The snow covered the land in a thick blanket of eerie, blood-stained white, the remnants of its once-vibrant community long gone. The ravages of the land spoke to a citizenship now more concerned with war and victory than humanity and peace. Caitriona felt lost in the devastation that surrounded her.

She remembered negotiating with Hawkins’ soldier for passage home. She’d exchanged her information and Hawkins’ man would provide the ship and pilot she’d need to traverse time. She knew it was a long shot and had purposely layered in some safeguards should Hawkins not stay true to his word. The one variable she hadn’t counted on was Duncan.

After the mediation, Duncan sought her out to hatch his plan. He’d wanted to use the hostilities from the mediation to have her convince Hawkins she was not loyal to Duncan’s cause but was a prisoner of the rebellious Templar leader. It was almost too easy. The plan fit neatly within Caitriona’s own plan to trade information with Hawkins for passage home. Once back in her time, she would work to ensure this timeline never happened.

With Duncan encouraging her to meet with Hawkins, the plan seemed almost flawless. She simply had to convince Hawkins that her information was of value to him and that she would not interfere with the timeline. She knew she’d have to be convincing and was trying to concoct her strategy when she had been knocked unconscious. She awoke two days later in her cell, a captive of Hawkins once again. She pleaded with him to keep his end of the bargain but his lust for her and her power, coupled with his very real fear that she would change the timeline, had kept her shackled and a prisoner of the man who once tried to rape her.

I’m an idiot, she thought with disgust. The only thing she had succeeded in doing was putting herself, Duncan, and the others in danger. Hawkins would not rest until he had killed Duncan and found a way to use her powers to his advantage.

She sighed and pressed a hand to her head. Duncan would be furious when he discovered the depths of her treachery. Her only hope was to escape and somehow get back to her time and undo the Order’s advancement. And the only one who could do that for her now was Duncan. She would have to convince him that her plan was sound.

If she ever saw him again.

Drawing in a deep breath, she opened her mind the way Nicolas had taught her and tried to find her handler’s energy. She couldn’t feel him. She couldn’t feel anything. Wrapping her arms around her body, she rubbed her hands vigorously up and down her arms to ward off the biting cold. She wasn’t prepared for the numbing cold that permeated the city. What remained of her gown was of little use. But it was her foot that she worried about most of all.

Removing the now-wet cloth she had earlier wrapped around her foot, she ripped another dry piece from the remnants of her gown and once again wrapped her foot against the cold. It was better than walking barefoot, but it didn’t take long before the snow and ice soaked the strip of satiny fabric.

She made her way to the Ford Theater, ever watchful for Hawkins’ men. The old theater looked deserted, its once stately and arched entrance now weathered and crumbling beneath the forces of nature and the New World Order.

She had no idea why an image of the theater would have flashed in her mind, but recent experience taught her to ignore nothing. She made her way along the south side of the building, pausing when she heard next-gen weapons being fired. When she was reasonably sure the way was clear again, she hurried to her destination, breathing a sigh of relief when she spotted the once-stately front doors.

She furrowed her brow as she stared at the dilapidated building that in her century had been impeccably maintained as a historical landmark. The red brick that had long ago been an iconic part of the theater was now windswept and disintegrating. The windows had been boarded up and the stark white arches that had once lined the front of the building were now caked with dirt and grime. The snow—left unplowed—now piled several feet tall, making it impossible to access the doors. Caitriona hugged herself, fighting the urge to sit down and give in to the elements.

Remembering her history lessons about Lincoln’s assassination, she hurried to the alley on the east side of the building. The snow was less dense here as the other buildings provided some shelter from the barrage of snow that dumped unmercifully this time of year. She pushed through the snow, her foot once again numb and the tiny cloth now completely soaked. She wrapped her hands in the folds of her garment and began pushing against the sides of the building. She knew there was a back door—she just had to hope it was still accessible.

After carefully searching the side wall twice, she let out a frustrated cry, tears streaking her dirty cheeks. She was exhausted, injured, and cold. She knew she’d have to abandon the search and look for a dry place to shelter. Night was rapidly approaching and with it a likely barrage of more snow and soldiers.

Turning to inspect the building across the street, she missed the shadow that crossed behind her. Too late, she realized she wasn’t alone. Choking back a scream, she tried to run but her numb feet wouldn’t cooperate. She toppled backward into the snow, her head smacking against a packed patch of ice. She groaned as pain shot through her scalp and nausea threatened to overtake her. As she sank back against the snow, her last thought was a desperate, silent cry to the only man who could hear her.