Shadow Boxer: NA Fantasy/Time Travel (Tesla Time Travelers Book 2)

by Jen Greyson

  I’m not buying it and my grip tightens on Nikola’s arm. “I don’t think—”

  “Very kind,” Nikola says, his voice warbling like a songbird’s. “I knew you’d come.”

  J.P. wrestles my fingers off Nikola’s elbow and uses his girth to squeeze me against the wall. I wriggle around him and fill the doorway. “You’re not—”

  Down the hall, George skids around the corner, tails of his jacket flying, hand on his tall hat to keep it in place. He looks like he’s come straight from a wedding. “Nikola!” he roars.

  I jump to the far side of the hallway and let George by. He stops inside the door and bends over, heaving for breath. J.P.’s look darkens. “Get… your hands… off… him,” George says, growling and steaming like an overheated engine.

  My eyebrows fly up. George’s reaction to J.P. amplifies mine. He’s the quintessential “nice guy” and I figured he was the kind of guy who never ruffled feathers. My attention rivets on J.P. and I ready myself for whatever he had planned for this evening’s visit. I figured I was just overreacting because I already knew Nikola died today, but now I’m wary with a warrior-like precision. I watch the trio, noting every bit of body language and turning every detail carefully.

  J.P. tightens his hold for a brief moment before releasing Nikola’s arm. “No need to get testy, Georgey. I was only doing the Miss a favor and helping Nikola to his room. Seems she thumped him on the head.”

  What?! I leap forward and try to shove past George to get at this fat, lying bastard. “You two-faced—”

  George darts back and forth in the doorway, blocking my attempts. “Calm down,” he says over his shoulder.

  I take a step back, but the lightning is nearly burning my palms it wants at him so bad. I’ve seen more than enough of J.P.

  “I believe Mr. Morgan was just leaving,” George says, freeing the doorway and stepping to Nikola, putting himself between J.P. and our injured friend while he eases him onto my chair. Nikola’s already pale face is gaunt and he’s trembling. I want to help and the best way is by getting rid of our unwanted guest. Nikola’s unbalanced gaze darts unevenly between George and J.P., like he’s unsure why we’re treating the money man with such open hostility. Nikola will never see him for the monster he is. I see nothing but.

  With a bow, I step aside and extend my arms, not bothering to hide my bared teeth.

  J.P. waddles past and snarls, “Bitch.”

  “You betcha.” I rise and step up into him, my full warrior on display. “Stay the fuck away from Nikola.”

  I follow him to the doors and watch his car pull away. After he’s gone I examine the lock, noting the scrapes along the top and sides of the keyhole like it’s been picked. When I lock it this time, I circle it with a ring of purple lightning and fill the keyhole with a solid green.

  Satisfied that will buy us enough time to get Nikola to a doctor and then home safe, I race back to the office where George is kneeling in front the chair. Nikola looks like he’s about to puke.

  “George, you’ve got to get him to a hospital. He most likely has a concussion.”

  George rises and pats Nikola’s knee. Tonight, it seems, we’re all disregarding Nikola’s germ issues. When he turns, he motions toward the door, concern on his face. I follow him into the hallway.

  George rubs his face and situates his top hat. “Evy… I… If you hadn’t…”

  “Yeah, Nikola and I went through that already. What’s the deal with J.P.?” I inwardly cringe that I just told Nikola’s main investor to go fuck himself, but I can’t shake the feeling that the fat little douche didn’t come there tonight with good intentions—least of all a check. Especially knowing what I know about tonight’s events. Was J.P. always part of Nikola’s death? An image of Nikola, lying unconscious on the floor, rises up in my mind and I think of the tilt of J.P.’s jaw tonight. He seems like the kind of guy who lets nothing stand in his way, and finding a scientist who keeps asking for money and who won’t just go away… Well, nothing a swift kick to the head wouldn’t solve.

  George sighs and glances over his shoulder to check on Nikola and back to me. “It’s complicated.”

  “I’m pretty smart.”

  He rubs the corner of his eye. “My fiancée and I attended a soiree tonight, and I overheard things. Things”—he glances at Nikola again, as if afraid he’ll vanish—“that made me worry. I knew Nikola was here alone tonight.”

  I rub the back of my neck. He would have been, too…

  “What happened?” George asks. “Before I arrived?”

  “Nikola fell off a ladder and landed on me. I think I broke his fall.”

  He yanks me into a tight embrace, squishing my arms at my sides. After an awkward moment, he sniffs and sets me away. “Nikola is a pain. He’s eccentric. He’s horrible at business. But he’s a genius… My genius.”

  Finally, the toll of what could have happened tonight overcomes him, and George slides down the wall, legs bent, forearms flopping over his knees. I crouch and pat his shoulder. “It’s okay, George. He’s safe. But you need to get help.”

  George clears his throat. “You’re right.”

  I stand and pull him upright. “Everything’s going to be okay.”

  His mouth pulls tight. He takes a step toward the office and pauses. “Are you coming back?”

  I shrug and study George’s face. He loves this man and would do anything for him. Banking on that, I take a risk. “He gave me his patents today, the ones in the attic.”

  George blows out a huge breath. “Thank goodness. I’ve been asking him to do that for years.”

  “So you’re okay with it?”

  “I was before tonight, but now even more so.”

  My smile wavers. “I’ll try to come back.”

  He squeezes my arm and crosses to Nikola, who leans forward to be helped off the chair. George slides an arm around him, and they slowly move to the back entrance. I follow and wonder what made George choose to come in that way. After they leave, I lock the back door the same way I did the front one.

  I hesitate before ringing the lock with the purple strand I used up front. Do I dare? If I keep it transparent, it’s enough to kill a man.

  But only for another hour.

  I lift my hand and play a strand of purple from my fingertips and settle on another green strand to seize the entire lock. George won’t be back tonight, but I can’t be certain J.P. won’t.

  Trembling, I head back to the office and climb the ladder. When I reach the trunks, I stand and balance on the trusses and extend two long strands of the yellow lightning. Like molten steel, they flow downward in a thick syrup, showing far more restraint than I feel. The yellow flows over the top of the trunks and pools beneath them, staining every crevice and crack. Covering them takes a couple tries, but finally I have what looks like a pretty supportive sling around them.

  “Here goes.” I flare another stream of white lightning bright enough to catapult us all home, and my heart lurches at the possibility of never returning. Then I remember the one in the hotel safe. Surely it’s important enough to bring me back.

  I arrive in a plain-looking yet familiar bedroom, trunks at my feet. I glare at the plain white walls then wonder if I could possibly be in my own spare bedroom on the third floor. I peek out the door just to be sure, and confirm it by the clothes scattered on the floor of my master bedroom next door. The trunks landed partially inside the closet, so I spin them and settle them beside each other. I wiggle the clasps and finally get the first one open with a loud screech. The top bangs into the back wall and nearly comes back down on my hand. I lift it, lean it gently against the wall, and peer inside. Papers fill the trunk nearly to the brim, and with no discernible order. The mess looks like Tesla grabbed desk drawers and emptied them one after another. He must have been in a fierce hurry to override his OCD.

  I ruffle the papers and find notebooks poking up at odd angles beneath, and more papers. Illustrations and measurements and notes cover ne
arly every page. I rock back on my heels. Thousands of notes. Penya better know what to do with them… if she ever manages to stick around for more than half a minute.

  I close the lid and slide the closet door shut then ponder the unlockability of my lame hiding place. I push the door open and lock both trucks with the green lightning that’s becoming a standard for this alteration. Then, I study the room’s door and its worthless button lock. I’m worried about Ilif coming while I’m not here. Granted, he’s only been here once that I know of. If he wants these, there’s going to be no way to keep him out of this room. Unless…

  I hold up my hands.

  Unless I’m willing to booby trap my own house.

  Seems right up my alley.

  I back toward the door, drip green around the button and set it, then pull the door all the way but a crack my arm barely fits through. Using the reflection off the window to guide my movements, I open my hand wide and throw a single handful of red lightning into the room, then yank my hand out and yank the door shut but a tiny crack.

  Inside the room, the strands attach as they collide, expanding and firing new strands in multiple directions. After a few seconds, they stabilize, and the entire room is crisscrossed by thousands of strands of red, pulsing light. I’m still taking a chance. This practically screams “something important here,” but Ilif won’t be in this room to admire my shoe collection.

  I close the door until the handle clicks and decide I’ll figure out how to diffuse it later. For now, the papers are safe.

  Like I promised.

  I jog downstairs to the kitchen and dump a banana, ice, and protein powder into my new blender from Papi. While it whirs, I think about what’s next. I really need to get a copy of the booklets and Papi’s big journal for quiet moments like these. Now that things are settling down, I want to read the books from start to finish and figure out what else I can do with this power.

  Nikola had the luxury of knowing his entire life who he was and who his gifts were meant for. I’ve been selfish my whole life. Even as a builder, I did it for the accolades and the money, maybe a little for the satisfaction of creating, but it was always a job, a way to finance my lifestyle.

  I haven’t been riding long enough to know why I do it, but if I bothered to take a second it wouldn’t be hard to figure out that I’m still seeking recognition and reward. Nikola really could—and has—walked away from the notoriety and fame if the tradeoff was having his work used on a massively grand scale.

  I don’t know how to do that.

  But I need to figure it out. I need to find a place within myself where I can let go when I need to without feeling like I’m sacrificing a bit of myself. There’s a selflessness that I have to find; that same space where Nikola’s stashes his entire ego.

  I hit the puree button on and off and pull a tall plastic cup from the cabinet. The chocolate slush flows over the rim of the container, and I smush it around with my finger.

  I’ve been there for slices; when Papi asked me to quit, and when I killed Viriato, but every time Constantine asks me to stay, I waver. I want to give in and let him protect me. Because sometimes it would be nice to shuck all my responsibility and not have to stress over motives and reasoning and what I’m going to screw up because no one will tell me the truth.

  I pull a neon straw from the drawer and poke it in my drink and saunter to the couch.

  Maybe I can’t let go of myself completely. Nikola can do it because he has things to shift attention onto. I am the thing. There’s no riding without a rider.

  Then there’s always the possibility that the solution is a wire-haired sweater that’s never going to fit right.

  Either way, stalling isn’t helping. Ego or not, I have work to do. I still have to get the final paper from Tesla, and hopefully keep him alive a little longer.

  Lightning crackles from both fingertips. Part of my unease is that I never blew off the steam from the altercation with J.P.

  CHAPTER 29

  I FINISH MY protein shake and jog upstairs, careful to avoid stepping loudly outside the spare bedroom. I race through my shower and throw on clean clothes.

  In the middle of my living room, I pause and take a deep breath. He’s going to ask me to stay again. And I’m going to reject him. While I’m not looking forward to another fight, there’s nowhere else I can blow off the energy like I can there. It’s pulsing so loudly right now, I can barely concentrate. If he knows what’s good for him, he’ll leave me be for a few minutes.

  I spread my hands wide and drip lightning to the floor. With a huge breath, I lift my chest and drop my head back. As night consumes me, I scream into the nothingness.

  My feet barely touch the grass before I spin and take out two trees in the moonless pitch of night. My bullwhips are bigger than I’ve ever seen them, stretching almost twenty feet from my hands. I spiral my arms, winding and twisting the whips until the individual strands are imperceptible. Two giant wheels of lightning rotate on either side of me. At the apex, I whip them downward, carving a trench in the ground. Clods of dirt spray me, but I don’t pause my motion, dragging the whips forward until they cross. Twisting and crackling, they obey my every command. There is no hesitation in me, and so there is none in them. I walk forward, churning up the ground as I go.

  This is the one place that’s never failed me, the one place I can be me.

  Here, I am perfect.

  Here, I am whole.

  I am the lightning, and there’s no separating us.

  Not for an alteration.

  Not for the future.

  Not for my family.

  Not for a man.

  I raise my hands together over my head and combine the whips into one massive weapon. Holding on to it takes everything I have, and I swing it one full revolution over my head before releasing it. Three trees incinerate on contact, immediately dropping to the ground in smoking cinders.

  I drop my head forward and take a deep breath, at peace with what I am.

  No ego, and yet, all ego.

  Lightning commands respect because it is all-powerful, yet it does not care if anyone applauds, notices, or cares.

  It just is.

  So, too, am I.

  This thing I’m capable of is as natural as a lightning strike, as unavoidable as thunder.

  I am not to be commanded.

  I am in command.

  When I lift my head, he’s standing at the far end of the field, arms crossed, legs spread. Waiting on me. Like always.

  But this time, guilt doesn’t rise up in my chest. I never asked him to wait, never promised a tomorrow. We can only live in what we’re given, and as I may never know which fight will be his last, he won’t know which alteration will be mine.

  Tonight it’s my turn to close the distance between us. Because I may not know where he fits, but I know who I am.

  Every muscle in his arms is pumped and straining at his skin, bulging outward in tension. His chest is expanded and he’s in full warrior-mode, like they’ve just come back from battle and my display infused him with a new surge of adrenaline. Crusted blood stains his fingers, and there’s a dark gash across his right brow. His eyes are concealed, his expression unreadable.

  I stop just inside his shadow. “I didn’t mean to intrude. I came to blow off steam, but I’ll go if you want me to.”

  The muscle in his jaw clenches, and he juts his chin toward the field. “You never trained like that with me.”

  “I’m done training.” I puff my own chest and cross my arms. “This is who I am. Who I’ve always been.”

  “Is there more?”

  I hear the real question he’s asking, and it’s one only he can answer. In this moment, I’m as exposed as I can be. “That’s up to you.”

  He rocks back on his heels and tips his head to the side, cataloguing everything about me, from my wild hair, to my dirt-covered boots. Unlike every time he’s studied me like this before, my confidence doesn’t slip an inch. Instead, I widen
my stance and straighten my back.

  “Take you or leave you, is that it?”

  I don’t bother responding.

  “It seems you’ve found your purpose at last. I wondered how long it would take you to grab it about the throat with both hands. You’ve never seemed like a timid woman… except in this.” He leans closer until the coppery blood he’s wearing surrounds me like a morbid aftershave. I wonder whose.

  “You’ve stopped questioning.” He circles me, stopping behind me. “In your absence, I thought about your hesitation to let me protect you.”

  Yesterday enough guilt would have flooded me to make me wince. Not today.

  “Watching you tonight… I think I understand. You cannot be tamed. I cannot confine you to Spain. Glimpses are all you can offer me. Slices of your in-between.”

  The air moves behind me and a whisper caresses the air against my ear. “I’ll take you.”

  Damn right you will.

  I turn and smile up at him, noting the deep stress lines at his eyes, beneath the blood. He lifts a hand to my face, caressing my cheek with the backs of his fingers and trailing them down my neck and arm. He links our fingers and we hold hands as he leads me toward his house. It’s the most normal our relationship has ever been—I mean, beside the lightning and blood.

  Inside, he nudges a rolled up blanket open before the fire, and pulls me down in front of him and wraps his big, bloodied arms around me and rests his chin on my head. I lean into him and enjoy the moment, even if it is completely out of character for both of us.

  After a few minutes, I turn in his arms and examine his wounds. The one on his forehead is still seeping, but the rest look like scrapes.