Chaos (Lanie Bross) - Lanie Bross Page 0,64

he’d set things right, he would tell her he wasn’t angry—that he didn’t blame her. Mike got up and followed Karen, pulling her toward him into a hug. There was nothing else to see.

Luc turned away quickly, grateful he still had his sweatshirt. He tugged the hood over his head and felt for the knife in his front pocket. He headed the long way around to the banks of the pond where he had been deposited by the Crossroad. But there were no irregularities here. Nothing that even seemed vaguely out of place. Was it possible that the entrance had been sealed somehow already? The only other Crossroad he knew of was the angel on Market Square, but that was all the way across the city. At this time, when all the people downtown were getting out of work, it would take at least forty-five minutes to get there. Forty-five minutes in a world where Jas, his little sister, who used to make him have tea parties with her stuffed bears, was dead.

Then a memory tickled the back of his mind. He had brought Jasmine back through the Crossroad at the rotunda, the one at the bottom of the lagoon.

Was it still there?

Up the hill, two people—a boy and a girl, maybe a little older than him, both of them wearing white shorts and white T-shirts and scuffed Chucks—whacked a ball back and forth on a tennis court. Both of them were awful. Both of them were laughing. Luc watched as the girl leaned across the net and kissed the boy when she went to retrieve a ball. Near the pond, a group of kids was playing tag barefoot. A boy knelt by the water and sent a scattering of crumbs toward the feeding ducks.

Luc felt a sudden tightness in his chest. Wrong. This time, this place was wrong. He knew it. How come no one else could feel it? When he went back to the tunnels of time, what would happen to this future world? Would the boy and girl ever get their round of tennis? Would the ducks get fed?

He turned away from them. Not his problem. Still, the guilt weighed on him. He started running again. Down West Pacific, then down Lyon toward the Bay. He didn’t stop running, even when he reached the Palace of Fine Arts. It was a beautiful day, and the paths were crowded with families and tourists. He dodged past them, pulling off his heavy sweatshirt as he ran. He tied it around his waist as sweat trickled from his back.

He slowed, breathing hard, and followed the curved, column-lined pathway to the lagoon. He hoped there were no cops around. He had no idea whether it was legal to swim here, and here he was, about to dive into the water. Fortunately, there weren’t too many people by the lagoon. Luc ducked behind a group of shrubs that extended partway into the water so no one would see him and shout. The water was freezing and rapidly filled his socks and shoes. Mud squelched under his feet.

When he was knee-deep in the water, he took a deep breath and submerged.

His clothes were heavy and his shoes waterlogged. Every stroke was difficult. He kept his eyes open, even though the water was a murky green and he could barely see a few feet ahead of him. He scanned until fire burned in his lungs. Finally, he surfaced, taking another deep breath of air. Dimly, he heard shouting—someone must have spotted him—but he didn’t care, just went under again, kicking with iron-heavy legs down toward the bottom.

The water grew warmer. That wasn’t right. He kicked deeper, feeling the ache in his shoulders and lungs. And then the water wasn’t water anymore but air, thick and colored. He could breathe. A current rose up from beneath him and pushed him toward the lights like a giant watery hand. His body reacted instinctively and he inhaled, even as his mind rebelled against the unnatural feeling of sucking in water.

When he emerged, he was in the Crossroad.

He didn’t hesitate. He took the knife from his sweatshirt, letting the towel he had wrapped it in fall away. He began to saw at the membrane separating the Crossroad from the tunnel. Anger fueled his movements until he was thrusting the knife in again and again, opening up long gashes in the wall that would heal over itself almost immediately.

But he wanted to destroy it—to shred it to pieces. Sweat