DISCARDED
1902—New York
For Logan Sullivan, traveling through time wasn’t the romantic adventure the movies made it out to be. For one thing, he didn’t get to sail along in a floating car or a magical police box. It wasn’t an easy jump. It hurt. And another thing—it made his head spin, his guts feel like they were about to fall out, and his very self feel like it was about to shatter. There was always a moment just as Esta dragged Logan from one time to another when he swore that there was a chance they wouldn’t make it at all, a point where it felt like he didn’t even exist. In short, time travel was a difficult, dangerous, and frustrating pain in the ass.
But then again, so was Esta.
She was the one who had always been able to see right through him, and that was damn inconvenient for Logan Sullivan, considering he’d discovered a long time ago that it was easier to move through the world if you let your pretty face do the talking.
Still, pain in the ass or not, he’d felt bad about the gun he’d pressed to her side and even worse about the bullets Professor Lachlan had loaded into it. It wasn’t that he didn’t believe the Professor when he’d told Logan that Esta had turned on them and couldn’t be trusted. It was that Logan might have been a lot of things, but he’d never thought of himself as a murderer. He didn’t like the idea of having to put a bullet in her back. Even if she had done the same to Dakari.
So he’d been glad when she hadn’t fought him as they’d walked to the departure point. He’d been relieved when he’d had to nudge her only once to get her moving, but he should have known it couldn’t be that easy. Nothing with her ever was. One minute he felt like the whole world was being ripped apart, like his very soul was collapsing in on itself, and then he felt the solidness of the pavement beneath him again.
Before he could even pull himself upright, he’d felt a pain tear through his shoulder joint, and his hand had gone numb as Esta slid away from him. He’d stumbled, trying to get to his feet, but his vision was only just clear enough to see Esta scoop up the bag he’d been carrying and disappear.
Logan was trying to get his eyes to focus, when the reality of his situation hit him. The dampness of the cobbled street, the smell of coal smoke and soot in the air. The strange slant of light coming down through the overcast day, and the bustle of voices around him in languages he didn’t understand. Professor Lachlan had tried to teach him, but he never had the head for words the way Esta had.
Esta. Who was always good at everything. Esta, who had definitely abandoned him.
In the past.
There was a scent in the air with the sootiness—a ripeness that indicated something alive. Or something that had once been alive. Animals or rotten food or shit. Yeah, definitely shit. In the cool morning air, the stench was muted, but Logan could imagine the smell would be thick enough to choke when the heat of the summer swept over the city.
He wasn’t supposed to be there during the summer. Professor Lachlan had promised. Once Logan had delivered the bag and the notes, Esta was supposed to bring him back to his own time—their own time.
Where. He. Belonged.
The bag he’d been carrying was long gone, but at least he still had the notes, he thought as he patted the pocket of his jacket. Yeah. Still there.
Logan finally managed to sit up. His pants were damp from the puddle he’d landed in. Rainwater . . . Let it be rainwater. . . . Rubbing at his head where it had hit the concrete, he realized he was being watched. Two broad-shouldered guys with dark coats and hats tipped low over their eyes were stalking toward him. One had a stick of some sort—a club, but with a wicked spike at the end.
Scrambling to his feet, Logan put his hands up as he tried to back away, but he backed up instead into someone else.
“Whoa,” he said, his head still swirling as he struggled to stay up.
“What do we have here?” the largest of the guys asked, taking another step toward Logan and penning him in. The guy smiled, a ruthless sort of grin that made Logan feel like he’d just swallowed a stone. He wasn’t the fighter—that was Esta. He was more of a talk-your-way-out-of-the-situation type. But these guys didn’t look like they were interested in listening.
“Where’d the girl go?” the other one said, his expression as flat as his broken nose. “She was just here and then—”
“Stuff it,” the larger one said, jabbing at Logan with his stick. “She’s one of them.” He pinned Logan with a look. “Wasn’t she? Does that mean you’re one of them too?”
“Look, I don’t want any problems,” Logan told them.
“Too late for that now, ain’t it?” the large one said as the man Logan had backed into took him by the arms. The other one picked up the gun Logan had been holding just moments earlier, his insurance against Esta’s probable attempt at escape, and pocketed it. “I think you’d better come with us. The boss is going to want to see you.”
Jerked and pressed along, there was no choice but to walk—walk and curse Esta and her damn treachery the whole way.