by Jen Greyson
“What happened?” I kiss the corner of his eye, just below the end of the wound and stand.
“We were attacked by goat herders,” he says.
I find a pile of clean linen strips and small jug of water and carry them back to the fire. “That guy’s going to plague you for a while.” And is one of many reasons you need to stay, so I can have that alteration with you and save the world.
“Super.” He closes his eyes and sighs.
I’ve never tended a wound before, but it can’t be much different than when I get a mean case of road rash. After wetting one of the strips, I move the jug closer to the fire and crouch between his legs.
“Will you take your tunic off?”
He draws it over his head. There are two more big gashes across his chest. I start on the easy ones, a smudge on his forearm, the nick above his left nipple.
“Lie down.”
He does, resting one hand behind his head and tossing the torn and bloody tunic into the shadows.
I kneel next to him, my thigh pressed against the uninjured side of his ribs. Softly, I dab at the crusted blood on his chest and move to his forehead. It’s still seeping, and I have no idea what I’m going to do if it needs stitches—or even a bandage for that matter. He shifts and rests his free hand on the peak of my thigh. I switch to a new cloth, soaking it with the warm water in front of the fire. I lean close and press the wet cloth to his head, hoping to pull the crusty part off. While I hold it with one hand, I brush the uninjured skin on his chest.
“Are you okay?”
He grunts.
I take that for a yes and pull the cloth away. The gash beneath is angry and red, but wider than deep. I’m sure it does need stitches, but hopefully if I can get it clean, he’ll be fine. The water is dirtier than I’d prefer; wine might be better, and disinfect him a bit. “Where’s the wine?”
He waves his hand and I search the dark, spotting another jug on the small table. I press the upper edge of his wound, making it bleed more, but scrape off the rest of the blood and dirt. His fingers dig into my thigh.
I scoot away and toss the gross fabric into the fire, making it flare bright. Next to the wine, I find a plate of bread, cheese, and fruit. I wedge the wine under my arm so I can carry it all.
He props up on an elbow and swigs the wine. I take it from him and sit cross-legged next to him, the plate cradled in my lap. There’s one last strip of linen. I grab it and lean close, pressing the fabric beneath the gouge in his forehead. Lifting the jug, I slosh high-proof wine on the linen and press it against his skin before he realizes what I’m doing.
He roars and I shrug. “Germs.”
He lifts a hand to his eyebrow. “What?”
I jam a piece of bread in my mouth and shake my head.
He winces and lifts a plum from the plate and hesitates. The last time we ate plums together, it was the night before I murdered a man. His gaze drifts to mine. One more thing he put in his sex diary? I scratch my ear and clear my throat.
We’ve shared so much… loss, pain, pleasure… But still, this feels like our first date. The atmosphere is a tender, fragile thing.
He slices the plum and lifts it to my lips. I take it, breaking eye contact as his fingers brush my lips.
“How’s Penya?”
I sigh and chew the fruit. “Okay, I guess. She doesn’t think she’s in any danger, but I still don’t like it.”
He stares at the fire. “You know, if you were good”—he smiles crookedly and I cuff him on the shoulder, scattering bread crumbs across the blanket—“you could hide just enough lightning on her to create residue to follow.”
“She’s not creating any residue, remember.“
He hooks a hand around the end of a bench and drags it over, wedging it against his map table and wadding the end of the blanket against it, creating a cushioned backrest. He leans against it and pats the blanket between his legs. I scoot over and nestle into his lap then lean over his thigh and pull the plate closer.
“I’m not talking about relying on her residue, but yours.”
I think about what he’s suggesting. I’ve been careful to keep my lightning sheathed when she’s been around because we originally thought it would end the transmission—like it messes with Ilif’s. “Do you really think that would work?”
I feel him shrug. “Worth trying.” He rubs my forearms, where they rest on his thighs. “And your scientist?”
I smile. “He’s good. Very good.”
Constantine’s chest tenses, bouncing my head forward.
“I think you’d like him. He’s very smart.”
He relaxes, and I wonder if this is half the reason he wants to travel with me, to make sure everyone knows who I belong to.
I quiet.
I’ve never had anyone want to make that public.
I rub my fingers across the hills and valleys of his muscle, intrigued once again by this warrior of mine. We stare at the fire, and after a while, the large flames settle into glowing embers. Constantine shifts from behind me, groaning at his injuries. I stand and take the dishes to the table. He slips into his room and returns with the blankets off his cot.
After he drops the blankets on our spot, he stokes the fire, adding enough logs to burn through the night. I assemble a bed and slip off my boots and socks, but hesitate with my pants. With the firelight playing across his features, he looks even more exhausted, and I can only imagine how tired he must be after fighting for who knows how long.
He turns and takes my hands and leads me to the blankets and lowers us both. He stretches out, arm left out for my pillow. Nestled against him, I settle against his warmth and lift just enough to kiss his cheek. He kisses my temple and my eyes and my lips, pressing a sweet kiss before his lids drop closed and his head falls on his shoulder.
Bright morning sun blinds me and I push up from the empty pallet. I crane my neck and search the house, but Constantine’s gone. On the bench near my head, a fresh plate of bread sits atop a note. I tug the paper free.
As much as I enjoyed watching you sleep, I couldn’t bear to watch you leave me. Easier this way. It would please me to see you return tonight.
C
I lower the paper to my lap and tear a hunk off the bread. He’s doing his best, I suppose. From the beginning, he’s been his own man, battling with my need to be my own woman. I stretch and stand, popping the last of the bread in my mouth before tugging on my socks and boots.
Last night was nice. No sex, just us trying to find a place to exist.
I flip the paper over and carry it to his map table. They’ve changed since I was here last, now a new enemy’s camp. I finger his handwriting and chide myself for stalling.
I scribble out a hasty note.
Last night was great. Please keep your forehead clean. I’ll be back as soon as I can.
Know I’m missing you while I’m gone.
E
I straighten and fist my hands into my lower back. Maybe next time we can sleep somewhere other than the floor. With one last look around, I palm my lightning and arc.
CHAPTER 30
I ARRIVE IN Nikola’s hotel room, near the door. My first step ruffles a newspaper that housecleaning has slipped beneath the door. I check the date—1937. The entire room is shadowed and I can barely make out the standard furniture in the darkness. The air is dense and housekeeping hasn’t been by in a while. I take a cautious step into the depths and I’m bombarded by a sense that something’s very wrong.
Before I can get too comfortable, I shiver. The room feels unnaturally silent.
I move closer and kick a bowl of birdseed, sending it flying and scattering tiny seeds throughout the room. At the end of his bed, I reach out a tentative hand and touch his shoe. “Nikola?”
“Evy.” A croak from the shadows.
I sprint to the bed and crash to my knees. “Nikola… ” I scan his face. He looks awful. There’s a gash over his forehead, but it’s bandaged. His cheeks are sunken with ag
e, and his hair is nearly white. Beautiful olive skin is yellow and jaundiced. Even without the injuries, he looks at least ten years older.
His arm flails to find me. I cup it and lean closer. “What happened?”
He tries to shake his head, but grimaces and squeezes my hand. “Car.”
I squeeze back in what I hope is reassuring pressure and doesn’t convey my terror. “A car? You were hit by a car?”
He blinks.
“Oh, Nikola.” I drop my head to the back of his hand. “I’m such a fool. I should have been here.”
“My own fault,” he whispers, every word a struggle.
I spent the night on a date while I should have been trying to get back here to the next spot in the alteration. How did I miss this? Why didn’t I show up in time to prevent it? I jump up. “What do you need? Has a doctor seen you? Are you hungry?”
He shakes his head and waves me to sit. I drag a chair to the head of the bed and lower myself to his side. “I’m so sorry,” I whisper.
“The patents?”
“Safe. They’re safe at my house. I took them with me when—” I squeeze his hand. “What happened with J.P.? Did he come back?”
He nods, anguish and pain deepening the creases around his lips and eyes. With great difficulty, he sits up and I lean forward to help, but he brushes my hand away. After a few long minutes where I swear he’s going to run out of breath, he opens his eyes. “After that evening, several auspicious events occurred. George implored me to research the cause behind them, but I was—” He coughs and wheezes and wipes his mouth with a handkerchief. “I was ignorant. I wanted to believe J.P., that he would keep his word and finance my tower. He didn’t.”
“Did George think he was involved?”
“He suspected. I thought J.P.’s unwillingness to lend the money and my injury were unrelated.”
“Who hit you?”
He closes his eyes. “Not J.P.”
Any icy foreboding trails bony fingers across my nape. “But you know who it was, don’t you?”
Time stretches and expands like I’m shifting places, and for a moment I think he isn’t going to answer me, and his eyes pop open and he sits up higher in the bed, renewed by a phantom energy. He flattens the frayed edge of the sheet between his long fingers. “We’ve never talked about your Ilif after that night so many decades ago.”
I scoot my chair closer and shiver as the hair on my nape raises. That’s not what’s important right now, but I don’t want to interrupt with him looking so vibrant.
“Though I’d dismissed him as a zealous student of electricity like me, there was always a detail about him that troubled me. A few years after your last visit, that detail clarified for me when two foreigners came to see me. After the men departed, I realized your Ilif’s interest in my work was never casual. His participation nagged and caused me to research the level of his international involvement. What I found disturbed me. His international relations created an underground armory. Weapons to the highest bidder, machinery no one had ever seen. Recently, he worked with a man named—” He coughs and pauses to catch his breath. “A man named Hitler.”
I reel. Please don’t let it be the Hitler I’m thinking of.
“Ilif put Hitler in touch with geneticists who’d advanced eradication of certain diseases. And from what I read in the papers, possibly entire races.” He waves the tangent away and takes a slow breath that creases the deep lines around his eyes. “But of all the weapons in the world, mine proved the most deadly, the ones Ilif and his partner, Penya, could sell for the most money.”
The room tilts, and I grab a fistful of bedspread.
“Over my lifetime, many heads of nation have come to see me, asked for my patents and cooperation to build weapons. I’ve only ever wanted to better the world, so declining those offers was never challenging. However, that day, the men used other tactics to persuade me.”
I don’t want to ask, but there’s no way I can’t. “What kind?”
“Threats of death and torture for my dearest relationships. George. His wife. My sisters.”
My head drops forward.
“But I believed you had the patents, so it was easy to tell them I’d destroyed them after realizing the deadly applications. Most of the originals were destroyed in the fire. George—and now you—are the only ones who know I always duplicate my findings.”
I rock back in the chair. “Holy shit, Nikola. Do you think they believed you’d destroy your work?” Because I don’t. Not for an instant.
“What else did you tell them? Are they coming back? Did they buy your story? Do these men know about me?”
He raises his hand to silence me.
I bite my lips and clench my fists against my trembling mouth.
“They asked after you. I believe they watched us together on one of our visits. I told them you were a friend, nothing more.” He wheezes and slumps over.
I half rise from the chair, but then his breathing evens out and he turns his gaunt frame.
No way would they write me off after Nikola destroyed the patents and tried to convince them I’m a friend—he doesn’t have friends. And I thought Ilif was bad. Now I may have international killers coming after me. Killers from the turn of the century, when genocide and missiles were as common as breakfast, not terrorists of today, who seem to abide by the Geneva Conventions. I’m not sure how I thought changing history wasn’t going to paint a giant target on my back. Maybe Papi was right to worry… and Constantine. It’s time for Penya to quit screwing around and give me answers about Ilif and what the fuck he’s up to. I’m done pandering to her spa time. I want answers. I want her out of there.
And it may be time to reconsider Constantine’s offer of protection. Even a lightning rider has to sleep sometime.
“Do you think that’s who ran you down?”
“My memory of the foreigners’ visit is like all my others—vivid and perfect. They brought another man with them that day. He didn’t speak, and they didn’t introduce him. It wasn’t until six or seven years later that I learned his identity. While waiting in the lobby one day for George, I caught a program about this Adolf Hitler, and recognized the acquaintance. After a small amount of research, I learned he was one of Hitler’s closest associates.”
“He came to see me three days ago. Again, he asked for my weapon patents. Again, I refused.”
I open my mouth to ask what they talked about, but Nikola waves me silent.
“That man is who ran me down yesterday. I don’t believe he meant for me to live. Fortunately, his timing was poor, and dozens of theater-goers were leaving the dining room when the accident occurred. According to accounts, their quick response and interference kept the driver from finishing the job.
“I should have been here.”
“So you could have been hit? The thought is ludicrous. Your involvement comes next, Evy, and I would have it no other way. I would rather die a thousand deaths in order for my work to survive.” A coughing fit steals his breath, and I can hear a gurgling quality to each cough. He probably has a collapsed lung—or worse.
“You got the document out of the safe, correct?”
I jerk and shake my head. “No. I never did. This is the first time I’ve been back since I took the trunks.”
His eyes close. “Of all the documents, that is the most important. You must retrieve it.”
“I’m so sorry.” My voice cracks. I should have at least come back to finish the job before seeing Constantine. My guts twist and I reach for Nikola’s hand again. “Is it still there?”
His head bobs slightly as he slides down the pillows until he’s prone. He’s paler than when I first arrived. I’ve failed him on every level.
“It’s time. Time for me to die, and time for you to go.”
I crash to my knees by the bed and grip his hand. “I’m so sorry. Please. Please forgive me.”
He nods and turns his head away.
“Thank you for trusting me. I will
not fail you again,” I whisper.
As I slip from his room, I take the long hallway to a stairwell hidden behind a large display of potted plants, and I ease down the back stairs to the lobby. My hair is still standing on end, and I wish I could keep a strand of lightning out, just in case.
In the lobby, a large group of guests mingles by the bar, and another couple is checking in. One gray-haired man is sitting in the far corner, playing chess alone. A watered-down tumbler sits at the small table by his elbow. A layer of melted ice sits above the amber alcohol.
After the couple leaves, I step up to the desk. I swear the chess player tracks my movements. I should have asked Tesla what the guy who hit him looked like.
“Yes?” The clerk is young. I turn up the flirt. “Hi there. Mr. Tesla sent me down for a document. I think it’s in the safe.”
He slides a notebook and pen across the tall counter. “Your name, his name, and room number, please.”
I smile and tilt my head like the coquettish girl I was a lifetime ago. “Of course.”
He leans forward. “And maybe on the second page, your phone number.”
I bat my eyelashes and try not to gag at what a jackass I am. Nikola lies upstairs dying, and I’m down here taking advantage of a boy who’s probably barely shaving. Nikola probably wouldn’t care how I get the paper, as long as I get it, but this feels wrong. With a flourish, I lift the top page and scribble my name and phone number—the real one since it hasn’t been invented yet—then slide the pad over.
He reddens around the collar and averts his gaze. After he stumbles away, I turn and catch the chess player staring at me. He meets my gaze then returns to his game. Lightning stings my fingertips and I drum a riff on the counter. Hurry.
The clerk returns with a small white envelope and slides it across the counter. Before he releases it, he manages to make eye contact and says, “I’ll call you.”
“I hope so,” I manage breathlessly.
