Fall (Roam Series, Book Two)

Fall (Roam Series, Book Two)

Kimberly Stedronsky

Text copyright © 2012 Kimberly Stedronsky

All Rights Reserved.

This is a work of fiction. The Author holds exclusive rights to this work.

Unauthorized duplication is prohibited.

No part of this book can be reproduced in any form or by electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without the expressed written permission from the author.

To My Grammy

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

The
little girl carefully spread the jump rope across the driveway, moving back and forth between the ends several times before deciding it was perfectly straight. She hurried to one end, stepping over the plastic handle and meticulously placing one bare foot on the line. Wearing only a body suit and a white tutu, she held her arms out to her sides like a tight-rope walker, humming as her platinum blonde curls, just touching the middle of her neck, tossed in the wind.

West knew
that the four-year-old dreamed of being in a circus ever since her parents had taken her to see the Ringling Brothers for her birthday. He moved behind the oak tree, careful not to draw attention to himself as the screen door of the bi-level burst open. “Shirl! Dinner!”

“Coming!” she answered
, leaving the jump rope behind and taking off for the house. The crinoline tutu bobbed up and down as she padded through the grass to the open door.

West sighed.
Laurel, still only a child, was safe- for now. He struck up a cigarette, disgusted with himself for picking up the ugly habit again. It had taken him three years to quit smoking completely, between 1990 and 1993. Now, he couldn’t imagine not suppressing his nerves with a Camel. After three guilty puffs, he dropped the filterless butt to the grass and stamped it out.

Walking
toward the dark blue, ’62 Chevrolet Caprice parked along the curb a block away, he mentally assessed his bank account. The car had cost him fifty dollars, leaving two hundred and fifty left from the wallet he’d prepared two months ago in Russia. Another fifty was spent on the tune-up that he completed himself, leaving just enough to secure a small, rented house in Jefferson, West Virginia. So far, Jefferson Auto Garage had made a comfortable place to work.

He slid into the car, the brown leather seats warm from the steady stream of early June sunshine.
The engine started on the first turn, which was a luxury the car did not offer when he purchased it. Thankfully, he had carried his knowledge of car mechanics into the past with him.

And the memory of her…
West stiffened, rigorously calling on the distraction skills he’d perfected his entire immortal life. This wasn’t the first time he’d had to forget her…

But this was the first time that he couldn’t let her go.

The mind is a strange place.
Her words echoed throughout time, stabbing at his heart. His mind was a prison, a cell for memories of her voice, her eyes, and the scent of her silken skin… He gripped the steering wheel, focusing on the road. The coordinates had changed back to Ohio months ago; the numbers were his only proof that she was still real… that their love had existed at all.

He’d spent two hours bleeding
next to the fountain in Georgia before he was found and taken to a hospital. Already the wound had been healing as doctors prepared an operating room for surgery. Without a word, he walked out of the hospital, allowing the hole to close over Troy’s nine millimeter bullet. When he made it back to the fountain, it was just a fountain; no amount of water over the numbers allowed him to travel back to 2012.

His plan had worked.

The Peterhof Fountains were surely destroyed, and Troy was gone- somewhere in 1977. With no internet, laptop, or cell phone to help him track the Alter, he was reduced to using newspapers and telephone books.
I’ve spent centuries with no resources. After a few decades of modern technology
,
it’s gone for a few months and I’m lost.
After buying the car, he drove directly to West Virginia.
If Troy wants to attack, it’ll be Laurel.
Roam’s mother, only five years old in 1977, proved too difficult to find; he had no idea what her maiden name was, or where she was born. He hoped Troy had the same limited information.

Julie Henry
- or Julie Miller, her name when he had met her- was gone. Gone as if she had
never existed.
The motel that they shared held no record of their check-in… or out. When he used twenty-eight cents to call his father-in-law from a payphone, he was met with confusion; Mr. Miller had no daughter named Julie.

As if she never existed.
Does Roam remember me? Did I cease to exist as well?
The possibility was sickening… his only comfort was telling himself that that she was safe at home.

For all
that he knew, Troy had traveled back to his world. He’d described a parallel universe, a world that would singularly exist when Roam died.

Roam-
or their child.

He had been unable to resist the prophecy, the timeless pull that brought them together
throughout the centuries. She was so young, only seventeen, and he spent each night hating himself for leaving her alone.

She could be pregnant,
he thought, turning into the gravelly excuse for a driveway for where he now called “home.” The white, clapboard house was dingy, rented out by the month, and West knew the only way he would survive losing her again was to wait, once more, for her to be born.

The headache that had nagged him all day came on full-force.
He couldn’t bear the thought of waiting more than thirty-five years to be with her, knowing she was just through the fountain, and could be carrying his child.

And she could be with Logan.
The thought of Logan’s hands on her made him slam the front door, reaching for another cigarette. It was only a matter of time before Logan would forgive her. She was too innocent, too loving, and too beautiful for Logan to resist for long. But… he wanted her to be comforted, and protected… and if his only option was Logan, he’d have to accept it.

And suddenly, there were dreams.

After not dreaming in six hundred and ninety-one years, the first dream had left him in a disoriented hysteria. Every night, he dreamt of the same place, the same unfamiliar land- a strange castle, surrounded by ice, so clear that the body of frozen water appeared to be a mirror to the sky. He was an omniscient onlooker, always with a birds-eye view. 

The castle was perched high on a cliff, surrounded
by an incline at almost ninety degrees. Archaic tracks, like those on a railroad, lead from the high castle to the land below. Asher, his adopted father and mentor, moved around the frozen tundra, chipping away at the ice with his bloodied hands. Every time a portion of the ice would separate and reveal the water below, the reflection would divulge a familiar face.

The first face to appear in the water was Roam’s.

Parallel universe…
Troy’s words had him breaking apart the dreams, trying to determine what he was observing. If they all had existed in another world, in another time and place, why was Troy the only one who could remember?

He brushed his thumb across the numbers, and then back again. The numbers, reversed, had sent them to Russia, to the Peterhof Fountains.
The fountain was a door into their past life together in 1977.
What about the other years? Where are the other doors?

And the question that occupied his mind more than any other…

Is there another way to return to Roam?

“
The Peterhof Fountain Restoration Project will cost millions. Donations for the families of those killed during the explosions have helped to ease the burden of the pain and loss, but the memory of that terrible day remains in the minds and hearts of those closest to this tragedy.
”

Mrs. Morris turned off the overhead television in the corner of the history classroom. “Terrorism exists in all parts of the world. Those responsible for these bombings have one agenda in mind, and the victims of the explosions are considered “collateral damage.”
What do you think of terrorists, their agenda, and collateral damage? Roam?”

I stared
blankly at the reflective black television screen, not meeting her eyes. Fatigue had lulled me into a stupor as we had watched the same news report that I had already seen a hundred times. I rolled my pencil between my thumb and forefinger.

“Collateral damage is a euphemism for… killing people during combat. It’s the adverse side effect of an action that’s meant to be good- or moral. Terrorists do not have collateral damage. Their
entire goal is to kill people.”

When I finally looked at her, a red-hot flush had crept over her face. I truly didn’t mean to antagonize her
, but I couldn’t let that one slide. One girl cleared her throat in the back row, suppressing a giggle. I fought the urge to get up and walk out of the classroom.

“Well, I see what you’re saying, but tell me more about terrorism in history.”

“That wasn’t your original question, but okay.” Rubbing my eyes tiredly, I glanced at the clock. “The Reign of Terror in France, 1793 to 1794, right after the French Revolution, was the first notable evidence of what we call terrorism today. Enemies of the revolution were sent to the guillotine.”

“Yes,” she nodded, my attitude obviously pushing her buttons. “Good. So how would you handle this terrorism situation in Russia?”

I shrugged, shifting uncomfortably in my seat. It was the last day of school before Thanksgiving break, and I just wanted the day to end. “It was one random act, no one knows for sure if it was a terrorist attack, or what the attack was about. When I get a job with the Russian Ministry of Defense, I’ll let you know my ideas.”

Mrs. Morris’s rounded face turned beet red. The class snickered, and in hushed tones I heard the words
mood swing
followed by more whispers.

Self-consciously I straightened in my seat, lifting my chin. The rumor that I was pregnant was still in its infantile stages, but obviously the information was making its rounds at Madison High.

“I need to be excused,” I managed, swiping my book bag from the floor with one hand. The walk from my desk to the door took seconds, but with seventeen sets of eyes on me, it felt like hours before I turned the knob. Mrs. Morris ignored me, continuing the discussion of her opinions of history.

This is h
istory class. Timelines. Events. Dates.  Don’t bore me with your opinions; I won’t bore you with mine. Just facts.

West’s voice crept into my thoughts unannounced, and I grabbed for the water fountain to keep from doubling over.
I resisted the urge to cover my heart, the physical ache all-encompassing. Losing my mother to breast cancer in 2005 had broken my heart, but as time passed, the healing process had allowed me to move forward and not cry with every memory of her.