A Shift in Time: Paradoxical Shifts, #2

Nom de Plume Publications, LLC

www.NDPPublications.com

ISBN: 978-1-945854-71-2

All content including, but not limited to, characters and situations are the intellectual property of the author and may not be used in any way without prior written approval.

Copyright © 2019 All Rights Reserved

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

​In the beginning...

2014

Seems a shame to tear this place down to build flats, a burly construction worker grumbled. For such an old building it’s still in quite good condition.

Used to belong to a knight or some such thing, another volunteered, tightening the rope that held the plastic sign announcing Future Home of Lowndes Square Flats to the fence.

An Earl, a third one, the supervisor if the badge pinned to his work vest could be trusted, interjected. "The Earl of Belmore, to be clear. The land is supposed to be cursed, even. That’s why nobody has developed it by now.

The other two men just looked at him and he laughed.

Don’t you know anything about local history? he huffed in mock annoyance.

Too many Earls and the like to count, the first man said, rolling his eyes. What made this one so special?

Ah, he was a werewolf, the Earl was, the supervisor chuckled. The Beast of Belmore. Legend tells of how he lived alone with the servants and his sister until one day in the eighteen-fifties a handsome young Omega appeared out of nowhere to marry the beast and gave him an heir. Supposedly all of the local werewolves are descendants of the Earl and his Omega.

Werewolves? Mitch snorted. We ain’t even had regular wolves in England since the sixteenth century!

He and the other man laughed heartily.

So, a werewolf can get laid, but old Mitch here still has to go home have a wank alone every night, eh? The other man dropped his shoulder into Mitch. Sad, mate!

Mitch shouldered him back, harder. Aw, toss off, Jack! He turned back to the work truck parked behind them. Let’s get this place wired. I’ve got plans tonight that don’t involve my right hand and I’d rather not be late for stopping to talk about a fairy tale.

Jack nodded, still laughing. Let me do one last safety check, then.

Deciding to start in the attic of the long-abandoned manor house, Jack climbed the steps, checking behind the eaves and in the chimneys to be sure no one was hiding. When he came around the corner of the main chimney, one of the wooden boards beneath his feet lurched alarmingly and cracked, sending him sprawling to the ground.

Tugging his foot free, Jack spied what looked like a piece of paper hidden beneath the floorboard and gently pried the broken wood up, revealing a sketch pad that was yellow with age. Flipping the cover open, he found page after page of pencil sketches that seemed to show everyday scenes of a long ago time.

Scurrying down the steps, he shouted for his mates. You’ve got to see this!

His supervisor, Joe, came running with Mitch on his heels. What is it? What’s wrong?

Nothing, exactly, Jack muttered. Look at this!

Joe flipped through the sketchbook before shrugging. Just a bunch of pictures, he said. What about them?

The last one, Jack said. Look at it.

Joe flipped to the final page, a picture of a half-man, half-beast holding an infant in his arms, and read the caption out loud. The Beast of Belmore and his Heir, he said, rolling his eyes. How long have you been setting this prank up?

Wasn’t me, boss, Jack insisted.

Lemme see, Mitch pulled the book from his boss’s fingers and flipped through the pages. When he reached the end, his eyes narrowed and he closed the book, reopening just the cover. Uh, guys? He held the book up and pointed to the copyright date inside the cover. This book wasn’t bound in the past. He swallowed hard. It was bound five years in the future.

The three men stared at each other, the explosive wire they were preparing to lay forgotten as the fearsome howl of a wolf echoed through the air.

Extinct, huh? What was that you were saying about a curse?

Chapter One

London 2019

You keep returning to that piece, Oliver, an ancient voice broke through the white noise manufactured of broken conversations, barking dogs, idling engines, and other sundry street sounds drifting in through the partially opened window behind the cash register. I’ve already lowered your price on it to the rock bottom. Will today be the day you take it home? 

The gentle amusement in the shopkeeper’s voice made Oliver smile as he stroked the soft gold watch he held, admiring the nature scene beautifully etched into the case.

After the untimely death of his parents, the musty junk shop Oliver had discovered at the far end of Knightsbridge Road had quickly become his favourite place to while away his free hours away from the watchful eye of his overbearing aunt. And the kind, elderly man who reminded him of a diminutive Dumbledore welcomed him warmly each time he sent the tiny brass bell over the bowed, plate-glass door into its cheerful dance.

I don’t understand it, Mr. Paulson, Oliver said with a laugh. It’s clearly a woman's watch, so it isn’t as if I could really carry it. And I don’t have anyone I could gift it to, but, for whatever reason, it calls out to me. It’s as if the universe wants me to have it. He laughed. Silly, aren’t I?

Not silly at all, Oliver, Mr. Paulson disagreed kindly. You’ve lost so much already in the past year. Is it so hard to imagine that the universe would want you to have something to smile about?

Before Oliver could respond, the unique glass door swung open with unnecessary force, bouncing off the door stop mounted to the floor with such a clang that Oliver cringed. 

You’re taking an age in here, his cousin, David, complained. Are you going to buy that or not?

Oliver instinctively tightened his grip on the delicate gold pocket watch.

I haven’t decided yet, David, Oliver responded, forcing his voice to remain calm. With his cousin’s lifelong penchant for actively destroying any and every thing that others held dear – accidentally, he always insisted - Oliver knew better than to let on that he was already absurdly attached to the bauble. And please be more careful with the door, you’ll break it.

David gave a rude snort. This shithole building should have been torn down years ago. I’d be doing them a favour.

I doubt your parents would agree when they got the bill, Oliver pointed out. Am I holding you up? You know I can catch up to you later, if I am.

Please say yes, Oliver begged silently. Give me a few more minutes of peace.

Instead, David grunted and leaned carelessly against a display, making the glass case sway wildly. Not like it fucking matters, he groused. Ma will pitch a bitch if I leave you alone.

Oliver swallowed his groan, knowing the younger boy was right.

There was little or nothing David wouldn’t rather be doing than acting as chaperone to his shy, geeky, and recently orphaned eighteen-year-old cousin, Oliver knew. After all, David mentioned it regularly. And there was also little to no chance that his mother, Oliver’s dead father’s oldest sister, was going to let him do anything but that.

Well, then, Oliver said agreeably, walking to the long glass-top oak case that held an antique brass cash register, Let’s go ahead and move on.

You are going to buy the stupid watch? David asked, casting a doubtful look at it lying next to a long crack in the counter, the damaged section discoloured with age. Why?

A gift, Oliver invented quickly. One of the patients at the retirement home I worked at back home collects them and she was very kind to me. When David’s face scrunched up, Oliver  crossed his fingers and piled it on deeper. I want her to have something to remember me by.

David rolled his eyes and shook his head, he’d either accepted his cousin’s story or lost interest altogether. From experience, Oliver knew it was probably the latter.

Oliver accepted the small package wrapped in brown paper and tied with butcher’s string and slid it into his pocket. Thank you, Mr. Paulson.

Where to next, David? Oliver prompted, stroking the rough paper in his pocket with the tip of his finger.

Home, David said with a huff. And step on it. We wasted so much time here that dinner will be ready soon. He bumped the glass door to the tiny shop open with his hip and strode through, leaving Oliver to catch it before it smacked into his cheek. Mum’ll throw a wobbly if we’re late again.

Oliver nodded in silent agreement. If there was one truth he knew about his Aunt Carol after several months in her care, it was that timeliness came before cleanliness in proximity to God in her book. Not only was she prone to serving severe tongue lashings if all of the seats at the table weren’t occupied when the oven timer sounded, but she’d also been known to scrape the food into the rubbish instead of saving it, leaving latecomers with the option of a peanut butter sandwich or going without as punishment. Not at all like Oliver’s own mother, who had been known to whip up hot snacks or even the occasional late meal without protest.

Later that night, after a meal of kidney pie and brussel sprouts – two of Oliver’s least favourite things when each was on their own and an absolute atrocity together – Oliver retired to his space in the attic of the fifth-floor flat. Pulling the brown package from his pocket, he carefully opened it, holding the watch aloft and smiling as light glistened off the delicate chain. He tried to read the markings inside the lid. They weren’t English and they didn’t appear to be Roman.

Tempus erit auri pretium. Ut expendas detulimus, he read stumbling on the pronunciation. Latin, maybe?

Pulling out his laptop, Oliver typed the first few words into the search bar and allowed himself a smile when it returned a link to a Latin to English translation site.

I was right!  When he’d finished entering the full passage into the translation box, he waited impatiently as the small circle in the upper corner spun and spun. It had no sooner refreshed to show the English box when Oliver heard the heavy thud of feet on the steps to the attic.

Bollocks! he huffed under his breath, closing the lid and shoving the computer under his pillow.

Oliver? Are you in there? Aunt Carol’s nasal rasp came from the other side of the plastic discount store shower curtain that was dividing his space from the boxes of holiday decorations, outgrown clothes, and other discards stored in the attic.

Yes, Aunt, Oliver responded promptly, holding in his sigh.

The garish yellow sunflowers jerked and danced as the plastic curtain was pulled to the side, allowing Aunt Carol to peer into the dim light.

You feeling alright, boy? You didn’t eat much.

Fine, Oliver assured her. I, ah, was still full from that second helping of stew you gave me at lunch, he invented quickly, patting his stomach.

She nodded, apparently approving of his explanation and then stood, a frown marring her face as she studied her nephew. Finally, it seemed she’d made her mind up about something, because her lips twitched into the grimace that passed for her smile. I have news. About your future.

You do? Oliver asked, forcing himself to exhale slowly. His aunt and uncle already felt that, as an Omega, Oliver was much too fragile to be allowed out in the world alone – hence, the constant presence of his fourteen-year-old cousin – so the last thing he wanted was for Aunt Carol to decide he was prone to fits of nerves as well. That was fast.

It was, she agreed, rubbing her bony hands together in a nearly gleeful way. But, after all, I’m your only surviving kin, so it wasn’t as though the welfare folks had many choices. She seemed to be waiting for his agreement, so Oliver nodded. Well, she continued, With your folks gone, ain’t no point in continuing to waste money on that fancy schooling of yours. Oliver swallowed his gasp but she must have seen the tic in his face, because she shrugged. Don’t know what your folks ever thought an Omega needed with some fancy degree in colouring, anyhow. Only good for one thing and it ain’t in your head. She cackled at her own crude joke.

Oliver seethed inwardly at his aunt’s dismissal of the art studies degree he was working for, but he already knew that his situation was only going to get worse. He wasn’t wrong.

We have an appointment next week with the matchmaker. When Oliver didn’t respond, Aunt Carol’s grimace twitched. She assures me that she has a long list of Alphas looking for an Omega to breed, her voice dipped into the slightest bit of a sneer, even one whose dowry was wasted on foolish dreams. Isn’t that nice?

Oliver wanted to scream that that wasn’t what his parents wanted for him. To rail at her about the disservice she was doing to their memory. But what good would it have