Fall (Roam Series, Book Two) Read online

  Copyright © 2012 by Kimberly Adams

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, locations, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons or things, living or dead, locales, or events is purely coincidental.

  FALL (ROAM SERIES, BOOK TWO)

  Cover Design by Najla Qamber Designs, Editing by Undivided Editing

  TO MY GRAMMY

  Prologue

  The little girl carefully spread the jump-rope across the driveway, moving back and forth between the ends several times before deciding that it was perfectly straight. She hurried to one end, stepping over the plastic handle and meticulously placing one bare foot on the line. Wearing only a body suit and a white tutu, she held her arms out to her sides like a tight-rope walker, humming as her platinum-blond curls tossed in the wind.

  West knew that the four-year-old had dreamed of being in the circus ever since her parents had taken her to see the Ringling Brothers for her birthday. He moved behind the oak tree, careful not to draw attention to himself as the screen door of the bi-level burst open. “Shirl! Dinner!”

  “Coming!” the little girl answered, leaving the jump rope behind and taking off for the house. The crinoline tutu bobbed up and down as she padded through the grass to the open door.

  West sighed. Laurel, still only a child, was safe at the moment. He lit a cigarette, disgusted with himself for picking up the ugly habit again. It had taken him almost three years to quit smoking completely, between 1990 and 1993. Now, he couldn’t imagine not suppressing his nerves with a Camel. After three guilty puffs, he dropped the filterless butt to the grass and stamped it out.

  Walking toward the dark blue, ’62 Chevy Caprice parked along the curb a block away, he mentally assessed his bank account. The car had cost him fifty dollars, leaving two hundred and fifty left from the wallet that he’d prepared two months ago in Russia. Another fifty was spent on the tune-up that he had completed himself, leaving just enough to secure a small, rented house in Jefferson, West Virginia. So far, Jefferson Auto Garage had made a comfortable place for him to work.

  He slid into the car, the brown leather seats warm from the steady stream of early June sunshine. The engine started on the first turn, which was a luxury that the car did not afford him when he first purchased it. Thankfully, he had carried his knowledge of car mechanics into the past with him.

  And the memory of her…

  West stiffened, rigorously calling on the distraction skills that he’d perfected his entire immortal life. This was not the first time he’d had to forget her…

  But this was the first time that he couldn’t let her go.

  The mind is a strange place. Her words echoed throughout time, stabbing at his heart. His mind was a prison, a cell for memories of her voice, her eyes, and the scent of her silken skin…

  He gripped the steering wheel, focusing on the road. The coordinates had changed back to Ohio months ago. The numbers were his only proof that she was still real… and that their love had existed at all.

  He’d spent two hours bleeding next to the fountain in Georgia before he was found and taken to a hospital. Already the wound had been healing as doctors prepared an operating room for surgery. Without a word, he walked out of the hospital, allowing the hole to close over Troy’s nine-millimeter bullet. When he made it back to the fountain, it was just a fountain. No amount of water over the numbers allowed him to travel back to 2012.

  His plan had worked.

  The Peterhof Fountains were surely destroyed, and Troy was gone, somewhere in 1977. With no internet, laptop, or cell phone to help him track the Alter, he was reduced to using newspapers and telephone books. I’ve spent centuries with no resources. After a few decades of modern technology, it’s gone for a few months and I’m lost. After buying the car, he drove directly to West Virginia. If Troy wants to attack, it’ll be Laurel. Roam’s mother, only five years old in 1977, proved too difficult to find. He had no idea what her maiden name was, or where she was born. He hoped Troy had the same limited information.

  Julie Henry- or Julie Miller, her name when he had met her- was gone.

  Gone as if she had never existed.

  The motel that they shared held no record of their check in, or out. When he used twenty-eight cents to call his father-in-law from a payphone, he was met with confusion. Mr. Miller had no daughter named Julie.

  As if she never existed.

  Does Roam remember me? Did I cease to exist as well? The possibility was sickening. His only comfort was telling himself that that she was safe at home.

  For all that he knew, Troy had traveled back to his world. He’d described a parallel universe, a world that would singularly exist when Roam died.

  Roam… or their child.

  He had been unable to resist the prophecy, the timeless pull that brought them together throughout the centuries. She was so young, only seventeen, and he spent each night hating himself for leaving her alone.

  She could be pregnant, he thought, turning into the gravelly excuse for a driveway for where he now called home. The white, clapboard house was dingy, rented out by the month, and West knew that the only way he would survive losing her again was to wait, once more, for her to be born.

  The headache that had nagged him all day came on full force. He couldn’t bear the thought of waiting more than thirty-five years to be with her, knowing that she was just through the fountain and could be carrying his child.

  She could be with Logan.

  The thought of Logan’s hands on her made him slam the front door and reach for another cigarette. It was only a matter of time before Logan would forgive her. She was too innocent, too loving, and too beautiful for Logan to resist for long. But he wanted her to be comforted and protected, and if his only option was Logan, he’d have to accept it.

  Suddenly, there were dreams.

  After not dreaming in six hundred and ninety-one years, the first dream had left him in a disoriented hysteria. Every night, he dreamt of the same place, the same unfamiliar land. A strange castle, surrounded by ice, so clear that the body of frozen water appeared to be a mirror to the sky. He was an omniscient onlooker, always with a bird’s eye view.

  The castle was perched high on a cliff, surrounded by an incline of almost ninety degrees. Archaic tracks, like those on a railroad, led from the high castle to the land below. Asher, his adopted father and mentor, moved around the frozen tundra, chipping away at the ice with his bloodied hands. Every time a portion of the ice would separate and reveal the water below, the reflection would divulge a familiar face.

  The first face to appear in the water was Roam’s.

  Parallel universe… Troy’s words had him breaking apart the dreams, trying to determine what he was observing. If they all had existed in another world, in another time and place, why was Troy the only one who could remember?

  He brushed his thumb across the numbers, and then back again. The numbers, reversed, had sent them to Russia, to the Peterhof Fountains. The fountain was a door into their past life together in 1977. What about the other years? Where are the other doors?

  And the question that consumed his mind more than any other…

  Is there another way to return to Roam?

  Chapter One

  “The Peterhof Fountain Restoration Project will cost
millions. Donations for the families of those killed during the explosions have helped to ease the burden of the pain and loss, but the memory of that terrible day remains in the minds and hearts of those closest to this tragedy.”

  Mrs. Morris turned off the overhead television in the corner of the history classroom. “Terrorism exists in all parts of the world,” she began. “Those responsible for these bombings have one agenda in mind, and the victims of the explosions are considered collateral damage. What do you think of terrorists, their agenda, and collateral damage? Roam?”

  I stared blankly at the reflective black television screen, not meeting her eyes. Fatigue had lulled me into a stupor as we watched the same news report that I had already seen a hundred times. I rolled my pencil between my thumb and forefinger.

  “Collateral damage is a euphemism for… killing people during combat. It’s the adverse side effect of an action that’s meant to be good, or moral. Terrorists do not have collateral damage. Their entire goal is to kill people.”

  When I finally looked at her, a heated flush had crept over her face. I truly didn’t mean to antagonize her, but I couldn’t let that one slide. One girl cleared her throat in the back row, suppressing a giggle. I fought the urge to get up and walk out of the classroom.

  “Well, I see what you’re saying, but tell me more about terrorism in history.”

  “That wasn’t your original question, but okay.” Rubbing my eyes tiredly, I glanced at the clock. “The Reign of Terror in France, 1793 to 1794, right after the French Revolution, was the first notable evidence of what we call terrorism today. Enemies of the revolution were sent to the guillotine.”

  “Yes,” she clipped with a nod, my attitude obviously pushing her buttons. “Good. So how would you handle this terrorism situation in Russia?”

  I shrugged, shifting uncomfortably in my seat. It was the last day of school before Thanksgiving break, and I just wanted the day to end. “It was one random act, no one knows for sure if it was a terrorist attack, or what the attack was about. When I get a job with the Russian Ministry of Defense, I’ll let you know my ideas.”

  Mrs. Morris’s rounded face turned beet red. The class snickered, and in hushed tones I heard the words mood swing followed by more whispers.

  Self-consciously I straightened in my seat, lifting my chin. The rumor that I was pregnant was still in its infantile stages, but obviously the information was making its rounds at Madison High.

  “I need to be excused,” I managed, swiping my backpack from the floor with one hand. The walk from my desk to the door took seconds, but with seventeen sets of eyes on me, it felt like hours before I turned the knob. Mrs. Morris ignored me, continuing the discussion of her opinions of history.

  This is history class. Timelines. Events. Dates. Don’t bore me with your opinions, I won’t bore you with mine. Just facts.

  West’s voice crept into my thoughts unannounced, and I grabbed for the water fountain to keep from doubling over. I resisted the urge to cover my heart, the physical ache all-encompassing. Losing my mother to breast cancer had broken my heart, but as time passed, the healing process had allowed me to move forward and not cry with every memory of her.

  Losing West brought regular, unexpected torrents of pain to my chest, and the heartache, combined with morning sickness, had me rushing to the girl’s restroom to vomit.

  I closed the toilet lid and sat down, grateful for the empty bathroom. Hugging my backpack securely, I thought back over the past two months. The night of my first doctor’s appointment, I had called Logan after drafting and re-drafting a text to him fifty times. Finally, I deleted the text and pulled up his number. Before I lost my nerve, I hit call.

  He answered in one ring. “This is Logan.”

  “Hi.” My voice cracked, and I silently chastised myself for the lack of control. “It’s, um, me, it’s Roam.”

  “How did it go?” he asked. He sounded distracted, as though he was driving.

  “I am. Pregnant, I mean.”

  It wasn’t until the crawling lightning vines invaded my vision that I realized I was holding my breath. Counting to ten, I breathed deeply, waiting for him to speak.

  “Well, that’s good, right? We have this whole damn world to save, so take care of yourself,” he finally said. “How are you feeling?” he asked, and I was taken off guard by his sudden, genuine concern.

  “I’m just… tired. Really, really tired.” I admitted.

  “Eating?”

  “I have to. The doctor said that I’m underweight.”

  “No kidding.” His sarcasm was clipped, and I heard him open and shut the car door. “Well, we need to talk about some details. Want to go to dinner tonight?”

  Stunned, I struggled to speak. “Um… sure. Where?”

  “I’ll pick you up. Just be ready at seven, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  That evening, he’d taken me to a local restaurant minutes from West’s empty house. The stone façade of the winery was lit in a traditional Tuscan style against a large, man-made lake. The water features and fountains in the lake created spraying arcs behind the terrace where we were seated.

  “I got a job. Finally,” he added. I had no idea that he was even looking for a job.

  I stared at Logan as though he was a stranger.

  “Really? Where?”

  “After school and weekends, at Strike.” Strike was an indoor batting cage less than twenty minutes from Madison. “My coach let me know that they were hiring. When it starts to snow, it gets pretty busy.”

  “Congratulations,” I said awkwardly, knowing that he intended for most of his paycheck to go to the tiny, black bubble on the ultrasound snapshot.

  “Yeah.”

  We ordered, and I chose my favorite Alfredo pasta. “How is… everything?” I asked, fiddling with the hem of my shirt.

  He sat back, his dark, brown eyes catching the candlelight from our table. “You know. Busy. I wanted to talk to you about everything. Like I said, I want to make sure that you know I’ll take care of the bills. I don’t want your dad doing it, and I don’t want him thinking I’m not taking care of my responsibilities.”

  I flushed, swallowing hard. “But it’s not your responsibility, Logan. West… he…”

  He stared at me coldly, his eyes turning a shade closer to black. I lost the ability to form words. “I don’t want to talk about him. At all. Understand?”

  I clamped my fingers together. “What do you want to talk about? Why are we here?” I demanded.

  His face softened. “I wanted to know how you would feel about us dating.”

  I sat back, stunned. The waiter brought us our dinner at that moment, leaving Logan’s words hanging in the air. I picked up my fork and began to twist the pasta nervously in the tines. My stomach edged on queasy. When the waiter finally left, I lifted my eyes. “Logan, I thought you were done with me.”

  He stared at me blankly for a moment before the color left his face.

  “Oh… no, Cam, I meant dating… other people.”

  At that point, the steam rising from the white Alfredo sauce, once at the top of my list of favorite foods, saturated my nose. I gagged, unable to suppress the bile rising in my esophagus. “Oh… I have to go…”

  “No, don’t run. Roam, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you-”

  “No, I…” I covered my mouth and ran for the barrier along the lake.

  Everyone on the terrace turned as I threw up over the railing.

  Logan was at my side in seconds, guarding me from the disgusted gasps around me.

  He rubbed his hand over my back. “Are you okay?”

  “It’s the pasta, it’s making me sick…”

  “You love Alfredo pasta.”

  “Not anymore,” I managed to whisper, breathing deeply. The crisp, early autumn air helped calm my churning insides. “I’m sorry, I’m just going to leave. Here,” I said, somehow making it back to the table for my purse. I rummaged inside for the twenty-doll
ar bill I’d brought. “I have to go.”

  “I’m not taking that, Roam. I drove, I’ll leave too, just hold on-”

  “No! No, I don’t want to go with you,” I cried. The tears threatened, but my pride beat them back down into their ducts where they belonged. I dropped the twenty to the table and rushed to the door, running by the time I reached the parking lot.

  My house was over ten miles away, but I couldn’t imagine getting into Logan’s car and listening to him talk about dating other people. I knew Abby Lawrence was already vying for his attention, and I was sure that Logan had her on his mind.

  He eventually caught up with me, not far from the restaurant.

  “Get in,” he ordered, slamming on his brakes next to me. “Or I’m going to follow you the whole way home.”

  I obliged, far too tired to walk any further. The ride back to my house was silent.

  Finally, as he pulled into my driveway, I turned to him. “Date whoever you want, Logan. If West was still here, I would be with him.”

  The atmosphere inside his Camry turned to ice. He reached across me and opened the door, careful not to touch my stomach. His face was inches from mine.

  He said nothing.

  I waited a second before pushing the door open, getting out and going into the house.

  I hadn’t spoken to Logan since that day almost two months ago. He texted once a week, on Sunday afternoon, the same words each time.

  Logan Rush: Do you need anything from me

  No salutation, no punctuation, no emotion. I responded back each time with the same cold, one worded answer.

  Me: No.

  I saw Abby and Logan in the hallways at school together, laughing, sometimes holding hands. If he saw me, he never gave any indication. I was a ghost to him, a memory of the past better forgotten. He spent his days with Abby…

  And his nights dreaming about killing me.

  The bell rang to end first period, and several girls entered the restroom. I left quickly, feeling more composed as I arrived at my locker. Twisting the combination lock, I was vaguely aware that someone was standing to my left. I glanced to my side after turning to the final number.