CHAPTER ONE

Friday, November 16

A LOT OF WOMEN want the world to see them a certain way. It’s my job to create those transformations, one forty-five-minute session at a time.

My clients seem different when I’ve finished helping them. They grow more confident, radiant. Happier, even.

But I can only offer a temporary fix. People invariably revert to their former selves.

True change requires more than the tools I wield.

* * *

It’s twenty to six on a Friday evening. Rush hour. It’s also when someone often wants to look like the best version of themself, so I consistently block this time out of my personal schedule.

When the subway doors open at Astor Place, I’m the first one out, my right arm aching from the weight of my black makeup case as it always does by the end of a long day.

I swing my case directly behind me so it’ll fit through the narrow passageway—it’s my fifth trip through the turnstiles today alone, and my routine is automatic—then I hurry up the stairs.

When I reach the street, I dig into the pocket of my leather jacket and pull out my phone. I tap it to open my schedule, which is continually updated by BeautyBuzz. I provide the hours I can work, and my appointments are texted to me.

My final booking today is near Eighth Street and University Place. It’s for two clients, which means it’s a double—ninety minutes. I have the address, names, and a contact phone number. But I have no idea who will be waiting for me when I knock on a door.

I don’t fear strangers, though. I’ve learned more harm can come from familiar faces.

I memorize the exact location, then stride down the street, skirting the garbage that has spilled from a toppled bin. A shopkeeper pulls a security-grate over his storefront, the loud metal rattling into place. A trio of college students, backpacks slung over their shoulders, jostle one another playfully as I pass them.

I’m two blocks from my destination when my phone rings. Caller ID shows it’s my mom.

I let it ring once as I stare at the little circular photo of my smiling mother.

I’ll see her in five days, when I go home for Thanksgiving, I tell myself.

But I can’t let it go.

Guilt is always the heaviest thing I carry.

“Hey, Mom. Everything okay?” I ask.

“Everything’s fine, honey. Just checking in.”

I can picture her in the kitchen in the suburban Philadelphia home where I grew up. She’s stirring gravy on the stove—they eat early, and Friday’s menu is always pot roast and mashed potatoes—then unscrewing the top on a bottle of Zinfandel in preparation for the single glass she indulges in on weekend nights.

There are yellow curtains dressing the small window above the sink, and a dish towel looped through the stove handle with the words Just roll with it superimposed over an image of a rolling pin. The flowered wallpaper is peeling at the seams and a dent marks the bottom of the fridge from where my father kicked it after the Eagles lost in the playoffs.

Dinner will be ready when my dad walks through the door from his job as an insurance salesman. My mother will greet him with a quick kiss. They will call my sister, Becky, to the table, and help her cut her meat.

“Becky zipped up her jacket this morning,” my mother says. “Without any help.”

Becky is twenty-two, six years younger than me.

“That’s fantastic,” I say.

Sometimes I wish I lived closer so I could help my parents. Other times, I’m ashamed at how grateful I am that I don’t.

“Hey, can I call you back?” I continue. “I’m just running in to work.”

“Oh, did you get hired for another show?”

I hesitate. Mom’s voice is more animated now.

I can’t tell her the truth, so I blurt out the words: “Yeah, it’s just a little production. There probably won’t even be much press about it. But the makeup is super elaborate, really unconventional.”

“I’m really proud of you,” my mom says. “I can’t wait to hear all about it next week.”

I feel like she wants to add something more, but even though I haven’t quite reached my destination—a student housing complex at NYU—I end the call.

“Give Becky a kiss. I love you.”

* * *

My rules for any job kick in even before I arrive.

I evaluate my clients the moment I see them—I notice eyebrows that would look better darkened, or a nose that needs shading to appear slimmer—but I know my customers are sizing me up, too.

The first rule: my unofficial uniform. I wear all black, which eliminates the need to coordinate a new outfit every morning. It also sends a message of subtle authority. I choose comfortable, machine-washable layers that will look as fresh at seven P.M. as they do at seven A.M.

Since personal space vanishes when you’re doing someone’s makeup, my nails are short and buffed, my breath is minty, and my curls are swept up in a low twist. I never deviate from this standard.

I rub Germ-X on my hands and pop an Altoid in my mouth before I ring the buzzer for Apartment 6D. I’m five minutes early. Another rule.

I take the elevator to the sixth floor, then follow the sound of loud music—Katy Perry’s “Roar”—down the hallway and meet my clients. One is in a bathrobe, and the other wears a T-shirt and boxers. I can smell the evidence of their last beauty treatment—the chemicals used to highlight blond streaks into the hair of the girl named Mandy, and the nail varnish drying on the hands Taylor is waving through the air.

“Where are you going tonight?” I ask. A party will likely have stronger lighting than a club; a dinner date will require a subtle touch.

“Lit,” Taylor says.

At my blank look, she adds: “It’s in the Meatpacking District. Drake was just there last night.”

“Cool,” I say.

I wind through the items scattered across the floor—an umbrella, a crumpled gray sweater, a backpack—then move aside the SkinnyPop popcorn and half-empty cans of Red Bull on the low coffee table so I can set down my case. I unlatch it and the sides fold out like an accordion to reveal tray upon tray of makeup and brushes.

“What kind of look are we going for?”

Some makeup artists dive in, trying to cram as many clients as possible into a day. I take the extra time I’ve built into my schedule to ask a few questions. Just because one woman wants a smokey eye and a naked mouth doesn’t mean another isn’t envisioning a bold red lip and only a swipe of mascara. Investing in those early minutes saves me time on the back end.

But I also trust my instincts and observations. When these girls say they want a sexy, beachy look, I know they really want to resemble Gigi Hadid, who is on the cover of the magazine splayed across the love seat.

“So what are you majoring in?” I ask.

“Communications. We both want to go into PR.” Mandy sounds bored, like I’m an annoying adult asking her what she wants to be when she grows up.

“Sounds interesting,” I say as I pull a straight-back chair into the strongest light, directly under the ceiling fixture.

I start with Taylor. I have forty-five minutes to create the vision she wants to see in the mirror.

“You have amazing skin,” I say. Another rule: Find a feature to compliment on every client. In Taylor’s case, this isn’t difficult.

“Thanks,” she says, not lifting her gaze from her phone. She begins a running commentary on her Instagram feed: “Does anyone really want to see another picture of cupcakes?” “Jules and Brian are so in love, it’s gross.” “Inspirational sunset, got it … glad you’re having a rocking Friday night on your balcony.”

As I work, the girls’ chatter fades into background noise, like the drone of a hair dryer or city traffic. I lose myself in the strokes of different foundations I’ve applied to Taylor’s jawline so I can match her skin tone flawlessly, and in the swirl of copper and sandy hues I blend on my hand to bring out the gold flecks in her eyes.

I’m brushing bronzer onto her cheeks when her cell phone rings.

Taylor stops tapping hearts and holds up her phone: “Private number. Should I get it?”

“Yes!” Mandy says. “It could be Justin.”

Taylor wrinkles her nose. “Who answers their phone on a Friday night, though? He can leave a message.”

A few moments later, she touches the speakerphone button and a man’s voice fills the room:

“This is Ben Quick, Dr. Shields’s assistant. I’m confirming your appointments this weekend, for tomorrow and Sunday from eight to ten A.M. The location again is Hunter Hall, Room 214. I’ll meet you in the lobby and take you up.”

Taylor rolls her eyes and I pull back my mascara wand.

“Can you keep your face still, please?” I ask.

“Sorry. Was I out of my mind, Mandy? I’m going to be way too hungover to get up early tomorrow.”

“Just blow it off.”

“Yeah. But it’s five hundred bucks. That’s, like, a couple sweaters from rag & bone.”

These words break my concentration; five hundred is what I make for ten jobs.

“Gah. Forget it. I’m not going to set an alarm to go to some dumb questionnaire,” Taylor says.

Must be nice, I think, looking at the sweater crumpled in the corner.

Then I can’t help myself: “A questionnaire?”

Taylor shrugs. “Some psych professor needs students for a survey.”

I wonder what sort of questions are on the survey. Maybe it’s like a Myers-Briggs personality test.

I step back and study Taylor’s face. She’s classically pretty, with an enviable bone structure. She didn’t need the full forty-five-minute treatment.

“Since you’re going to be out late, I’ll line your lips before I apply gloss,” I say. “That way the color will last.”

I pull out my favorite lip gloss with the BeautyBuzz logo on the tube and smooth it along Taylor’s full lips. After I finish, Taylor gets up to go look in the bathroom mirror, trailed by Mandy. “Wow,” I hear Taylor say. “She’s really good. Let’s take a selfie.”

“I need my makeup first!”

I begin to put away the cosmetics I used for Taylor and consider what I will need for Mandy when I notice Taylor has left her phone on the chair.

My rocking Friday night will consist of walking my little mixed terrier, Leo, and washing the makeup out of my brushes—after I take the bus across town to my tiny studio on the Lower East Side. I’m so wiped out that I’ll probably be in bed before Taylor and Mandy order their first cocktails at the club.

I look down at the phone again.

Then I glance at the bathroom door. It’s partly closed.

I bet Taylor won’t even bother to return the call to cancel her appointment.

“I need to buy the highlighter she used,” Taylor is saying.

Five hundred dollars would help a lot with my rent this month.

I already know my schedule for tomorrow. My first job doesn’t begin until noon.

“I’m going to have her do my eyes kind of dramatic,” Mandy says. “I wonder if she has false lashes with her.”

Hunter Hall from eight to ten A.M.—I remember that part. But what was the name of the doctor and his assistant?

It’s not even like I make a decision to do it; one second I’m staring at the phone and the next, it’s in my hand. Less than a minute has passed; it hasn’t locked out yet. Still, I need to look down to navigate to the voice mail screen, but that means taking my eyes off the bathroom door.

I jab at the screen to play the most recent message, then press the phone tightly to my ear.

The bathroom door moves and Mandy starts to walk out. I spin around, feeling my heartbeat erupt. I won’t be able to replace the phone without her seeing me.

Ben Quick.

I can pretend it fell off the chair, I think wildly. I’ll tell Taylor I just picked it up.

“Wait, Mand!”

Dr. Shields’s assistant … eight to ten A.M.…

“Should I make her try a darker lip color?”

Come on, I think, willing the message to play faster.

Hunter Hall, Room 214.

“Maybe,” Mandy says.

I’ll meet you in the lob—

I hang up and drop the phone back onto the chair just as Taylor takes her first step into the room.

Did she leave it faceup or facedown? But before there’s time to try and remember, Taylor is beside me.

She stares down at her phone and my stomach clenches. I’ve messed up. Now I recall that she left it with the screen facing down on the chair. I put it back the wrong way.

I swallow hard, trying to think of an excuse.

“Hey,” she says.

I drag my eyes up to meet hers.

“Love it. But can you try a darker lip gloss?”

She flops back onto the chair and I slowly exhale.

I redo her lips twice—first making them berry, then reverting to the original shade, all the while steadying my right elbow with my left palm so my shaking fingers don’t ruin the lines—and by the time I’m finished, my pulse has returned to normal.

When I leave the apartment with a distracted “Thank you” from the girls instead of a tip, my decision is confirmed.

I set the alarm on my phone for 7:15 A.M.

Saturday, November 17

The next morning, I review my plan carefully.

Sometimes an impulsive decision can change the course of your life.

I don’t want that to happen again.

I wait outside Hunter Hall, peering in the direction of Taylor’s apartment. It’s cloudy and the air is thick and gray, so for a moment I mistake another young woman rushing in my direction for her. But it’s just someone out for a jog. When it’s five minutes past eight and it appears that Taylor is still asleep, I enter the lobby, where a guy in khakis and a blue button-down shirt is checking his watch.

“Sorry I’m late!” I call.

“Taylor?” he says. “I’m Ben Quick.”

I’d correctly gambled on the assumption that Taylor wouldn’t phone to cancel.

“Taylor is sick, so she asked me to come and do the questionnaire instead. I’m Jessica. Jessica Farris.”

“Oh.” Ben blinks. He looks me up and down, examining me more carefully.

I’ve traded my ankle boots for Converse high-tops and slung a black nylon backpack over one shoulder. I figure it won’t hurt if I look like a student.

“Can you hang on a second?” he finally says. “I need to check with Dr. Shields.”

“Sure.” I aim for the slightly bored tone Taylor used last night.

The worst thing that’ll happen is he’ll tell me I can’t participate, I remind myself. No big deal; I’ll just grab a bagel and take Leo for a long walk.

Ben steps aside and pulls out his cell phone. I want to listen to his side of the conversation, but his voice is muted.

Then he walks over to me. “How old are you?”

“Twenty-eight,” I respond truthfully.

I sneak a glance at the entrance to make sure Taylor isn’t going to saunter in at the last minute.

“You currently reside in New York?” Ben asks.

I nod.

Ben has two more questions for me: “Where else have you lived? Anywhere outside the United States?”

I shake my head. “Just Pennsylvania. That’s where I grew up.”

“Okay,” Ben says, putting his phone away. “Dr. Shields says you can participate in the study. First, I need to get your full name and address. Can I see some ID?”

I shift my backpack into my hand and dig through it until I find my wallet, then I hand him my driver’s license.

He snaps a picture, then takes down the rest of my information. “I can Venmo you the payment tomorrow at the conclusion of your session if you have an account.”

“I do,” I say. “Taylor told me it’s five hundred dollars, right?”

He nods. “I’m going to text all this to Dr. Shields, then I’ll take you upstairs to the room.”

Could it possibly be this simple?

THE STINK OF BLOOD HUNG heavy in the coach. Zoya pressed her sleeve to her nose to ward off the smell, but the musty odor of dirty wool wasn’t much improvement.

Vile. It was bad enough that she had to go tearing off across the Ravkan countryside in the dead of night in a borrowed, badly sprung coach, but that she had to do so in a garment like this? Unacceptable. She stripped the coat from her body. The stench still clung to the silk of her embroidered blue kefta, but she felt a bit more like herself now.

They were ten miles outside Ivets, nearly one hundred miles from the safety of the capital, racing along the narrow roads that would lead them back to the home of their host for the trade summit, Duke Radimov. Zoya wasn’t much for praying, so she could only hope no one had seen Nikolai escape his chambers and take to the skies. If they’d been back home, back in the capital, this never would have happened.

We danced once before, at the coronation of Prince Dain. Before the murdering began. Before I took Cardan prisoner at knifepoint. I wonder if he is thinking of it when he spins me around the Milkwood.

He might not be particularly practiced with a blade, but as he promised the hag’s daughter, he’s a skilled dancer. I let him steer me through steps I doubtless would have fumbled. My heart is racing and my skin is slicked with sweat.

Papery moths fly above our heads, circling up as though tragically drawn to the light of the stars.

“Whatever you do to me,” I say, too angry to stay quiet. “I can do worse to you.”

“Oh,” he says, fingers tight on mine. “Do not think I forget that for a moment. You’d never allow it.”

“Then why?” I demand.

“You believe I planned your humiliation?” he laughs. “Me? That sounds like work.”

“I don’t care if you did or not,” I tell him, too angry to make sense of my feelings. “I just care that you enjoyed it.”

“And why shouldn’t I delight to see you squirm? You tricked me,” Cardan says. “You played me for a fool and now I am the King of Fools.”

“The High King of Fools,” I say, sneer in my voice. Our gaze meets and there’s a shock of recognition, of mutual understanding that our bodies are pressed too close. I am conscious of my skin, of the sweat beading on my lip, of the slide of my thighs against one another. I am aware of the warmth of his neck beneath my twined fingers, of the prickly brush of his hair and how I want to sink my hands into it. I inhale the scent of him — moss and oak wood and leather. I stare at his treacherous mouth and imagine it on me.

Everything about this is wrong. Around us, the revel is resuming. Some of the Court glances our way, because some of the Court always looks to the High King, but Locke’s game is at an end.

Go back to the palace, Cardan had said and I’d ignored the warning.

I think of Locke’s expression while Cardan spoke, the eagerness in his face. It wasn’t me he was watching. I wonder for the first time if my humiliation was incidental, the bait to his hook.

Tell us what you think of our Lady.

To my immense relief, at the end of the reel, the musicians pause again, looking to the High King for instructions.

I pull away from him. “I am overcome, your Majesty. I would like your permission to withdraw.”

For a moment, I wonder what I will do if Cardan denies me permission. I have issued many commands, but none about sparing my feelings. My mistake.

“You are free to depart or stay, as you like,” Cardan says magnanimously. “The Queen of Mirth is welcome wheresoever she goes.”

I stumble away from him and out of the revel to lean against a tree, sucking in breaths of cool sea air. My cheeks are hot, my face is burning.

At the edge of the Milkwood, I see waves beating against the black rocks. Then I notice shapes on the sand, as though shadows were moving on their own. I blink again. Not shadows. Selkies, rising from the sea. A score, at least. They cast off their sleek seal skins and raise silver blades.

The Undersea has come to the Hunter’s Moon Revel.

I should get a punch card; the hundredth rejected attempt at best-friendom is free. I’m probably on my fifth one by now. “Fine, I’ll respect your privacy.”

He huffs out a skeptical laugh. “Really. Coming from the kid who went through my room every time she came over.”

“I never did.” It’s a miracle I manage to sound so truthful and dignified.

He’s amused. “You did, so many times. What were you looking for?”

“Clues.” I say the first thing I think of; it’s a stupid reply, but it doesn’t get me off the hook.

“Now you have me intrigued.”

I don’t answer. He’s so visibly hot. I don’t mean just handsome—except I do—but there’s a glow under his skin. His clothes are steamed and molded onto his body. Beautiful eyes bright. His hair is curling away from his temples and I’ve seen a mini version of him like this before.

He looks like he’s been locked out of his house, chipping away at a log with an axe for the longest time, waiting for us to find him again. I think that word privilege when I think of Tom, and how lucky I am to have known him for so long—even with Jamie guarding him so jealously. I can’t help but smile.

“What?” He blinks.

“Being too hot is a good look for you.”

He ducks his head and grasps at his t-shirt. Cute and self-conscious is an even better look. His boots squeak on the floor and I put my eyes all over him, because it’s causing a reaction. Something’s happening. Me, sitting here looking at him, is making him sweat more.

“You really are lovely.” I’m about to take pity on him and follow it up with an offhand tension killer, when he huffs out a breath, stands up straighter and, unless I’m mistaken, mentally gives himself a slap.

“You can stop. I know what you’re doing.” He’s got a sharp, irritated look about him now.

“What am I doing?” I actually do need the answer.

He puts a hand on his hip and the t-shirt clings to everything inside it.

“You’ve been messing around with me for a long time, Darce.”

The air zips and crackles, and my mouth drops open. “I haven’t!” I never thought he’d call me on it.

“You know you have.” He goes into the kitchen, I hear the faucet spluttering and the pipes knocking. He re-emerges with an enormous bottle of water. He drinks it in deep gulps, maintaining a thoughtful eye contact with me. Patty climbs off me with an annoyed sneeze. My legs are tense and a completely unsuitable lap.

I wish that bottle of water would never end, so he wouldn’t keep talking, but the final mouthful disappears and he sighs ahhh, and all the lights in the room dim. I’m not being dramatic; it’s true. The lightbulbs go dark, we look around, and then everything blazes into light, brighter than before.

“Shut up, house,” I say to the ceiling. To Tom, I insist, “I’m not messing with you. You’re just lovely. We can tell each other everything.”

“You say some pretty weird stuff sometimes.” There he goes, using the word weirdagain. “And it messes with me. Or, it used to. But I’m all grown up now.” He says it with a little bit of irony in his voice, like he doesn’t quite believe it.

“What is it like being messed with by me?” I can’t stop looking at how his short, neat fingernails are pressing into the cotton at his hip. I’m sweating now. I need to press my sleeve to my brow, but he’ll see.

“Being messed with by Darcy Barrett?” The room gets even brighter. “It sounds like she’s joking with me, but it feels like she’s telling the truth. And I never know which is right.”

The hunter watched the mother, straight as a lightning rod jammed into the earth, channeling her grief into the grave where her heart had been buried. On either side of her stood a little girl in pink cowboy boots. They were both skinny and pale, their red curls now leeched of color in the darkness.

Darkness was the great equalizer. Everyone was the same in the dark. Colorless. Featureless.

Powerless.

The hunter would keep them that way. It was her job, after all. She turned to the vampire beside her. They were both invisible in the black recess of a mausoleum. “The woman lives. The children are yours.”

Technically only one of the girls needed to die, but it was better to avoid any prophetic loopholes. The vampire strolled out toward the grieving family. He didn’t hide or prowl. He didn’t need to.

One of the girls tugged frantically on her mother’s hand. “Mama. Mama!”

The woman turned wearily, without enough time to be surprised before the vampire threw her. She flew back, hitting her husband’s granite headstone and falling unconscious to the soft ground over him. merrick jamison-smythe loomed above her in classically carved letters. The hunter wished she could take a photo. It was perfect staging.

“Hello, girls.” The vampire’s glee was audible. The hunter checked her watch. She should have picked a hellhound, or perhaps the Order of Taraka. But they were outside her price range and, frankly, overkill. Two children needed a very minimal amount of kill. And she liked the symmetry of using a vampire.

He held out his arms, as though inviting the children in for an embrace. “You can run if you’d like. I don’t mind chasing. Works up an appetite.”

The two girls, who the hunter had expected to be screaming by now, looked at each other solemnly. Perhaps standing on the grave of their father, who was dead because of a vampire, they felt the truth: This was always their fate.

One of the girls nodded. The other threw herself at the vampire’s legs with such startling speed and fury that the vampire fell backward, tangled up. Before he could kick the girl off, the other one jumped on his chest.

And then the vampire was gone. Both girls stood, brushing dust from their neat black dresses. The second little girl tucked the stake back into her flowery cowboy boot. They hurried over to their mother and patted her cheeks until she stirred.

At least the mother had the sense to be panicked. The hunter sighed, annoyed, as the mother pulled the girls to herself. Now they were all watching the night. Alert. The hunter had hoped to avoid the confrontation of revealing herself, but it had to be done. She pulled out her crossbow.

Her beeper chimed. She looked down at it out of habit, and when she looked back up, the family was gone.

She swore. She should never have used a vampire. That was what she got for trying for a bit of poetic tragedy. She had orders to keep their mother alive if possible, and she had wanted their mother to live, alone, having lost everything to the same pathetic half-breed of monster. Punishment for thinking she could hide from prophecy. Punishment for risking the entire world for her own selfish desires.

Well. The hunter would find them again. She flipped up her hood and strode to the nearest gas station. A pay phone waited in an anemic pool of light. She picked it up and dialed the number on her beeper.

“Is it done?”

“No,” the hunter replied.

“I’m disappointed in you.”

“So ground me.” She hung up, scowling, and then went inside the gas station. She had failed to avert the apocalypse, for now.

She needed candy.

NAHRI

It was very quiet inside Emir Muntadhir al Qahtani’s apartment.

Banu Nahri e-Nahid paced the room, her bare toes sinking into the sumptuous carpet. Upon a mirrored table, a bottle of wine rested beside a jade cup carved in the shape of a shedu. It had been brought in by the calm-eyed servants who’d helped Nahri out of her heavy wedding clothes; perhaps they’d noticed the Banu Nahida’s trembling and thought it would help.

She stared at the bottle now. It looked delicate. It would be easy to break it, easier still to conceal a glass shard under the pillows of the large bed she was trying not to look at and end this evening in a far more permanent way.

And then you will die. Ghassan would put a thousand of her tribesmen to the sword, make Nahri watch each one, and then throw her to his karkadann.

She tore her gaze from the bottle. A breeze came from the open windows, and she shivered. She’d been dressed in a delicate blue silk shift and soft hooded robe, neither of which did much to ward off the chill. All that was left of the overly elaborate outfit in which she’d been wed was her marriage mask. Made of finely carved ebony and secured by copper clasps and chains, the mask was engraved with her and Muntadhir’s names. It was to be burned upon consummation, the ash marking their bodies the next morning proof of the marriage’s validity. It was—according to the excited Geziri noblewomen teasing her earlier at the wedding dinner—a beloved tradition of their tribe.

Nahri didn’t share their excitement. She’d been sweating since she entered the room, and the mask kept sticking to her damp skin. She pulled it slightly loose, trying to let the breeze cool her flushed cheeks. She caught the reflection of her movement in the massive bronze-edged mirror across the room and averted her eyes. However fine the clothes and mask, they were Geziri, and Nahri had no desire to see herself in the garb of her enemy.

They’re not your enemy, she reminded herself. “Enemy” was Dara’s word, and she was not going to think about Dara. Not tonight. She couldn’t. It would break her—and the last Banu Nahida of Daevabad was not going to break. She’d signed her wedding contract with a steady hand and toasted Ghassan without trembling, smiling warmly at the king who’d threatened her with the murder of Daeva children and forced her to disown her Afshin with the crudest of charges. If she could handle all of that, she could handle whatever happened in this room.

Nahri turned to cross the bedroom again. Muntadhir’s vast apartment was located on one of the upper levels of the enormous ziggurat at the heart of Daevabad’s palace complex. It was filled with art: paintings on silk screens, delicate tapestries, and finely wrought vases, all of which had been carefully displayed and all of which seemed to carry an aura of magic. She could easily envision Muntadhir in this wondrous room, lounging with a cup of expensive wine and some cosmopolitan courtesan, quoting poetry and bantering about the useless pleasures of life that Nahri had neither the time nor inclination to pursue. There was not a book in sight. Not in this room, nor in the rest of the apartment she’d been guided through.

She stopped to stare at the closest painting, a miniature of two dancers conjuring flamelike flowers that sparked and flashed like hearts of ruby as they twirled.

I have nothing in common with this man. Nahri couldn’t imagine the splendor in which Muntadhir had been raised, couldn’t imagine being surrounded by the accumulated knowledge of millennia and not bothering to learn how to read. The only thing she shared with her new husband was one awful night upon a burning ship.

The bedroom door opened.

Nahri instinctively stepped back from the painting, pulling her hood low. There was a soft crash from outside, followed by a curse, and then Muntadhir entered.

He wasn’t alone; indeed, she suspected he might not have made it alone, for he was leaning heavily on a steward, and she could practically smell the wine on his breath from across the room. A pair of female servants followed, and Nahri swallowed as they helped him out of his robe, unwinding his turban with a number of what sounded like teasing jests in Geziriyya, before leading him to the bed.

He sat heavily on the edge, looking drunk and somewhat stunned to find himself there. Heaped with cloudlike linens, the bed was big enough to fit a family of ten—and given the rumors she’d heard whispered about her husband, she suspected he’d filled it on many an occasion. Frankincense smoldered in a corner burner beside a chalice of sweetened milk mixed with apple leaves—a traditional Daeva drink brewed for new brides hoping to conceive. That, at least, would not be happening—Nisreen had assured her. One did not assist Nahid healers for two centuries without learning a number of nearly foolproof methods to prevent pregnancy.

Even so, Nahri’s heart beat faster as the servants left, closing the door softly behind them. Tension filled the air, thick and heavy and at awkward odds with the sounds of celebration in the garden below.

Muntadhir finally glanced up, meeting her eyes. Candlelight played on his face. He might not have had Dara’s literally magical beauty, but he was a strikingly handsome man, a charismatic man, she’d heard, one who laughed easily and smiled often…at least with people who weren’t her. His thick black hair was cut short, his beard stylishly trimmed. He’d worn his royal regalia for the wedding, the gold-trimmed ebony robe and patterned blue, purple, and gold silk turban that were the hallmarks of the ruling al Qahtani family, but he was dressed now in a crisp white dishdasha edged with tiny pearls. The only thing detracting from his careful appearance was a thin scar dividing his left eyebrow—a remnant from Dara’s scourge.

They stared at each other for a long moment, neither one moving. She saw that beneath the edge of drunken exhaustion, he too looked nervous.
Finally, he spoke. “You’re not going to give me plague sores, are you?”

Nahri narrowed her eyes. “Excuse me?”

“Plague sores.” Muntadhir swallowed, kneading the embroidered covering on the bed. “That’s what your mother used to do to men who looked at her too long.”

Nahri hated that the words stung. She wasn’t a romantic—on the contrary, she prided herself on her pragmatism and her ability to set aside her emotions—that’s what had led her to this room, after all. But it was still her wedding night, and she might have hoped for a word of kindness from her new husband; for a man eager to touch her, rather than one worried she would curse him with some sort of magical disease.

She let her robe drop to the floor without ceremony. “Let’s get this over with.” She approached the bed, fumbling with the delicate copper fixtures holding her marriage mask in place.

“Be careful!” Muntadhir’s hand shot out, but he jerked it back when he brushed her fingers. “Forgive me,” he said quickly. “It’s just—the mask clips were my mother’s.”

Nahri’s hands stilled. No one in the palace ever spoke of Muntadhir’s mother, Ghassan’s long-dead first wife. “They were?”

He nodded, taking the marriage mask from her hands and deftly unhooking the clips. In comparison to the opulent room and the glittering jewelry they were both wearing, the clips were rather plain, but Muntadhir held them as if he’d just been handed Suleiman’s seal ring.

“They’ve been in her family for centuries,” he explained, running his thumb over the fine filigree work. “She always made me promise to have my own wife and daughter wear them.” His lips quirked into a sad smile. “She said they brought good fortune and the best of sons.”

Nahri hesitated and then decided to press forward; long-lost mothers might be the only topic they had in common. “How old were you—”

“Young,” Muntadhir cut in, his voice a little raw, as if the question caused him pain. “She’d been bitten by a nasnas out in Am Gezira when she was a child, and the poison stayed with her. She’d have the occasional reaction, but Manizheh could always treat it.” His expression darkened. “Until one summer Manizheh decided dawdling in Zariaspa was more important than saving her queen.”

Nahri tensed at the bitterness lingering in his words. So much for a connection between them. “I see,” she said stiffly.

A.J.

A.J. was a smart boy. He was only five years old but knew the value of a secret. 

He didn’t like keeping secrets from his mom and when he asked her if it was okay to lie, she told him that it was never okay to be dishonest. 

It didn’t make sense. 

A.J. had heard his mother lie before. 

Why was she able to lie when he wasn’t? 

His mother explained that sometimes people told lies to stop another person from being sad, that these were called ‘little white lies’. 

A.J. thought about this. 

His secret would hurt his mom, he’d been told, so it wasn’t really a lie, he thought. Keeping his secret was more a ‘little white lie’. As his mother tucked him in to bed, he smiled up at her. “I love you,” he told her, and he meant it. 

His mother’s smile softened. “I love you more, honey,” she responded quietly as she ran gentle fingers through his messy hair. 

She blew him a kiss as she left his room, turning off the light and closing the door behind her. 

A.J. lay in his bed, awake and waiting.

He wasn’t sure how long he waited but when he heard the window rattle then lift in excruciating slowness, he smiled excitedly. 

His little white lie was here.

Daddy was home.

***

Lexi

“Mummy?”
I heard him. How could I not?
But I continued to drive in silence. I wasn’t really in the mood for conversation, however, the little monster in the back seat had other ideas.
My chest felt heavy, weighed down.
What a day.
Everything felt tight. My insides, my jaw, my grip on the steering wheel. Even my eyes felt tightly fixated on the road. But that wasn’t A.J.’s fault, and I wouldn’t let him know I felt like I was dying on the inside.
A sigh left me.
Daddy day was never a good day for me.
“Yeah, honey?”
He didn’t answer for a long while and when a frown tipped my brow and I glanced back at him through the rear-view mirror, his eyes were fixed on me, unblinking.
My heart ached as I looked into his soft brown eyes.
His fathers’ eyes.
Well, shit.
My nose began to tingle. And just like that, fresh tears rolled down my cheeks. I swiped at them quickly and blinked rapidly, trying in vain to quell the familiar sting of sadness.
Jesus Christ. Get a grip.
My son, he didn’t like to see me upset. His voice was little over a whisper and near desperate. “Don’t cry, mummy.” His voice steeled and he muttered, “I don’t like it.”
I heard his daddy in those hardened words.
Ugh. He was killing me.
We drew to a stop at a set of traffic lights and I took my hands off the wheel, looking back and forcing a smile. I spoke softly, almost pacifying. “Sorry, bud.”
It was his father’s birthday and we were driving home from the cemetery. Every single time I saw that gleaming white marble headstone, it took me back to a time I chose to remember when I would be better off forgetting. That time so long ago, yet so vividly fresh in my memories. No matter how much time passed, I was stuck there, in that time. In a place where I was wild and careless and in the arms of the man I loved.
Make no mistake about it. I was dangerously in love.
Recklessly in love.
The lights turned green and I twisted back, driving on, once again gripping the steering wheel like a lifeline. We were halfway home before I realized I was driving on autopilot, not at all paying any attention to my surroundings.
My heart lurched in apprehension. I swallowed hard and shook my head in a poor attempt to snap myself out of my stupor.
Maybe conversation wasn’t such a bad idea after all. “How about we go to the grocery store, get a bunch of junk food and watch a movie tonight?”
The wide smile on my face was genuine then. There was only one man in my life and he glued my heart together with mud, giggles and drawings crafted with crayon and love.
A.J. smiled, my toothless monster, but as quickly as it came, it went. “What day is it?”
I stalled.
Umm…
I couldn’t help my quiet laughter.
What a question?
Amused bewilderment stunned me and my brows rose. “Uh,” I tried to quell the urge to laugh again. “Sunday.”
He blinked down at his lap before looking back at me through the mirror. He shook his head before staring out the window. “No, thank you.”
Confusion marred my brow.
Huh?
He was passing up junk food? Since when?
I didn’t want to push but I was slow to realize that I needed time with my son, today more than ever. I was going to have to sweeten the pot. “Maybe we could stay up really late, sleep in then go out for pancakes tomorrow.”
Ooh. I smiled inwardly.
He looked tempted.
“What about school?”
Did he even know me? I was a cool mom. What was one day of missing school to bond with my son? “Forget about it. I’ll tell them your sick.”
“That’s a lie.” He peered at me a moment before avoiding my gaze. “And I like school.”
“Just a little lie.” My smile began to droop. “A white lie.”
Wait. Was I really explaining myself to a five-year-old?
What was going on here? A.J wasn’t acting like himself.
After a moment of puzzlement, a thought dawned and I recognized how selfish I was being. He was just a little boy and perhaps today was harder for him than I thought. Maybe he had just started to figure out exactly what he’d lost in losing his father.
Chances were, even though I needed a distraction, maybe A.J. needed the time to process what he was feeling. And my chest ached.
Could he be mourning as I was?
I sighed inwardly and my smile turned sad. “That’s okay, honey. Next time.” But I couldn’t help the feeling of disconnection between us.
And then we were home.
I pulled into the drive and turned off the car. Before I got out, I turned in my seat to look back at my sweet boy.
“Hey,” I started and when he looked up me with those long dark lashes, I melted. “I know today wasn’t easy.” I put my hand on his knee. “Are you okay?”
He was stoic a long moment, my baby, and then shook his head but remained stone-faced. I gave him time and a full minute went by before he dipped his chin and carefully uttered, “If somebody told me something… a secret… and I want to tell someone else, is that okay?”
I thought about A.J.’s little friends and asked, “Is the secret hurting anybody?”
A.J. thought about it. “No. I don’t think so.”
“Honey, when somebody tells you a secret, it’s not your secret to tell. And when somebody is telling you that secret, they’re trusting you to keep that for them.” I reached over and ran my fingers down the side of his face. “You sure this secret isn’t hurting anybody?”
He looked down and those long lashes glances his cheeks. He then gave a firm nod. “I’m sure.”
Thank God.
I wasn’t sure I could deal with much more upset today. “Okay, then no, sweetie. You shouldn’t tell anybody.”
“Not even you?” he queried sensibly.
“Me?” I pinched his cheek lightly, playfully, and he broke out into a huge smile. “You can tell me anything.” I winked at him. “We don’t keep secrets, right?”
I didn’t understand it. He looked visibly upset but whispered, “Right.”
Uh oh.
Not good.
My heart stuttered as I helped him out of his seat. I got out of the car and pulled him to me, hugging him to my side. His arm went around my waist.
What was going on with my boy? I was suddenly anxious.
“You can tell me anything.” I looked down at him, unblinking. “Anything at all. And I won’t get upset. I’ll just listen if you need me to but,” I stopped, stood in his path and knelt down, looking my son deep in the eye, “We don’t keep secrets from each other, buddy.”
He nodded slowly, wisely, as though he was caught in a predicament and wasn’t sure how to proceed.
Shit.
It worried me.
Once inside, I let my bag slide off my shoulder onto the breakfast bar and glanced back to the little boy standing awkwardly in the doorway, hesitantly. We continued to look at each other a while before I asked, “You got something to say to me, bud?”
A second later, he nodded. “Yeah,” he shuffled on his feet.
He had something important to tell me, I could feel it, as a mother does. I gave him my undivided attention. “What is it?”
A.J spoke and I wasn’t prepared for what he said. Not at all.
“Well, sometimes, late at night…”
Oh, this was not starting well. My heart immediately began to race.
“Sometimes,” he looked down at the skirting and rubbed his shoe against it. His voice lowered a few decibels, “Sometimes daddy comes to see me.”
The pressure in my heart released, the tight band uncoiling.
Oh lord.
Today was not the day.
I felt like crying.
“Baby.” My eyes closed of their own accord and I let out a humorless laugh, forcing down the thickness in my throat. I pulled him into me and squeezed him tightly, rocking him from side-to-side, kissing his temple.
He hugged me back just as hard and I explained a few things to him.
“I know it feels that way.” I kissed him again. “Daddy comes to me too sometimes.” I pulled back and watched him cautiously. “In my mind. In my dreams.”
“No,” A.J. shook his head. “Not in my dreams, mummy. It’s real.”
Oh, sweetie… no.
My heart broke as I tried to explain to him that what he was feeling, what he was seeing was nothing more than a coping mechanism. I should know. At one point, Twitch would be in my room every single night and I would talk to him. He never responded to my anxious questions. It took me a while and a whole lot of therapy for me to realize that I was psychologically hurting myself.
“When I dream of daddy, it feels so real.” Inhaling deeply, shakily, I spoke out, on an exhale. “It feels so real that sometimes that I don’t want to wake up from such a beautiful dream.” I closed my eyes to stress my next words, gripping his forearms, “But it’s just a dream, honey.” I pulled him to me once again and snaked my arms around him. “It’s not real.”
A.J. frowned. “No, mummy.” He tried to shake his head against my chest. “It’s real. Really real.”
No, it isn’t. He’s gone.
“Baby,” My heart ached as much as the spoken words. “Daddy’s gone.”
“He isn’t,” he said adamantly in only the way a five-year-old could.
I bit my lip to stop myself from releasing a pained cry. Instead, I whispered, “Yes.”
But A.J. wasn’t having it. He took a step back from me and I felt the loss immediately. The full force of his glare hit me. “No.”
Godammit.
Didn’t he know how much he was hurting me?
Twitch was gone.
And he was never coming back.
But my son was so important, so precious to me, that I caved and as I did, a tear trailed my cheek. “Okay, baby.”
A look of vindication crossed him and when he threw himself into my arms, I held my baby and wept silently.
Because my son was mourning the father he never had. And whichever way he chose to cope with that was okay with me.

Even if it meant hurting me in the process.

Seraphine

August 2017

We have no photographs of our early days, Danny and I. A six-month gap yawns in the Mayes family album after we were born. No first-day-at-school pictures for Edwin, no means of telling which of us two looked more like him at the beginning. An empty double page marks the overwhelming grief that followed our arrival.

It’s a muggy evening at Summerbourne, and the unopened window in the study muffles the distant rasp of the sea and leaves my skin clammy. I’ve spent the day creating paperwork towers that cluster around the shredder now, their elongated shadows reminding me of the graveyard. If Edwin has finished his packing, he’ll be waiting for me downstairs; he disapproves of me doing this so soon, or perhaps disapproves of me doing it at all.

The swivel chair tilts with me as I grab another photo wallet from the bottom desk drawer-more landscape shots of my father’s, I expect-and I focus on the wall calendar as I straighten, counting red-rimmed squares. Twenty days since my father’s accident. Eight days since his funeral. The packet flaps open and spills glossy black negatives across the carpet, and my jaw tightens. I’ve lost count of how many days since I last slept.

The first photo is of Edwin on the beach as a child, and I check the date on the back: June 1992, just weeks before Danny and I were born. I study this four-year-old version of my big brother for any sign of awareness of the family catastrophe that was looming, but of course there is none: he’s laughing, squinting against the bright sunlight, pointing a plastic spade toward a dark-haired young woman at the edge of the image.

Photos of seagulls and sunsets follow, and I shuffle through them until I reach the final picture: a domestic scene both recognizable and unfamiliar. The hairs at the base of my skull prickle, and I hold my breath, and the air in the room presses closer, as if it too is straining to absorb the details.

We grew up with no photos of our early days, Danny and I. Yet here is our mother, sitting on the patio at Summerbourne, her face tilted down toward a swaddled baby cradled in her arms. Here is our father, standing on one side of her, young Edwin on the other side, both beaming proudly at the camera.

I bend closer over the image: my mother, before she left us. The details of her expression are hazy, the picture poorly focused, yet she radiates a calm composure from the neatness of her hair, the angle of her cheek, the curve of her body around the single infant. She shows none of the wild-eyed distress that has always haunted my imagination in the absence of anyone willing to describe her final hours to me.

I flip the photo over, and my father’s distinctive scrawl confirms it was taken on the day we were born, just over twenty-five years ago. I already know it could be no later, because on the same day Danny and I were born, our mother jumped from the cliffs behind our house and killed herself.

My bare feet make no noise on the stairs.

A duffel bag lurks by the hall table, snagging at my dressing gown as I sweep past. I find Edwin leaning against the wooden countertop in the unlit kitchen, gazing through the wide glass doors toward the shadows in the garden.

“Look at this.” I flick on the lights. “I’ve never seen this before.”

He takes the picture, blinking.

“Me neither,” he says. He studies it. “The day you were born. I didn’t know we had this, but . . . yeah, I think I remember it being taken.” It’s the first time I’ve seen him smile in days. “Dad looks so young. Look at that. Mum looks so . . .”

“Happy,” I say.

“Yeah.” His tone is soft; his attention absorbed in the picture.

“Not like someone who’s about to commit suicide.”

His smile fades.

I twitch the picture from his fingers and scrutinize it. “Why’s she only holding one of us? Is it me or Danny?”

“I’ve no idea. What’s this one?” Edwin reaches for the other photo I brought down-him laughing on the beach with the dark-haired teenager. “Oh, this was Laura. I remember her. She was nice.”

“Your au pair?” I ask. Now that he says her name, I’m pretty sure I’ve seen her in the family photo album. The young woman who looked after Edwin in those carefree days before we were born, when he still had a mother and no need of the full-time roster of nannies that Danny and I grew up with.

“She’s the one who took this,” Edwin says, reaching again for the photo of our mother holding the single baby, but I keep my grip on it and take it with me to the kitchen table. I drop onto a chair and straighten the picture in front of me, smoothing a curled corner with my thumb.

“It’s odd,” I say. “It’s staged, like you were marking the occasion. You’d think they’d have made sure both of us were in it.”

Edwin shakes his head. “I don’t know. I guess-there was other stuff going on we don’t know about.”

“But Mum looks so calm here.” I frown at the picture. “I know-I do know why we never had any baby photos. Everyone in shock after Mum died. But I can’t believe-I’ve finally found one-and I don’t even know if it’s me or Danny in it.”

“Here,” Edwin says. “I’ll take it-I’ll ask Gran about it.” He reaches for it again, but I press my thumb more firmly onto the corner.

“Gran never wants to talk about these things,” I say. “No one ever does.”

Edwin sighs. “You need to get some sleep, Seph-do you want to try one of Gran’s pills? Maybe get dressed tomorrow, go out for a walk or something.” He rubs his eyes briefly. “Things will get easier, you know.”

“Do you think we could find Laura?” I ask him. “If she’s the one who took the picture, maybe she could tell us . . .” I bend closer over the image, gazing at my mother’s hair, the way she cradles the baby. “This was literally a few hours before Mum died, wasn’t it? This was the day everything here changed.”

“Seraphine,” Edwin says.

I look up at him. “And we don’t know why. And now Dad’s gone, we might never . . .” The injustice of our situation-of growing up without a mother and now losing our father in such a senseless accident-comes crashing down on me again.

Edwin’s gaze travels from my unwashed hair to the coffee stain on my dressing gown, and then he squeezes his eyes shut. “Okay, I’m going to stay another night. I can’t leave you like this. I’ll ring work first thing and explain.”

“No.” I slide the photo away across the table and roll my shoulders, stretching my neck. “Don’t be silly. I’m fine, honestly. I guess I was just wondering, really, where Laura went. Afterward.”

Edwin watches me. I concentrate on relaxing my facial muscles, dredging up an expression of unconcerned interest. He sighs again.

“She left after Mum died. I’ve no idea where she went. And she’d be-what? In her forties by now. Even if you knew where she was, you couldn’t just turn up on her doorstep complaining that one of you got missed out of a photo twenty-five years ago. She’d think you were nuts.”

I nod, and Edwin pushes himself off from the countertop, heading to the hall. The corner of the photo lifts again, and I draw it slowly back toward me.

“But if she could tell us what happened-“

He pauses in the doorway. “We know what happened, Seph. Mum was ill. She took her own life. We can’t change that.”

I press my lips together.

“Do you want me to stay?” he asks. “I can stay another night. Or, look-pack a bag and come back with me? Go out with Danny tomorrow, have lunch with Gran. Take your mind off things.”

I grit my teeth. For almost three weeks I’ve had my brothers and my grandmother staying at Summerbourne with me, handling funeral arrangements and solicitors and condolence visits. I can’t begin to express to Edwin how desperately thirsty I am now for solitude.

“No, honestly, I’m fine,” I say. “You need to go. It’s late.” I fold my hands in my lap and try to smile at him. “I’ll go to bed now. I might come up at the weekend.”

Prologue

No pulse beat beneath the skin.

Kin concentrated, waiting for the familiar thump to barely register with his senses. Not his heartbeat, but something equally important: a Temporal Corruption Bureau retrieval beacon, one fine-tuned to his specific biometrics.

After twenty-eight assignments over eight years, the implanted beacon’s soft pulse usually faded into the background, another subtlety of time travel that was simply part of the job. Like one’s own heartbeat, it was one of those things that went unnoticed until it vanished. Now it was gone.

And with it, his return ticket to 2142.

Kin unwrapped the bandage, ignoring the burning pain through his abdomen as he tore the fabric off. His fingers found the dried green edge of binding gel and peeled the adhesion away from the gunshot’s entry point beneath his ribs. He carefully collected any dried gel fragments in a motel towel to be burned later—even in his roughest shape, he always adhered to timeline corruption protocols. No need for nosy 1996 janitorial staff to find future medical tech, even after usage.

The bright LED numbers on the wood-trim clock radio across the motel room showed that eight hours and four minutes had passed since his encounter. He could still feel the factory rooftop gravel digging into the back of his neck while wrestling his target, a time-traveling merc who’d been hired to delay a senator’s husband, causing her to miss a vote on a seemingly benign banking regulation that would actually have decades of negative consequences. They’d engaged, his arms and legs locking hers in a vise hold before she managed to grab a brick fragment and smash his kneecap.

Now his fingers gripped the bathroom sink’s rim and he steadied himself, his left knee refusing to carry much weight.

A brick to the knee and a boot to the ribs. Then a gunshot, not from a plasma discharger but an era-appropriate semiautomatic pistol.

The target’s smirk still burned in his memory, the slightest of smiles visible through thin moonlight. For a flash, he’d wondered why she found their encounter amusing, but when the gun’s barrel slid down from his forehead to the implanted retrieval beacon, he knew.

Stranding him, it seemed, was a crueler twist than murder.

Kin cursed himself for letting her get the better of him, for trusting his gut instead of the endless intel notes provided by the TCB.

She’d let her guard down a few seconds later, which was the only opening he needed, adrenaline powering a takedown. The sickening crunch of a snapped neck brought on both relief and self-loathing, typical rushes that came with TCB Protocol Eight Ninety-Six:

In case of life-threatening resistance, field agents are authorized to eliminate the target in lieu of apprehension.

Mission accomplished. Now what?

Kin racked his brain, searching through memories of processes, protocols, and training, anything that might give some insight into what happened when the beacon went offline. But the endless list of technical specifications and fail-safe details offered little comfort, things field agents memorized for no good reason, really.

Except there was a good reason: the beacon never went offline. It couldn’t. Not while he was alive.

Assess and execute, he told himself. Processes, lists, mental visualization, his mind’s eye sorted it all using years of agent training. Kin’s hand pressed firm against the wound, waiting for the slightest of tremors to register across his palm.

Blood oozed out, bright red slipping between his dark brown fingers and running down his shirtless side. One drop hit the bathroom tile of the motel room safe house, then another and another. “Temporal Crimes field agent I-D-R one-five, code E-six, interface active.” The activation phrase given at the end of every mission.

Two minutes passed, a hundred and twenty frozen moments.

Kin waited, then repeated the activation phrase. One second ticked by, then another and a third. Everything after became a blur; he stared, eyes squinting, awaiting the holographic projection with tactile interface, what always appeared when he said the activation phrase.

He could see the holo now: the blue-and-orange semitransparent lines with a simple input/output display floating a few inches from his face. He could feel the tactile thump response of the virtual keyboard while entering in mission status codes and confirmation thumbprint signature.

But only in his head. No holo interface, no ability for end-of-mission transmission to the Mission Control war room.

Kin grabbed a small black rectangle from his first-aid kit. “Vital measurement scan,” he said, and a hologram of letters and numbers floated in front of him, broadcasting his body temperature (slightly elevated due to injury), heart rate (same), hydration level (dehydrated), respiratory rate (normal), and blood pressure (steady). All of that should have coordinated with the beacon to confirm his identity and fuel its thermal-generated power source.

A thin black stick popped out of the device with a quick hydraulic hiss. He gripped the plasma scalpel, palm wrapped around the cylinder so tight that his hand throbbed. Two inches above the gunshot wound. Then a diagonal line about eight inches down, held at a slight angle inward.

In theory, if the beacon had even a flick of power coursing through it, removing it would fire an emergency retrieval signal to a Mission Control tracking system in 2142 as its final shutdown act, a trigger upon exposure to raw air.

Kin ignited the scalpel, the stench of burning flesh harsher than the gradual burn into his skin.

But if the beacon was totally dead, he’d have a gaping wound on top of his existing injuries. Not ideal conditions for patching up ad hoc surgery, especially with a lack of basic medical supplies.

The scalpel retracted its thin beam of heat.

Towel. Water. Pressure. Binding gel. For now, he bandaged the wound while considering the next logical step. Two more days in 1996 until the end of his two-week mission span, two more days in 2142 before Mission Control scanned for a retrieval signal. Normally, he appreciated the TCB’s strict scheduling, a one-for-one policy that prevented field agents from appearing to age at an accelerated rate. Now that just meant two more days of asking what-ifs.

When the TCB failed to detect a signal from his beacon, common sense dictated they’d pick him up and bring him home. Even without the beacon’s geopositioning, access to all of the digital records in human history made this
easy.

That had to be it. They wouldn’t leave him here.

Would they?

His wound bound and cleaned, Kin sank his naked back against the bathroom wall. He slid down and let out a breath, an oppressive weight collapsing down on his chest.

A new option appeared in his mind, the only one left: stay calm, wait, and see.

An unknown future. The thought gripped every muscle in his body. Kin’s groan echoed off the thin, dirty walls of the motel bathroom, and though this room had harsh lighting, his eye caught something behind the toilet. Despite the burn in his side and stinging in his knees, Kin reached, gut cramping from the wound, and he slid the object into view while fighting off the slight tremble taking over his hand.

A penny.

A quiet laugh fought past the pain spidering throughout his battered body, past the fears he didn’t want to acknowledge. The most worthless piece of physical currency in 1996. Or a sign of something else.

He grasped the coin, his fingers curled into a fist, pressing so hard the edges dug into his skin. A calm came over him, his breath returning to normal and his heartbeat slowing to a regular rhythm. It had to be something, this one little sign of his past—or his future, depending on perspective.

Hope. Of course. What else would a penny be to him?