3

Skye

Skye sat at the desk in her suite. Seething was too weak a word. She was livid with Mom. She’d only come on this trip to make Mom happy—to offer moral support. But Mom couldn’t even appreciate that. She had to make Skye even more miserable by forcing her to hang out with Philip Matthews.

Philip hadn’t been nice to her a single time since Dad left. Avoided her? Yes. Laughed while others taunted her? Absolutely. It’d hurt so bad that at first, she’d loved going on Mom’s work trips just to get away from school.

That had gotten old fast.

OK, so Philip had never actually made fun of her himself. Was that supposed to count for something?

She drummed her fingers on the smooth wooden desk, trying to work out her frustrations. How was she supposed to cancel her plans now, when she’d already agreed to help?

Her contact at the All Nations Church had given Skye her e-mail address. Short and sweet was usually best.

Skye typed a quick note to explain the situation, as well as offer an apology. Feeling like a complete let-down wasn’t her favorite thing in the world.

Once she’d hit send, she sat back and sighed. Or more like growled. Of all the selfish things Mom had done, this one topped them all. And then offering to have dinner with Skye? That would never happen. Mom wouldn’t get back to their hotel until well after Skye was asleep.

Of course, Skye didn’t make it easy on her. Snapping at Mom and making smart aleck remarks probably didn’t make Mom want to come around more.

For almost four years now, she’d carried the brunt of Mom’s demanding work schedule. Dad had taken it for a long time, buffering between them, but once he’d had enough—and left town—Skye had to fend for herself.

Something pulled at the back of her mind. A recollection?

No, it was the dream. Being lost in the desert and unable to find a way home.

Maybe Mrs. Garrison had been right about that déjà vu thing. Maybe the dream was a prediction of the way Skye would feel when she arrived in London. Lost and alone.

Her stomach wound tighter.

No, never alone. No, never alone…

The words to a familiar church song played through her mind. Mom rarely went to church—no day of rest for the workaholic—but Skye went to a weekly service at the soup kitchen. It doubled as a rescue mission and tripled as a chapel on Sundays. Skye had started helping at the soup kitchen because Mr. Kilpatrick had suggested it, but it’d been something she had a knack for. Once she’d learned about Christ’s gift of love—a love that cost her nothing, and never got bumped for “time-pressing” issues—she’d jumped on board and never looked back.

Time flew, and at one thirty she glanced at the clock and bit her lip. Philip would be waiting. Why did he have to pretend they got along so fantastically? They didn’t.

And why did Mom have to be so selfish?

That was a question for the ages.

Skye did a mental run-through of ways she could get out of future tours with Philip. Say she was sick? Sneak out of the room before Mom woke up? Probably neither.

Mom would call the doctor—or the police.

Mom had said “until school is out.” That meant almost a month. She could handle it another month, and then she’d reconnect with the benevolence groups and missions. She was strong, wasn’t she?

She hurried through her brief makeup routine and grabbed her camera. If nothing else, she could shoot some awesome photography while on these tours. She shuffled toward the door when the cell phone rang.

Skye glanced at the number.

Mom.

Skye silenced the ring and hurried to the elevator. It crept down, down, down.

The elevator doors opened, and there Philip stood. He faced outward toward the street, people-watching. He looked taller in the sunlight, and his long, lean muscles elongated his silhouette.

Her cheeks burned, and she quickly looked away before he noticed her staring. All right, she thought he was cute. So what? He didn’t need to know it. Harboring that deep, dark secret was embarrassing enough.

“I’m ready.”

He glanced at her. “Good afternoon to you, too.”

Her muscles tensed, but she didn’t snap at him.

He grinned and held out a brochure. “I picked up a few of these for us to enjoy.”

She let herself relax and took a brochure, but why did he have to be so friendly? If he was being his usual rude self it would be so much easier to hold it all against him.

The tour bus began loading, almost on cue. She breezed past him before he had a chance to say anything else, and he scrambled after her.

Skye stopped abruptly, and he almost ran into her. She turned toward him. “We aren’t joined at the hip, you know. You can back off. Find your own seat. That sort of thing.” Guilt hit her. She shouldn’t be so snappy, but being around him put her on edge.

He watched her, his look telling her he didn’t intend to take her advice. Why did her stomach flutter at the thought?

She rolled her eyes again—more because of her stomach flutters than anything else—and turned back to the bus. How could she crave his attention? While she wouldn’t give him enough credit to say he’d ruined her high school years, he did leave her friendless in freshman year.

They filed onto the hot, crowded bus and sat in different places. Sand littered the floor of the bus. Skye frowned. They were stuck on a dirty bus. And why was it so warm? Had to be body heat.

The bus rumbled in park while others loaded, and Skye glanced at the brochure in her hands. She had to admit, it’d been thoughtful of him to offer it. She didn’t even know where they were going.

Flipping it open, pictures of Stonehenge peeked out at her. She read a snippet of its history—or lack of history. Some thought it’d been an ancient religious ceremonial ground; others believed it’d been an early time-telling device. But the best the historians had come up with was that it had been built by the Druids and then added to over the years. They believed it had been used as a burying site at some point in history. The rest of Stonehenge’s secrets were up in the air.

Anything ancient fascinated her, and her interests sparked to life. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad.

Philip sat a few seats back, laughing with the very young tour guide. She had long, blond hair that complemented her long, dark lashes. Maybe she was a local college student.

Hot betrayal spread through Skye, but she pushed away the tightness. She’d just told him to beat it. Could she blame him for doing it?

A moment later, the bus pulled from the curb. The tour guide began her spiel about Stonehenge. She seemed knowledgeable enough, quoting facts along with myths and legends. Skye ignored the way the girl repeatedly looked at Philip and smiled.

Between speeches, Skye enjoyed the country side. She craned her neck as she scanned small villages, farms, and cottages. The area was beautiful and different, and yet not so different at all. While many of the people looked happy and healthy, there were those who looked poor, downtrodden, and burdened—just like back home.

After a couple hours of driving, they finally arrived at the destination. Skye stood and stretched the cramps from her legs then followed the herd of people off the bus. They weren’t the only tour bus arriving; a sea of people mingled in the open space around Stonehenge. Ropes kept tourists from getting too close, but Skye still enjoyed the view.

Philip trailed her, but she maneuvered between other tourists to lose him. If he wanted to flirt, he could do it without her.

She stopped near the front of the group to listen to the girl’s practiced speech, and once they’d been given the go ahead to explore on their own, she stepped away.

The stones reached high above her head, taller than a single-story house. And they were huge!

Giggles floated on the air, and she turned toward the sound before she thought about it.

Philip stood with the tour guide, leaning against the bus while the blonde gazed up at him and smiled.

Skye rolled her eyes and looked away. Whatever nice thing he’d done by getting her a brochure was officially cancelled out.

She weaved through the crowd, taking in the enormous size of Stonehenge. Empty land surrounded them on all sides, stretching and rolling for miles on end. People mingled around her, some alone, some in groups, some with pets. A sand box lay a few yards away, with a small dog digging in it. That must have been where the sand on the bus came from. And why a putrid scent hung in the air.

Skye turned her attention back to the main attraction.

How had the stones come to be here, and how long ago? When she’d told Mr. Kilpatrick about her trip, he had said she was blessed to be allowed the opportunity to visit such an old place as England. The country was a gateway to the past, he’d said.

Getting lost in its history sounded like a vacation from the vacation.

Skye snapped a few pictures, considering Stonehenge’s mysteries.

Of course, that was the draw of the place. The mystique.

She circled the stones then made her way to the backside, away from the buses and most of the tourists. Staring out at the emptiness, she sighed. This was where she needed to be—the country. She would get out of her fancy-schmancy neighborhood, away from her uppity classmates, and apart from the hustle and bustle of the business district that had taken Mom from her.

Here, she could be herself. Focus on archeological digs. Or become an expert on ancient texts.

She looked to the stones again, and her curiosity boiled. What did the stones feel like? Were they cold, or had they been warmed by the sun? Rough, or smooth? This stuff fascinated her.

She glanced around. No one was watching her. Nor were they paying any attention to her.

Just like always.

She stepped over the rope, waited a second to make sure no one yelled at her, then darted to a stone and reached out her hand. The rocks were cold and rough.

She smiled to herself as she leaned against a huge stone. Oh, how she’d love to learn their historical secrets.

“Ultu ulla ati, me peta babka.” She muttered the ancient Sumerian she’d mastered with Mr. Kilpatrick: Gatekeeper, open your gate for me.

Using one hand, she held up the camera and snapped a few pictures of the countryside.

The cold of the rock seeped through her clothes, clinging to her skin. Chill bumps raced down her arms, and she gasped. The cold was almost painful.

She tried pulling away from the stone but couldn’t move. Before she could stop them, her eyes slid closed. Images flashed in her mind—no standing stones, but farmers plowing, first with tractors but then with animals. Then, no farmers at all, but empty lands full of swaying grass. The grass disappeared, replaced with sand. Miles and miles of sand.

She groaned and tried blinking, her mind swirling, but the images stayed put.

In the distance she saw movement—people? Definitely people. They moved at a crawl at first, slow motion, but then their speed picked up, and they walked in normal time. Right in front of her.

They spoke loudly, some laughing and others fighting.

Turbans and robes, belts and face veils.

Wake up! She shouted at herself, but nothing happened. Maybe she’d been stung by a bee without realizing it. She was allergic to bees, and if she’d been stung she might pass out. That would explain the bizzaro dream.

She gasped. This was the dream—her dream!

“Pardon me, miss. Are you lost?”

Skye started. Was the boy talking to her? He could see her? She was still in the sandy place, and he wore tattered robes.

The dark skin on the boy’s face parted, revealing a smile of already yellowing teeth. “You’ve been standing in front of Papa’s fruit stand for many minutes. You seem lost to me.” His voice squeaked, and his eyes sparkled with the bright sunlight.

Skye glanced around nervously. He wasn’t speaking English—it sounded more like the language she’d been studying with Mr. Kilpatrick—yet she could understand him just fine. How?

Tents lined a narrow, dusty street.

She shielded her eyes from the blinding sun. “I’m not at Stonehenge anymore, am I?”

The boy laughed and shook his head. “Silly girl.” Then his eyes turned curious, and he cocked his head. “Why don’t you cover up? You will get in trouble.”

Skye glanced at her black, lacey tunic, then the robes and face veils the other women wore. Right. She didn’t exactly fit in. “Will you tell on me?”

The boy looked around then shook his head. “I guess not, but if Mawmaw returns, she will swat at you.” He made a swishing motion with his hands, grinning and saying, “Shoo! Shoo!”

Skye managed a nervous smile. “I understand. Thank you for your help.”

“I am Abdul. What is your name?”

“I’m Skye.”

The boy glanced up. “Skye?” Then his eyes widened, and he gasped. “You are she! Hebat!”

Now Skye frowned. “Who?”

The boy pointed at something behind her, and she turned slowly. The skeleton of a tower rose in the distance.

“Hebat. Lady of the skies. We build your temple!”

Skye’s frown deepened, and her stomach started its familiar twisting. “No.”

“Hebat!” he danced around her, laughing excitedly.

“No, I’m just Skye.” She tried to quiet him. “What did you say I am?”

“Hebat! Hebat!”

“No, it’s Skye.” She shook her head, hoping to convince him, but he continued dancing and laughing.

People began to stare.

“Skye? Skye! Are you OK?” A different voice came from somewhere.

She shook her head again then blinked.

The boy and the sand were gone. Philip stood in front of her, shaking her arm. “Skye, they’re ready to go.”

She trembled and glanced around. “What? Who?”

“The tour bus. Are you OK?” He watched her, his head tilted to the side.

Like the boy.

Skye looked around again. The sand was gone, and so was the tower. In its place was Stonehenge, tourists, and Philip. And he’d said they were ready to go? How long had she been out of it?

“Are you ready?” He drew his eyebrows together.

Skye took a shaky breath. Whatever had happened was the creepiest thing she’d ever been through. She pushed away from the giant rock. “Yeah, I’m ready. Let’s go.”