this settle over her. She might not have wanted Ash to find out like this, but she’d always known he would find out. They were on different sides now. There was nothing to be done about that.

  She breathed in, and she breathed out. She had to control this.

  Whatever she’d felt for Ash once, it was over now.

  She needed it to be over.

  But when she opened her eyes, she saw him reflected back at her from the mirror above the sink.

  She felt a jolt as their eyes met. “What—”

  “I forgot something.” His face was tense, and his voice sounded thicker than it had moments ago. Time seemed to still as he crossed the room and took her face in his hands.

  Those hands. Dorothy’s eyes fluttered. They were just like she remembered, his skin rough and warm and smelling, slightly, of smoke. Heat flared through her.

  She tilted her head back as he leaned down to kiss her.

  Part Two

  My mind misgives some consequence yet hanging in the stars shall bitterly begin.

  Romeo and Juliet, Act 1 Scene 4

  14

  Ash

  Ash remembered an early morning flight during his first month at the academy. Flat, gray sky and hard winds and the smell of ozone burning through the air. The plane had felt like a toy, its engine a metal scream that rattled his teeth and crawled into his bones.

  And then the engine sputtered; Ash was falling.

  It hadn’t felt like he’d expected it to. Terror and panic and terror again. No, there’d been only a sudden stillness and the vague awareness of sun bleeding through the clouds. Ash had closed his eyes and breathed.

  The engine roared back to life a second later, an animal reawakening. The fear hit then, white hot and raging. Ash’s hands didn’t stop shaking until after he’d landed. His soul kept shaking long after.

  Ash had never been in love before but he’d been told that it felt the same. Like falling.

  Dorothy released a short gasp of breath when he took her face in his hands. He kissed her and, for a second, he forgot all about black water and dead trees and white hair. He forgot the feeling of cold steel sliding through his skin, and heartbreak ripping through his chest.

  Instead, there was this: Dorothy’s lips, warm against his own. Her fingers touching the back of his neck and then snaking up through his hair. Her chest pressing into his.

  He was falling again and, just like before, there was no terror or panic. Only stillness, and sunlight in the clouds.

  It ended, abruptly, with a knock.

  “Dorothy?” Roman’s voice came from the other side of the bathroom door, muffled by wood. “Dorothy, are you in there?”

  Ash opened his eyes, and the rest of the world rushed back in.

  “He can’t find you here,” Dorothy said, her eyelids still lowered, her voice low.

  Ash curled a hand around hers. He didn’t want to think about what it meant that Roman had come looking for her, that he knew her real name.

  “Come with me,” he whispered, urgent. He wasn’t leaving her again.

  Dorothy eyes opened. “I—”

  “Please.” He could hear the desperation in his voice. It made his cheeks burn, but he didn’t look away. “I was wrong, before, when you asked if you could stay. You belong with us, Dorothy. Come back with me.”

  Another knock. “Dorothy?”

  The doorknob rattled.

  “I—” Dorothy’s eyes moved to the door, her expression complicated. “I can’t.”

  The words hit him like a slap. He glanced at the door. Was she staying behind for him, for Roman?

  It was too much to consider, and so he pushed the thought away. “I’ll come back,” he said, squeezing her hand. “Soon.”

  And then he crossed the bathroom and threw open the small window, dropping into the black water below.

  15

  Dorothy

  Dorothy stood, breathless, one finger hovering near her mouth. She could taste Ash’s lips on hers. She could feel the warmth of his hands wrapped around her waist.

  He’d asked her to go with him. He’d seen what she’d become and, still, somehow, he’d wanted her.

  Why hadn’t she gone with him?

  She closed her eyes and, though her head was full of Ash, he wasn’t what her mind lingered on just now. Instead, she thought of his time machine, the Second Star. She thought of Zora and Willis and Chandra, and the feeling she’d had when she was sitting among them.

  Belonging. Never in her life had she felt that, not before and not since. She’d thought she’d found a place there, with Ash and his friends. She’d been so sure that she’d finally found a home.

  But even as her mind lingered on Ash and the Second Star, other, fresher memories rushed in:

  The people crowded inside of the Fairmont’s ballroom, cheering for her.

  Roman’s voice, strong and sure, as he told them of their plan to save the city.

  The feeling of power she got when the things she’d read about in history books became real.

  Tomorrow, she was going to change the world. Why did Ash want her now? When it
was too late?

  Dazed, Dorothy opened the door.

  Roman stood in the hallway, elegant in his black tuxedo and white tie. It was the same tuxedo Clark Gable had worn in the 1936 film Cain and Mabel, Dorothy knew. Roman had stolen it out of the actor’s dressing room once the film finished shooting.

  For a brief moment she remembered the boy he’d been just a year ago—thin and hungry, with darting eyes and a wispy beard—and felt a jolt of pride. A year ago, he would’ve looked ridiculous in a tux but, now, he looked dashing. This Roman was someone the people of New Seattle would follow.

  Unfortunately, the moment of pride was fleeting. Roman wasn’t alone. Mac Murphy stood beside him, short and squat as ever. He wore an ill-fitting suit with a fat tie, an unlit cigarette behind one ear. He had crutches wedged beneath each of his arms, and a thick bandage wrapped around his upper thigh. A spot of blood had already begun to seep through the gauze, staining the bandage brown.

  Dorothy had to bite back a smile at the sight of it. From the look of the bloodstain, that was a bullet wound. She had imagined shooting Mac many times, herself, and she would’ve loved to know who’d been lucky enough to pull the trigger.

  “Mac,” Dorothy said, swallowing her glee. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

  Mac hobbled forward, and now he was too close, invading her personal space. Dorothy wanted to back away, but she thought he might take it as a cue to enter, and she could think of nothing she wanted less than to have Mac Murphy crowded inside of the tiny hotel bathroom with her.

  And so she stayed where she was, close enough to Mac that they were nearly touching. She could smell the cheap cologne on his skin. When she didn’t move aside, he clumsily grasped her hand and brushed his thick, chapped lips against her knuckles. Beside him, Roman grimaced.

  Be thankful he didn’t feel the need to kiss you, she wanted to snap at him. But she kept the thought to herself.