Lightning Rider (33 page)

“Did you ever figure out how time moved?”

He strokes my clasped hands. “No. It only seemed to jump an hour or two each way.”

Penya would probably know. “So I’ve been gone for six months?” 

“Six and a half. After a while, I wondered if you’d decided to stay . . .” He clears his throat, and his eyes are sad.

I force myself to smile. I would’ve liked that. “No. I just left there an hour ago.”

He waits.

“I don’t know how it ended. I did my part. Viriato was dead when I left. It got very, very ugly at the end.”

“Will you go back?”

I blow out a breath. “I don’t know. Aurelia should take me to Rome, not Spain.”

“Who’s that?”

My voice catches. “Constantine’s daughter. Penya says she’s important.”

He pats my shoulder. “You’ll figure it out.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“I know. I’m sorry. I would go with you if I could, but I think I need Penya’s help before I try again.”

My hands tremble, and I stand abruptly. Papi stands, too, and hugs me just as Mami comes in. 

“Are you leaving? You just got here!”

“I need to, um—”

“She hasn’t had a chance to Christmas shop yet. Came by to borrow the truck.”

“Oh. Well, okay, then. Dinner’s at six. Don’t be late.”

“I won’t.” No way I’m going to miss a family dinner. I peck Mami on the cheek, and my fingers slip from Papi’s hands.

She shoos him into the kitchen, fussing at him to get her big roasting pan down from the top shelf. They tease and laugh their way into the kitchen. I turn around once and take in the room. It’s strange to be back here again, even though I feel like I just left.

I sigh and slip into the bathroom. I twist the lock, avoid the mirror, and unzip my pants. A beam of light slices through the room, and I jump back.

“Shit!”

A perfect, silvery round cylinder is coming straight out of the linoleum. I squeeze myself into the corner and out of the way. The edges pulse and wave, and the whole column rotates. Do I run and grab Papi? Get the girls out of the house? The top of the cylinder curves downward and the sides pinch in until it takes on a shape.

“Penya!” I dive toward the light. 

The image morphs and shifts until she’s the same transparency as she was in the glen. “Oh, Evy.” She clutches her chest, and her voice sounds like she’s standing at the end of a tunnel.

“Where are you?” I ask. 

“I still don’t know, and I only have a few seconds. You made it home?”

I nod and choke back the tears. I’m a freaking waterfall today.

She closes her eyes and frowns. After a few seconds, she composes herself and leans forward, her hands braced on an invisible table. “Constantine survived. He’ll be in Rome with Aurelia. But he won’t know you.”

I fight to stay upright.

“Because he hasn’t met you yet.”

Chapter 27

Penya vanishes, and I slip unnoticed from the house. I drive for hours in Papi’s truck, with only the dinging gas light piercing my foggy thoughts.

Snow crunches beneath the tires as the streets empty. I’m sure the cars passing me are carrying people brimming with joy. Christmas is the last thing on my mind. I take a left and swing into the next parking lot.

I pull the truck into an empty spot on the north side of the strip mall and cut the engine. My head falls back against the headrest, and I stare out the passenger window. I don’t need to go Christmas shopping. I did it two weeks ago—or six months and two weeks ago, depending on whose clock—after I sold the silver chopper. What I need to do is get a grip. I’ll be a blubbering mess through the entire dinner if I don’t either have a good cry or take on a punching bag.

A neon sign flashes
Open
and I smile. I forgot Brin moved his tattoo shop over here. It seems like as good a place as any to close my eyes and have a good scream.

I slip through the last-minute shoppers in the parking lot and push the shop door open. Overhead, the heavy metal music cuts out as the buzzer announces me.

“Be right there,” Brin calls from the back.

I step to the counter and flip through page after page of sketches. When Brin comes out, he laughs. “Interesting day to see you here. Come on over.” He pats the chair.

“Glad you’re open.” I toss my jacket on the counter and slide facedown onto the long chair, tugging my shirt up and exposing my back.

“What’s on the menu?”

I close my eyes. “Shoulder blade. Lightning. Make it cool.”

“Gotcha.”

Rubber gloves snap, and the familiar buzz of a tattoo gun calms me. I take a deep breath and grit my teeth as the needle pierces my skin. After a few minutes, I open my eyes and watch people mill past the window. Outside the grocery store, shoppers navigate their overloaded grocery carts through the snow and load hams and wrapping paper and decorations into their trunks.

Once upon a time, I’d have sneered at the commercialism.

Today—even though it makes my heart hurt—there’s only love.

People worth protecting.

My eyes drift shut. Beneath the chair, strands of lightning crackle from my dangling hands and reach for each other. I’ve been home less than two hours and already I’ve forgotten the best way to blow off steam and get grounded on my mission. I smile and lift my hand, examine my short fingers, chewed up nails, and glowing fingertips.

Hope wraps itself around my insides, strengthening me, healing me, preparing me for another adventure. Can I do this on my own, this lightning riding?

It will be different this time around. Tougher. I squeeze my eyes shut. I’ll be a stranger to Constantine. A stranger who loves him, who knows his future. I’m excited at the chance to see him again, but it’s going to kill me, too.

Brin changes needles and wipes my back with a scratchy paper towel. “This yellow’s going to hurt.”

I grunt.

When the needle finds my skin, I stop holding in the scream, and it breaks from my lips, cracking my heart in half.

He laughs.

A tear slips to the vinyl beneath my cheek. The woman of the prophecy didn’t get to be united with a man. She got to be united with a cause.

She’s tough. Unbreakable. Relentless.

She’s me.

It’s time to leave behind everything I know to grab hold of something bigger than me—bigger than all my shitty relationships.

Life lives looking forward
. I read that on a bumper sticker once and liked it, even though I didn’t understand it then. I get it a little now. It’s easier to live life based on the past, but the true survivors, they’re the ones who can stick it all in a backpack and greet whatever life has planned, good or bad, facing forward. 

Or far into the past.

Guess I better find a backpack.

A storm is coming.

Here’s a sneak peek at

SHADOW BOXER,

the next book in the

Lightning Rider Alterations.

Chapter 1

I’ve had better Tuesdays.

“Ow.” I grind my teeth at a sharp sting in my right shoulder.

Brin rubs the blood from my skin and lathers Vaseline over my new tattoo. “Wanna see?”

I hold my shirt to my chest and hop off the chair to peer at his handiwork in the full-length mirror. High on the fringe of my left shoulder blade, he’s outlined the sun with a crescent moon piercing the bottom, and eight long strands of lightning radiate outward in wispy curls. Day blurs into night and back again, held together by nothing more than lightning. It’s a perfect illustration of time’s chaotic movement for me now.

“Nice,” I say, knowing one word answers are enough here, and I’m not capable of much else.

“Eighty bucks work?”

I pull my shirt gingerly over my head and toss my bra on top of my jacket before digging in my front pocket for a crumpled hundred.

“Merry Christmas, Evy,” Brin says, taking the cash. “You have plans?”

“Dinner with the folks.”

“Cool. Don’t be such a stranger.”

Back in Papi’s truck, my burden feels a little lighter. Nothing like the piercing sting of a tattoo gun to tighten my focus.

I shift Papi’s truck into drive and pull out of the snowy parking lot, glad one of us had the sense to make me take it instead of my bike. Not that he’s faring much better than I am after our last ordeal, but at least he’s had a couple of months to come to grips with what we are.

A silver flash of lightning leaps from my fingertips to the gearshift and another races around the steering wheel. Wonder how long it will be before I can play with it again.

Empty streets guide me to my own townhouse. I pull into the garage and wander upstairs. It’s weird to be back here. I’ve spent what feels like a month between Papi’s house and ancient Spain. Everything here is so . . . normal. My bamboo floors are gleaming, my stainless kitchen is as unused as ever, my couch and gadgets are untouched. I pace the length of my furnished living room. I was fine while Papi and I talked about what I needed to do about Aurelia and rescuing Penya, but now that I’m here—alone—I’m not sure where to start. Penya’s abduction is weighing on me, and even though she thinks Aurelia is important, I don’t feel right about saving a girl who’s already dead over a woman who
might be
far too soon. I can’t have another death on my conscience. 

I should shower or something. Anything to create some forward movement.

With one hand against the counter, I toe my boots off and pad across the floor to the bathroom. Since I’ve been gone, I’ve taken exactly two baths, and one was in a river two thousand years ago. Even the opulence of my simple place is jarring my senses. I twist the knob on the shower and peel off my T-shirt, wincing at the new sting on my shoulder blade and the days-old scrape on my forearm. 

The one Constantine gave me.

Tears burn the back of my eyes, and I swallow and try to get myself under control. We knew it was an impossible situation. We knew a relationship wouldn’t work. As I shimmy out of my pants, my fingers brush the bruise on my hip where he had me pressed against the rock wall of his bedroom while my naked limbs were tangled with his. I can’t hold the sob anymore, and it bursts free.

My hand flies to my lips, and I bite my fist. I can’t fall apart yet. I’d given myself permission to do it when I was alone, but there’s no time for a meltdown. I need days.

I grip the edge of the sink and lean over the marble countertop, avoiding my image in the mirror. My braid slithers over my shoulder, feeling like his fingers across my skin. I squeeze my eyes shut and block everything out. Bolts spin away from my hands and back, like I’m playing with an electric yo-yo.

I force a huge breath into my lungs and hold it, then let it seep out. The last exhale shakes as it leaves my lips. On trembling legs, I turn toward the shower and check the water temperature. I slip my fingers beneath the waistband of my boy shorts, and a loud
thunk
against the door makes me freeze.

Ilif? I hold my breath and spread my arms wide, one hand on the counter and the other on the wall. Straining forward, I listen for any sound, any indication of which stranger prowls my hallway.

It can’t be Ilif. He doesn’t know where I live . . . does he? He’s never been here, but who knows what kind of tracking software he’s using now to monitor me. If he’s using Penya to compensate for his shortcomings, he’s able to go anywhere now . . . even here. Nowhere is safe.

A board down the hallway creaks, but then the silence stretches too long for it to have been made by a footstep. I press myself against the door and listen again. Nothing. If he’s there, he has me at an advantage, and I can’t hide in here forever. Steam curls above my head and against the ceiling, swirling and billowing in white clouds.

I curl my fingers around the doorknob and twist, concentrating on silence, drawing on every bit of warrior stealth Constantine taught me. The steam sneaks out before me, my lookout. Tendrils of lightning crisscross my palms, ready. Tensed for battle, I take one big breath and sweep into the hall, silent in my bare feet.

Something hard strikes my foot, and I stumble. Instinct tucks me and I lean into the momentum. Rolling halfway down the hallway, I come up on one knee, hands splayed, with thick bolts of lightning leaping from my palms and extending all the way back past the bathroom door.

The hallway looms empty, but then I spot a small rectangle propped against the doorframe.

I listen, but the house is silent except for my ragged breathing and the crackle of electricity. Standing, I stretch my hands wide and the lightning retracts. I like that my reaction time is getting better. I suppose attacking a notebook isn’t exactly the right response, but I’d rather be ready than dead. Not that Ilif would kill me . . . but then again, I’m not one hundred percent positive he wouldn’t.

A leather thong holds the book’s worn cover. Deep grooves carve the face, and the edges are worn with what I imagine must have been constant use to make the leather so light. I rub my hand over the smooth surface to wipe away the fine layer of dust and slip my finger beneath the strap.

The sound of running water plays at the edge of my consciousness, and I tuck the book beneath my arm, slip into the bathroom, and turn the shower off. Still half-naked, I pad to the couch and burrow into the corner, tucking my feet beneath me.

I ease open the cover. Hard slashes of script mark the page, drawing me instantly to another place. My fingers trace the letters, recognizing the handwriting from a map drawn nearly two thousand years ago while I stood next to
him
.

Is this a joke? Another cruel way to punish me? I imagine him bent over this book, pouring out thoughts, dreams, plans . . . if this were written after Aurelia died, he might have purged anguish too dark to share, yet too deadly to keep inside.

The words shift from Latin to English. They blur again, and I wipe my eyes then spread the tears on my bare thigh in a long, wet streak.

When I begin again, the rich timbre of Constantine’s voice carries the words to my heart.