LOOP

Ch 1 - Part 1

HITTING THE GROUND is the hardest part. Nine times out of ten, it’s dirt or grass. But all it takes is that one time on concrete or, worse, asphalt to send even the most experienced Shifter into a panic.

My feet slammed into cobblestone. Muskets cracked and echoed down the alley where I’d landed. Acrid gunpowder stung my nostrils, searing my throat as I fought back a cough and crouched down. The gunfire grew louder and louder, bouncing off both sides of the narrow passageway, so I couldn’t tell which direction it was coming from.

Where was I? Valley Freakin’ Forge?

Wyck had missed the target by well over two centuries! Good grief. How hard was a twenty-third to twenty-first Shift? And of all the Shifts, it would have to be this one. He’d pay for this when I got back. Don’t get me wrong. I love a good transporter prank as much as the next girl, but plop me in the middle of Lex and Concord? I am not having that crap.

Puff s of fresh gunsmoke clouded the already- dim alley. Get it together, Bree. I slipped behind a barrel and pulled out myQuantCom. A Virginia address and instructions popped up: “BreeBennis, pre- Tricentennial midterm. Deposit package contentson Muff y van Sloot’s grave with following message: ‘There’s notime like the past.’ ”

I squeezed the small white box before sliding it into my pocket. I tried not to think about the other object, the one hidden in my shoe. Guilt burbled up in my stomach, but I squashed it down.

Hard to believe so much could ride on one trip back to the past.

Also hard to believe any person would name their child Muffy van Sloot. It almost sounded like some rich person’s pet.

Boom! The gunfire sounded right outside the alley.

So help me, I thought, if this is all for a dead cat, heads will roll.

Dr. Quigley could flunk me for all I cared. Okay, that wasn’t even a teensy bit true. I couldn’t afford a single red flag on this test. Still, I wasn’t taking a musket ball to the head for anyone.

But at least I knew which state I was in. Unless Wyck had flubbed that, too.

What I needed was to find somewhere safe to figure out my next move. Without a sound, I pushed myself up and prepared to dash to the street for a better look at the battle. But before I could move, I heard an unexpected sound. A digital beeping. A

boy and a girl, not much older than me, had slipped into the alley. The girl held up a mobile phone. “It’s Rachel,” she said.

“Hey, where were you?” the girl said into the phone. As she talked, the boy caressed the back of her neck. She flicked his hand.

What? I ducked back down and glanced at my Com as it analyzed the phone’s ringtone. Early twenty- first century. Right where I was supposed to be. Okay, maybe Wyck wasn’t a complete idiot after all.

So what the blark was going on?

“I swear we were at the pub for like twenty minutes. No, not Ye Olde Tavern. Ye Olde Pub,” she said. The boy nibbled her ear. She swatted his shoulder.

“Ah, c’mon.” He kissed a path of pecks down her neck to her jaw. She hesitated a moment, then turned the phone off .

The fade timer on my Com blipped down second by second. I only had five hours before being pulled back to my own time. Tight for any assignment, but even more so with today’s less-than-legal extracurricular activity. With a frantic finger, I tapped the edge of the round, smooth device— perfectly masked as a pocket watch to fi t into most eras. Come on. It was taking forever to pinpoint my location, and my destination could be hours away. There was no more time to waste. I had to do something.

“Hello.” I stood up from behind the barrel. The boy and girl jumped apart.

“You sh- sh- should . . . Th- th- this is . . . private,” stammered the girl.

“Yeah, nothing says private like a makeout session amid musket fire,” I said under my breath as I pushed my way past the lovebirds and stuck my head around the corner of the alleyway.

A sea of scarlet coats, side- holstered drums, and fifes greeted me. Crowds of spectators lined the street. Ahh, heck. Duped by a Revolutionary reenactment parade. I checked my fade timer again. I’d lost precious minutes. Then again, I couldn’t see my transporter doing something drastic like force fading me as soon as the time limit was up. Not that I would let it come to that.

I’d been rubbing the eyelash of a scar at the base of my skull without even thinking about it. Enough. Focus. I flipped my Com to the geolocator. Williamsburg. A good 150 miles from this Chincowhat ever place on the other side of Virginia.

Contrary to public opinion, time travel is not an exact science. Whenever I need a good giggle, I’ll watch an antique movie where the hero zips back twenty years, mere minutes before an explosion, to save the heroine in the nick of time. Or, for an even bigger laugh, watch one where he Shifts forward to meet his grandkids. Snort.

When Shift came to shove, getting me within two days and two hundred miles of my goal wasn’t shabby transporting. Not shabby at all. Not that I’d admit it to Wyck’s face.

I stepped into the bright street and disappeared into a mob of strollers and camera- wielding dads. I stood on my tiptoes, a necessary mea sure given my small stature, in search of . . .

Bingo. School buses.

It wasn’t like I got extra credit for being frugal on missions. But then again, nobody handed out medals for blowing a big wad of era cash on a three- hour cab ride. A few bonus points for resourcefulness might even push me up a grade if I was teetering on the line. Up until six months ago, I never would have worried about a measly midterm. Then again, there were a lot of things I never would have considered before six months ago.

Temporal smuggling, for one.

        Stop it. I had precious little time as it was. And certainly not enough to waste on a squeaky conscience. Everything had to appear completely normal on this assignment or I could get caught.