Time's Divide (The Chronos Files Book 3) (30 page)

The guy turns and stares directly at the stable point. And even though he’s hundreds of years into the future, I know exactly what that expression means.

I’m waiting. Where the hell are you?

∞17∞

S
OMEWHERE NEAR
W
ASHINGTON
, DC

October 14, 2308, 10:02 p.m.

He looks like Thor.

Kiernan says that’s just projection on my part, because this must be Tate Poulsen, who was a Viking historian, and Thor is what comes to mind when I think of Vikings.

But Kiernan has never seen the movies. I think it’s much more likely that whichever CHRONOS scientist landed the task of tweaking Tate Poulsen’s genetic makeup
had
seen those movies and decided to create this guy as an homage.

Because he looks like Thor. Tangled blond hair, mustache, beard. Give him a hammer and a red cape and he’d be a decent movie double . . . except he might be a little
too
large.

One thing Kiernan and I did agree on is that Thor doesn’t look happy. He looks confused. Frazzled. There may even be some crazy in the mix.

So I’m very glad Kiernan is hiding in the shadows as backup. He jumped in first—my new, nonnegotiable rule for any trips we take—and he’ll stay in the background unless I’m in clear danger.

Which could be instantly, judging from Tate’s clenched fists and that twitchy little vein near his temple.

I wait until he steps away from the stable point, then take a deep breath and blink in.

He grabs my shoulders before I can get my bearings and lifts me several inches off the ground.

“What in God’s name have you done, Pru?” His voice is deep, but he keeps the volume low, barely above a hiss.

I stretch my legs, trying to at least touch my toes to the floor, and resist the urge to fight back. I don’t think Prudence would fight him.

On the other hand, I don’t think she’d care for being manhandled any more than I do. And if I don’t get control of the situation pretty quickly, Kiernan will probably step in.

“Put me down, Tate! You’re hurting me.”

He does as I ask, and I notice the floor isn’t very floorlike. My boots sink into it, almost like beach sand. But when I take a step, my footprints fill in almost instantly.

I don’t know enough to take the lead in this little tango. The odds of me making a mistake increase each time I open my mouth, so I wait, hoping Tate will speak first.

He doesn’t. His eyes are very busy, however. They move down my body and then back up in a way that makes me very uncomfortable. Even though there’s barely an inch of flesh exposed below my collarbone, this suit leaves little to the imagination. And his eyes are familiar—I don’t know why, but it’s not a pleasant familiarity.

When his gaze arrives back at my face, he grabs me again, very differently this time. His left hand swallows the back of my head, his fingers twisting into my hair. His right hand pulls me from behind and scoops me up against his body.

It takes every bit of control I possess not to panic and shove him away. I try to channel Prudence, something I would normally avoid at all costs.

Pru wouldn’t freak out. She wouldn’t. In fact, I’m pretty sure she’d kiss him back.

So that’s what I do, trying to pretend this is Trey. A very large Trey. Who has a beard. Who smells like he hasn’t bathed recently.

And who is . . .
crying
?

Yeah. Definitely crying.

He sinks downward, taking me with him. I brace myself against the floor with my hand, and it
is
like beach sand, only . . . not granular. It’s solid, slightly warm. A little like the memory-foam thing that Dad put on the pull-out sofa at his place, only I suspect this stuff would actually have kept me from feeling that stupid bar in the middle.

Tate’s shoulders stop shaking after a moment, and he leans back on one elbow, the other arm still clutching me to his body.

“I thought you’d come back before . . . when it all went crazy. I looked for you everywhere. This was my last shot, my last . . .”

He doesn’t finish the sentence, just burrows his face into my neck, breathing deeply. I tense automatically, and it’s almost like the tension flows from my body to his.

“What’s wrong?” he asks.

“You’re holding me too tight. I can’t breathe.”

Tate loosens his hold, but he’s still looking at me strangely. I force myself to kiss him and then say, “My key was swiped. I couldn’t get back, Tate. What happened?”

“Maybe you should tell
me
what happened? I got out of the building and headed back to my place to wait. Like we agreed. Only I’m in the hallway when I suddenly feel like I’m going to heave my guts out. Everything . . . changed around me.” He slumps back into the fake sand, his hand remaining possessively on my thigh. “I go to my door, but I can’t get in. Some ancient hag called building security. I had to dismember the guard to avoid winding up in a holding center, and the damn thing still sent out an alert before I crushed its comm unit.”

I let out the breath I sucked in when he said
dismember the guard
, very relieved to hear that the guard is an
it
. Because that means not human . . . right?

“That old couple has lived there since before I was born. Excuse me, since before I should have been born, because from everything I can tell, I wasn’t. My credits don’t exist, CHRONOS still doesn’t exist, but this time it’s not that they shut it down, Pru. It never existed at all. If I have parents, I can’t find them. No one knows who I am . . . except for Campbell, of course, but he’s completely flaked.”

“Campbell was under a key then?”

“Yeah. The one you brought
back
to him?” His eyes are narrowed now, and I finally place why he looks familiar—aside from the whole Thor vibe. The eyes are Simon’s. In fact, if this guy never exercised, never went outdoors, and was shrunk down about a foot . . .

That realization sets my pulse racing, but I fake a smile and raise my eyebrows, like he’s the one saying something stupid. “Well, obviously. I was asking whether he
still
has it.”

Tate’s eyes remain wary as he shakes his head. “They let him keep the key long enough for a tour of the EC, so he could see the mess for himself. After that, they took it. Said he could go anywhere he wants inside the OC. If he steps outside . . . adios, Campbell. Same for the dog. They don’t exist any more than I do.”

He punches the sand-stuff, and his fist sinks down nearly to the wrist. “God almighty, Pru! This isn’t what I agreed to! You were supposed to restore CHRONOS and
fix
the mess Saul made, not make it worse.”

“I’m trying! Don’t you think I’m trying?” That line is 100 percent sincere, and it must ring true, because his expression softens.

Unfortunately, that means he pulls me close to him again. “How long for you? Since you went back? You look . . . different. Rounder.”

I take a moment to think about my response. A few years’ distance might help explain any lapses of memory. Also, I’m pretty sure Pru wouldn’t like his last comment.

“Just over two years. And did you just call me fat?”

“No. Rounder is good.” He squeezes my thigh and adds in a voice that is almost a growl, “I
like
. You were so thin last time I saw you. But, babes, things are . . . different. Wearing that could complicate matters once we’re outside the club.”

“It was all I could find. How long has it been for you?”

I know this is a loaded question. Prudence should know the date she got the keys. But since I don’t know the date, I need to play stupid.

He rolls his eyes. “Um . . . non-time traveler? September 20th to October 14th is still right at three weeks for those who are chronologically grounded. It took me nearly two weeks to figure out a way to get in here. This is the only stable point I could think of that you might check and that might possibly still be active.”

“I have to go back and fix this.”

“No kidding. I know I said before that I’d go crazy if I was stuck here, stuck at a desk. If I couldn’t jump. And I’m still not sure I could take it. But this? I can’t . . . I can’t imagine staying in this place, Pru. It’s infinitely worse than—”

Something rattles in the darkness. Tate squeezes my thigh again and says, “Shh.”

“I don’t hear anything,” I lie, since I’m pretty sure the noise was Kiernan.

“No, there was something. We should get out of here either way. Come on.” He pulls me up and then reaches down to grab his pack and flashlight. “They have sensors at the exits, but security is programmed to keep people from getting in, not out. We should be okay.”

“So how did you get in?”

He hesitates. I think maybe he’s blushing. “Hid in one of the old-style Juvapods no one uses. I can see why. You can barely breathe in there.”

I don’t think that tells me how he got into the building, although maybe it does, since I have no idea what a Juvapod is. But since Prudence might know, I just follow him, wishing I could catch a glimpse of Kiernan before we leave. I don’t know how much he’s heard, and he needs to get out, too, preferably before we set off a sensor.

There’s a movement from the shadows to the right of the row of doors. Tate must see it, too, because he mutters a curse and takes a half step in that direction. Then he changes his mind and reverses course. Scooping me up under his arm, he takes off past the rows of doors into a dark hallway beyond.

“Put me down, Tate!” It’s the second time I’ve had to tell him that in less than five minutes, and I’m beginning to feel like I’m dealing with King Kong. “I can run, you know.”

“Not as fast as I can.”

I open my mouth to argue, but . . . yeah. He’s moving fast—almost
unnaturally
fast—especially when you consider that he’s lugging an extra hundred and twenty pounds of me.

A glowing red X in a square box comes into view as he rounds the corner. The X just hangs in the darkness, and I have a sudden strong feeling that we shouldn’t continue this way, but that could be because there’s
a large red X
in front of us. As we get closer, I see that the X is above a doorway, so maybe EXIT signs lost a few letters over the centuries?

The rim around the door starts to glow the same red as the X when we’re a few paces away.

“Damn it!” Tate shoves the door with his shoulder, barely breaking stride as we go through. “Something triggered security already!”

I crane my neck around to see if Kiernan is behind us, but the door slams shut. The building rises up at least ten floors, maybe more, white and immaculate like one of the Cyrist temples. I don’t see a Cyrist symbol, but the place is massive, and we’re too close for me to view the top.

I also don’t see the door open again, and that has me very worried about Kiernan.

The streets are nearly deserted, with no cars, buses, or any other form of transportation. I scan for street signs, but I don’t see any. There’s a park across the street and a statue that looks vaguely familiar. Commodore Something-or-Other. I think that means we’re near McPherson Square, or at least where it used to be.

Two people cross the road a few blocks down. They’re moving quickly, at a smooth, even pace that doesn’t look natural. The only other signs of life are an oversized rat that slips into a drainage pipe and a man huddled in an alley between two buildings—both of which could fit in my present-day DC.

I nearly miss it, given Tate’s need for speed, but as we zip by the guy in the alley, I catch a brief glimpse of his face.

It’s Kiernan. How did he get out before we did when he was behind us?

A few seconds after we pass, Kiernan darts out of the alley, but he can’t keep up. Usain Bolt couldn’t keep up with Tate.

The difference between the building we were just inside and the rest of the neighborhood is striking, even in the dark. The entire area is in shambles, nearly deserted. There are a few newer-looking buildings, or at least buildings that are still intact, scattered around here and there, and a few lit windows about a quarter mile up the hill.

“Can you slow down, please?” My voice is tentative, more like Kate than Prudence, so I add, in a sharper tone, “You’re crushing my frickin’ ribs, Tate! I need to stop and breathe.”

He rounds the next corner and ducks into the recessed doorway of one of the less dilapidated buildings.

“Past curfew.” At least he’s breathing heavy after that sprint. I was beginning to wonder if he’s actually human. “Had to get you out of there. You’ll attract attention, especially in that.”

“Why? I mean, it’s tight, but the women inside that place wore far less. Some of them weren’t wearing anything.”

“Well, yes. But . . . they belong to members. Or they’re hired companions. They’ll be safe if they stay inside.”

“Wait . . . they
belong
to members?”

“Uh . . . well, not property. Some are family members. Others are registered to them sort of like . . . pets?” He says the last word hesitantly, as if he expects me to explode, but I’m rendered totally speechless.

He shakes his head. “That’s not quite right either, but like I said before, a lot of things are different. I haven’t pieced all of it together, but whatever this was that happened a few years before 2020, it was massive. History now tells us the only reason anyone survived the Great Plague is because the Cyrists issued a warning. Those who listened and believed lived. But I get a feeling that’s not quite how it went down, is it?”

“Not quite. They called it the Culling. Saul—”

“Did you . . .” Tate grabs my shoulders, and his expression is conflicted. “Tell me you didn’t help them, Pru. Not with something like that.”

“No.” I twist to loosen his grip and look away because I don’t really know the extent to which Prudence helped with the Culling. I can’t imagine Younger Pru, the one that I met in New York, the one that this guy was involved with, knowingly assisting Saul with something that massively evil. But Older Pru?

“That why I’m here, Tate.” He looks a little hurt, so I reach up and run my hand along his neck. “The
other
reason I’m here.”

“Did you find him?” One hand slides down from my shoulder to rest on my abdomen. “Is he safe?”

I have no idea how to answer that. Is who safe? The only thing I can think to do is shake my head.