Sherry Ficklin - Extracted

I’m so excited to see him that I run to his side, feeling like I want to fly. Sitting beside him, I cross my legs and lean back, unable to hide my wide smile. I’ve done it. I’ve as good as passed my final test. He hands me a cup without a word. I take a sip. It’s dark, thick, and bitter.

“What’s this?” I ask, gagging down the hot liquid.

“Coffee.”

“Tesla doesn’t let us drink coffee.”

He shrugs. “It’s very popular out here in the real world.”

I look down at the cup and make a face. “I can’t imagine why.”

He chuckles as I sniff the beverage. It smells better than it tastes, that’s for sure.

“It’s an acquired taste,” he assures me, taking a drink.

“So, just out of curiosity, where am I in your time line?” I hold the cup with both hands and lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees.

“You’ve been in the Institute for a few weeks, recovering mostly. Doc says you are healing amazingly well. As a matter of fact, I get to show you to your room when I get back.” Flynn crosses his legs at the ankle and smiles. “It’s actually really good to know you make it this far.”

“So you haven’t given me my first key yet,” I mutter more to myself than to him.

Why did I need to bring it with me? I take another sip of the horrible liquid.

“What key?” he asks, looking at me from over the top of his glasses. I flush, pulling the key out of my vest.

“This key. You gave it to me the day Doc released me.”

“Really?” He plucks it from my fingers, examining it in the light. “Hmmm. Interesting.”

“What?”

“I’ve never seen anything like this, Ember. And I was just about to rift back to the Institute when I got word to wait for you here.”

“What does that mean?”

He looks at me. “Do you know what a Fixed Point is?”

“A point in time that cannot be changed or altered,” I recite from one of our lessons, proud to know it stuck.

“Do you know how to create a Fixed Point?”

I shake my head. “I didn’t know you could create one. I thought they occurred naturally?”

“Some do. But they can also be created.” He holds up the key. “To lock—for want of a better term—a point in time, you have to create a loop. For example, by giving me this key, you have created a loop in time. This key now only exists from the moment I give it to you until the moment you give it back to me.” He slips it into the pocket of his long jacket. “Thus the loop is closed; everything that happens inside that loop is fixed. The timeline between us is permanent. Unchangeable.”

“That sounds intense.”

He takes a long drink, looking off to the horizon before turning back to me.

“Time protects itself like any other living thing. It’s very rare for a Rifter to be able to create a Fixed Point. It’s not something that should be done lightly. However, if I don’t take this key now, then I don’t ever give it to you. I’ve altered our history. Perhaps not for the better. Do you understand now why we don’t deliberately try to create Fixed Points? How dangerous they could be?”

I nod, but I don’t know why I needed this to happen. This isn’t something Rifters tend to do, especially not on purpose. But my mind flashes back to the cafeteria and I realize at some point I will do it on purpose, despite Flynn’s warning.

I’m not sure whether to be impressed with my future self for figuring out how to pull it off or ticked at myself for doing something so obviously dangerous. If I’d refused and not brought the key, what would’ve happened? I wouldn’t have learned the method for creating a Fixed Point, and Flynn never would have given me the key. How would that have changed my timeline? Would it have, somehow, changed our friendship? My brain is reeling so hard I have to clamp it down before I explode.

“So, does this mean I’m a full-fledged Rifter now?” I ask, trying to keep my tone light. So many things are weighing on me like bricks in my belly—not the least of which is my bizarre future behavior.

His smile falters. “Not quite. There’s still something you need to do here. You didn’t really think it’d be that easy, did you?”

Yeah. I sort of did. I make a mental note to kick Ethan later.

“What is it?” I ask, my own smile falling around the edges.

I hear a burst of static crackling through his Earwig, but there’s nothing in mine. Tesla is talking to him, from his own time.

Flynn frowns as he listens but says, “Confirmed.”

He motions to the tall building across the street. It’s a lovely old hotel, the kind that almost looks like a castle. “In that hotel, there’s a wedding today. Lauren Cartwright is marrying Lord Brandon Hunter. But today, something goes terribly wrong. Today, the bride and her groom die, the maid of honor goes missing, and the best man has a nervous breakdown.”

I try not to let him see the shiver that rolls up my back. “What am I supposed to do?”

He looks at me flatly. “Save whomever you can.”

I blink. That means changing history, something we are never, ever supposed to do. “Are you sure?” I ask, not wanting to question him, but not quite sure I heard him right.

He nods. “Better do it fast, too. That wedding begins in an hour.”

I drop my coffee and run, cutting through the park and across the street. The inside of the hotel is even more amazing than the outside. The walls are polished marble, and a large crystal chandelier dangles above my head like a glass snowflake. Everywhere the scent of freesia floats in the air from tufts of the delicate flowers scattered all over the lobby. From the corner of my eye, I spy the concierge.

“Excuse me,” I say, trying to look impatient. “Can you please direct me to the bridal suite?”

He blinks, his clean-shaven face making him look no older than ten. Then his expression sours. “And who, may I ask, is inquiring?”

I look affronted. “Look, you call up that idiot wedding planner and tell her that she better have a very good reason for dragging me out of a meeting to rush down here and let out a wedding dress because she couldn’t keep the bride away from the petit fours at the rehearsal dinner. This is completely not my problem and you can either direct me up there right now, or you can tell her to kiss my—”

I don’t have to finish before he’s looking like he just swallowed a lime. “Of course. She’s in room seven-fifteen.”

I murmur thanks and spin on my heel so hard my hair flips behind me.

“Just a second,” he yells, chasing after me. I tense, sure I’m busted. When I turn again, he holds out a small plastic card. “You’ll need this to get the elevator to stop on the bridal floor. We secured it to keep out the media.”

I take the key and wave my hand. “Of course. Thank you.”

Trying not to break out into a sprint, I head for the elevator, stick the card in the slot, and make my way up to the seventh floor.

As soon as the doors slide open, I know I’m in trouble. The floor is teeming with ladies in expensive dresses. Some are in matching pale-pink taffeta dresses that make them look a bit like ballerinas, and others are in an array of designer duds. My brown leather pants and waist cincher are making me stand out like a sore thumb. People are pointing and whispering. I swear under my breath. I need to find a way to blend in or I’ll be kicked out of this group before I can even make contact with the bridal party.

To my left a door opens and a maid steps out, her arms full of sheets. I catch the door behind her before it closes and step inside.

“Housekeeping,” I call out. No response.

Though the room has been recently cleaned, it’s still a disaster. Makeup and jewelry are scattered across every available surface, clothes are draped over chairs, and a few things are even hanging from the curtain rod. The room is a small suite, so not the bride’s, at least. I walk in a little farther. Beside the lounge is a rack of dresses. I walk over, looking at the tags. Designer, for sure, but not anyone I’ve ever heard of. And from the looks of them, a full two sizes too small. Who in the hell wears a size two anyway?