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

by Jen Greyson

  He returns a hesitant one. “May I help you?”

  “I’ve need to exchange my father’s gold for a room. And procure one with a safe for all my personal effects.” My voice has taken on a British accent. I didn’t realize dialects fell into my language abilities.

  His movements falter for only a hint of a moment, and then he pushes papers aside and checks me in. “Yes, miss. I cannot exchange the gold for you here, but I’ll have a banker come see you. For now, your signature will stand.”

  I sign a slip of paper and he hands me a key. I scoop my bag of gold. Apparently, language is as fluid as my lightning. I’d like to test it beyond Spanish and the Queen’s English.

  The elevator is as stunning as the lobby, decked out in mirrors, wood, and marble. My room is on the tenth floor. I’ll have to figure out clothes, but I’m guessing the concierge is my new best friend. Which means he’s about to get used and abused.

  The elevator arrives and I’m plunged, once again, into a stunning display of mirrors and crystal. I make my way to my room, and as the door opens on my suite, I pause on the threshold, slack-jawed. Super clear why everyone did a double-take at my tee, leather, and boots. I belong here about as much as a bedbug.

  Not the first time I don’t fit in.

  I cross the cream Berber carpet, leaving footprints smushed into the pristine loops. The room is huge, and halfway I shrug out of my leather jacket and drape it over one of four couches arranged around the suite’s fireplace.

  They may not think I belong here right now, looking like this, but by tonight I’ll fit in like every other hoity-toity.

  Wall sconces bathe the room in a subtle golden glow. I trail my fingers over the brocade arm of a nearby chair and make my way to the windows. I can’t resist fingering the light-blue satin drapes before I push them aside. No longer trapped behind the insulating fabric, a rush of air rolls down the massive window and over me.

  From here, the street below is ornamental and quiet. I can’t imagine New York has ever been a docile place. Even in the very beginning. I checked it out once in high school, and all I remember is the organized chaos. Even now, nearly a century earlier, masses of disparate people fill the streets below and the high-rises across the way in a well-rehearsed ballet of disorder.

  The clouds part and the sun makes her appearance, drenching me in reflections from a thousand crystals on the chandelier. I push the drapes all the way open and turn back to the room. A small, ornate clock across the room beside the bed chimes the hour. I have three to get ready for dinner.

  And nothing to wear.

  Literally.

  A queer vintage phone on the intricate desk at the foot of the bed calls straight down to my buddy, the concierge. He doesn’t let me down.

  The dresses arrive within minutes. Along with three people to help. I’m pretty sure this is how it works when you’re a famous actress getting ready for the Oscars. A glance at the label reminds me I have no idea who the designers of the day are, but by the gasps coming from my helpers, I’m pretty sure the one I’m slipping on right now is akin to a Valentino if he were alive yet, and the other three draped over the couches are way too rich for the local Nordstrom’s.

  While I’ve been known to blow my fair share of paychecks on shopping sprees, I try to be reasonable. I rarely wear this year’s labels, and most of the time I don’t even splurge on last year’s. Today is a treat. Granted, it’s with dresses instead of cashmere sweaters and leather, but I’m okay with the spoiling.

  We settle on a gray Doucet with delicate straps, an empire waist, and a black, beaded overlay. I sparkle like a full chromed out bike. They spin me in the mirror and I gasp, then step closer to the stranger’s reflection. All the training with Constantine has tightened my muscles, and while I don’t love the feel of them, I can’t ignore the impact. Sweet curves and cuts define my arms beneath the short cape that attaches to the straps. I twist and check out the plunging back. Apparently, warrior stuff uses those muscles, too.

  It’s no handmade armor, but I may have to rethink my boycott on dresses. I look pretty amazing and feel oddly confident in this getup. Matching jewelry completes the look, and they unbraid my hair and hold it up on the side to give me a guess of how they’ll finish me off… as if I care.

  “We’ll be back in an hour,” the blonde says, helping me out of the dress. She lays the outfit on the bed, along with the jewelry and shoes. I pull my lame clothes back on and covet the mattress for a second.

  I need to shake both my exhaustion and the last bout of girliness.

  Pulling the booklet from my jacket, I slip it into my back pocket and flare a ball of lightning.

  There’s one thing on the face of this planet that will work.

  CHAPTER 10

  CONSTANTINE BEATS ME to our training ground, and he’s pacing off the perimeter, chucking debris aside for sound footing. Rounded muscles effortlessly fling scraps out of his way, and his strong legs move confidently around the space—he’s at home anywhere. Always the attentive warrior. Inhaling, I force myself to be present. It’s not hard to forget anything exists beyond Constantine. But that was then.

  Now he’s free of our entanglement, free of the sexual hold he thought I had over him.

  Wish I could say the same.

  “Good. We may begin.” He crosses the wide expanse of clay and stops a few feet to my left.

  I hold the booklet out to him. “I brought this.”

  “I don’t need books.” He scowls and waves me closer. “Only action. Come.”

  “Yeah, but—whatthefuck!” I spin away and barely miss the downward slice of his sword. I stumble but keep moving. The slick clay grips him more than it does me, and I get another few feet away. White lightning erupts from my palm and I fling it over my shoulder. He keeps coming. I flare another bolt, but this time I concentrate on the yellow color. Neon light engulfs my hand and I flick my wrist, trying to get it into a useable shape. He’s three feet away.

  The tendrils flow down my arm like molten steel, so I wait for his thrust. He resorts to his favorite move, a long and slicing backhanded arc. When he pulls his arm across his body to start the strike, I lunge.

  And slam his chest with a glob of energy.

  He disappears and I fall into the void of air then his yell of surprise spins me around.

  Now he’s five feet away by what’s left of the bridge.

  “What was that?” I yell.

  “My journal said that’s how I train you.” He shrugs and flicks a chunk of mud off his calf.

  “Fuck. No, dammit.”

  Recovered from the short hop, he lunges and I hit him again with a bigger yellow wave, relocating him another twenty feet downstream. Bigger glob equals further distance… okay. I narrow my eyes and wait for him to attack. With a barely perceptible pause as he takes in what I did, he works with the momentum and takes a large step into the water, never off-balance, never fighting the momentum.

  A tidbit I need to learn.

  He walks toward me, sword raised.

  I hold up my hand, and bright-yellow electric waves ripple and drip down my arm. “Stop.”

  He does.

  This yellow lightning behaves very differently. Not crackling and snapping like my white, or even the blue, but more of a pulsing, flowing energy. I lower my hand and it spills over itself in a downward undulation, seeming to obey the laws of gravity. Constantine reacts instantly, stepping toward me.

  “I’m serious.” I point at his chest.

  “I’m training you.” He says it in a huff, as if I wasn’t aware of the obvious.

  “We are not having this argument again. Forget your journal for a minute. We do not train best this way. I already know how to use my lightning as a weapon, dammit. I need to know what the colors do.”

  “Now you know yellow.” He manages to sound smug. Like he’s the reason.

  I sigh. “Do not attack me. Okay?”

  He lowers his sword. “Then how will I—”

&nb
sp; I raise my hand again, palm outward and still filled with a pulsing, molten fire.

  He snaps his mouth closed, sheathes his sword, and crosses his arms. “Did all our trainings proceed this way?”

  I smile in spite of myself. “Yes. Most of the time.”

  “Then what happened?”

  “You let me do it my way.”

  He snorts.

  “This is what I know.” I search for the booklet and find it a few feet away in a tuft of dryish grass. I wipe my hands on my thighs and pick it up then flip to a page I’ve earmarked. “Yellow moves things.”

  “Obviously.”

  “Purple might kill someone.” I pause and wait for a response. When he doesn’t answer, I continue. “Green, I’m not sure about, and red is worse than purple.”

  “Says who?”

  I wiggle the book. “My ancestors.”

  “More sorceresses?”

  “Sorcerers. I’m the first girl.”

  “Then how do you know it is the same for you?”

  I jerk. As always, he’s three steps ahead. Asking all the questions that don’t even occur to me.

  “Exactly,” he says.

  I sigh and tuck the booklet in my pocket.

  “Why do you need to learn these new colors? Apparently we finished our mission when you are here in my future.”

  “I get a new mission every time.”

  “And this one is more dangerous than ours?” Incredulity layers his question.

  I cross my arms. “Not dangerous like people die here, but I’m worried that this time I have more enemies.”

  “Then you want them for protection. A sword would be easier.”

  I shake my head. “We tried that, too. Not my style.”

  “Neither was I.”

  I cough. What didn’t he put in that journal? Good shit. I rub a spot of dirt on my knee so I don’t have to look at him. For him, that’s major flirting. “That was different.”

  “Was it?” His silky words glide across my skin.

  I ignore it. Whatever he’s playing at won’t end well. Even if I did think he was being serious. My guts twist and I ignore what I know about the “old” him—he was always serious… didn’t say things he didn’t mean. Ever.

  That’s not this guy.

  Remember that, Evy.

  He’s close enough I could touch him right now, could pull him to me and show him just how much he is my style. I bite my lip and will my heart to stop hammering.

  He searches my face and we stare at each other for a long moment. I want to say something, but words are lies. There’s nothing I can give him. He sees it in my face and the muscle in his jaw ticks. The lie turns to sugar on my tongue and I so desperately want to let it spill forth.

  His eyelashes flutter and he pulls his right shoulder back like it’s hurting him. He clears his throat and we’re back on solid, safe ground. “I’ve taught Aurelia how to handle a short sword, as well as my sister.”

  “Anna?”

  His eyes widen. “You know her?”

  “We met. I like her.”

  “As do I. Now about the sword. For every weapon of yours we learn, you learn one of mine.”

  “Ugh. Fine.”

  “You already learned yellow.” He bends and takes a dagger from a sheath laced to his calf.

  “Not fair.”

  He shrugs.

  We spend the next hour trying to slice and dice each other.

  I only win once.

  CHAPTER 11

  NIKOLA DOESN’T COME for me, but the messenger he sent to escort me to the evening is sweet, and embarrassed. I guess he thinks I look amazing, too. The hairdresser curled my hair in big bouncing waves and slicked one side back with a heavy, silver butterfly comb. A soft wave of hair falls across my forehead and right eye, making my fingers itch to push it out of the way, but she said it made me look “mysterious.”

  My black shoes flash in the soft hallway light as they peek from beneath the hem. Boots, actually, after managing to wrangle a pair off the hairdresser. Didn’t take a lot of convincing after they watched me walk around in the heels. Still a far cry from mine. These have a narrow toe, fat heel, and delicate gold buttons up the side. They make me almost as tall as this boy, and even though I miss my normal boots, the view from up here is nice.

  While we wait for the elevator, he inspects me. And I do mean inspect, as if he’s looking for something amiss.

  “Take your earrings off,” he says.

  “What?”

  “Nikola holds a special hostility for them. If you mean to impress him tonight, I’d remove them.”

  I didn’t like them anyway. I stow them in my matching clutch. Next, he hands me a leaflet and guest list in a scrolling cursive. “Everyone attending tonight paid four hundred dollars a plate. These are the guests Nikola expects.”

  I don’t recognize any of the names, but there are about fifty. Not sure how much that would be in my time, but probably ten times that. A quarter of a mil… not a bad night’s work. “What’s he raising funds for?”

  “This and that.”

  The elevator arrives as I’m about to retort, but he lifts a finger to his lips and extends his hand in one smooth motion. I purse my lips and step in behind the conductor. He taps the corner of the leaflet. “This will give you an idea of what tonight’s about. Nikola is staying in this hotel, as well. We did an event last month for a larger group.”

  I glance up and he inclines his head toward the conductor. Clearly there are lots of ears in the hotel. Not sure why that would matter since they’d all know why he’s throwing the bash anyway. But whatever.

  He escorts me through the lobby and down a short hall to a ballroom. Only a few guests have arrived, and the huge room is busting with food, glasses, and crystal.

  He settles me in my seat and pauses with a last appreciative glance. “Nikola has asked that you wait here. He’ll be with you before dinner starts.”

  “Where is he?”

  He points to the far side where Nikola stands greeting all his guests to ensure everyone sees him and tonight’s propaganda.

  “Thanks.” He leaves and I’m grateful for the time to plan.

  In the middle of each table, a small glass ball sits atop a smaller version of the metal scaffolding he was working on yesterday in the lab. There are no wires, and the entire contraption looks like a mini Eiffel Tower, about three feet tall with a lightbulb stuck in the top. A big lightbulb. Like the size of my head big. The entire structure stands so tall I can’t carry on a conversation with the guests on the other side of the table. Even if there were any.

  I fold my guest list and leaflet and tuck them in my clutch then check Nikola’s progress. Another couple is at the doorway with him, making a total of twelve so far.

  Twelve Richie-Riches. Most of them probably geniuses if he’s selected them.

  I sigh and set my clutch on the table next to my plate. I’m not exactly sure what Nikola expects of me tonight. Everyone knows I make a shitty date—even a fake one. I suppose if I could keep my mouth shut and do what I’m told, they’d go better. Guys aren’t keen on chicks who talk back. Except Constantine. He seems to enjoy it. Explaining tonight might have been interesting. He’s not the kind of guy who’d ever go for pomp and ridiculous. Picturing him in a tux makes me smile and I relax. All I have to do is make it through tonight, pretend to be arm candy, and make Nikola like me.

  Surely even I can’t eff that up.

  In the corner of the room, a string quartet plays softly. Mami would be proud. She’s always trying to jam culture in our veins. Too bad mine are filled with gasoline.

  The music matches my outfit, and I finger the beading on my lap while the notes swirl around me. On the second rotation, a delicate string of lightning trails my motion, pulsing softly with the music. As the first song segues into the next, the tight band of tension around my chest loosens and my shoulders relax. I swirl my thumbs over the beads on my clutch, quieting my lightning.


  A couple arrives at my table, and as the short man and his shorter wife ponder the centerpiece, I study it again. The metal scaffolding is intricately precise—balanced and strong like my bike frames. I’m assuming the ball is regular glass.

  Before I have a chance to chat up Short and Shorter, the remainder of our table arrives. Two more couples, and a seat for Nikola.

  I lead with Sorority 101, smiling and letting everyone else do the talking. “How are you? Who are you? What do you do?”

  “Senator.”

  “Oil tycoon, in town for meetings.”

  “Actress.”

  It’s an adventurous mix, and not one scientist among them. I breathe a sigh of relief. This I can handle.

  Nikola arrives without introduction or comment. As he slides into his spot next to me, I turn and smile. He tries on a smile, but it’s an awkward one, so he gives up halfway through. The oil tycoon blurts out a question about the centerpiece. Before Nikola turns to address him, he whispers, “Don’t think I’ve forgot about your stunt.”

  I drop my head and pretend to examine my silverware. From his tone, I can’t tell if he’s mad or wants to know more. It seemed like a good idea at the time, but now I’m not so sure.

  Nikola gently rebuffs the oil tycoon, promising answers soon. I shake off my insecurities and ask the actress about her next work.

  Plates arrive for the ladies, and Nikola loses himself to the contents of his own meal, as if measuring them. I carry the conversation further with our guests as the men receive their plates, and I wonder at this one beside me. Whether genius or madman, he’s certainly no social butterfly.

  As we finish our dinner, Nikola excuses himself and coffee arrives to cover his awkward departure. With each step toward the podium he stands a little taller and strides a little more purposefully, as if the walk infuses him with confidence. As he reaches for the microphone, he’s a completely different individual. A showman grabs the mike and leans forward to address the room.

  “At the center of your table sits my newest invention, a wireless conductor able to power cities.” As he speaks, waiters come around and flip a switch at the base of each of the towers. A small vibration rumbles through the table. The actress twitters in her seat and the oilman warily scoots his chair back.