Page 3

Well, bloody hell, would you look at that?

I stand in my kitchen, staring in wonder as the watch continues to judder and jolt.

Is it possible Tasha unknowingly brought me the ally I seek?

Considering how I’ve spent the last several years suppressing my gifts, it’s no surprise that when I first shutter my eyes and squeeze the watch tight, trying to immerse myself into whatever energetic imprint my father might’ve left behind, not a single message arrives.

But recalling what my father used to say:Patience, my son. Remember, the enemy of your power is haste,I keep at it until, finally, there’s a discernible rocking under the soles of my feet as the ground beneath me begins to give way.

That’s it,I hear him say, as though the voice is coming from somewhere nearby and not the nineteenth century.Remain steady, focused, calm…

The ground continues to disintegrate, forcing me back on my heels as my stomach clenches and rolls. Still, I stay with it, dutifully following my father’s instructions:Don’t look—not until you’ve been called.

My eyes remain shut, steadfastly ignoring the roar of crumbling walls, the splinter of shattering windows. Even after the roof is blown off and an explosive wind swirls through my room, making my hair stand on end, I continue to wait for the sound of my name.

When it does finally come, the elation of being reunited with my father has me so choked up, I need a moment to compose myself.

It’s only when the voice sounds again—calling me by my true name, the one I went by before both my parents were reduced to a memory—that I finally blink my eyes open to take in the large, cloaked figure standing before me.

My eyes search for a mane of dark wavy hair, a hard angled jaw, an intense blue gaze the same shade of navy as mine. But this man—this dark facelessthing—bears none of those attributes.

“Hello, James.” The shadowy figure speaks in a voice that echoes resonate and deep.

Though my first instinct is to flee, I soon find my feet refuse to cooperate.

I am frozen.

Held captive in place.

Left only to stare in dismay as this shadowy being makes its way toward me.

Last thing I remember is the press of crushing dread squeezing the air from my lungs as a horrifying question blares through my head:My God—what the hell have I summoned?

1

Natasha

NEW YORK CITY

1998

Tripping is risky.

It’s the warning that’s been drilled into me from the start. A fact I’ve learned to accept every time I travel into the past.

Technology can fail.

Glitches happen.

Portals can close, leaving a Tripper stranded in a time and place where they do not belong.

And God forbid you inadvertently cross your own timeline, since the duality of existence results in nonexistence. It’s a theory I’d never willingly put to the test.

Yet, while I’ve had some close calls with all those things, no Trip to the past ever had so much riding on it, or felt quite as risky, as the Trip I’m currently on.

Then again, this is no ordinary Trip.

There’s much more at stake than the fear of being caught nicking jewels from drunken aristocrats, or piecing together the clues found in numerology, Christopher Columbus’s map, and a handful of tarot cards to uncover some long-hidden artifact.