Free The Syndicate (Timewaves Book 1) by Sophie Davis Page A

the history books were located on the upper levels, divided up by the historians’ regions near their dedicated classrooms. There was also a loft-type space on each floor that overlooked the rotunda, dotted with overstuffed armchairs and sofas that made for comfortable reading.
    As we climbed one of the four spiral staircases, a faint ocean breeze wafted in through the open windows on the uppermost floor. A salty mixture of weathered leather, old parchment, and the organic mint oil used to preserve the books swirled around me. I inhaled deeply, loving every breath of the strange concoction.
    “Hey, Stassi. Hey, Gaige,” a voice called from above, breaking the quiet.
    Tilting my head so far backwards that the ends of my hair grazed my waist, I saw Rupert leaning over the fourth-floor railing and waving excitedly down at us.
    “Hey, kid,” Gaige said.
    “What are you doing in here so early?” I asked. “You should be sleeping in while you still can.”
    Rupert rolled his eyes and pushed a lock of dark hair out of his face.
    “I’ve got work soon, I’m just looking for something to keep me busy during my shift,” Rupert replied with a sheepish grin. He held up a thin book. “I found something awesome.”
    I squinted, as if that might allow me to read the small print thirty feet above my head.
    “It’s a biography on Hugh Hefner,” Rupert continued. “He was this American guy who ran a club where the waitresses dressed up like bunnies.”
    “That’s just odd,” I proclaimed, visions of women in giant furry costumes hopping through my mind. The floor must’ve been a veritable cocktail of spilled drinks.
    Gaige snorted.
    “There’s a lot more to his story than that,” he muttered.
    Before I could ask what he meant, the mechanical whirring of a classroom door echoed through the library. A short man with a head of snow-white hair and a black historian’s robe came into view on the balcony of the level between Rupert and us.
    “Ms. Stassi, Mr. Koppelman, our meeting was to begin promptly at seven o’clock, if I’m not mistaken?” Historian Eisenhower’s tone was light and inquisitive, as if he really thought he’d made an error.
    Eisenhower wasn’t fooling anyone. The scholar was a shrewd old man who never made a mistake. He also never forgot any of ours. Even now, I imagined him placing a black mark beside our names in his mental files.
    “No, sir,” I replied, lowering my gaze to show I was properly abashed. Gesturing between Gaige and myself, I muttered an apology from both of us.
    “No matter,” he waved off my words. “You are here now. Come along, come along.”
    The historian paused to shoot Rupert a meaningful stare.
    “Mr. Rudolph, I trust your father has approved your chosen reading material for the day? If not, I suggest you rethink that choice. Mr. Hefner’s biography is not on the list of suggestions that I provided for you. Why not try Theodore Roosevelt or Winston Churchill if you are looking for biographies of twentieth century figures?”
    “Y-y-yess, sir,” Rupert stuttered, turning a shade of red so dark it verged on purple.
    “Very good,” Eisenhower replied, before turning his attention back on us delinquents. “Mr. Koppelman? Ms. Stassi? Today, please. We have a lot of ground to cover before the sun sets.”
    Moments like this one served as a reminder that I was something of an outsider. The historians always addressed runners by their last names, but I didn’t have one. Instead of a familial name, I had a numeric signifier given to me by the work camp. I was the eighty-ninth child to arrive in the year 2446, so my full name was technically Stassi 2446-89. Though Cyrus had repeatedly told me that I could choose a last name, I hoped to discover my lineage and claim my rightful surname, as opposed to using a placeholder.
    “Sunset? He’s joking, right?” Gaige whispered to me as we reached the third floor, drawing me away from my thoughts. “He’s not seriously