The Syndicate (Timewaves Book 1)

by Sophie Davis

  “Tried?” I heard Gaige mutter. When I whipped my head around to shut him up, I was startled to see an intensely concerned expression on his face.

  “I had no choice, I had to jump back here from the stake,” Molly continued. “Yes, that’s right: The. Stake. Where they set me on fire. Like I was a witch!”

  Relief flooded me. As bad as the burns looked, they evidently weren’t to blame for Molly’s deathly pallor. They also weren’t responsible for her dilated pupils or the clammy texture of her skin.

  All those side effects Cyrus had just been warning me about? The consequences of time sickness? I was staring them right in the face. As crappy as it was for her to endure, at least the illness was curable with time, rest, and some drugs to ease the way. It was a far better prognosis than some deadly 17th century virus.

  “You need to lay down,” Cyrus told Molly, his tone gentle but definitive. “I’ll come see you after the meeting and you can yell at me all you want. Just please let the medics do their jobs.”

  To everyone’s surprise, Molly nodded weakly in reply. The anger and adrenaline had been bolstering her bravado. With both wearing off, she seemed impossibly frail.

  “I’ll come with you,” I said, rising to my feet as the medics gently helped her to stand.

  “No, you don’t need to,” she protested, seeming almost embarrassed by my offer. Her response wasn’t unexpected; Molly wasn’t the type to ask for help, or admit when she needed it. “I’m just going lay down, probably sleep for a year. I’ll see you when you get home.”

  “Are you sure?” I asked, unsure what I should do. Though I desperately wanted to be there for her, I also didn’t want to make her uncomfortable by hovering when she wanted to be alone.

  Molly knew me well enough to know exactly what debate was going on inside my head.

  “I swear,” she said quietly, locking my gaze to show she indeed meant it. “Finish up with the meeting, it will give the medics time to patch me up without an audience.”

  “I’ll be home soon, I promise,” I assured Molly, my heart swelling up fiercely. “Send me a message if you want or need me to pick up anything on my way home. Anything at all.”

  “I could probably use some new skin,” Molly answered weakly, a glimmer of humor peeking through. “I’m not sure if the canteen stocks it, but you could ask.”

  With that, the medics practically carried her out of the room and I reluctantly returned to my seat. The room remained silent for several long moments; the elders processed the event while us rookie runners nervously weighed Molly’s condition. She was the first in our class to suffer time sickness, and it was a terrifying sight to behold. The mood of the meeting had become decidedly more somber.

  After pausing to collect himself, Cyrus took a deep breath and quietly returning to business. Instantly, my mind was wandering once again.

  For several minutes, I focused on making a list of things I could pick up for Molly on the way home. I was contemplating items to distract her when Gaige’s voice broke through my thoughts.

  “You want this one?” he asked me softly, placing his hand on my forearm and giving it a squeeze.

  “Huh?” I asked distractedly.

  “Cyrus just said he has an assignment in Paris, year 1925. You want it, right?”

  Did arctic explorers want hot showers?

  “We’ll take it!” I exclaimed.

  For the umpteenth time since my arrival, the attention of everyone in the room was on me. I’d been so zoned out before Gaige’s question that I didn’t realize Cyrus was still explaining the mission. My excited utterance interrupted him mid-sentence. The disapproval in the eyes of the councilmembers around the table—those who’d been with Cyrus since he’d founded the syndicate system—was unmistakable.

  “Though the enthusiasm is appreciated, may I finish?” my boss asked wryly, not nearly as irritated as I’d have expected.

  “Sorry,” I muttered, wanting to melt into my chair.

  While I wasn’t concerned about the glares from the old guys, I never wanted Cyrus to view me as anything less than professional. Not because I feared that he might send me back to the harsh world outside of Branson—which he absolutely could, with or without a reason—but because I owed him immensely for bringing me to the island from the work camp in the first place. Disrespect was the last thing I wanted to give him in return.

  “As I was saying,” Cyrus continued pointedly, “our client has requested an unpublished manuscript—Blue’s Canyon by Andre Rosenthal. The historians located what appears to be the only definitive mention of the work in an interview with the author, published in Le Petit Journal in early March of 1925. When asked about his recent projects, Rosenthal replied that he had just completed his initial round of revisions on Blue’s Canyon. Because the manuscript was never published and no further mention of it was ever made, the historians believe something may have happened to it not long after the interview. Working off of that assumption, they have pinpointed a window of time in which they believe the chances of recovery are highest.

  “The author had a reputation for being quite private about his writing after the alleged plagiarizing of a work-in-progress in 1918. This event also made him quite distrustful of outsiders. Luckily, he was part of the expatriate set that lived and worked in Paris during the 1920s. Since many of those individuals are known for being friendly, becoming ingratiated with them will be the best avenue to Rosenthal. Even still, it is going to take both time and finesse to get close enough to him to find out where he is keeping the book. Rumor has it, he became so paranoid after the plagiarism affair that he never kept what he was working on in a single place. Instead, he would divvy up the sections between several hiding spots throughout the city.

  “Considering these factors, we are estimating that this mission will take anywhere from three to six weeks. The range is large because Rosenthal’s erratic behavior leaves a lot up to chance. Also, because his most popular work, Sparrows of Summer, was not completed until 1928, it will be imperative to not actually steal Blue’s Canyon. After the previous pilfering of ideas, an outright theft of this book could discourage him from writing anything else. Instead, a reproduction must be swapped with the original pages.

  “Any questions? Any interest?” Cyrus concluded in the same way as he always did.

  Unsurprisingly, no one else pounced on the intricate mission. Dealing with a paranoid owner was not appealing, not to mention the complexities of finding multiple locations and performing a switcheroo. But I’d been waiting to visit Paris in that decade since becoming a runner. I might’ve felt bad about roping Gaige in to something so complicated, except for the fact I still smelled like human waste.

  “I guess we could take it,” I said meekly, as if I wasn’t prepared to throw down for the run.

  Cyrus’s emerald eyes sparkled with amusement. He wasn’t fooled by my nonchalance.

  “Six weeks is a long time,” he hedged. “Are you sure you want this one? Are you sure you’re up for it? You just got back.”

  Though he hadn’t actually said it, I got the impression Cyrus was really asking if I was ready for the level of subterfuge this assignment required.

  Whether or not I was capable, I honestly wasn’t sure. Nevertheless, the time period and city might hold a clue to the identity of my parents. And that was all I needed to know.

  “Positive,” I answered, with more confidence than I felt.

  “We’ve got this,” Gaige added helpfully, putting his arm around my neck and squeezing me in a crushing side-hug. “I’m even willing to bet that we can get it done in three weeks, tops. Any takers?”

  “You’ve got yourself a bet,” Arin, a runner who was a year or two older than us, said. “No way you can steal it, copy it, and replace the duplicate in three weeks. Are you forgetting that there are no photo-replicators in the 1920s?”

  She smiled brilliantly at Gaige and gave him a long, lingering look. It seemed as though she’d happily offer herself up as
the prize, no matter who won their bet.

  My thoughts of Gaige’s love life—gross—swooped right out the window when the full extent of her words hit me. Steal it, copy it, and replace the duplicate. In a time when the technology to perfectly replicate items didn’t exist. That meant an alchemist would need time to recreate the manuscript by hand.

  Clearing my throat, I threw Gaige’s arm off of me and gave Cyrus the most competent expression I could muster.

  “I’m not willing to bet on three weeks. But I am positive that we can do it in your time frame,” I said. “When do we leave?”

  Cyrus’s gaze held mine for a heartbeat past comfortable.

  “Day after tomorrow” he finally said. “And Stassi? Use customs.”

  I willed myself not to blush.

  “Understood, Cyrus. No problem.”

  “YOU’RE WELCOME,” GAIGE prompted, as we stepped outside into the waning sunlight.

  Stopping to give him my most menacing glare, I propped my hands on my hips defiantly.

  “For what exactly?” I asked, daring him to say it.

  “Saving your ass,” Gaige declared with a look of glee, not the least bit intimidated by me.

  “You mean throwing me in the Arno? Are you freaking kidding me?” I asked, itching to smack the grin off his face. “Maybe once I’ve showered the sewage off of me, I might feel some degree of gratitude. Until then, I’ll be plotting my revenge.”

  My partner laughed at my obviously empty threats.

  “Come on, Stass, you have to admit that it was pretty brilliant. In fact, you might even say that my quick thinking saved the day.”

  “I will most certainly not be saying that,” I snapped.

  Sure, it was a pretty smart exit strategy. But until I no longer felt as though ants were crawling up my legs, I simply couldn’t give him the satisfaction.

  “I’ll take that as a ‘thank you’. And also as an apology for doubting I’d come through for you,” Gaige said, smiling triumphantly.

  As we began walking again, my partner grew uncharacteristically quiet. It wasn’t like him to not provide an endless stream of babble, so the silence was unnerving. After a full minute of nothing but the sounds of our footsteps and the chirping of the exotic birds, I couldn’t take it anymore.

  “You okay?” I asked, throwing him a sidelong glance.

  “Of course,” he said, offering me a reassuring smile. “I’m just thinking about the run.”

  “I know it’s going to be hard,” I said, feeling a twinge of guilt. “I’m sorry, we can back out.”

  “No way, I live for a challenge,” he replied without hesitation. “I just know you’ve been waiting a while for this, I don’t want to let you down.”

  Startled by his serious tone, I thought carefully about my next words.

  “I know that it’s a long shot,” I hedged. “But I also know that the only clue I have is that picture. So if there’s even a chance of finding answers in Paris, I want to go. I have to go.”

  The photo I was referring to—a shot of an elegant woman wearing my necklace—was the only solid lead I had to my familial origins. I’d stumbled across the picture while in the time archives stored in the Paris home of the syndicate’s Godfather when I was there for training the year before. The caption indicated it had been taken in Paris in the year 1924. That was it. That was all I had to go on. Which was precisely why I needed to go to Paris—to learn her identity. If I could just ascertain her name, I might be able to trace the line of her descendants to one of my parents.

  The odds of finding the woman were miniscule, like finding a needle in the largest haystack that ever existed. But I was determined to do just that.

  “I know, Stass. I get it.”

  When I didn’t answer, Gaige reached for my hand and gave it a squeeze.

  “Well, okay, maybe I don’t entirely get how you feel. I can’t imagine not knowing who my parents are. But if our roles were reversed, I’d want to do the same thing.”

  “Thanks,” I said quietly.

  As much as I wanted to know the identity of my parents, I also wanted the opportunity to ask them why. Why they’d left me to grow up in a work camp. Why they’d left me at all. Why they never came back for me.

  I was only four years old when the authorities found me wandering the streets of Knoxville, Tennessee. The local police searched for my family for two weeks without any luck, and I hadn’t been able to tell them anything useful to aid their efforts. A kind, young officer assigned to my case repeatedly assured me that someone would come to claim me, that my family would find me. But no one did. My family didn’t find me. Not then, and not in the years that followed.

  Post-Epic War America was a sad, harsh world. People were out of work, poor, and hungry. Children were frequently abandoned when the government’s food rations couldn’t stretch far enough to feed everyone at the table. The police were bogged down with cases similar to mine. Spending two weeks on one child was considered a long time.

  So, when it became clear that none of my relatives were going to come for me, I was taken to the closest work camp to be raised as a ward of the state. There, I was just one of the many orphans. But that fact didn’t make my abandonment any easier to cope with. I would never understand how any parent could send their child away to live in a place like that. Saying that life in the camp was harsh was like saying Robespierre was not a nice man—a gross understatement.

  Lost in my thoughts, I was surprised to realize that we’d already reached the fork in the dirt path. When I veered right towards the canteen, Gaige stayed in step beside me. Though the Paris assignment had interrupted my list making during the meeting, I had a good idea of what I wanted to get Molly. Recovering from time sickness mostly required several days of rest and fluids, but there were a few things that could help alleviate some of the symptoms.

  My bigger concern was getting my roommate to stay in bed long enough to recuperate. No matter how crappy she felt, she’d be itching for something to do by tomorrow, so providing her with distractions was crucial. Otherwise, she’d be up and gallivanting about the island. Which would just prolong her recovery.

  “So, going back to Paris should be awesome,” Gaige said enthusiastically, breaking the silence that had fallen between us.

  Cocking an eyebrow, I asked, “I know why I’m so excited about this run—what’s your reason?”

  Gaige’s wide-eyed expression told me that he thought the answer was obvious. His next words confirmed as much.

  “Seriously? We had a blast when we were there for training; I’m amped to go back. It is a fun-loving place, and the 1920s were an especially fun-loving time. The city might be on your list, but the parties are on mine.”

  Even though I knew it was his way of distracting me, I played along and gave a dramatic eye roll in reply. Gaige was the brother I’d never had and wasn’t sure I wanted at times.

  “I hear some of those expats were crazy,” Gaige was saying.

  We’d just reached the canteen, and Gaige moved ahead to hold the door open. This was typical-Gaige-fashion; despite all of his ridiculousness, hidden beneath the layers of ego and self-absorption, my partner was actually a really good guy.

  “That’s not exactly a desirable thing,” I replied, heading straight for the candy aisle.

  The antioxidants in dark chocolate were a natural way to combat time sickness. Luckily, Molly had a sweet tooth and a particular penchant for all things salted caramel.

  “Crazy people can be paranoid and unpredictable. That will just make our job that much harder,” I continued, purposefully ignoring the intended meaning of his words.

  “Whatever,” Gaige shrugged off my concerns. “I, for one, welcome the challenge.”

  “I knew you would,” I replied, grabbing three bars of a rare and painfully delicious Swiss chocolate.

  “Here, let’s get these,” Gaige said, choosing a bag of salted caramel jellybeans from the shelf. “Molly will love them.”

&nb
sp; As we continued around the store, my partner and I selected a random assortment of confections from around the world, a six-pack of grape-flavored sparkling water, two trashy romance novels, a book of crossword puzzles, and a wooden peg game that was meant to test the player’s IQ. While I knew the latter would frustrate the hell out of Molly, she would undoubtedly play until she won. Hopefully that would take some time.

  “What about first-aid supplies?” Gaige asked as we loaded our goodies onto the conveyor belt at the checkout stand. “Do you think Molly needs like burn cream or something? Oh, maybe some aloe? It works for sunburns, so it should be the same idea, right? Does she like flowers? We could get some here. Or maybe pick some on the way back to your place.”

  “You’ve never brought me flowers when I’m not feeling well. When was the last time you bought, or even stole, flowers for a girl?”

  “When was the last time you were sick?” Gaige asked.

  “True,” I conceded with a shrug.

  Illnesses were rare for runners. We were vaccinated for most known pathogens and took a handful of supplements and vitamins every day to boost our immune systems. Time sickness was our Achilles’ heel.

  “45 credits,” the cashier told me, after ringing up the mélange of items.

  I swiped my forearm in the air over the electronic scanner. The light on the display changed from red to green, indicating that my microchip was approved and the cost of Molly’s get-well gifts would be deducted from my account.

  Once again proving that chivalry was not dead, Gaige grabbed both of the bags without a word. Together, we set off for my bungalow.

  I basked in the dying rays of sunlight on my face as we walked, their warmth chasing away the last remnants of the chill left over from my swim in the Arno. The ocean breeze blew my hair off of my face, the snarling strands drifting behind me like a veil. Though I’d always been a blonde, my hair had become even lighter since moving to the island.

  Apparently Gaige had been serious about the flowers, because he stopped in front of my bungalow and plucked brightly colored hibiscuses from their stems.