Rift: A YA Time Travel Thriller (The Rift Walkers Book 1)

  “Come on,” I call over my shoulder only to find Cas right beside me. The smile that had been teasing her lips has vanished. Still, something twitches in my gut, something that urges me to pull her into a dim alley and taste that mouth, see if I can make her f-pat flash red. Some patterns come with mood sensors in the lighting, and Cas is definitely the kind of girl who would get that feature. When she darts down the alley, my pulse races.

  But she’s not thinking about kissing, and I shouldn’t be either. We turn the corner and duck out of sight just as purple lights pass the mouth of the alley—Hoods. Halfway down, she crouches and rips open her knapsack. I stand there and watch, wishing I had my zip-line to get us to the roof. Then maybe we could catch the el-rail, which has a stop only two blocks south of here. I hear the train grumbling as Cas pulls something out of her bag.

  She takes off her shoes and flips them into a nearby garbage can, along with the phone she’s been using. In moments, she’s got on fancy-fangled boots that make my eyes widen. Metallic black and completely smooth, they seem formed to Cascade’s feet like a second skin. At the same time, they radiate a coldness I can’t quite explain.

  “Anti-gravity?” I’m not really asking, and my voice carries traces of absolute awe. How the hella did she get anti-gravity technology?

  She attaches a strip of metal to the back of her left hand. Flyaway pieces of hair are plastered to her forehead and I imagine I look as haggard. This rift-walking business isn’t for the faint of heart. “Particle boost,” she says, and my eyebrows stretch higher.

  “That’s regulated technology,” I say, only partially asking how she got her hands on a pair of boots like that.

  “You’ll have to hold on to me,” she says, a smirk riding her lips. “I don’t have time to explain.”

  I cross my arms, but I can’t help the laugh that spurts from my mouth. I’m just thankful for a reason to put my arms around Cascade. We can’t seem to look away from each other as I place my hands on her hips. Our breath mingles in the narrow space between us.

  “Cas—”

  “Put your feet on mine,” she says.

  I swallow back words that will have to wait. “I weigh a lot more than you do.”

  “Particle boost,” she replies, and I comply by putting my size-elevens on her booted feet. She fiddles with the metal strip on her hand, presses a button, and flattens her cheek to my chest as we shoot into the sky.

  I grip her tighter in an attempt to stay together. Everything around me shakes with the velocity of the el-rail. The air around me heats to a painful temperature. I can’t open my eyes, because gravity bears too great a weight on them.

  Cascade’s body pressed next to mine feels soft, and real. I hug her tighter and feel her respond. Just when I think my teeth will rattle out of my skull, the sensation eases. I tumble head over feet, and I can’t tell which way is up until I slam into the ground with Cascade on top of me.

  I groan, hoping the more important parts of my body aren’t permanently damaged. I open my eyes to the sight of emerald green grass. Cascade pushes herself off me and stumbles to a nearby fence. It’s white, and that’s all I register. At least my eyes work.

  My chest hurts with each breath. An ache settles in my neck and across my shoulders. I manage to sit up, and while the world spins for a few seconds, I quickly regain my equilibrium.

  “Where are we?” I ask.

  “Two houses down from yours,” she says. She returns to me, kneeling in the grass and smoothing my hair off my forehead. She’s got a syringe in her hand. “Are you okay? Need painkillers?”

  “I’m still alive,” I say. “But yes, shoot me up with that.” The prick on my bicep is nothing compared to the fire in my spine. “You owe me big time. Zip-lining wasn’t anything like that.”

  “You tore my best jeans that night,” she says, but her voice carries a mocking quality.

  “You just broke my back,” I tease, accepting her offered hand and getting to my feet. “That’s way worse than a ripped pair of pants.”

  “My best jeans,” she repeats.

  “You’d look good in anything,” I say before I can censor myself. When she stares at me, mute, I slip my hand into hers in an attempt to keep myself from falling. “Don’t go too fast. My leg is sorta broken too.”

  She lets me set the pace and we emerge onto the shadowed sidewalk, hand in hand, me limping and her scanning the street for possible unfriendlies. My house looms, too dark against the sky. My mind is as muddled as the rest of my battered body, and I have no idea what to say.

  Thankfully, we don’t encounter my mom or dad or any of his security detail in the kitchen. I head upstairs, with Cascade’s hand still held firmly in mine. My door is closed, which strikes me as strange because Dad’s guards beat it down just as we’d stepped into the rift. I push it open, disbelieving my good luck at avoiding him. I can’t wait to take off this disgusting sweatshirt.

  “Price,” Dad says, rising from my desk chair. “There you are.”

  Saige

  SARAH JANE AND I REMAIN in the car while Price and Cascade disappear into a building down the block. I clench the paper Cascade gave me, and try to force the severity of those flashing lights on her face out of my mind.

  This Cascade girl seemed like she’d carry needles in her pocket the way a normal person carries chewing gum, and I find my temper rising again. I smash her note into a ball and drop it on the floor so I can squeeze my anger into the steering wheel.

  I close my eyes and see that light running across the bridge of her nose, making her eyes the iridescent color of liquid silver. Ridiculous. If that’s the future, I’m glad I live here, now, in the year 2013.

  “Saige?” Sarah Jane asks. “Should we go?”

  I swing my head toward her, and every movement feels as though I’m doing it underwater. I unclench my fingers, and they sting as blood rushes back into my whitened knuckles.

  I unwad the paper and read: Thanks, Saige. If you don’t know about time rifts, you should ask your mother what she’s doing with her laser fusion research….

  I let the paper flutter to the floor and make no effort to retrieve it. My mom? How would Cascade know anything about my freaking mother? My heart races, and my fingers grip the wheel so tight, so tight. My vision blurs for a moment, and then I lean down and grab the paper again.

  You should ask your mother.

  The handwriting is sloppy, clearly done in a hurry. It looks as sharp as Cascade’s eyes, as dangerous as she is. I suppress a scream as the note grows heavier and heavier in my fingers.

  Sarah Jane gently takes the paper and reads it. “Are you going to talk to your mom?”

  That’s the last thing I want to do. But if doing that will help get the ghosts—past and future—out of my life? I feel my back straighten and my resolve set. I’ll do it, I think. I’ll talk to my mother.

  I don’t know how to deal with the level of frustration coursing through my veins. I feel like I need to punch something and watch it shatter into tiny pieces.

  I open my eyes as Sarah Jane crumples the note. I take it from her and re-read it. I fumble to release my seat belt. I have to follow Cascade. Find her. Look into her face and ask for the truth—how does she know my mother? Are they friends in the future? Does she know me too? “That girl—”

  “We should go,” Sarah Jane says, louder now. She presses back into her seat.

  I follow her gaze to see the same two men from my sleepy subdivision tossing way too much money at a cab driver half a block in front of us. They step onto the curb and scan the surrounding area.

  Any thought of leaving the safety of the car flees. My fingers fly to the gearshift. I flip it into drive and pull into the street without checking my blind spot. My first mistake.

  A car honks, immediately drawing the attention of the two beefy men. They wear jackets unlike anything I’ve seen, gold glints on their fingers, and the sunlight catches on their ultra-violet-ray-blocking sunglasses. One points toward
us and the other scowls.

  Sarah Jane slinks down in her seat so they can’t see her. She hisses at me to do the same. I don’t. My second mistake. I simply stare at them—and only at them—as I continue down the street.

  They both lift small electronic devices that might be phones but could just as easily be detonators. They press buttons as we pass. I watch them in my rearview mirror, their fingers constantly moving, until finally, we round the corner onto Fletcher.

  My arms shake and I suck at the air, thinking about what they might do with that evidence. Were they taking pictures? Video? Will my mother get in trouble?

  Next to me, Sarah Jane straightens. “What happened? What did they do?”

  I shake my head, determined not to cry. It’s much harder than I expect, as the tears are ever-present and pressing behind my eyes.

  Terrified silence prevails on the way back to my house. I can’t come up with any explanations, and the way Sarah Jane keeps shooting me glances screams of her nervousness. I know she wants me to say something, but I’m afraid if I open my mouth, I’ll start raging and never stop.

  “Now what?” she asks as I ease into the garage.

  “We should’ve gone to the library,” I say. “For proof.” I can’t believe that’s what I’m thinking about. I feel numb, like I’ve just witnessed a horrific accident and don’t know which way is up. I don’t know why. All I did was drive two people into the city.

  Sarah Jane watches me as my chest rises and falls too fast. “Hey, it’s okay,” she says.

  I take a deep breath and rub the angry tears from my eyes. “I wish it was okay.” I glance at her to find her with a small smile on her face that says It really will be okay.

  I want to believe her, but sitting out here in the car, I don’t.

  She holds up the note. “This says you should talk to your mom.” She fists the paper and opens her door. “Let’s go do that.”

  I appreciate that she hasn’t abandoned me, or once asked me to take her home because this is all too weird.

  When Sarah Jane and I enter the kitchen, two men stand up in the living room. They flash badges and flip open notebooks and click pens into operation mode.

  My mom hovers near the hallway, looking uncomfortable, as if she’s never had people in this room before. Shep lounges unhappily on the loveseat in the living room, his eyes a mixture of annoyance and fear.

  “Saige? Can you come in here?” my mom asks, and I square my shoulders and try to make my eyes as fiery as Cascade’s.

  I stop half in the living room, half still in the foyer beyond the kitchen. “Yeah?” I look at the suited officers, and my breath stalls in my lungs.

  Mom strides closer, and her mouth moves. I don’t hear her, because all I can see is the chalky outlines around the officers. Both bright blue, and both fading in intensity even as I watch. One officer frowns and his aura shifts from blue to purple and then takes on hues of red.

  They’ve come from somewhen else. Like Price—he had the same outline when he showed up in my room last night. Like Cascade—she had the same film clinging to her tonight.

  Suddenly my anger solidifies into fear. I need space, and time, to figure out what’s going on. What’s really going on.

  I turn to find Sarah Jane. She’ll corroborate my story. She watches me with wide eyes, her mouth pressed closed. She steps next to me, almost like a shield, and I love her for it.

  I whip back around when one of the officers says my name. It sounds wrong on his tongue. His outline is grainy, but visible, the same way Price’s was. I’ve seen this same residue on Chloe’s shoulders as she sits in the window seat, as she skips down the stairs, as she drinks from water bottles in the game room. I can’t believe I didn’t make the connection last night when Price showed up unannounced in my bedroom.

  This residue clings to people after they walk through time.

  I don’t know when I last breathed. My head feels like iron. My legs shake. I feel the hard floor greet me when I fall, but I can’t hear anything.

  My mind preys on one fact: Chloe went through the rift! She came and went through the freaking rift!

  Price

  I BRACE MYSELF AGAINST THE doorway so Dad can’t determine my injuries. Cascade presses in close to me, her body tense.

  “Where have you been?” Dad asks, taking a threatening step forward. He scans me from head to foot, and the muscles in his neck visibly relax.

  “I met with Cascade for her senior project,” I say, forcing my voice into a conversational tone. “I told you we’d be coming back here to work on it, remember? I cleared it with Mom.”

  “Ah, yes, the senior project.” Dad leans against the desk and folds his arms. A river of fury skates just under the surface of his expression, but he hasn’t unleashed it yet. I wonder what it will take to get him to erupt.

  “What are you doing for yours?” he asks.

  “Historical landmarks,” I say, my feet shuffling back a bit, like I’m getting ready to run.

  He raises his eyebrows. “Landmarks?”

  The topic is not one I’d normally pick, and he knows it. “Yeah, our house is a landmark. I find that fascinating.” I enter my room, sweeping it for subtle differences. I notice the fans in the ceiling are closed, no evidence that they even exist.

  “I’m looking up blueprints and stuff,” I continue as I search my bedroom for bots. My lamp has been moved, and there’s something not quite right with the curtains. They look as though someone shoved them open too far and then tried to smooth them back to normal. “Castle Pines has a great Historic Society. I’m going out to Cleveland Heights tomorrow to go through their digis. The guy on the chat even said something about this house being a site for paranormal activity.”

  I’m making this up, of course. I haven’t chatted anyone from the Historic Society, and Cleveland Heights is the pit of suburbs in Castle Pines.

  Dad’s gaze follows me as I move to the window. It’s hard not to limp, but I manage. I open the curtain and look into the street. I glance up as I turn, and sure enough, he’s implanted a bot there. I can’t see it. He’s too smart for that. But it’s there. There’s a split in the seam he didn’t have time to fix.

  I watch him so closely I don’t blink. Cascade hasn’t moved from the doorway. Everything about her body language warns me to drop this. She’s even deactivated her f-pat.

  “Something with ghosts or something? And time travel,” I say, totally not dropping it. I don’t know what I’m doing, but it feels good. “He said I’d have to come up, because the Time Bureau only allows certain people to see the file. Maybe you can get the clearance or something? You being the Bureau’s top technology developer and all.”

  Dad takes two steps toward me. Cascade mirrors him, and I feel like she wants to fly between us to protect me. The anger in my dad’s eyes causes me to lean away from him.

  “You know anything about a time rift at our house?” I ask, my voice only slightly shaky. “I checked the registration list, and there isn’t one here.”

  “Of course there’s not a rift here,” he says as if the idea of a rift in the suburbs is preposterous. He cuts a glare to Cascade. He moves toward her and now I’m the one darting across the room in a protective stance. “Why don’t you introduce me to your friend?”

  “Dad, this is Cascade Kaufman,” I say, standing beside him so we both face Cascade. Her techno look is definitely a strike against her—if my dad were choosing. For me, it’s what makes my mouth too dry to speak properly. “She’s in my social group.”

  He peers at her closely, examining. To Cascade’s credit, she stares right back. “Have we met?”

  “No, sir,” she says, her mouth barely moving. The “sir” is a nice touch.

  He scans her from head to feet too, and I can practically hear him thinking about what he saw us wearing when we disappeared into the rift. Finally, he extends his hand for her to shake. Something about the gesture feels offensive, and I stiffen.

  “Wel
l, it’s nice to meet you.”

  Cascade places her hand in his, and instead of shaking, Dad rips all the rings off her fingers. He sees something on her hand, and his eyes fly to hers. I can’t tell if he’s angry or afraid. “You,” he breathes.

  “Dad,” I start, but he’s already shoving his way past Cascade and into the hall. I watch him go, completely baffled by his behavior.

  “Have you met?” I ask Cascade as she stoops to retrieve her rings. She keeps her back to me as she replaces them on her fingers. “What did he see on your hand?”

  “I don’t know,” she says. “I haven’t met him before today.”

  I step toward her, thinking I’ll yank the rings off her hand too. I catch myself and sink into the desk chair.

  Cascade closes and locks the door. “Why’d you push him like that?”

  “Wanted to see what he’d say.” I keep my voice low so the security bot in the curtain can’t record it.

  “We changed clothes to avoid talking about the rift,” she says.

  I simply sigh. “Sorry. I wasn’t thinking.”

  “I told you he’d deny it.”

  She had told me that. What I don’t know is why.

  He’s using the rift illegally.

  I glance at Cascade, her accusation repeating in my mind. She’s looking out the window. We can’t talk here, not with Dad’s surveillance running. I take off the disgusting sweatshirt, leaving me wearing my polo with the holey jeans.

  “Let’s get out of here.” I stand and lace my fingers through hers. Normally, I’d descend to the front yard using the rain gutter, but with the buggy additions to my room, I opt for the stairs.

  Cascade removes her sweatshirt and tosses it in my trash bin on our way out. We walk in the June evening heat for a couple blocks before I feel like I’m getting enough oxygen. There’s something about my house that sucks the life right out of me.

  “Tell me about your first jam,” I say, just to slice into the silence hovering between us.

  “I created the Dark Panther years ago, when alternate identities weren’t so taboo,” she says, and her voice starts out soft. She gains strength as she outlines the hack into the financial sector. She’d exposed the head of Technological Advancement at the Bureau. I remember the flicks that had played after that. He’d doctored his financials, skimmed money off the top, and had a fat account under an alternate identity earmarked for retirement.