Red-Line: The Shift (Volume One)

THE SHIFT

J. T. BISHOP

For Mom and Dad. You’re the reason I and this book exist. Your unwavering love and support guided me and led me to write this. You believed in me even before I did, and for that, I will always be grateful. You raised a terrific family, you’re amazing parents and I love you.

Copyright © 2014 J.T. Bishop

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

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THE OLD MAN walked through the room, his gait slow but steady. “You know we should have killed her, don’t you?” he asked. He approached the small bar in his study and poured himself a bourbon.

“Hindsight is pointless, Arnuff,” said the other man in the room, who was equally as old as the first. “Bring me one of those,” he said, referring to the drink Arnuff held.

Arnuff poured another bourbon and brought it to the coffee table. The second man picked it up and drank from it, even though his fingers trembled with age.

“Well, Emerson. What do you want to do?” asked Arnuff as he sat on the couch.

Emerson thought about it. His forehead creased with wrinkles. “If we do it now, we’ll have to be careful. There’s a lot of attention on her.”

“Hmm,” said Arnuff. “You’re probably right.” He placed his drink on the table. “Has Morgana assigned someone?”

Emerson made a face of distaste. “Ramsey,” he said.

“Really?”

“Yes,” said Emerson. He joined Arnuff on the couch.

“That could work to our advantage.”

“It could also blow up in our face,” said Emerson. “He’s tenacious. If he knows something’s up—”

“He won’t know a thing, provided we get to her soon enough. I’ll have Bright watch him.”

“Bright? What about one of the boys?”

“No. I don’t want them involved. They’re too close to this, and they lack control. Especially…” He swirled his drink.

Emerson watched him, knowing what Arnuff thought. “You know he’s stronger than us. It’s just a matter of time…”

Arnuff got to his feet. “We can handle him for now. We just need to keep him away until we can take care of her. After that, it will be too late.”

“He’s attached to her. He’s watched her for years, waiting for this.”

Arnuff paced the floor. “He knows the implications. We never promised him anything. We never thought she’d live this long in the first place.”

Emerson thought about it. “You realize we could still wait. She could die during her Shift. That would solve all our problems.”

“That’s a risk. And considering how well she’s done, she may get through it with flying colors. And if she does, and Ramsey learns who she is—”

“Ramsey is not the concern here. He’s just a fly on the wall in this mess.”

Arnuff studied a painting of a rolling seascape that hung over his mantel. “Maybe.”

“Well, if we kill her now, we risk discovery by Morgana and her cohorts on the Council.”

Arnuff held a hand to his head and rubbed his temples. “God, I hate that woman.” He dropped his hand. “Can we kill her too?” he asked.

Emerson chuckled. “Tempting, I know, but ill-advised.” He took a sip of his drink.

Arnuff returned to the couch. “So we’re agreed? Bright will watch Ramsey. When we get an idea of what’s going on with him and his plans for her, we’ll decide then when to strike.”

Emerson finished his drink and stood, moving slowly as he straightened. He picked up his coat. “We must proceed with caution. It will have to look accidental.”

“I’m not a fool,” said Arnuff. “I know how it needs to look. The last thing we want is that crone Morgana breathing down our necks.”

He walked his friend to the door.

Emerson turned to face him. “And be careful how you deal with the boys. When the older one learns of our deceit…”

Arnuff stared back at Emerson. “Between the two of us, we can handle him. He knows who runs the show.”

Emerson didn’t look convinced. “I hope you’re right.”

“Stop worrying. I’ll talk to Bright. This will be over soon.”

Emerson nodded and slipped on his coat. “Call me.”

“Soon as I know something,” said Arnuff, and Emerson left.

Arnuff locked the door and returned to his study. He ignored the aches in his legs as he took a seat. He was old, but still in good shape for his age. Despite some arthritis and the occasional sleepless night, he maintained decent health.

He reached for his drink and drained it, enjoying the warmth in his belly and the satisfaction of having come to a decision. They were finally going to kill Sarah Randolph.

After a few minutes of imagining how it could be done, he stood to get himself another drink when the doorbell rang. He reached out to feel for who was there, but felt a strange blankness. He waited for a moment, and the bell rang again. Curious, he wondered if perhaps Emerson had returned, but didn’t understand why he would feel the need to cloak himself.

Approaching the door, Arnuff realized his mistake too late. The unlatched door flew open, and he found himself thrown backward, gasping for air. Managing a labored breath from his vantage point on the floor, he looked up to see his older boy in the front foyer, the man’s blue eyes looking sharp as needles. His son closed the door, adjusted his well-cut suit, and brushed a hand through his sandy-colored hair.

He walked up to the elderly man and stared down at him. “Keeping secrets, Arnuff?” he asked.

Arnuff backed away painfully on the floor, understanding then that he’d made a grave error. He and Emerson were no longer in control. His anger building over the unexpected confrontation, Arnuff closed his eyes, gathered his nerves, and prepared for battle.

SARAH RANDOLPH SLAMMED the car door shut, threw her purse over her shoulder, grabbed her coffee and ran toward the door. She checked her watch. Damn, she thought, already five minutes late. She swung open the door to the employee entrance and headed inside. She dropped her purse in her locker, fluffed her hair in the mirror and strode out onto the main floor of the bookstore, coffee still in hand. The familiar circular kaleidoscope of shelves displaying books of every subject imaginable greeted her. She passed the elevator and escalator leading to a second-story children’s section, where bright colors and imaginative characters brightened the walls. Approaching the front counter, she took another swig of her drink and ignored the warning look from her friend and coworker, Rachel, as she placed her coffee cup beneath the counter and signed in to the register.

“Don’t say it,” said Sarah.

Rachel stared back. “Don’t say what?”

“I’m late. I know I’m late.”

“You look awful.”

“Thanks.”

“No sleep?” asked Rachel.

“No, I slept,” said Sarah, pushing her hair off her face. “Till about three a.m.”

“That long, huh?”

Sarah sighed. “Yeah.” She could see her friend study her.

“How long you plan on going on like this?” asked Rachel.

“What do you mean?”

“How many nights this week is it? Three?”

Sarah grabbed at her coffee and took another sip. “Last night was officially four.”

“You need to get some help.”

“I’m fine. It’s insomnia. It will pass.”

“Insomnia’s one thing. You keep coming in late, and Arnold will write you up.”

“Yeah. Just what I need right now.”

As if on cue, Arnold Tolliver, the store manager, veered out of an aisle and approached the counter. Both women quieted and made to look busy as he neared. They knew he did not like lengthy staff conversations.

“Ladies,” said Arnold. “How are you this morning?”

“Great, Arnold. Good morning,” said Rachel.

Sarah worked to arrange a display of calendars already in place. “Morning, Arnold,” she said.

Arnold eyed Sarah. “You okay this morning, Sarah? I noticed you were running a little late.”

Sarah put down a day calendar depicting an array of kittens. “Sorry, Arnold. Didn’t sleep too well last night.”

“Well, don’t make this a habit. I expect you here fifteen minutes before your shift. Another instance, and I’ll need to make a written report.”

“I understand,” said Sarah. “It won’t happen again.”

“See that it doesn’t.” He watched both women tinker with various items for sale on the counter. “Rachel, you work the computer this morning. Sarah, you take the floor.”

“Really, Arnold?” asked Rachel. “The computer and I don’t exactly get along.”

“All the more reason to do it. Practice makes perfect.”

Rachel huffed, moved toward the register and signed Sarah out and herself in. She groaned when she got an invalid password error.

“You two take the early lunch today,” said Arnold, turning to leave.

“We will,” said Sarah, and she watched as he disappeared into a fiction aisle.

“That man really needs to get la—” started Rachel.

“Shhh…” interrupted Sarah.

“He can’t hear me,” said Rachel. “He’s already headed over to bark at Ron and Larry. We’re clear.” She sighed again when the computer gave her another error message. “Damn computer.”

“Just take your time with it. You’ll be fine,” said Sarah.

‘You’re the one with all the technical skills. I’m much better out on the floor.”

“Believe me,” said Sarah. “If I could stick behind the counter and help you out, I would.”

Rachel eyed her tired friend. “Not feeling up to customer assistance?” she asked. “I can’t imagine why not.”

“That’s your strength. Not mine. Especially after these sleepless nights.”

A customer entered the still-quiet bookstore. The door closed and he stopped and studied the aisles, as if debating where to go.

Rachel leaned over and nudged Sarah. “My. He’s cute. Dark hair, broad shoulders. Just your type. And tall, too.”

The customer looked around before his eyes fell on the women at the register. He stared for a brief moment at Sarah, who stared back, before he broke the look and moved farther into the bookstore, disappearing into one of the non-fiction aisles.

“Talk about getting lai—” said Rachel.

“Would you stop?” said Sarah.

“He was checking you out.”

“No, he wasn’t.”

“Are you blind? Yes, he was.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Don’t be ignorant. You should go help him.”

“Help him?”

“Yes. You know, find a book or something? Maybe find something else?” Rachel smiled.

“Would you please?”

“Please what? You need a little social interaction. Get out there and meet someone. Have some fun.”

“I’m not interested in social interaction. You’re about all I can handle right now.”

“That’s not the type of interaction I’m talking about,” said Rachel. When Sarah didn’t answer, she continued. “It would do you some good. Get those juices flowing, if you get my drift?” She wiggled an eyebrow. “Maybe it will help you sleep.” She grinned as Sarah found her coffee behind the counter and finished it.

“I get your drift,” said Sarah, putting her cup down. “But I’m not interested.”

Rachel watched her friend and couldn’t ignore the sadness in her voice. “Listen,” she said. “I know you’ve had a hellish year, but you can’t keep wallowing in that. You need to get back out there. I’m not saying you need to get married, but a fling wouldn’t hurt, you know?”

Sarah looked back at her. “I’m not interested in a fling, Rachel. That’s the last thing I need right now.” She stepped away from the register. “I’m way too depressing.”

“That’s my point.” Rachel leaned over the counter. “You’ve been here five months now. You’re lucky you met me or you’d have never survived.”