The
Shifter Prince and the Time Traveler (forthcoming)
In the country of Poslopia, the last totalitarian regime in Europe, many kids have
the ability to alter their appearance. They can grow long noses like Pinocchio or a
third eye on their forehead. The better ones can even turn into a spitting image of
a friend, but a telltale shimmer about their bodies gives them away.
Seventeen-year-old Yaroslav, the scion of an old dynasty, can do much more. He
is a Talent, who, unlike ordinary shifters, can even change into any animal.
Moreover, he cannot be recognized after the change. Many Talents have joined a
group of anti-government rebels. The fearful government is using a drug, a
synthetic version of an ancient potion, to suppress their abilities. The rebel leader
has been captured and given the drug, so she couldn't escape by changing into a
guard or into a mouse. Whispered stories tell about the equally ancient antidote
known as True Shield, but its recipe has been lost ages ago.
When Yaroslav meets Amber, an American exchange student who has a special
ability of her own--she can travel in time--they decide to go back to the past to
find True Shield. The Secret Service Major Gadinski, a Talent himself, stands in
their way.
Yaroslav's and Amber's friendship is shaping into something bigger, but they
discover that their budding romance is threatened: they can physically touch each
other only when they travel in time.
Will they win the race against time coming back with the True Shield before the
resistance leader is executed? Will they be able to solve the problem that keeps
them apart?
Excerpt:
Chapter 1. Amber.
I’ve never been tortured and shot in my life, but it looks like this is about to change. I know more about the past than the next girl, but not about the future. Daddy, I’m afraid.
The man who faces me is dark-haired, mustachioed, uniformed, and unpleasant, like most Poslopians I’ve seen before, except for my father. My mom says that when she met my Dad in Paris, he wore a mustache, too, but he shaved it off when he came to America. And he’s never been unpleasant.
I hate uniforms, unless they are for sports. People in uniforms—cops and soldiers—have too much power. And they never forget to remind you about it.
But this guy is not an American cop. He’s much worse. He’s a Poslopian customs officer. And he’s after me. It’s not a good sign in this country.
“Is your father Poslopian, Ms. Bulatovic?” he asks in flawless English.
“Yes, he is,” I answer. My head buzzes from jet lag. It was a long flight. “He’s an American citizen now. And I was born in America.” I can’t help it, but I sound defensive. I notice that a long line has been growing behind me. Mostly tourists or foreign businessmen. The native Poslopians stand in separate lines.
The customs man’s eyes frisk my face and then he turns to his computer. It’s an old style, circa 2015 or even older, pre-hologram.
I feel a hand on my shoulder and turn around. A sour-faced woman stands behind me. Oh, my God! She is dark-haired, uniformed, and mustachioed, too.
“Please follow me,” she says. Her English isn’t too bad either.
She brings me to a windowless room lit by a bare bulb that hung from the ceiling by a wire. The floor is cement with a drain in the middle. Something brown clogs the drain.
“I will give you an enhanced pat-down.”
She stays so close to me that I can smell her bad breath and her perfume, which is one-step above garbage. Being shorter, she has to crane her neck when she stares into my eyes.