Chapter 5

For the past eight months, I’ve experienced nightmares. Every single night. Some nights I wake drenched in sweat. Others, I scream myself awake. Or jerk to sitting, feeling around my bed in a blind panic.

But I slept through the night last night.

A few feet away, Michael’s up, rubbing his teeth with something from a little tin. Which means he wiggled out of the cot without waking me. Impressive. Especially since he’s still moving as if his joints hurt. I stretch, causing the cot to moan.

Michael peeks my way, sending a wink. “Morning, sleepyhead.” The words are jumbled by the finger in his mouth. He spits into a bucket and wipes his mouth with his sleeve before holding out the small container. “Want some?”

“Is that your subtle way of saying I have bad breath?” I sit up and swing my feet to the floor. My shoes are still on. I can’t believe I fell asleep wearing them.

He holds up his hands in mock defense. The familiar, kidding half smile graces his face. “If you want to walk around all day with dragon breath, don’t blame me. You know, that would actually be an effective way to keep all the lonely soldiers away from you. So, I say, go for it. Then again, you’re pretty enough that they may look past the smell and flirt with you anyway.”

“You’re hilarious. Really. You should go on the road with that act.”

He holds the lid over the container, his eyebrows raised.

I jump out of bed. “Just hand it over.” I take the container and stare down into it. A grayish powder greets me. Figures. “Next time, can we put in a request to shift to when toothpaste was invented? Seriously.”

“It has been invented. It just hasn’t gained popularity yet. So tooth powder it is.”

Despite the fact that we must have slept a good seven hours—I’m taking a guess based on the fact that it’s light outside now—Michael’s eyelids are still only at half-mast. Our quick back and forth seems to have drained him. After he hands me the container, he slumps down onto a trunk located near the end of the bed.

I stick my finger into the powder and turn to face a small, chipped mirror hanging from one of the tent’s poles. I gag the second the powder comes into contact with my gums. The powder is evil. Pure. Evil. Bad breath might be a better option. “This stuff is disgusting.”

Michael’s lips pull up on one side. But only by a fraction. “A little charcoal and ground bones never hurt anyone.”

Don’t think about it. Just do it. Or distract my brain from the awfulness. That might be better. “So, fill me in. What’s been going on since I left?”

“I don’t know what to say.”

Shifting time is different than my time at home is, so I know it hasn’t been eight months for him, but it’s been awhile. He has nothing to tell me? Not one story or bit of news worth knowing? My gut clenches. Keleusma and my friends went back to life as usual once I was gone. Michael went right along without me. Hurt sears across my chest like a knife against flesh.

I work my jaw back and forth. Fine. If he won’t tell me about shifting, I won’t ask. I’m not going to beg for information like a fool. Not this time around. “Why not start with where we are?”

“France.”

“What?” I spit out the powder that’s now turned into a sticky—rancid—paste in my mouth. Spin around to face him. “I specifically remember Darnell saying we don’t shift to other countries.”

His brow furrows. “I don’t know why he’d say something like that.” He takes a couple deep breaths. “Maybe you misheard him?” Another audible breath. “We’re sent to wherever we can manage. In a sense, you’re right thinking that you stand a good chance of not being sent to say, the Ming Dynasty.” He pauses. “You don’t know the language and wouldn’t be of much help.” He rubs his temples.

“You don’t look okay.”

Michael purses his lips, drops his hands into his lap, and rounds his shoulder a few times before straightening his spine. “There are shifters from every country that train in Keleusma. You might not have noticed last time because we can understand each other. Even when we’re speaking different languages.”

“Wait.” Curiosity overrides my momentary frustration with him, and I take a few steps closer. “Please tell me you speak English.”

He shuts his eyes and shakes his head but is unsuccessful at hiding his grin. “I’m from Chicago too, remember?”

“Yes. But this is weird. Why didn’t anyone tell me that before?”

“I guess you didn’t need to know.”

My nails bite into my palms. You didn’t need to know. This is exactly what’s wrong with the Shifters. Why not tell me everything? Why hold back pieces of information? I clearly needed to know. I could have been studying other cultures and world history when I was home. This is the kind of stuff that made me speak with Erik—at least he was willing to talk. He promised answers.

Any other time I’d pick a fight with Michael about this but not today. Not when he’s morphing into a half man, half zombie hybrid. Maybe he’s paler than I remember because he’s been inside more than usual on this mission?

He rubs the heel of his hand against his forehead. “We shifted to the Great War because we have every reason to be prepared to be here.”

“The Great War.” My mind clicks through everything I’ve read and studied during my time at home. “That’s World War One, correct?”

He nods.

Inwardly I happy dance because I wouldn’t have known that last time around. Perhaps my days of purgatory in the library haven’t been a total loss. “How long have you been here?”

“A few months.” He scratches the side of his head. “Or is it …” His eyes slide closed again, and he lets a lot of air out through his nostrils. “I sort of lost track of things in the last week or so.”

“That doesn’t sound like the Michael I know.”

“There’s been a lot going on.” He shrugs. “This war is, for lack of a better word, bad.” Finally, he meets my eyes, and the look in his makes me want to rip my heart out. It’s so hollow, like hope’s not even an option. “There’s so much death. Did you know that seventy-five percent of soldiers who take a bullet to the arm die because of it during this war. Seventy-five percent.”

“That’s a lot.”

“Antibiotics haven’t been discovered yet, and hygiene here is basically nonexistent. The smallest wound becomes a breeding ground for infection. They are dying from things that we don’t even bat an eye at in our time.” He pushes his hand into his chest, as if he’s fighting heartburn. “They’re still trying to charge each other on the battlefield while the other side plows them down with machine guns. Hundreds of men die to gain two or three feet. It’s insanity. And I can’t stop them.”

He drops his head into his hands. “I don’t know why I’m here. Usually I know—I sense. But I don’t.” He fists his hands into his hair and pulls. Hard. “And I can’t help them. Not really.”

My stomach clenches. I want to do something to take Michael’s pain away. But I can’t. There’s nothing I can do to make what he’s experienced better.

“You helped Samuel yesterday.”

He tips his head to make eye contact again. His eyebrows gather together. “He’s dead.”

“He could have known incredible pain at the end. You saved him from that.”

Michael laughs once, but it holds no humor. “Yeah. By cheating.” He rests his elbow on his knee and then jams his thumb and pointer finger over his eyes. “But I can’t find it within me to feel bad about that. I only use Keleusma stuff if someone is passed out and it’s life or death—Samuel was different. He saved me when I first shifted. I owed him a peaceful last minute.” He sighs. “No. I owed him better than that.”

What can I say?

Nothing.

Michael deserves better than a there-there pat on the shoulder. I won’t cheapen whatever pain he’s sorting through by telling him he shouldn’t feel that way. Silence is the best gift I have.

Besides, even if I could find the perfect words, I wouldn’t be able to get them out of my mouth. Samuel saved Michael when he first shifted. What exactly does that mean? A wave of nausea ripples through me. If Michael had … if something happened to him when I wasn’t around, how would I know? I wouldn’t. He’d just be gone. Forever.

Nicholas is cruel. I press my teeth together so hard it hurts.

“Gabby?” His voice sounds different, like a kid asking his parent for something they might not grant.

“Yes?”

Michael shuffles his feet, puts his elbows on his knees, places his palms together, and stares at the ground. “It’s been so long. Why?” He hooks a hand on the back of his neck but keeps his eyes down. “Why didn’t you come sooner?”

Because I must have teed off Nicholas and he doesn’t want me. “Are you kidding me?”

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked.” He lets out a long stream of air. “I had hoped.” He shrugs.

“I would have.”

He’s on his feet—one fist clenched—so quickly I’m afraid he might fall. “There’s a Portal right by your house.”

“No there isn’t.”

“There is. I know there is. That’s how I went back to Keleusma last time. You could have … I thought. If you really wanted to see … to come back, you would have tried to look.” He bats his hand like he’s shooing a bug. “Forget it. We’re wasting time.”

“No. Let’s not forget it.” My stride eats up the distance between us. “I looked, Michael. Every day for the past eight months, I looked for Portals.”

His eyes narrow. “It’s literally less than a block from your house.”

How did I miss one that near? Am I so inept at even basic shifting practices? All the research in the world means very little if I can’t locate a Portal.

“I tried. I promise. I tried to get back to you—” My voice catches. “To Keleusma.”

“We need to go.”

After selecting a few items from the trunk, Michael puts them in a small pack strapped near his hip and ushers me out of the tent. Tension stacks between us as we walk. We’re an arm’s length apart, close enough to grab if one of us starts to shift, but we might as well be in different times.

The solider with missing fingers flags us down. “Pace. I’ve been searching for you all morning. But I understand you were probably busy.” He passes a sly glance my way.

I snort. Super ladylike.

Michael glares at him.

The man’s grin falls. “They’re expecting you at the front. There’s a group of men who have trench foot real bad. They won’t make it here on their own power, and we can’t spare the stretchers.”

Michael stops walking and turns to me. “You shouldn’t come.”

Casually, I tap my shifting bracelet.

He groans. “Right.” Then starts walking again, leaving me and the soldier staring at each other.

I catch up to him quickly.

The muscle in his jaw flexes. “The front lines are bad.”

“You said that.”

“I don’t think you understand, though.”

“I’m guessing I will in a few minutes.”

He shakes his head and mutters, “Stick close.”

It’s a long walk to the trenches, but when we get there, the shock of reality dissipates my anger. Trenches, at least twelve feet deep, zigzag across the ground like angry fault lines as far as I can see in either direction. Moldy sandbags cushion the top, followed immediately by piles of barbed wire.

From my research, I know the area in between the fighting is called No Man’s Land. However, now that I’m here, the name makes no sense. How can anyone call a place No Man’s Land when the rotting bodies of men fill it? Their bones are crushed, their flesh twisted like shish kabobs in the barbed wire. Their blood flung like splatters of paint across the barren field.

The bodies of heroes no one will ever know.

Michael offers his hand to help me down the steps that lead into the nearest trench. He has to feel my arm trembling. Catching my eye, he gives my hand a squeeze and then pulls me within a few inches of his face. “I’m sorry you had to come here. If there was another way …”

“There’s not.”

The pressure of his fingers on my hand tightens. “We should have grabbed you a mask. I can’t believe I didn’t think of that. We’ll get you one.” He tugs me along beside him.

The trench is wider than what I’ve pictured. We can walk side-by-side without an issue. Wooden planks line the bottom, but they don’t seem to be doing much good because water pools above most of them. Each step elicits a squashing sound. A rat with dirt-matted hair scampers between us, and I choke back a scream. None of the men we pass seem bothered by the furry visitor.

Michael locates a pile of equipment. “They pull whatever they can off the dead.” He hands me a face mask. “If something should happen, put this on before helping anyone. I’m not kidding. Seconds of the gas can burn your lungs, and even Darnell can’t cure that.”

A line of soldiers wait to have their feet checked. The first one removes his boots. Half of his foot is black. I gag and turn away.

Get it together. I press my palms into my temples.

Perhaps Nicholas hasn’t sent me anywhere because I can’t handle this stuff. Michael is talking softly to the man, giving him instructions, touching his dying skin. He hands him a dry pair of socks from the pack on his hip.

It’s then I notice a man a few feet away from me. Staring. He squints at me and then glances at my midsection where I wring my hands together. Squints again.

In a childish attempt to hide myself, I wrap my arms around my middle.

He hops to the nearest wooden plank. “I’m sorry to bother you.”

I step back but run into a mud wall. “If you want your feet checked, you have to get in line.”

He leans toward me, his eyes going to my wrist. “You’re a Shifter,” he whispers. “Aren’t you?”

How does he know? My heart stops. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

The guy laughs. “You’re wearing all black, and I know you aren’t a nurse.”

I sneak a glance Michael’s way, but he’s completely focused on examining the next soldier in line.

I lift my chin. “Are you a Shade?”

“Ach.” He grimaces. “Those buggers? No. I’m a Pairing, so I can see you.”

“Oh.” That’s new.

Now that I know he’s not a creeper, I look him over. Despite the mud caked to his uniform, he’s handsome, in a Hallmark movie, pretty-boy-next-door kind of way.

He cocks his head. “Are you Gabby?”

I don’t even try to hold in my gasp.

“Sorry. That was rude. I should introduce myself.” He lays a hand on his chest. “I’m Eddie.” He unbuttons the pocket near his heart, gently pulls out a bent photograph, and hands it to me.

Draped in pearls, Lark looks like she walked off the set of the movie Titanic. Her hair is pinned back in an elaborate way, complete with a large hat.

Eddie puts the picture back in his pocket. “Lark described you so well. I saw your bracelet and knew who you were straight away. I said to myself, there is Gabby.” He flashes a perfect set of white teeth at me. They stand out because everything around us is so dirty.

“You’re Lark’s Eddie?” I realize that was already established. Give a girl a minute to absorb some shock.

“I’m the lucky man.” And he means it.

“Lark talks about me?”

“Often. She considers you one of her closest friends.”

“Ah. I see you share her humor.”

“I’m in earnest.” Eddie’s eyes go wide. “I promise you that. You see, everyone in your place, especially the other ladies, are intimidated and tend to shy away from her. Which is unfortunate because she’s a wonderful person. I think it’s because of her father’s position. Too bad, there. But Lark said you’ve never acted in that manner. You were always up front with her. She values that.”

“Good to know. How is our Lark?”

Eddie beams. “Wonderful, I do believe. We’re planning our wedding for summer. As long as this war ends.”

“Wedding? But you’re both so young.”

“I love her. I want to be her husband. What do I gain from waiting any longer?”

My breath catches. Eddie speaks with such certainty. I wish I felt that sure about anything.

“I wonder.” He fiddles with the strap of his helmet. “Are you here to win the war for us?”

“You’ll do that on your own.”

“Ah, so are you here about all that trouble they’re having in the shifting world?”

“Troub—”

Michael comes barreling toward me as men start yelling. “Get down, Gabby. Down!” He yanks me toward the ground and throws himself on top of me. Mud shoots between my fingers and peppers my face. Men run past us to get into position.

“They’re coming across the field.” Even though Michael’s lips are right against my ear, it’s hard to hear him.

Near us, Eddie climbs into position behind a large gun mounted somehow to the sandbags. Hands trembling, he pulls the trigger, sending a rain of metal to cleave into the skin of people not unlike ourselves. Bullets that will rip into their warm flesh and lodge in their bones, making them crack like china plates against concrete.

My muscles burn to run. I start to get up, but Michael pulls me down again. I’m shivering as he turns me to face him.

He clamps onto my upper arms. “What are you doing?”

“I can’t do this. I have to get away. I shouldn’t be here.” I know I’m talking nonsense, but I can’t seem to help it.

“Look at me.” He tightens his hold on my arms until I lock my gaze with his. “Keep looking at me. Don’t focus on anything else.”

“I hate this,” I whisper.

“I do too.” His eyes blaze with something that I can’t put my finger on. I have a strange desire to lean in and kiss him. Which is ridiculous. I have Pairing drama that I still need to deal with. And—right—we’re in the middle of a war.

“Mortar fire.” Voices reverberate through the trench.

A screech precedes the explosion. The earth seems to rock. I’m flat against the ground again, pinned under both Michael and Eddie who have joined together to form a human shield over me. I don’t remember Eddie jumping down from his post, but he’s there. Dirt and sand pelt us, stinging exposed flesh. Men scream and curse. Return fire begins. Someone jumps over us.

I shove Michael and Eddie off of me. Then smack them both in the chest. Men and their ridiculous hero complexes. They should have taken cover. “You could have been hurt. Next time—”

But the blood all over Michael’s right side stops my words.