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Forrest Gump said, “Life is like a box of chocolates, you never know what you’re gonna get.” Lately, my life choices have mirrored my chocolate selections—full of god-awful molasses. Whoever thought chocolate-covered molasses would be a good thing to put in the box ought to be shot.

I’m Jennifer Cloud. I love chocolate, shoes, and a man who can make my toes curl. My current boyfriend, scratch that, EX-boyfriend, Caiyan—pronounced like the hot pepper and is analogous to his rockin’ hot body—dumped me and quit his job as my defender for the World Travel Federation. He went on to plot dastardly deeds with the Mafusos, an evil family of time travelers who make my skin crawl and keep me busy making sure the past stays the way it’s printed in my history books.

Normally, I wouldn’t be so upset about the dumping. He asked me for time to sort out some issue he had with the bad guys. I can respect his wish to get his ducks in a row before committing to me. I have a few ducks I need to tend as well.

I consider myself to be a female version of Clark Kent. During the day, I’m a mild-mannered chiropractic assistant working at my brother’s chiropractic office, and at night, under the light of the full moon, I report to the World Travel Federation, where I work as a time traveling transporter.

My defender travels to the past to prevent brigands from stealing, plundering, and wrecking the lives of those living in that time. Transporters are normally female, except for my good friend Ace. He’s a transporter like me.

We must wait on base until summoned by our defenders to pick up the trash, aka brigands, and bring them to justice. Hence the reason I want to work with my defender instead of waiting around like a good girl to do his bidding. For crying out loud, this is the twenty-first century.

Before the restriction, I helped my defender with the takedown. Okay, maybe I didn’t transform into a superhero to catch my mark, but somehow, I landed Superman results. My boss, Agent Jake McCoy, stamped me as lucky. He considered my skills to be less Superhero and more along the lines of Daphne from Scooby-Doo.

Jake is one of the ducks I need to tend. We had history. He was my best friend in high school, and later he showed me what the words friends with benefits meant. He left me to find his way in criminal justice, ended up working for the CIA and giving orders to the World Travel Federation, or WTF. The common acronym for the derogatory expression of disbelief is considered dual purpose for our top secret organization. And was the first word Jake uttered when he found out I inherited the gift of time travel. I didn’t know myself until I experienced an unexpected escapade to the past.

The WTF deemed it unsafe for transporters to travel with their defenders. Ace was fine with the change. He preferred to wait for his defender to summon him—but not at headquarters. It encroached on his play time, and he wanted the order to remain on base during the moon cycle lifted.

Ace’s defender, Brodie, preferred Ace stay as far away as possible, so he was in favor of the current rule.

I act as the lobbyist. Honestly, trying to make everyone happy caused my bottle-blond roots to darken early and the tension in my neck to limit my range of motion.

Jake offered me a test drive. I could go on a mission with my current defender, but if anything went awry, the restrictions would remain in place. In other words, if I wasn’t a good girl, the WTF prohibition of the transporters stayed, and I wouldn’t get the thrill of adventure I craved. If I was too awesome at my job, the transporters would be sent alongside the defenders, and Ace wouldn’t go shopping with me anymore.

The WTF headquarters is hidden at Guantanamo Bay, Cuba. Not a place I would call home, but its isolation and perpetual military guard offers maximum security to keep the travelers hidden from the outside world à la Hogwarts style. Only the top of the top levels of the government know we exist. The CIA manages us, and the military keeps us in line.

Catching the brigands is always the hard part. Jake recognized having a transporter to assist the defender is more efficient, even if the transporter may find herself in a few awkward situations. At least he was supporting my cause.

The fringe benefit to my job is being able to lateral travel when the moon cycle is phased out of the full moon. I can pop over to Milan during fashion week in the blink of an eye.

Currently, my situation involves traveling with my defender, a gorgeous blond god named Marco, and the reason I found my gift in the first place. He secretly delivered my key-which gives me the power to time travel-and my vessel to me after my sweet, great-aunt Elma Cloud died. My vessel is a rusty old outhouse with two seats, one for me and one for my passenger. On a busy day, I can make room for two passengers.

Traveling with Marco is difficult, particularly when it’s been months since I’ve had any sexy time. My cousin, Gertie, tells me I’ve been a royal pain in the ass. I’m trying to deal with the reason Caiyan ditched me, not hump the first guy who comes along—even if Marco and I have a sexual tension that sparks a fire from a distance equivalent to a football field.

Bringing me full circle to capture a brigand and figure out why my boyfriend, pardon, ex-boyfriend needed to join the bad guys and leave our relationship on the cooling rack.

I rubbed the back of my neck and surveyed the people around me. Dressed in basic pilgrim attire, the women covered their heads with a cap or bonnet and clothed their bodies from wrist to toe as they went about their daily chores. The men seemed to be lingering in the pubs.

Marco and I took a break from hunting our mark to find food. We searched for one of the few places offering a meal in the Puritan town of Salem, Massachusetts.

Our seer, a retired time traveler with the gift of second sight, can locate a traveler who has crossed the time portal. He informed us the Mafuso transporter jumped to this location. We were ordered to follow her.

Odd she jumped without a defender, but the Mafusos weren’t doing things like normal lately. A few months ago, Marco and I had followed the oldest of the time traveling Mafuso grandchildren, Mortas, to 1927. He attended game three of the World Series and the only thing stolen were bases by the Yankees. I was downright giddy to watch the all-star lineup known as “Murderer’s Row” which included the Sultan of Swat, Babe Ruth. He hit a home run in the bottom of the seventh and Marco was beside himself, cheering like a crazed fan. We both agreed, rooting for the legends in the original Yankee stadium was worth the risk.

Gian-Carlo Mafuso has three time traveling grandchildren I refer to as the three m’s. They consist of Mortas, Mahlia, his younger sister and their only transporter, and their youngest brother, Mitchell. Mahlia looks like Megan Fox and shoots a pistol like John Wayne. Mitchell’s been on the outs with the family ever since he screwed up a time travel and hasn’t seen much action.

Marco stopped outside Beadles Tavern. “I’m thirsty, let’s go inside and grab a drink.”

We had money left over from living on salted cod and goats’ milk for the last two days.

“Good morrow,” a sturdy woman greeted as we entered. The patrons were a mix of Puritans, farmers, and fishermen from the port. A few heads turned in our direction. We sat down at one of the tables.

The woman who greeted us came to our table and asked if we wanted a mug of ale. I pegged her to be late fifties, but in this time, people didn’t age well, if at all.

“Two,” Marco said.

“Let us see your coin.” Her reference of “us” had me glancing over my shoulder expecting to see her burley husband, or maybe a bouncer, behind me. When I figured out she meant only herself, I relaxed.

She eyed Marco as he removed the coin from his pocket.

“Are ye from another village?” She awarded us a view of her rotten teeth when Marco produced enough coin to buy the place.

“Yes.” I answered. Marco handed her the money.

“Pray thee, tell me the one from whence you come?”

Marco hesitated, and I answered, “Boston.”

“Are ye here to see the witches turned out?”

Marco gave an uncommitted shrug and shook his head slowly.

“We’re traveling to visit relatives in Newberry’s town,” I added, and felt an uneasiness to her barrage of questions.

Her gaze drifted between us.

“We’ve been recently married,” Marco said. He grabbed my hand and stared at me like a lovesick puppy. “A man’s heart is endeared to the woman he loves, he dreams of her in the night, hath her in his eye and apprehension when he awakes.”

He raised my hand and brushed a kiss across my knuckles.

The woman’s eyes shined. “Yes, my Mr. Beadle felt that way before he met our heavenly father. He left me the tavern.” She waved her hand, indicating all of this was hers to manage, and retreated to get our ale.

“Geesh. What’s with her? She asked more questions than my cousin Hildy.” I removed my hand from Marco’s. The heat generated between us made my palm sweaty.

“I don’t think the Puritans approve of an unmarried couple traveling together.” He reached for my hand again.

“What’s with the fancy language?” I asked him, drawing my hand away.

“It’s a quote from Thomas Hooker.”

When I gave him a blank stare, he sighed. “Jen, you really need to study before you travel. Thomas Hooker was a prominent Puritan colonial leader. He founded the town of Hartford.”

“In Connecticut, where the University of Hartford is?”

“Yeah, they have a parade. Haven’t you ever heard the saying ‘Hartford was founded by a Hooker’?”

“Uhm, no.”

Marco tsked me, then flashed his gorgeous smile at the tavern owner as she brought us two mugs of a brown liquid. She blushed slightly, plopped them down on the table, and left to help other customers.

I took one sip and spit the foul liquid back into the mug.

“You don’t like it?” Marco chuckled and upended his mug.

“It tastes like pancake syrup and Christmas trees.”

“It’s a form of mead combined with molasses.”

I made a sour face, and he grinned at me. The deep dimple cut into his chin winked back at me. I licked the sickening sweet off my lips and cursed myself for wanting to run my tongue down the rugged line of his square jaw and kiss the indention.

His grin changed to a firm line. He tipped his head and I followed his gaze toward the door. A man entered and glanced around the room. Marco bowed his head down and I mirrored his move, adjusting my bonnet to hide my face as the man took a seat at the counter behind me.

“Who’s that man?”

“I believe it’s Toches.”

I spun around to get a better look at the brigand I’d almost single-handedly taken down in Berlin. His back was to me as he ordered a mug of ale.

“It doesn’t look like Toecheese.” I said turning back around to face Marco.

A smile pulled at Marco’s mouth. My mispronunciation the first time I heard Toches’s name became my nickname for the evil brigand and gave my fellow defenders a chuckle. “He’s good at changing his appearance.”

Kishin Toches was a nasty brigand I had encountered during a trip back to the Second World War. He had the special gift of personifying others. He took a key that didn’t belong to him and I had to take it back. He wasn’t happy about the outcome, and I’d been on his shit list ever since.

“Are you sure? I thought Mahlia made the jump, how come he didn’t register?”

Marco shrugged. “I know as much as you do. Maybe Mahlia is transporting for him.”

“I’m surprised they let him travel. I mean, he doesn’t have a key, and I doubt Gian-Carlo would give him one. Maybe she dumped him here. Are you positive it’s him?” I didn’t want to harass a local.

“Yeah, beady eyes, slouched gait, and he didn’t acknowledge a single soul. Besides, he’s imitating Rasputin—his beard’s too nineteenth century for this time.”

I did a double take, and sure enough the doppelg?nger of the Russian religious charlatan sat at the counter sipping sludge.

“Should we wait and follow him?” I asked Marco.

“No, the moon cycle is closing. I’m hungry, and I need a taco.”

“And grouchy.”

“I’m not grouchy, traveling with you makes me uhm…irritable.”

“Why is that?”

“You know what I mean.” He meant horny.

“What would you like to do?” I asked.

“Let’s go ask him why he’s here?”

“Ask him?” Allowing a mark to make us wasn’t on the smartest things for a WTF agent to-do list.

“Yep, unless you can think of a faster way to get to the bottom of this.”

I shrugged, agreeing with his plan. Tacos sounded good to me, too.

Marco reflected my nod. He rose, taking his mug with him. I left mine on the table. We bookended the sneaky brigand. His thin frame and squirrelly attitude made him a little less scary than Mortas, but he was unstable. Toches might pull out a gun and shoot us, regardless that when a time traveler kills another time traveler they also die.

“Hey Kishin, fancy meeting you here,” Marco said to Toches as he took the stool next to him.

Toches’s head jerked up from his ale, and he started to bolt out the opposite side of his chair, but I blocked him.

“You can’t leave without paying the barkeep, that would be very rude of you.” I wagged a finger at him.

Marco placed a hand on Toches’s shoulder. He sat down with a thud and pulled his mug of ale closer.

“I’m here on vacation,” he said, an evil grinch grin turning up the corners of his mouth.

“What kind of vacation?” Marco asked him.

“The kind you take when a guy wants to go somewhere for the hell of it.”

Marco pondered this idea for a minute, and I wondered how long it had been since Marco had been on vacation. Then I remembered I hadn’t been on a vacation in a long time. Jake owed us some down time.

“Why would you take a vacation to Salem in 1692?” I asked him.

“I want to see one of them witches burned at the stake.” He took a sip from his mug, and his previously underdeveloped bicep strained against his shirt sleeve.