Mari Mancusi - Scorched

“How did you get this?” she stammered as she examined the all-too-familiar piece of jewelry, cataloging its beloved imperfections: the scratch on the left side, the missing pave diamond on the top right. It was exactly the same—and yet somehow different too. Older looking, more worn. As if it had been antiqued.

Like two hundred years antiqued.

With shaky breath, she turned it over, her eyes searching for the inscription she knew she’d find inside.

To Emberlyn, my love.

“Your father gave this ring to your mother,” Connor stated quietly. “He told her to never take it off her finger. After she died, you vowed to do the same. At night, you would twist it around your finger exactly five times while staring up at the ceiling, praying for courage to face the next day.”

She looked up from the ring, feeling the color drain from her face. “I never told anyone that,” she whispered.

“Not yet,” he replied smoothly, his blue eyes piercing her own. “But you will.”

She didn’t know what to say.

“According to our histories, you wore this ring until the day you died,” Connor continued. “It became a symbol to many people. After your death, the Dracken took it and claimed it as their own. It took a lot of work for us to get it back. Many men died in the effort. But the Council knew they could never convince you to help us unless I could prove I was telling the truth.”

Trin stared down at the ring. Then she slowly slid it onto her finger. It fit perfectly, of course, and for the first time all week, her hand felt whole again. Oh, Mom. She blinked back the tears, looking up at Connor, a million questions whirling through her brain, each warring to be asked first.

But before she could speak, car headlights flashed through the window, freezing the words in her throat. She cringed. The cavalry had finally arrived—just in time for her to realize they may not be the men in white hats she’d assumed they’d be.

Connor caught her guilty face, then glanced out the window. The car had pulled up just outside the barn’s front door and the driver’s side door popped open.

“Oh, fleck,” he whispered. “Trinity, what have you done?”

What had she done? Only what she thought was the right thing at the time. But now she wasn’t so sure. She stared down at the ring, her stomach churning. What if Connor was telling the truth? What if he really was from the future—sent to stop the government from stealing the world’s last dragon egg and thus sparking a worldwide apocalypse? Had her 911 call led the bad guys directly to the prize?

“Trinity? Honey? Where are you? Can you hear me?”

She let out a sigh of relief as she recognized the voice outside. Not the scary men in black she’d feared—or even Connor’s so-called evil twin. Just good old Sheriff Bob, the portly, senior law man who spent more time out fishing with her grandpa than preventing any crimes. Trinity had known the old sheriff her entire life, and he’d always had a kind word to say and a piece of mint gum to share. There was no way he’d be mixed up in some dragon conspiracy.

She started for the door. Connor grabbed her arm, yanking her back. “Don’t go out there!” he hissed.

“It’s okay,” she assured him. “It’s just Sheriff Bob. He’s responding to my call—he probably recognized the cell number. I’ll tell him I’m looking for my grandpa. For all I know maybe he’s been at the police station the whole time, reporting the break-in or something.” Even as she said the words, hope stirred within her. If only it could be true! Everything could still turn out okay.

The barn door groaned as Sheriff Bob attempted to pry it open. “Trinity? Are you in there?”

She opened her mouth to reply. But Connor was too quick, grabbing her hands and yanking her hard against him. His eyes found her own, piercing her with their intensity.

You can’t trust anyone. Even people you think you know.

She gasped as his words blazed through her brain, followed by a jolt of terror and urgency. His terror and urgency, she realized with shock.

Please believe me, Trinity. Everything depends on it.

She stumbled back, breaking their connection, shaken to the core. She stared at him wildly, finding it impossible to still her erratic pulse. How had he done that? Connected their minds with a simple touch. Magic? Some kind of psychic link? A weird futuristic technology?

However he’d done it, the effect remained the same. And she knew now, without a shadow of a doubt, that he believed everything he’d told her. The time travel, the dragons, the apocalypse—it was all real. All true. And his fear was now hers as well.

“What do we do?” she whispered, her voice hoarse. “He’s not going to leave until he knows I’m okay. And there’s no back door to sneak out of.”

Connor considered this. “I’ll hide in the loft,” he told her. “With the egg. You try to get rid of him as quickly as possible. If you run into trouble, I’ll back you up.” He patted the gun he’d holstered to his side.

Trinity bit her lower lip, wanting to argue. Sheriff Bob was her grandpa’s best friend. She couldn’t let Connor hurt him, no matter what. But there was no time to come up with another plan.

“Okay.” She drew in a breath. “But keep your finger off the trigger unless this becomes an epic fail. Upping the body count is not exactly going to help our cause at this point.”

“Agreed.” Connor saluted her, tucking the egg under his arm and starting his climb. Once he disappeared from view, she approached the front door, pulling it open with shaky hands.

“Hey, Bob,” she greeted in her most cheerful, unbothered voice. “What are you doing working Christmas Eve—?”

Her words died in her throat as two men wielding powerful flashlights stepped out from the backseat of the sheriff’s car, where they’d evidently been waiting, purposely out of view. They were dressed identically, in sharp, custom-fitted black suits, their eyes shaded by mirrored sunglasses, even though the sun had set long ago. Trinity’s eyes darted from one to the other, apprehension coursing through her veins. This did not seem good.

The two men didn’t wait for an invitation to enter. They pushed into the barn as if they owned the place, overturning bikes and opening storage chests. Trinity turned to Sheriff Bob, begging for an explanation, but the small-town sheriff just gave her a helpless shrug. He would be no help, she realized. It was all up to her.

“What are you doing?” she demanded of the men. “This is my neighbor’s barn.”

“Homeland Security, ma’am,” one of the men interrupted. He flashed her a badge so quickly she had no idea whether it was legit or had come from a Cracker Jack box. “Perhaps a better question would be what are you doing here?”

Her mind raced to come up with a reasonable explanation on short notice. Then she realized honesty might be the best policy—at least partial honesty. “There were men,” she said at last. “They barged into my house. I freaked out and ran here to hide before calling 911. I think one of them might still be in the house.”

The men looked unsurprised. “No need to be afraid,” the first one said in a voice that told her otherwise. “Those were government agents. We have reason to believe your grandfather may have come into possession of some stolen property. Do you know anything about that?” He gave her a pointed stare.

His insinuation infuriated her. She met his gaze, her eyes fierce. “My grandpa would never take anything that didn’t belong to him,” she retorted. Then she shot a look over at Sheriff Bob. “Tell him,” she demanded. “Tell him he’d never do something like that.”