Lightning Rider

by Jen Greyson

  I step away, pluck a tall strand of grass, and feather the head against my lips, wondering if that’s true anymore. High above, a hawk circles then dips low until her wingtips almost touch the treetops. Maybe my stupid stunts are all because of what I am. I drop the blade of grass and stare at my hands. Maybe I’m such a risk-taker because I’m not normal. I’m not meant to have normal reactions to things, and to the rest of the world it looks like I’m foolish. I close my eyes and fill my lungs with the forest’s perfume. The hawk’s cry is the light brush of fingernails at the nape of my neck.

  I exhale and open my eyes. Constantine is watching, waiting. Seems like he’s always waiting on me to figure things out. Things that, to him, seem so simple.

  I don’t take risks because I’m afraid to face who I really am. I do it because of who I am. I love the way it makes me feel, in control of the immense power beneath me with the wind whipping me, trying to catch me, trying to stop me.

  Constantine bends and picks a short sword from the grass. He belts on three more while I stand there waffling. I’m pretty sure he’s about to attack me.

  I touch that place again. The place I go when I’m on a bike, moving fast. No helmet, no safety net. Emotion wells in my chest when I think of the freedom, the courage.

  His attack comes swift, but I sidestep him and swing a lightning strand low so it wraps around his ankles. He tucks into a roll and spins around. I keep my feet rooted, fearful any big movements might pop this emotional bubble I’ve crafted.

  I dig deep and let my best ride play in a video behind the current action until it infuses me, filling me like a ray of sun chasing away a shadow.

  He charges me again.

  I wrap coils around me, twisting them higher until they’re a beehive of light as tall as I am. Cool energy vibrates outward in waves. This lightning isn’t blinding like when I travel. It’s silver and looks like a giant glowing bullwhip.

  He stalks me, sword raised, exacting calculation on his face.

  A spike of fear swells in my belly, but I feel fear on the bike, too. It’s just one of the colors of the power rainbow. I draw the fear inward and add it to the adrenalin.

  The tower of lightning flares.

  He pokes his sword through a space in the coils. Sparks snap out to dance with the metal, and he snarls before he pulls back his arm and yells, “Archers, ready!”

  Oh, fuck. I look over his shoulder at the corner of the house where a group of men have gathered to watch us. Several wear quivers at their hips, bows at their sides.

  “How many can you fight, Rider?”

  The fear swells.

  I embrace it. It’s nothing more than doing a hundred on the Interstate when a semi swerves into my lane. Adapt. React.

  I move away from Constantine and in line with the archers. As I raise my hand over my head, the spirals tighten to form a protective shield. The lightning is bright but still not blinding.

  Constantine gives another command, but I don’t understand it. One archer steps away from the group and notches an arrow. I track his movements and grip the shield, closing the palm of my other hand until a new bolt sizzles cold against my skin. The archer lifts his bow, aims a high curving shot, and pulls back.

  He lets loose at the same time Constantine charges me.

  I swing my hand in a tight circle, and the tail of my coils snaps outward, sending him backward a few feet.

  With a flick of my wrist, I send a bolt of lightning from my palm to meet the arrow, and it disintegrates in a flaming burst.

  I’m so shocked, I drop the coil tower. It sputters and vanishes.

  The men advance.

  Constantine steps forward to greet them.

  “I told you to stop using your mind.” He sheaths his weapon, and the men stop in a semicircle a few feet away.

  I replay how I controlled the lightning this time. He prepared me for it. “I doubt we’ll have time for a quick yoga class before a real fight.”

  He chuckles. “You did as I told you and you succeeded.”

  I glance at the men and stare at the archer who fired on me. He tips his chin, not in apology but in recognition of my ability to stay alive. These men do not apologize for attacking. They almost glow in their ability to make me a better fighter, glad to have helped another warrior in need.

  A young one in the middle can’t help himself. “That was something amazing.” He steps forward and makes a grab for my hands, but I pull them away. “How do you do that?”

  The archer yanks him back in line.

  “We all have our gifts,” Constantine says.

  “Is she a goddess?” the young man asks.

  I choke.

  Constantine’s gaze wanders over me, pausing at my hands and my heart. When it reaches my eyes, his entire demeanor swells, and I can see the pride when he replies, “Yes.”

  I cannot tear my attention away even though I should recognize their help and thank them. While I’m staring at Constantine, I hear the men mumble their approval before wandering away, their question asked and answered.

  What do I say to that? I’ve been called a lot of nice things in my life—sexy, badass, artistic, wild, and several Spanish idioms eluding me at the moment. But never has anyone called me a goddess.

  He doesn’t placate me with praise, but it’s in his face. I impress him.

  “Well done,” he says as he steps closer.

  For him, that’s a marching band, parade, and fireworks all wrapped together.

  I smile. “You were right.”

  “Maybe.”

  A thousand other things go unsaid, and I’m okay with being treated like one of the guys. I’m not even sure I could handle any more Constantine praise.

  “Did you lose any memories?”

  “We didn’t go anywhere. But come, teach me how to travel so I can learn how to guard my mind from you.”

  He turns and mumbles something that sounds like, “And my loins.”

  I follow him back to the house, replaying the whole thing. I can’t fight the grin, and I glance over my shoulder at the field again, spotting Penya at the far edge. She lifts her hands and claps, then retreats. I hope she isn’t mistaking my skill on the field for the ability to teach Constantine.

  When we reach the door, Anna races up, breathless. “You look so pretty. I knew the armor would fit you perfectly, but Constantine didn’t tell me what kind of weapon you were using. It made you glow! And then when that archer shot the arrow at you, I thought he was going to kill you, but you zipped that fire at him and I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. Could you teach me?”

  Wide-eyed and expectant, she quivers with anticipation.

  Constantine turns to face her. “No. Go tend to your sewing.”

  She looks between us, her buzz not doused even a fraction. “I’d love it if you could teach me sometime when he’s not around. Just let me know. I’ll be waiting,” she whispers before bouncing away.

  I blink a few times and look at Constantine.

  “She’s been that way since birth. Our mother did nothing to teach her restraint.” He pushes through the door to the house.

  “She’s your—” I point at Anna’s retreating form. “She’s your sister?”

  “Yes. Where will you teach me?”

  “Why is she here?” Who brings their sister to a military camp?

  “I can protect her here. She’ll never marry, and she’s good with fabric. We are hard on clothes.” Discussion closed as far as he’s concerned, he stacks maps and turns his bench to face the empty fireplace. “Here?”

  I wave him away and struggle to put that puzzle piece somewhere. He’s brought his sister with him to a training compound full of soldiers so he can protect her. He brought Penya here to protect her, too.

  I’m never going to figure him out.

  He flops on the big bench and waits.

  Chapter 19

  “Who are you?” I whisper.

  Constantine sits up straight, panicked. “Did you los
e your memory?”

  I finger my braid. The moment I think I know him, he shows me a completely new side.

  He leans back and kicks his ankles out. Thick, red welts snake around his legs. I step close and squat to examine them. “Did I do that?” My fingers reach forward to touch the raw skin. The hair is singed off, the skin abraded like a rug burn. I touch the smooth skin below the wound. It’s warm and solid.

  He stretches forward and traces the bruise on my thigh. “Did I do this?”

  I nod.

  “Eye for an eye, then.”

  I’m not okay with that. I run the pads of my fingers lightly over the sore. “Did it hurt?”

  He grunts. “Not then.”

  I rock back on my heels, my fingers resting on his leg. “I’m never going to be able to use it as a weapon. Not truly. This was just from defending myself, and it’s killing me inside.”

  “Because you don’t want to use it as a weapon, to attack, to kill. Your morality keeps you from it. If it was a matter of your life or his, you’d be able to do it. Today you stopped thinking and reacted, saving your life and, in a true scenario, your men’s lives.”

  “We were practicing.”

  “Were we?”

  “You want me to kill you next time?”

  He chuckles. “I’d like you to try.”

  I stand, and his fingers fall away from my thigh. He’s so at ease with all of this—the injuries, the near-death experience, the wide swing of emotions. Is it because he’s a guy and I just don’t get this war thing? I never quite understood Papi’s boxing either, how he would willfully go into a ring so someone could try to smash his brains out through his ear. Yet here Constantine and his men step onto a battlefield—whether by order or desire—knowing every man they face would like to see their blood on the end of his sword.

  And I’m willingly following him, toting a weapon I can barely handle and a pocketful of lightning as an escape.

  I turn to Constantine. “Would you ever use it to escape? If you knew you were going to die, would you leave the fight?”

  “No.”

  “Why? If you knew it would save your life?”

  “If I go into battle fearing death, I am a detriment to my men. I must go willing to give everything. Even my life.”

  We are so damn different. I’m pretty sure I would flee.

  “Why do you stall?” he asks.

  “Just wondering about you.”

  “I’m a soldier, that’s all you need to know. It’s all that matters.”

  And a father and a brother and my protector, almost my lover . . . maybe my safeguard.

  I shrug the thoughts away as I grab the notebook from beside the cool fireplace. He’s right. We don’t have time to daydream.

  My mind a swirling mess of thoughts, I wade my way through them, trying to find a quiet space for this lesson to come from. Penya said I would know how to teach him, but I’m doubtful. I send the doubt away, too. I have no room for it here.

  I close my eyes and let the words flow unjudged. “Time travel is like your swordplay. It comes from within, it’s instinctual. Everyone has the components, but not many can put them together to travel.”

  “How do I know when I’ve found them?”

  “It starts inside your circle of courage. It’s the sliver of hope that rises up on the other side of fear, that carries you when you’ve exceeded the physical limits of your body, that gives you the final tic of courage when your own well is depleted. It stays hidden there for most.” I take a deep breath as a revelation takes over, coming from a place I don’t recognize. Someone smarter inhabits my body, someone ancient and experienced. I retreat and let that girl—that woman—take over. The notebook slips from my fingers . . . because she already knows what’s in it.

  My words are hers. “It’s like a coiled snake, waiting.”

  “Yes,” he says, like he found it.

  “Wake it. Command it.”

  A wave of energy undulates through the room, like his thoughts just became visible. It bounces against the far wall then reverberates back.

  “Slowly,” I say.

  “How do I travel?”

  “Keep your mind uncluttered. Focus solely on your energy. Build the intended location from the energy.”

  “Like a map?”

  “Precisely. But a map you could stand on, move around in, interact with. Find your exact spot on the map. Stir that energy while you hold yourself there.”

  I force my lightning back. Settle it.

  “Is your map clear?”

  “Mmm.”

  “Repeat after me.” My head falls back, and a tumble of words erupt. We say them together, as if my tongue is his.

  White light fills the room.

  I gasp for a breath in the empty room, trembling like I just avoided a fatal collision.

  “Constantine?” I step closer to his bench. Hovering above the seat, a volleyball-sized sphere of air shimmers like a heat wave on a long stretch of road.

  Cocking my head, I reach toward it. His residue?

  I poke it and am yanked from the room.

  The roar of rushing water bombards me before the river comes into focus. Tall reeds tap against my thighs, and Constantine steps to the bank.

  I’m not sure where we are, but it doesn’t look anything like the Spain I’ve seen so far.

  Constantine fills his hands with the tall rushes to steady himself, watching the water race by, lost in some memory.

  I step behind him. He seems completely at ease with what just happened. Figures he would be able to instantly adapt.

  I ask anyway. “Are you okay?”

  He doesn’t turn away from the water. “We should return.”

  I want to ask him where we are, but instead I keep my mouth shut and follow him out.

  We return to his room, but night has fallen. I’m not sure how many nights.

  He paces, bugged by something. I wait.

  “That’s not the location I intended.”

  “I think that happens the first couple—”

  “Not to me. I cannot have such errors.”

  “Don’t you think that’s a little—”

  “No errors.” He spins around and his shoulders tremble.

  I fight the panic rising in my chest. He can’t fall apart. He’s the only constant in this whole thing. I use his own tactic against him. “Go again.”

  He lifts his head. “What?”

  “No time for thinking. Go again.”

  The words are barely past my lips before he’s gone.

  He’s contained his lightning better this time, and there is only one small strand of residue. Next time he needs to leave more for me to find.

  I find him waiting in a dark forest. He puts a single finger to his lips and points to a small hill. We’re outside Viriato’s camp. Neither of us is armed, and we’re clothed in only our tunics. He takes my hand, and we creep to the top of the hill.

  Dawn spills over the horizon, and the camp is silent. Have we found the sweet spot? Constantine points out two men patrolling the perimeter of the camp. Bodies are scattered throughout in various poses of sleep. Most lay on the hard ground, weapons beside them or in their hands.

  If Constantine were fast, he could sneak in, kill Viriato, and sneak out. I’m almost giddy with the solution.

  He turns my head and dread sweeps over me. Viriato stands at the edge of the camp, bathed in one of the few shadows.

  Watching us.

  He and Constantine have a silent conversation, their bodies stiff and postured like two rutting bulls. I don’t want to know what promises they’re making to each other.

  “We must leave together,” Constantine says in a low voice, his lips barely moving while he faces off with this long-time enemy.

  Viriato makes two sharp hand movements and becomes the shadow.

  “Now!” Constantine pulls me tightly against him, wraps his arms around me, and hisses in my ear, “To the house.”

  Lightning
erupts, plunging us into darkness.

  Emptiness greets me when I arrive. There’s no trace of Constantine, and after a few seconds, fear slithers up my spine. I replay the trip. We left together, and I didn’t mean for my lightning to erupt before his energy, corrupting his attempt back here.

  I pace the short room, checking his empty bench every few seconds. I knew I couldn’t teach him. And now I’ve gone and lost him.

  I can’t wait any longer.

  I race to my pile of armor and jam it on. Anna made it work beautifully, and I’m battle-ready in under five minutes. I grab two swords. One for Constantine, and one for . . . me.

  My lightning flashes, and I’m back to the moment we left, surrounded by trees and the earthy scent of moss and decomposing leaves. The small clearing is empty, and I hold my breath, listening for anything that might give me a clue to where Constantine went.

  Shadows meld and shift to my left. Twigs snap. Above me, a hawk shrieks.

  I spin, weapons raised.

  A doe lifts her head and watches me with bored eyes. Her ears flick, and she bounds away. The forest calms again, and I strain for any indication of Constantine.

  I search the air for his residue. I want to drop the swords, but I’m afraid. And severely creeped out. I don’t know why I grabbed one for me. I’d be better off relying on my lightning, but I can’t talk myself into parting with a single weapon. My biceps and shoulders burn. I don’t know what to do.

  I bite my lip. The pain makes me focus.

  A shiver of energy caresses my cheek. I lean into it and am yanked away again.

  It takes me a moment to place the house. It’s the one I arced us to the last time we escaped Viriato and the attack. I search for Constantine amid the Mediterranean interior. Pale blue walls serve as a backdrop for the sparse furniture. I slip through the empty living room to the kitchen at the back of the house. My ears strain for his noises.

  If his residual energy is here, it’s barely a trace.

  Around the corner of the wide archway, the hallway spills onto the back veranda.