Capturing Today (TimeShifters Book 2) (17 page)

In the hallway outside the Elders’ offices, I release Michael’s hand to pinch the bridge of my nose. It’s evening now. More than ten hours since I arrived back at Keleusma with Lark’s body.

No one has seen Donovan.

Darnell, Michael, Eugene, and I spent the better part of the day seated in a small lounge room, staring at the walls together. Sure, the guys swapped a few hilarious stories about how Lark saved them on different missions, but each one ended with us all in tears or someone getting up abruptly and leaving the room to go lose it in the bathroom. So we defaulted to silence.

Silence is safer than remembering.  

Michael touches my elbow. “You don’t have to do this. He’s been told by now.”

I shake my head and press my lips together.

Of course he’s been told about Lark. I’m not here to break the news. Far worse.

I was there when Lark died. Donovan has the right to ask me questions. He deserves the chance to hate me and yell at me too. Pain does that to a person—forces them to feel things that need to be projected
somewhere
—often at people who don’t justify being used as an outlet. But that’s where this situation is different. Because any anger he feels toward me is warranted.

A door behind me groans open, and I jump at the sound, my back finding a safe harbor against Michael’s chest. Although I wouldn’t admit it out loud, I steal strength from the warmth of his body. If Michael weren’t here, I would go back to my room and lock myself in my closet to grieve for the next month.

“It’s just Beatrix,” he whispers.

Right, Donovan’s not the only Elder. The other doors in this hallway more than likely lead to their offices. There are four Elders total, Donovan and three women—the creepy twins—Mimi and Clarissa Walsh, and Beatrix Vaughn, who reminds me of an old cat lady.

Beatrix stands beside us, a sad smile parting her lips. “You’re going in to talk to him, dear?” She wears a large, bright dress, splashed with Hawaiian flowers. Doesn’t she realize she should be mourning?

My throat feels achy and hollow. It hurts to speak, so I simply nod.

“I’m so glad.” She squeezes my upper arms. “He needs you more than anyone now.”

“I doubt that,” I mutter.

“Since the beginning, I’ve always believed there is something special about you. I think Donovan knew it too, and he didn’t understand what to do about it. Perhaps he finally will, in such a time as this.” She pats my head. “Be patient with him, dear. He’s a good man who has hurt for far too long.”

With that, she continues down the hall as if she didn’t just leave me with a riddle. If she were to be cast in a movie, it would be a crime mystery story that took place at an old time hotel. She’d be the wealthy, eccentric vacationer who everyone disregarded but was actually the one stealing everyone’s jewels. And she’d get away with it too.

I gape after her. “They’re all so weird. It’s like that’s a prerequisite to be an Elder.”

“I don’t know.” Still behind me, Michael squeezes my shoulders, massaging them. My muscles are so tight. “She talks more sense than half the people I know.”

“Did you vote for her?” I’m stalling, completely. Yes, I was the one who suggested coming to speak to Donovan, but standing in front of his door … I’d prefer another hour or two … or day or month to pass before facing him.

Michael’s fingers stop working on a knot. “Actually, I voted for all of them.”

He voted for Donovan? Much like the sword fighting, there are clearly some aspects of Michael that I don’t yet know. And maybe never will. Can a person ever know everything about another person? I’d like to say yes, but then again without being able to mind read, there is no way to ever be certain. Sure, you could trust that they’ve shared everything. But trust has never been my strong suit. Feel free to blame my father and his ever growing horde of hidden liquor bottles for that one.

Wait. Michael voted for the Walsh twins too?

My stalling could last days if I continue down this bunny trail.

However, Lark’s memory deserves better. She would have wanted me to do whatever I could to help her father. If I die shifting, I hope someone goes to comfort my dad—to sit with him and pull him from darkness. While Lark didn’t always agree with Donovan, she loved him. I owe her this. And so much more. 

“Okay.” I shake my arms and roll my shoulders. “I’m going to knock. I’m going to face him.”

“I’ll go with you.”

I measure my words, needing to do this on my own but not wanting to hurt Michael. “I think it’s best if I go in alone.”

“Then I’ll wait out here.” He leans against the wall outside Donovan’s door. His shoulders hunch, and fatigue casts dark shadows under his eyes. After all, he just recovered from a life-threatening illness.

I rub my hands along my arms, trying to warm myself. “You look tired. Why don’t you go back to your room and try to sleep?”

“I told you before, I’m not leaving you. I can’t. Not right now.” He hooks his hand on the back of his neck and looks down at the carpeting. “That is, unless you want me to leave you alone. I won’t stick around if you don’t want me to. It’s your call, Gabby. I’ll respect whatever you want.” His eyes skirt back to mine. “But I’d like to stay with you.”

One of the biggest mistakes I made with Lark was not hugging her when I knew she needed the physical contact. I’ll regret that moment—regret not reaching past myself to comfort her—for the rest of my life.

What stops me from speaking words of encouragement? Fear? How stupid. People everywhere are aching for a kind word—for confirmation that they matter in the world. While it’s all fine and well to make a point not to tear people down, that’s not enough.

It’s cruel to bite back uplifting words. So I’m not going to withhold kindness—whether in words or in action—any longer. Even if what I say comes out jumbled and awkward, at least I won’t look back and wish I’d said something—anything—when I still had the opportunity.

I step close to Michael and smooth my hand down his chest. When I lock eyes with him, the uncertainty looming in his unguarded stare loosens my tongue. “I want you nearby. It’s strange … somehow, just knowing you’re close makes me feel capable of facing things I never knew I could. Like going in to see Donovan.”

The muscle that lines his jaw pops, and his Adam’s apple bobs. “Gabby,” his whisper is strained. His throat probably hurts as much as mine does—too many tears and emotions have rubbed our vocal cords raw today.

“But.” Through the soft fabric of his shirt, my fingers trace his collarbone. “You are clearly exhausted, and I might be a long time in there. It would be selfish to ask you to wait.”

He places his hand over mine—stilling it right over his heart. “For you, I’ll wait.”

And he will because he’s Michael and he excels at kindness. He’ll curl up on the hard floor and wait for hours there, fighting sleep. I can’t accept that from him though. So I pull my keycard from my back pocket and press it into the palm of his hand. Then I close his fingers over the card.

“Then wait in my room.” After the words leave my mouth, I realize how they might sound, and heat rushes up the back of my neck, warming my ears. “I mean. I don’t think I’ll sleep well tonight. I don’t want to be alone. I need you—” Dig deeper, Gabby. Really, this is going excellently.

 But Michael nods like I’m talking complete sense. Bless him. “I’m still having nightmares, so it’s probably best if I’m not alone tonight either.”

I turn away and knock on the door before I lose all my nerve. No answer. I peek over my shoulder at Michael and raise my eyebrows in a silent question.

He shrugs. “Maybe try the door?”

The knob turns.
For Lark
. I slowly open the door and walk in even though my heart hammers in my ears.
For Lark.
I close the door quietly.

Papers litter the office floor as if they were swept from his desk in one giant push. One of the leather chairs rests upended. The sconces are dimmed as low as they must go without shutting off, which makes the deep red walls appear black and foreboding. Beatrix seemed to think I’d find Donovan in his office, but the chairs are vacant. I’m about to leave when I hear a sharp intake of breath and a low moan. Padding across the thick carpet, I follow the sound and round Donovan’s desk.

He’s on the ground with his back against the drawers. The image of Lark and her mother hugged tightly to his chest. I bring my fingertips to my mouth as my tears start falling again.

Even though I’m standing only a few feet away from him, Donovan keeps his chin tucked to his chest. As if I’m not there.

I toy with the larger bracelet that I still have on my wrist. Donovan’s bracelet.

What do I say? He’s not okay—in fact, he never will be again. The man lost his wife and now his daughter. He’s alone in the world. Does he have any true, close friends among the Shifters? Or does he face the same fate Lark explained, people too intimidated by him to seek out any type of real relationship?

My stomach corkscrews at the thought. No one in this world should be friendless or ever have to feel alone in their pain. I find my heart draped with pity for the man I once believed I hated.

I kneel, sitting back on my heels close to where his feet are. For a second, he picks up his head and glances in my direction. But it’s like he’s looking right through me. There are no words to offer him. Nothing will bring Lark back. All I have to offer is my presence. So I stay there and keep my mouth closed while Donovan weeps. His chest heaves, and a wild, almost animalistic sound leaves his lips.

In the half hour that ticks past, my feet go numb. At what point do I excuse myself?

After a while, he composes himself again. He brings his head to rest against the desk, finally looking at me fully. “Thank you for bringing her back to me. Most Shifters when they … they get left in time.”

Not what I thought his first words to me would be. Honestly, I wouldn’t blame him if he told me he wishes it were me instead of Lark.

“I wish—” My voice cracks. What? Wish that Lark hadn’t died? That I could have saved her? He knows that. Those sorts of statements don’t help grief. “I’m so sorry.”

He relaxes his hold on the picture frame and lays it across his thighs. Using one finger, he traces over Lark’s smiling face. “I was so hard on her. I demanded close to perfection.” He buries his face in his hands. “I should have told her I loved her. I should have said it every day.”

“She knew you loved her. Don’t doubt that. She knew.” I place my hand on his ankle because it feels wrong not to offer some sort of contact. “And she loved you very much.”

Donovan lets his hands fall to the ground. He tilts his head to the side, considering me. “You remind me so much of your mother.”

My breath catches. “I do?” I want to ask more questions. To press for information. But today is about our shared anguish, not my quest for answers.

He crosses his arms, and his face relaxes for the first time. Almost as if he’s glad for a change of subject. “Before Rosa transformed, she had such fire and so much passion. You couldn’t help but feel energized being around her.”

Since he’s continuing the conversation, I will too. “You knew her well?”

“Very.”

“Would you …” I switch to sitting cross-legged and then stare down at my laced fingers. “Not today of course.” I lick my lips. “But someday. Would you be willing to tell me about her? I know nothing.”

His brow dives into a deep V. “Your father hasn’t told you about her?”

“Never.”

While my dad mourns my mother daily, he doesn’t speak about her. I know nothing beyond the fact that he loved—no—loves her to a level that consumes him.

I never want to love like that. Not after watching it destroy him.

“I can tell you about her. At least a few things.” He folds his hands over the picture frame—a little of the old Donovan returning. “Rosa was quick-witted and a fast talker.” He rubs his chin, and the hint of a smile flashes across his face, as if he experienced a memory but is choosing not to share it with me. “She could have excelled as a snake oil salesman—if women had been able to do that job back in my time.”

Whatever memory he’s reliving, he shakes it away. “She was able to convince me to do anything. I believe the saying is thick as thieves. Yet, for all the laughs and adventures we shared, she never felt like she belonged as a Shifter.”

Never belonged? I scoot forward a few inches. Perhaps I’m more like my mother than I thought. But I latch onto something else he mentioned. Something that feels … off. Laughs and adventures? With Donovan?

“So you two were friends?”

“The best of.” His words come out rushed. “I failed her. It could very well be the case that she left Keleusma because of me. We had an argument. We … It doesn’t matter anymore.”

Like a greyhound after a dummy rabbit at the tracks, my mind races over what he’s telling me. In what scenario would Donovan believe my mother would leave Keleusma because of him? Since discovering she’s still alive and that she took the Elixir while she was pregnant, I’ve landed on the conclusion that she didn’t want me. Didn’t want me so badly that she was willing to become a Shade in order to get rid of me.

Nothing else explains the timing of her actions.

But then why on earth would Donovan believe he had anything to do with her choice?

 I narrow my eyes. “You
cared
about her, didn’t you?” My voice carries a tone of accusation. I wish it didn’t. But another man feeling warmth for Rosa hits me wrong after witnessing how deep my father’s affection goes.

“Yes. More than is allowed.”

Why is he telling me this? What motive could he have for such uncomfortable honesty? I came here to mourn with him—not to become more confused concerning my mother. Every bit of information I discover is like a piece of an even bigger puzzle. Or more like pieces to twenty different puzzles that don’t fit together at all and never will.

Silence stacks between Donovan and me like bricks.

He finally clears his throat. “Will you accompany me to tell Eddie?”

“Lark’s Pairing?”

Donovan winces when I mention her name, but he nods. “Not now. In the morning.”