The cinnamon scent of magic and the smell of polished metal and leather fills the air as I hurry into the spacious car hangar. The fleet of Bentleys are all parked inside, lined up like silver soldiers in formation. Moonlight filters through an open door, casting spooky patterns on the walls. I rush to the time-traveling Bentley on the far right, its sleek silver exterior gleaming under the soft lighting. Its blue rims glow, emphasizing its sculpted design and the unforgettable Baldwin family crest on the car grille. A thin cloud of glitter surrounds all the Bentleys now, looking like stardust.
Thinking I hear the tapping of a security guard’s six-inch heels moving closer, I crouch behind the car until I’m sure the coast is clear.
I stand and stretch my palms toward the Bentley. Eyes closed, I picture another identical car. I focus and clear my mind, like Gran has taught me. My hands mimic the detailed swirls and loops that Grandmère did with her fingers during my illusion training. My body flickers with energy. Sweat bubbles on my forehead and rolls down near my ear. I paint another image of twin Bentleys in my mind. My lashes part. Out the open door, I see stars ripple as glittering stardust cascades from heaven, raining down on a shimmering, translucent image of another Bentley that begins to form near the one I stand by. Each detail of the car is meticulously crafted by my will—the sleek curves, the shiny chrome, the identical grille. The illusion is so flawless anyone would believe it’s real… unless they tried to drive to Paris in it.
I jump up and down by my creation, beaming. “I did it!” I rejoice quietly.
With my heart thumping, I leave the illusion car with the rest of the fleet and drive off in a real Bentley.
My destination: 10AM, October 15th, 1893, Chicago.
“Malcolm, I’m on my way,” I whisper as I drive to the past to figure out how to rewrite my future.
CHAPTER THIRTEENMalcolm DavenportCHICAGO, 1893
The World’s Fair is a kaleidoscope of color and sound—white buildings like ice castles, people wearing clothes of all shades, and musicians in loud suits playing louder music. They make me wish I’d brought my guitar. On the cobblestone path beside me, a child tugs at his mother’s skirt, eyes wide as he points to a juggler tossing red balls, while a vendor in a red-and-white pinstriped vest shouts, “Caramel popcorn. Get your caramel corn here!,” and children walk by eating chocolate candies and bowls of colorful fruit coated in a veil of sugar syrup that makes my belly grumble.
Finally, the universe seems to slow as the crowd parts for Emma. Her brown skin shimmers in the sunlight. She blinks deep brown eyes with bursts of hazel like drizzles of honey on a praline. And lashes. Her lashes are so long a man could get tied up in thoughts of them. Then she crinkles a cute broad nose. Her fingers comb the dark curls around her face. And for some reason those curls make me think of the ocean at midnight. She looks around, searching the sea of people to find me.
Our eyes meet. I smile, and she gives me a little wave. And my heart betrays me. It starts jumping like a bullfrog.
Emma weaves through a parade of jugglers in sapphire vests adorned with shimmering sequins. They toss emerald-colored balls around her. But she eclipses them. Colors fade next to her cotton-candy-pink dress. It’s full of tiered skirts that bury her hips, but a tight bodice lined in bows in the middle shows off some of her dangerous curves. I race through the crowd and meet her near the carriages parked by the curb. As I near her, fluffy balloon animals held by clowns with faces painted in scary exaggerated smiles block my path. I pivot around them.
“Hey,” I say to Emma.
“Hi,” she replies in a breathy voice. “You’re bright and early.”
“I’m early, but not always bright,” I joke.
Just when I think Emma can’t get any more beautiful, her fluttering dress blushes into a bewitching candy-apple-red shade. People gasp, mouths hitched wide as they start to gather around. A child beside Emma points. “How’d she do it, Mommy?”
I’m worried that we might attract bad attention, and my eyes dart all over.
“Let’s go,” I say, guiding Emma toward a carriage with thick vines of gold leaf climbing around its frame. The vines blossom at each edge into painted flowers whose centers gleam with tiny rubies in the sunlight.
“What?”
“Trust me.”
“Trust you?” she huffs, pulling her arm from my grip. “Your family stole from me. Where’s my necklace?”
“You’ll get it soon,” I reply. A powerful white horse tosses its head, its long mane shiny in the wind. It jerks its red-and-gold muzzle, adorned with a velvet bridle, as I approach the driver and slide him some cash. The animal’s breath mists out in a funky haze, making me want to puke. The sun glints off the gold-plated trim of the carriage.
I open the door and look at Emma. “Your carriage awaits, little star.”
Eyeing me cautiously, Emma reluctantly lets me help her inside. “What’sgoing on?” she asks, creasing her forehead. She glances back nervously as the carriage clip-clops forward.
“Trust me,” I say again as we ride through the fair. I lean over, looking at the carriage wheels. They resemble intertwining branches, complete with leaves forged from gold. “We had to get out of there. Before someone who saw that change called you a witch.” Or some prejudiced people hate on her lovely outfit and try to tear her down because they’re insecure.
She smirks. “You think I made it to eighteen without being called that before? Or called worse?”
I shake my head. “I just didn’t want you dealing with that today.”
Emma reaches out to brush lint off my shoulder. Her fleeting touch sends a surge of energy through me, stirring a blend of desire and the darker urge to break her arm. The bloodlust simmers, whispering that I should kill her now and avoid the Tether. But I shove those awful thoughts away. I inch back, putting a safe distance between us. I can never predict when the curse’s bloodlust will bubble up, but I hoped I wouldn’t feel it today. I wonder if it ever bothers her. She hit me with stardust the day we met. So maybe it bugs her too. I try to think of the things I like about her to help calm those evil impulses. I think of her bravery, her inner strength, the way she charged backstage to help her brother. I look at the crowd and gulp breaths. As I get myself together, she’s quiet. It makes me wonder if she is struggling under the weight of the curse too.
I try to distract myself with thoughts of the last time I experienced this version of Chicago. It was way back when Dad was alive. My parents were teaching me how to navigate safely as an African American time traveler. I dig into my suit pocket and feel hard binding brush my fingertips. I find the small red guidebook Dad had made for my siblings and me, filled with details of safer times and locations for our travels and warning us of events that could toss us headfirst into danger—like the Tulsa massacre and Rosewood. I smile at the memory of my father, of a time when my mom was well, gripping the guidebook tightly.
Emma shifts on the mossy-green velvet seat. We wobble along to the sound of the horseshoes clip-clopping over the cobblestone street. Stiltwalkers in striped trousers of bold red and white tower above our carriage, their red shirts trimmed with golden tassels blowing in the breeze.
