Tavish and Albie were my mates. Fate had matched me with them, and I wasn’t going to let anything—or any time—stand in my way.
I’d find them. I didn’t know how yet, but I would.
I pushed back my chair and stood. Inside the cafe, the waitress caught my eye. She nodded.
I nodded back.
Then I walked into the chaos of New York City, alone but no longer without purpose. I had a mission: find my mates and accept the bond.
And get us all home.
Chapter
Eighteen
PORTIA
Three days later, I knew I was never getting home.
Morning sunlight rose over the tops of Manhattan’s skyscrapers, the glare making me wince and step into the shadow cast by an awning.
Humans in work clothes streamed past, some with newspapers tucked under their arms. Many of them sucked on cigarettes or stopped to light cigarettes or ducked into shops to buy cigarettes.
The first day, I’d charged down the streets looking for an opportunity to interfere. The last three times I’d opened the chronomancer’s bag, I’d landed in the middle of the past I was meant to change. Medieval England. Bucharest. The demon plane. On each occasion, I’d stumbled directly into the arms of interference.
But this time was different.
I wandered through Central Park until dusk, then made my way to Times Square. But the famous tourist attraction was a lot different from what I’d seen on day trips with Malcolm. The theaters glittered, and plenty of neon lights buzzed overhead, but danger hovered in the air. Humans stared as they passed me, some sizing me up like a hunter examining prey.
A woman with hair teased into a small mountain stepped into my path, the edges of her red lipstick extending past her lips. “You lost, honey?”
“I’m fine,” I mumbled.
She turned as I moved around her. “You wanna make some money?”
“No.” I walked faster, reaching for my dragon as I went. But the beast stayed hidden in the deep valleys of my mind. When I needed her chaos and temper the most, she was absent.
Moments later, a man tried to sell me a hot dog. The tangy scent of ketchup and the sizzle of beef from the portable grill on his cart made my stomach clench with hunger.
But I had no money, and I blinked away tears as I shook my head and hurried past.
I spent that first night on a bench in a park. The temperature plunged, and I tugged at my dragon, begging her to rouse and help me fly somewhere safer. But she stayed silent.
The second day was harder. Hunger was a ceaseless, churning grind in my gut, and fresh blisters formed on my heels. My body couldn’t heal wounds when I was starving and exhausted, so I stopped every hour and eased my shoes off.
Later, I stole an apple fritter from a stand while the vendor helped another customer. Guilt gnawed at me, but I licked the sugar from my fingers and wished for more.
And I wandered the streets, waiting for something to happen. Instead, the city moved around me, the noise and clamor of humanity indifferent to my struggle. When a security guard caught me sleeping in the lobby of an office building, I’d stumbled back to Central Park and cried myself to sleep in the shadows under a bridge.
Now on the third day, hunger was a constant, throbbing ache. My dress was stained, and some of the beadwork had unraveled. My blisters screamed with every shuffling step.
I’d stolen rolls from the back of a bakery truck while the driver carried deliveries into a grocery store. Memories of Tavish smiling in the hotel bathroom’s doorway tightened my throat as I sat on the edge of a fountain in Central Park. A little boy threw pennies in the water while his mother watched with a soft smile.
What would I wish for?
Home.
Tavish and Albie.
