The Syndicate (Timewaves Book 1)

by Davis, Sophie

  “Did you seriously just declare my naptime?” Molly asked wryly.

  At the same time, Tiger saluted me and said, “Aye, aye, Momma Bear, Stassi.”

  I rolled my eyes and leaned over to give Molly a gentle hug goodbye.

  “I’ll be back soon,” I promised her.

  “You better,” she whispered back, squeezing me hard with her bony arms.

  Next I gave Tiger a quick hug, which surprised us both.

  Molly must be rubbing off on me, I thought. Normally she and Gaige were only two people I touched.

  “Don’t worry, Stassi, I’m never letting her out of my sight again,” Tiger whispered in my ear and I could hear the regret heavy in his voice. It didn’t take a psychoanalyst to know Tiger shouldered the blame for Molly being hurt on their mission. I hugged him a little bit tighter.

  After giving my roommate another squeeze, Gaige and I departed the bungalow and headed for the gate. Molly wanted to escort us, but was outvoted. Reluctantly she stayed back with Tiger, who promised to make sure she had a good breakfast, and then returned to bed.

  Though it was early, the island was awake and active. Workers tended to the grounds, collectors picked flowers and fruits for both the cooks and scientists, and runners were out and about on their way to meet with historians, eat breakfast in the community dining rooms, or get in some morning exercise on the trails.

  We were almost to the gate when Cyrus, face slick with sweat and panting, caught up with us. From his black athletic shorts and gray t-shirt, it was obvious he’d been out for a morning jog.

  “Good, I caught you,” he said, coming to a stop in front of Gaige and me.

  Despite his easygoing smile, the Founder’s bright green eyes were troubled. I instantly began to worry something was wrong. “Be careful, you two. Not all things in the past are meant to be uncovered. This manuscript might very well be one of them. If the task proves too difficult or too timely, return home.” He winked. “After all, half the payment is due up front and is nonrefundable.”

  I smiled nervously, reading more meaning into Cyrus’s words than I should have. Abandoning a mission was not something the syndicate took lightly. Persistence and ingenuity were the two traits most important to our job.

  “Yeah, sure,” I said slowly.

  “We’ve got this, old man,” Gaige said, clapping Cyrus on the back.

  Evidently, our boss didn’t take kindly to Gaige’s choice of words. He turned one of his infamous glares on my partner. It was a look that could have boiled tap water straight from the faucet. To his credit, Gaige only paled and retreated several steps. I wouldn’t have blamed him if he’d simply run away.

  “Sir,” Gaige corrected. “We’ve got this, sir. I’ll take good care of Stassi. No need to worry.”

  “See that you do, Gaige. And I’ll see you both in a few weeks. Check in regularly with customs, and send word immediately if you encounter any trouble.”

  Both requests were protocol for longer runs, but my partner and I simply nodded our agreement. With a final glare at Gaige, Cyrus continued on his run, and we resumed our path.

  When we descended the stone stairs into the gate, we found Rupert and Sara on duty. Like Rupert, Sara held a special place in my heart, but for an entirely different reason. She came from the work camps, too. Sara was one of the only people on the island who understood what it was like to come from nothing to an island with everything.

  “Hey, Sara. Hey, Rupert,” I called.

  “Hi, Stassi,” they chorused in unison.

  “Kids,” Gaige said with a nod.

  Rupert waved and Sara gave a shy nod to my partner. Like so many of the females on the island, Gaige dazzled her.

  Standing behind the desk, with Sara seated beside him, Rupert tapped away on a beam keyboard.

  “Looks like you guys are headed to Paris in 1925, is that right?” he asked, before giving a low whistle. “Six weeks? That’s a long time.”

  The gate attendants weren’t given specifics about our missions—only the time period, location, and anticipated length of each assignment. That way, if we didn’t return, they could alert Cyrus. Of course our boss studied the logs religiously, so he often knew before the gate attendants if something was amiss. Cyrus was a gruff man, but he cared about everyone on the island and did his best to ensure our safety. I’d seen it in his eyes the moment we met.

  “Yeah, try not to miss us too much while we’re gone,” Gaige joked with the attendants.

  “Incoming in vortex five,” Sara said suddenly. She glanced at the computer screen. “Should be Duncan and Brie, unless Mateo and Lash are back early.”

  “Will you check?” Rupert asked her. To Gaige and me, he said, “Sorry, it’s a busy day. I have you two set on vortex nine.”

  As soon as we entered the dark cave, my tattoo began to hum. I rubbed the skin on the inside of my wrist with my thumb. At the turn in the tunnel, Gaige reached for my hand. The blinding white light appeared before us. It began to swirl, gold ribbons weaving through the white background until the two colors were equals. As one, we stepped into the spinning vortex.

  Goodbye Branson.

  PARIS, I THOUGHT, opening my eyes with a smile on my lips

  At least, I assumed we were in Paris. A very cramped Paris, by the feel of it. Gaige’s hand no longer held mine, but his body was pressed up against my back, his coffee breath hot on my neck.

  “Ugh, personal space,” I groaned, trying to put distance between our bodies.

  Only, there was nowhere to go. Directly in front of my nose was a stone wall. Dim light shone down on us from a prima-powered eternal lamp near the ceiling.

  Gaige stepped back, providing me with enough space to turn around. In front of us was a long tunnel lined with the eternal lamps. Slightly unsteady from the jump, Gaige started down the passage. I followed several paces behind, massaging the stiffness from my neck. I lost sight of my partner when he rounded a bend, but could hear him making a racket as he fiddled with something. I rounded the corner and stopped short, nearly running right into his back.

  “This damned doorknob won’t turn,” he remarked, throwing a shoulder against the offending door.

  As if he’d said the magic words, it burst open and Gaige tumbled sideways.

  “Welcome to Paris, luv,” said an amused female voice.

  The stout woman bent to offer Gaige a hand, but he waved her off.

  “I’m fine. I’m fine. Just a little dizzy,” he told her.

  The customs agent stepped back, and I patted Gaige on the head like he was an adorable puppy as I passed by. The air was slightly cooler outside of the passageway, but still sweltering compared to the chill of the gate back on the island.

  “I’m Isabel, you must be Stassi and Gaige?” the woman said, offering me her hand.

  I shook it. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “You arrived just in time for breakfast. How about something to eat, and then we can get started? Why don’t I take your travel bags? I will have them sent up to the townhouse where you will be staying while you’re here.”

  My stomach was queasy from the jump, but I knew the nausea would pass soon.

  “Sounds great,” I replied, handing her my duffel.

  Finally struggling to his feet, Gaige smiled at our hostess. “Just coffee for me, thanks. Watching my figure.” He patted his flat stomach, and then shrugged out of the backpack where he’d stowed his personal belongings. “Careful, some of the stuff in there bites,” he warned.

  Isabel studied Gaige’s face, as if trying to decide whether he was joking. After a long moment, she turned without comment.

  “Follow me,” she called over her shoulder.

  I’d jumped to numerous customs ports in my two years as a runner, and all of them were slightly different. This one was a huge, round space set up like the backstage of a fashion runway show. Evenly spaced doors took up the east wall, while the rest of the staging area was fanned out around them. Dressing tables with bright lights
were scattered throughout the salon.

  Though the Parisian waystation was a busy one, there were still only four doors, which led to the city’s four vortexes. Three of the vortexes were exclusively for traveling to and from Branson, since Paris was part of the Atlic Syndicate’s territory. The fourth vortex was capable of sending and receiving runners from anywhere in the world.

  “The stylists will be down soon,” Isabel said, as we crossed through the area designated for hair and makeup.

  “You aren’t French,” Gaige said, his tone almost accusatory.

  Isabel pushed open a set of swinging double doors, which led to a sitting area with old velvet couches and a dining table. Having been here before, I knew the second set of doors in this room led to a large kitchen. The smell of pastries wafted out when a server passed through with a coffee decanter.

  Isabel chuckled. “No, luv, I’m not. I was born in Baltimore. Lived there until I was sixteen, then came to Paris to live with my aunt and take up the family business.”

  The sad note in Isabel’s voice hinted that her circumstances surrounding the transatlantic move had not been happy ones.

  “She’s an alchemist?” Gaige prompted.

  “Two in a row,” Isabel quipped. “My aunt didn’t have any children herself, so she sent for me. My parents thought it was to run the hat shop upstairs—that’s our cover story here.”

  Each city had a business front for its gate, from bakeries to pet shops. A southern American port even used a clown college to mask its true nature.

  Alchemists manned the customs stations, passing the secrets of our trade down from one generation to the next. The rest of the staff was comprised of family members, along with ex-runners and historians-in-training. Cyrus kept his employee circles closed and tight-knit, allowing the waystations to remain open for centuries without detection.

  “Grab something to eat, then we’ll get started,” Isabel instructed, pointing to the buffet along one side of the room with everything from eggy bread—the French equivalent for what Americans called French toast—to biscuits and fruit.

  Once I filled a cup with coffee and piled my plate up with fruit and a buttery croissant, we followed Isabel back into the staging area.

  “Pick any stations you like.” She waved her arm to encompass the room. “I’ll go and fetch the team, they’re upstairs working the floor.”

  Gaige and I plopped down in the nearest swivel chairs. The heat coming off of the bright bulbs caused a line of sweat to form on my forehead. I wound my hair into a bun and fanned my neck. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Gaige wiping his brow with the back of his hand.

  Taking note of our discomfort, Isabel apologized. “Ventilation system is on the fritz. Sorry about that. I’ll turn on the fans to get the air circulating.”

  Good to her word, Isabel flipped a switch on the wall. Warm, stale air began to circulate throughout the room.

  “It won’t take long to cool off,” Isabel promised, disappearing through the doors leading upstairs to the lounge area.

  When she reentered the staging area several minutes later, three people were trailing behind her.

  “While you eat, let me introduce our staff. This is our resident guise stylist, Felipe. He will handle your overall looks for the mission, including hair and cosmetics.” Isabel gestured to the large man standing beside her with shaggy blonde hair and a bulbous nose. He bowed, an overly formal gesture that looked odd coming from such a big guy.

  Next, Isabel put her arm around a slim woman with light cocoa skin. “This is our wardrobe stylist, Naomi—a particularly integral part of your team during this time period. She will outfit you in everything from clothing to jewelry and accessories that are appropriate for your cover story.”

  Naomi smiled shyly and twisted a strand of her long, black hair. Between her flowing locks, bright green eyes, and flawless skin, the wardrober looked as though she should be modeling the latest fashions instead of dressing us in them.

  This should be interesting, I thought, giving Naomi a small wave as I wondered how Gaige would handle this unexpected diversion.

  When I glanced at my partner, expecting to see unveiled attraction in his big brown eyes. Instead, he was devouring a chocolate-filled pastry like a man who hadn’t eaten in years, his attention solely on the confection.

  Good boy, I thought wryly, suppressing the urge to pat him on the head as I’d done earlier.

  “Finally, this is our resident know-it-all, Ines. She keeps up with all of the latest scandals, trends, and societal haunts. Ines also knows all the most interesting people in our little city.”

  The severe-looking women stepped forward. I recognized her from one of Historian Eisenhower’s pictures.

  “Oui,” Ines said. “I make it my business to know everyone else’s. So, tell me, whose business do you need know?”

  I’d just bitten into my croissant, chocolate oozing over my fingers and lips. I hastily swallowed the large bite. She laughed, a tinkling melodic sound that reminded me of wind chimes.

  “Do not choke, my dear. We have hours together before we send you out in the world.” Ines moved to stand behind my chair, openly appraising me in the mirror. She made a clucking noise with her tongue. “Pink hair? This will not do, I fear. It’s too…too….” She tapped her chin with her index finger, searching for the right word. “Futuriste. You will stand out like a virgin in a brothel with that hair.”

  Gaige snorted.

  “Have no worries,” Ines continued. “Felipe will have you fixed in no time. Unless you were thinking of wearing a wig?”

  I honestly hadn’t given it any thought at all. Usually when I arrived at customs, I simply sat down in a chair, then stood up several hours later looking like a different person. No one had ever asked for my opinion before, so I took a moment to consider the pros and cons. Dyeing my hair would mean losing the pink strands that were symbolic of my new life. Wigs were an easy way to alter my appearance. I was accustomed to wearing them, but they tended to make my scalp itch. Six weeks was a long time to have an itchy head.

  “No, no wig,” I decided, fingering one of the pink strands. Molly would be more than happy to repeat the process when I returned. “Dye it.”

  “How about a nice auburn, mademoiselle? With your blue eyes and fair skin, it would be lovely,” Felipe declared.

  “Sure, that works,” I said.

  “And for you, let’s go dark,” Felipe said to Gaige. “A little shoe polish and we can make your hair black.”

  The look of horror on Gaige’s face was priceless.

  “Shoe polish?” he stuttered.

  “I am only joking,” Felipe said. “We will use real dye, straight from your time. Do not fret.”

  Since I had more hair, Felipe started with me. While he set to work, Naomi led Gaige off to select his new wardrobe. Isabel and Ines returned to the milliner’s shop above, in case any customers stopped in to browse the hat selection.

  Once Felipe had coated my hair in a thick, brownish-red paste, he summoned Gaige and I was sent off with Naomi.

  “Dresses in our era are not fitted,” she informed me as we walked down a long hallway. Her voice was soft and rich, and seemed to fit her shy nature. “You are fairly tall and slim, so most everything will look good on you. Since you are supposed to be a woman of means with an interest in the arts, only the finest garments will do.”

  Naomi paused in front of tall oak doors and smiled up at me. “Prepare to be enchanted.”

  I laughed. Did she think this was my first run?

  Naomi pushed the doors open with a two-handed shove.

  “Holy shite,” I muttered.

  Enchanted was an understatement.

  The customs closet in Paris was the largest and most extravagant I’d seen, stretching two-stories high and as far back as I could see. Lifelike mannequins were strategically posed around the lower level, displaying beautiful beaded gowns, sequined dresses, fur-collared evening coats, and chic day frocks with
flirty details. Some had scarves hanging from the waist or flowing from their shoulders. Some had hats covering their short, wigged hair. Others wore jeweled headpieces that sparkled in the bright lights. And then there was the jewelry: long necklaces of amethysts, pearls, and diamante, gold bangles encrusted with stones in every color of the rainbow, and dangly earrings that added a little something extra.

  Behind the mannequins were rows of garments in similar styles. My inner girlie-girl came out, and I longed to run my fingers over the fine fabrics. I found myself wishing that Molly were there; she would’ve loved this.

  “The clothes are all on the first floor, with accessories the second.” Naomi gestured to a burgundy chaise in the center of the room. “I hope you do not mind, but I have taken the liberty of selecting a few pieces for you. If you would like to take a seat, I will fetch them.”

  “Great,” I said, still awestruck.

  Dutifully, I sat on the lounge and waited while Naomi disappeared behind a winding staircase that led to the second floor. She returned a moment later, pushing a rolling rack. Item by item, she went through the garments she’d selected, explaining what events I was supposed to wear each for and who had designed it. The details went in one ear and out the other—I was too busy gawking at the intricate beadwork and gorgeous embellishments. Usually I found this part of the assignment tedious. Clothes were just clothes, after all. But not this time. This time, I was already scheming on how best to smuggle back my favorite items.

  Maybe I could offer to buy the purple silk and velvet loungewear, I thought. Oh, and that gold evening gown with the rose-patterned jacket thingie. Molly would love them.

  “Time to rinse.”

  I’d been so caught up in admiring my new wardrobe that I hadn’t heard Felipe enter.

  “If these items suit you, I will wrap them up and have them delivered to your residence,” Naomi said.

  “Yes. I mean, oui. They suit me, merci,” I said, making use of my minimal French.

  Naomi smiled. “Is there anything in particular you would like me to leave out for today?”