Lightning Rider (11 page)

I explain myself with a bit of truth. “I’m here for my father.”

I just spoke Latin. I press my free hand to my lips. Will I ever get used to my endless supply of languages?

He seems not to notice my distress and tugs me again. “He’s not here. You shouldn’t be here either.”

I’m taken aback, though I’m quickly reminded of when I am. I search the dock again. The growing daylight has sent the shadows away, but I hear only the squawking gulls above and the swish of water against the moorings below.

When we reach the end of the dock, he drops my arm and motions me away with a flick of his hand, then paces slowly across the dock’s end. Either whatever they’re offloading is of great importance, or some sense of duty is forcing him to stay here until he sees me off safely.

A scattering of buildings stand behind me, chickens in front of one, a few toddlers next to the other. Open road stretches in either direction, but I don’t want to leave yet, and there’s no imminent danger. He may think I’m a weak girl, but I know better. I’ll stay a few more minutes, then arc home.

“Are those your ships?” I try to close my ears to my own voice—like when I hear an echo in the phone.

He puffs out his chest, and I bite back my smile. For all that we’ve accomplished, men haven’t evolved much. I learned a long time ago that I could soften any tough-ass biker merely by complimenting his wheels. They’ll reveal to a woman a myriad of weaknesses that they’d never show a man. Roman soldiers are just bikers on water.

“I came a year ago. This is my new fleet.”

“It’s nice,” I say, uncertain how to maneuver on this unfamiliar tightrope stretched before me. Staying here to flirt with a Roman warrior is all kinds of dumb, and both Penya and Ilif have given me homework.

“I should go.”

“Yes.”

We move at the same time, and as I step away, he shifts his path the other way, thinking to avoid me. He stops before we collide, but he wraps a hand around the arch of my back to steady us both. My hands settle in the bend of his elbows. I swear he growls.

I glance away, speechless. His hand splays across my back, and his body twists as he glances at the dock. His other hand cups my jaw and tips my face up. 

“Is your father important?”

Eyes wide, mouth dry, I nod. It’s all I can manage. My thoughts and every plan evade me.

He curses. “I have no spare soldiers here to escort you. I do not desire your father’s fury if I let harm befall you.”

If this is how Romans conquer, I completely understand why the Spaniards welcomed these soldiers into their country. What kind of marauding invaders worry about a lone woman?

Rape her? Totally. Escort her to safety? A major history-book oversight.

I’m trying not to melt into him.

I really should get checked out. Nick’s been out of my house for less than a day, and already I’m lusting after a new man. Focus, Evy. Finish the experiment and go.

It’s too bad. He could rock my world.

He lowers his face to mine. Thick blond eyelashes frame his intriguing brown eyes, three freckles dot the tip of his nose, and one sideburn has been trimmed higher than the other. His rounded muscles fill my palms. My thigh rubs against his.

He hesitates then closes his eyes. As he releases me, he asks in a quiet voice, “Are you a sorceress?”

We’re only inches apart. “I don’t think so.” My voice is breathless.

His copper gaze pierces me again, startling me from my fog.

“My actions are peculiar,” he says, more to himself than me. “You appear where women do not belong, distract me in the middle of the day, and make me believe you’ve woven a spell around me,” he says accusingly.

Oh, shit. It’s past time to go, and I step away before he can stop me.

Penya stands beyond the chickens, watching, and I freeze.

The Roman seems as rattled by her appearance as I do. He turns around and angles as if to block me from seeing her before addressing me over his shoulder. 

“Be on your way.”

What? Just like that he goes from accusing me of witchcraft to dismissing me? I peer around him and watch Penya’s approach.

“Go. Now,” he says.

Penya looks about as threatening as a loaf of bread. I glance at the back of the Roman’s head again and wonder if something is going on between them.

He glances once more over his shoulder, and his stern look is nonnegotiable.

“All right, all right.” I head away from the dock and glance at Penya for some explanation, but she ignores me.

Not really my problem, and my curiosity is famous for making me stick around too long. As I round the corner, I dig my little metal top from my bra and glance behind me. I’m alone, so I let my lightning flare to life in my palm. I stop thinking, the words tumble from my lips, and the building in front of me vanishes.

The impact rattles my teeth. My feet jam into the carpet hard enough to buckle my knees, but I manage to stay upright. I’m back at Papi’s and the house is silent.

I’m alone.

I glance down and see I’m in my sweats, but without the skirt. Papi brought home money, but none of his period clothes either. Apparently paper can travel with us. I may have to test that theory, too.

I dig the scroll from my waistband and flick the lamp on the end table, burning a sphere out of the shadows. A quick glance at the clock makes me do a double take. It’s after midnight.

I spent maybe an hour in Spain. No more than two.

Crossing my arms, I stare at the clock for one full minute, watching the second hand sweep the face. Time jumped forward this time instead of rewinding.

So much for my theory.

Where do I turn for answers—Ilif? Penya? The book?

I sway and spread my feet to steady myself. I feel like I’ve lived three years since I woke up, and I have no idea who I’m becoming.

I fiddle with my braid, rubbing the end across my lips. Then I slip my finger into the end of the scroll and tug it open. Maybe this will clue me in. The letters and words slither and rearrange on the page until I can read them. My language abilities appear endless, just like Ilif said.

I snort. I’m such a badass.

The scroll is short, barely half of a regular sheet of paper. Both the top and bottom are torn off, with writing missing. A hole obscures the bottom right-hand portion.

One will come on the eve of great turmoil.

Within her resides a storm to match the danger facing her people.

Born of fire from the sky, she will arrive at the time of greatest need.

Many will endeavor to teach her, but no one can guide her path. 

She is the maker of paths.

Guided by her storm, she will carve a new way for her people. Though she will lead them away from ruin, harm will befall many.

The hole obscures most of the next section, but I can make out a few sentences before the page ends.

. . . not understand her direction and will fight to sway her, she will guard the light and determine a new future.

Strong men will rise up to aid her. One will stand as a permanent guardian, watching over her as she rests, gathering strength for the next storm.

No,
this
chick is a badass.

I lean back into the couch, exhausted. I’m all for self-confidence, but even I draw the line at thinking I’m the answer to a prophecy. Sure, I have this lightning thing going on, but it’s not like I can control it. A leader? I don’t think so.

I carve my own path and don’t give a shit what people think. If anything, I’m a soloist. I don’t even know who wrote this. Maybe Penya did. Maybe it’s not even a real prophecy. She told me not to trust Ilif, but if they’re competitors or foes, then of course she’d tell me not to trust the other guy.

I bite my lip and squint until my head hurts. Perhaps this is a history of someone else, and I’m supposed to learn something from it. 

But I’m the first female rider with the “storm” inside me, who arrives by “fire from the sky.”

I jam my palms into my eye sockets. The scroll in my lap feels like it weighs a thousand pounds. Tossing it to the other cushion, I stand and wander to the window to watch the night crawl by. I should go for a ride, clear my head, decide what comes next.

Penya expects me to come back with questions, Ilif expects me to read the book and stay out of Papi’s way . . . but I’m not ready to pick a side.

There are too many questions I don’t have answers for, and I’m not sure they’re the kind Ilif or Penya want me digging up.

I sigh and turn away from the window, bagging the ride for some studying with Papi’s dead father’s mystery books.

Maybe they hold an answer or two.

Chapter 9

Dawn pierces the blinds of my room, and reality banishes the fog of sleep. I dreamed of Romans and warships. Mentally swiping at the cobweb of dreams and tangle of memories, I rub my eyes and wander into the hall bathroom. A wild halo sticks out from my braid, and blue circles ring my eyes. I twist the shower knobs and tug my hair free from the braid. Hot water needles my skin, and I close my eyes and lean against the wall. Steam fills my nostrils, and I breathe deeply.

Last night’s scan of the big leather book yielded only more questions before I fell asleep—and I didn’t even get to the booklets. This time the Spanish morphed to English like the scroll, but it didn’t make the stories any more clear . . . or convincing.

Back in the hallway, I glance at Papi’s door. It’s open and the light is off. He’s probably in his office. I grab a banana on my way through the kitchen and pad through the family room. Bimni lifts her head, pants once and drops back to sleep.

Papi is bent over the leather book, a study in irony. Young, deadly fingers move back and forth across an ancient page. A pair of reading glasses lies discarded at the edge of his desk, no longer necessary. I’m not sure I’ll ever get used to this hardened version of him. Acute reflexes lift his head, though I’m silent in the doorway. 

“Hey,” I say.

“Morning.” He tucks a slip of paper behind a photo and slams the book shut, wincing at the noise. “Find anything out?”

“I did.” I point at the book. “How about you?”

Bimni barks from the family room. Ilif’s here.

Papi and I exchange a glance.

“Damn, I wanted more time,” he says, sounding defeated.

“Me, too.” Even five more minutes would have been enough. If I thought Ilif would give us the time, I’d ask him. But I don’t.

“Let’s get to it, then.” I hear the hesitation in his voice. Whatever he found this morning didn’t do anything to alleviate his fears. Ilif has his work cut out.

Papi stands and ushers me out of his office.

In the family room, Ilif stands juxtaposed against the hodgepodge of forty years of marriage—Papi’s worn orange armchair beside the gold embossed end table, the sagging plaid couch in front of dark imitation wood paneling, and the etched-glass coffee table. In the middle of it, Ilif is dressed like he’s ready for a vaudeville act on Broadway—navy blue tweed suit with wide lapels, a brilliant white shirt and blue-on-blue tie, French cuffs peeking from the sleeves of his jacket, and wide-legged pants with his signature flourish of polished wingtips. He looks dapper and unruffled, like he’s stepping off the FrontRunner train instead of hurtling through time and space.

His dark hair sweeps back from his face, and gray wings his temples. In the dim lighting of the room’s sole lamp, his skin looks waxy, and I wouldn’t touch it for the patent to Harley’s engine. Aside from his pallor, he looks unaffected by the trip, and a light smile plays at his lips.

“Good to see you again.”

“Morning,” Papi says beside me, his hand still resting against the small of my back. Not sure if it’s to keep me from taking off or to keep him anchored.

If Ilif notices we look off-kilter this morning, he doesn’t say a word. He moves to stand next to the worn couch.

“Do you travel the same way we do?” I ask, curiosity trumping hospitality. He needs to dive into this conversation with me if we’re going to yank Papi from this funk and get his approval.

Ilif strokes the edge of his lapel. “No. My inability to utilize the lightning forces me to rely on a more technological manner of travel.”

God, does he ever speak anything other than scientist? I sigh and fight the urge to roll my eyes. “A machine?”

“Of sorts,” he says. “There was an inventor who generated a different machine capable of creating artificial lightning. We were to acquire it after his death.”

“Are you talking about Tesla?” I’m awake now. If we’re talking greatest inventor who’s ever lived, I’m paying attention.

He flicks my question away with his hand. “It’s a rather technical process. I’d rather focus on how your father travels—how his ancestors arced.”

We drift toward the sitting area. I take the couch and Papi lowers himself to the exposed edge of the chair’s cushion, tense and fighting-ready. I drum my fingers on my thigh and glance between them, seriously hoping Ilif brought his A game.

Ilif starts. “The best way to learn is by doing, but I want to address your concerns first.”

“Great,” I say a little too loudly. There’s a wary tinge to Ilif’s voice that’s not helping Papi’s hesitation any. Apparently I’m going to have to play mediator here.

After reading the scroll and talking to Penya, I have a wicked set of questions. I doubt any of them will get us headed down the right track, so I try some that Papi needs to hear.

“Is this safe?”