Paradigm (Travelers Series Book 3) (20 page)

Cooper reaches up and wipes the tears that had settled on my cheeks. “What’s to say things didn’t go exactly as planned?”

“What are you talking about? I messed up the timeline, I went back and met with my past self. How can any of this have worked? I’m here, with you, and I don’t even know where I am. I was trying to get home.”

A wide grin forms on his face. “You
are
home, darlin’.”

Everything hits me. They say that when you die, your whole life flashes before you, but in my case, it’s right after you’ve just altered reality. Everything I ever did in both my old reality and this one come rushing in waves. Like a slide-show of my life.

I remember that day outside Battle Grounds.

I remember going with Cooper.

I remember not going with him.

I remember going back in time and meeting my past myself.

And I remember leaving with Cooper and ultimately ending up here. Only now, it’s two years in the future.

Both lives I’ve lived, and I now have full memories of both. My memories have merged and both realities are a part of me. I sit here staring at my husband, who’s stuck by me through all my tantrums, stubbornness, and perpetual confusion.

“I can tell it’s all coming back to you now.”

“How is this even possible? I’m in physical form, not my astral one. How did my body end up here? And why do I remember everything?”

“Messing with the past can be tricky that way. When you went back and changed the course of events, so did some of the minute details. You are here because you chose to go with me all those years ago. I didn’t catch it at first, but after your reaction over the coffee, I realized what must have happened. With all the astraling you did, you ended up merging memories.”

So it worked. I was able to convince the past me to take a chance on Cooper. Everything that happened since—graduating from Alexandria High, working for Audrey, dating Alex—all of it, never happened. My memories are only still intact because I experienced that detour in the timeline.

“Wait, what about my reaction to the coffee? How does that equate to you figuring things out?” Did I not look pleased? Confused, maybe, but I don’t see how something so trivial can trigger an understanding.

“Let’s just say I expected somewhat of a different response, considering coffee is pretty much scarce here.”

I laugh—coffee, my eternal achilles heel. “Yeah, I seem to recall that now.” Now that I have my memories back, it’s like I’m processing my different lives, like a secret double agent only without the
Mission Impossible
assignment.

“And now that you’re back, it’s time.”

“To take down Thornberry? I’ve waited my whole life for this moment.”

Or lives, as the case may be.

Look for Book 4 (Volume II) in the Travelers Series, PARAMETER

Spring/Summer 2013

Is the Travelers Series Over?

After the conclusion of this book, I’m sure there are readers wondering if Etta’s story is over. And the answer is, no! PARADIGM simply marks the end of Volume I (there are only so many times Etta can go back and forth between realities) and Volume II will take place primarily in the future. Etta is now where she belongs, together with Cooper, and determined to defeat Thornberry—so I hope you’ll continue to follow her story.

It takes a village to raise a child and I think the sentiment can be applied to writing a book. Paradigm could not have been published without all the wonder folks that were involved in the process. Much gratitude goes out to my beta readers, Charisse Berree, Kate Copeseely, Rachel Della-Loggia, and Brittany Willis, for without your feedback and comments, my book would be a broken string of incoherent thought. A big thanks to Chris Cashen for allowing me the use of his last name and for providing me the awesome history behind it. Many thanks also goes to my fabulous cover designer, Robin Ludwig, who always captures the essence of my books, and Ted Risk, the most patient guy I’ve ever worked with, who is an ebook formatting genius. A special thanks to J.L. Bryan who has not only been a supportive friend during my indie journey, but who proofed my work and exterminated all the pesky gremlin grammar invaders. And none of this would be possible without the loving support of my husband and parents. But most of all, the biggest thanks goes out to my readers… for without you, there wouldn’t be a Travelers series.

Claudia Lefeve was born and raised in the Gulf Coast border town of Brownsville, Texas; a curious place where folks see curanderas in lieu of shrinks, tortillas are served at every meal, and even gringos speak Spanish. She currently resides in Northern Virginia with her husband and two pugs.

For more information about the author, please visit
www.claudialefeve.com
.

If you want to know what happened on Jenny and Chase’s date, their story will be featured in the
Let It Snow! Season's Readings for a Super-Cool Yule
anthology, coming this holiday season!

In the meantime, here’s another bonus excerpt from my favorite author Red Tash. I can’t rave enough about
Troll Or Derby
(I’ve read it twice)! This is definitely read you don’t want to miss!

An excerpt from

By Red Tash

I am an American Troll living in rural Indiana, and this is the story of how I met a kick-ass rollergirl, rejoined a rock band, and lived happily ever after. —
Harlow

Deb

M
eth fires are blue, the hottest kind of flame. I’d heard it before, probably from Derek, but now I was seeing it firsthand. Lucky me.

A sickly smell hung on the air. The remains of chemicals, plastic, and pharmaceutical ingredients brutalized my lungs, but I couldn’t back away. I wouldn’t—no matter what.

The trailer crackled with flame, and Gennifer was inside. Tall, eerie tongues of fire licked the outer walls--ten feet high, at least. I had no idea flames could reach that size.

Plasticine, sticky smoke—brown and thick—engulfed me as I neared the trailer. I didn't know where to look for my sister, but I was sure she was inside. A moan, then a scream—I could hear her through the thin aluminum walls.

The trailer was melting into sludge and toxic smoke, and it cracked and popped on a warping metal frame. I didn’t know if I should try and run through the fire at the kitchen end of the mess, where a gaping hole belched sickening fire.
Maybe I could try to get Gennifer to open or break a window and climb out from the other side.
I wondered if she’d have it in her to bleed a little, to save her own life.

The window was way too high for me to reach.

"Open the window, Gennifer! Climb out!"

She was never right when she was doing the drugs Dave gave her—could she even understand what I was saying? Could she hear me?

I thought maybe I could pitch something hard enough into the glass to break her out. I ran to the woods, looking for a log or branch I could ram through the window. Everything was too rotten to be of any use—sticks and limbs crumbled in my shaking hands. Gennifer's screams were getting louder, higher pitched. Was she on fire? Why wouldn't she help herself?

If only I had a crowbar.

Then I saw them—tools. The trailer was up on blocks, with no underpinning. Of course Dave would be too cheap to finish out his rustic rural meth lab. I crawled beneath, the leaky septic line christening me as I stooped, groping for the abandoned tools. I hoped the mobile home wouldn't collapse on top of me before I could crawl back out, but it wasn't sounding so good.

Dave and his gang of junkie slaves had been working beneath the trailer, and sure enough, they’d been too distracted, dumb, or high to put away a set of screwdrivers, some ratchets, and a really, really heavy wrench.

It’s no crowbar, but it’ll have to do.

Liquid shit dripped on me, but I didn't have time to care. My sister was screaming her head off in a burning trailer and I was reasonably certain she was out of her mind on drugs.

I flung the wrench at the window, but it didn't break. I tried again, and again, but only managed to crack the damned glass, and Gennifer still hadn't appeared at the window to save herself.

There was only one thing to do. I grabbed the wrench and ran to the kitchen end of the trailer. I took a deep breath of fresh air, then I hurled myself through the cloud of fumes. The fire and smoke obscured everything, and I shut my eyes against the sting of chemicals. For a moment, I thought I saw the shapes of blue and orange dancers in the flames.

I braced myself for the heat, but I didn't feel it. Pops and hisses all around me sounded like whispers or cackles. The fire was eating through the trailer, and I felt the floor giving out with every step. I wouldn’t let it take Gennifer—I wouldn’t let it consume me, either.

The hallway was short, and the door Gennifer was locked behind very thin. Her screams were so loud, there was no point trying to yell to her that I was coming in, especially if it meant inhaling more smoke.

I swung at the handle, holding the wrench like a baseball bat. The brass knob fell to the floor, a chunk of splintered wood still clinging to it. I kicked the bedroom door in, and Gennifer stopped screaming long enough to pass out.

Lovely. Now I’ll have to carry her.

She wore a black bra and jeans, and her skin was burning with fever. I put my hands under her armpits and lugged her over my shoulder. She had at least 75 pounds on me, so I should have crumpled under her, I suppose. Instead, I stumbled into the door frame as I carried her across the spongy floor of the burning trailer.

The heat touched my hair—I could hear it sizzle, could smell it burning, even—but I felt nothing but determination as I carried my sister out of that meth lab.

With Gennifer still on my back, I jumped. She fell hard on top of me, and I was just pushing her off, struggling for breath, when the trailer collapsed onto the ground. The sound of sirens in the distance was no surprise—the smoke was so black and thick that farmers in the vicinity surely could tell this was no typical trash fire. I pulled my sister as far away from the flames as I could and watched for the EMTs to roll up.

Gennifer groaned, and her eyes flickered open for a sec. She met my gaze and frowned. She closed her eyes again and drew a deep breath.

“I’m going to kill that son of a bitch,” I said.

“Dave didn’t do it,” she said. Her words were slurred. She reached up to rub her eyes, lazily, as if waking up from a nap.

“Yeah, right, Gennifer. He's such a saint, locking you in a burning trailer and all.”

I didn’t see the point of arguing with her, though. I let it drop.

Something sticky and hot dripped too close to my eyes, and I reached to wipe it off.
Please don't let it be crap from the sewer line.
I pulled my hand away, and it was covered in blood.
Even better.
I won't think of that now—nope, not at all.

The fire truck roared up the gravel driveway. Guys in black rubber suits jumped off the truck--someone put a face mask on Gennifer and asked me if there was anyone still inside.

I shook my head no, and then I fell through trees, air, sky, into the black. I felt my head hitting the hard ground near where my backpack lay, could hear the EMTs shouting, and then—nothing.

Harlow

I
want you to understand something. I didn't rise up out of the ground fully grown, I wasn't the bastard child of an angry god, and I didn't become this way because I was cursed. My skin's not green and I won't turn to stone in the sunlight.

When I was young, I had a mother, and she was a troll. I had a mother
and
a father who were both trolls, in fact--and we were a family. Yes, I had a family. Just like you.

Scared yet?

Almost everything I know about humans, I've learned from their trash.
Redbook
and
Woman's Day
show up at my doorstep more than any other source, I reckon. It may not be a perfect picture of what your life is like, but I'm betting I've got a more accurate view of your lifestyle than you have of mine, at least for the time being.

For starters, there's a shopping mall full of differences between troll family life, and how human families live. Trolls, for instance, do not typically invest a lot of emotion into their own young--often don't even raise them. They especially don't socialize with their relatives for special occasions. You won't see us breaking out the patio umbrellas and the ice chests full of soda for a family barbecue. A special occasion in troll culture is when the villagers rise up and try to corral one of us in a cave, or something like that. At least, that's how it used to be. That's what my mom told me.
I remember that.

I remember a lot more now than I did, when this adventure started—but I'll get to that.

Best I can tell, my nuclear family was more like a human family than a troll one. The extended family, as you English would call it, was a mess. A big, illegal, drug-running, slaving mess. But I'll get to that. This is my part of the story and I want to begin in the beginning. I'm not a storyteller. It's not my profession. Bear with me while I sort this out, okay?

Sure, you're going to think what you want about trolls. I mean, you've seen movies, you've read Rowling and Tolkein. I'm telling you that the real-live working-class trolls of the Midwest are nothing like you've been told. We're capable of great violence, sure, and I'll concede that our proclivity is largely toward evil, but let's face it—a lot of that comes down to breeding and culture.

In our world, might most definitely makes right. That's the fundamental law of troll culture, although most trolls would forego the flowery wording and just express it with a grunt and blow to the head.

Trolls as a species, though,
are
capable of great love. I know, because I've experienced it. You don't live with something like that and ever forget. If you do, you're a fool, anyway.