by Jen Greyson
“Your father stopped his normal routine of preparation. He decided that without some time off to recover from your brother’s death, his true essence of self—spirit, mind, soul—would never recover to the point he could arc again, and I agreed. It was why I consented to the break. I failed to realize he saw it as a permanent break. I foolishly calculated a few weeks would be enough.”
“To heal the pain of his son’s death?” I ask, not bothering to hide the bite of contempt. What a dick. Papi seems so hungry for answers about his father that he’s missing the subliminals rolling off this guy.
“People do it every day,” Ilif says. “They find a way to manage the pain and move on. They have to go to work, care for their families, go back to being a contributing member of society. Your father’s obligations were no different.”
I’ll give Ilif credit—he’s a worthy opponent for a verbal match with a world champ fighter.
Papi recovers but only enough to stagger to his corner and ice the cuts before the bell rings for round two.
“We’d been playing by the creek behind our house like a million other afternoons,” Papi says quietly. “The sky turned dark, but we were in the middle of a make-believe swordfight and ignored Mamá’s warning to come in. I backed Rafe into the middle of the river. We were laughing and splashing. Then Rafe slipped, and the water soaked him to his waist. I moved in for the kill, but he faked and nearly got me, so I fought harder. The water was churning, but we didn’t care. We’d played by that river our entire lives, so much it was like a member of the family. We’d seen it swollen to overflowing and back down to a trickle. This was just a harmless late-summer wash.
“Rafe fell again, and this time he went under the water. He’d done this before, hid underwater until he was behind me, so I circled to fend the sneak attack. The water was up to my waist, and I got pushed a few feet downriver. I kept circling, but Rafe didn’t surface. Then I panicked. I felt around for him with my arms, but the muddy water made it impossible to see anything beneath the water’s surface. The current carried me farther away, and I searched the bank for Rafe, but he hadn’t climbed out. I screamed his name until Papa hauled me from the deep water. We found his body a mile downstream.”
“Papi?” I keep my voice soft as I pull him from the memory with a touch on his arm. He’s trembling.
After a moment, he focuses and says, “No. No, a few weeks wouldn’t have been enough for my father.” He looks at Ilif. “He died a year later.”
“How?”
“Lightning.”
Ilif purses his mouth. “With his mind closed to arcs, he still could have called lightning to him and been susceptible to a direct strike. Without the ability to redirect the energy, he’d be killed. He knew that.”
“Maybe he didn’t care,” I say. My heart hurts.
“He was a shell by then,” Papi says. “He’d turned in on himself, and we barely saw him. I don’t think he ever forgave himself for not saving Rafe. For not being there.”
“Nor have I.” Ilif sits back down. “I hope someday you’ll know how hard I searched for you all these years. I’d nearly given up hope when you triggered the monitor.”
“Monitor? You’re monitoring us?” I knew this guy was a Grade A jaghole.
Ilif looks at the floor for a second, then meets my challenging stare. “I must.”
He shifts to Papi, sensing weaker prey. “I spent years writing the program to track you. It’s for your own safety.”
Papi might believe him, but I’m not buying any of Ilif’s bullshit lines. I want more info. “So we just chant and shoot off to wherever?”
“Not exactly.”
“How do we travel?” I ask. His one-liners and dismissals are torque to my internal throttle.
“Evy, let him answer,” Papi says, clearly on the wrong side of this interrogation.
“A genetic enhancement,” Ilif says. “While you’re learning, the amplification of a compound makes it easier to arc with minimum disorientation. The compound allows your body to assimilate the energy from the lightning and harness it as a mode of traveling.”
“Come again?”
Ilif’s mouth twists, and I wonder how long it’s been since he talked to anyone other than scientists. He starts again. “A simple trinket made of a certain compound—a material composed of two or more elements—aids you in channeling and directing lightning.”
I ponder a long-ago classroom and the wall-sized periodic table. “Oh, like zirconium or aluminum?”
He addresses Papi. “Yes, but also plant-based, like wood. The purpose of the meditative chant you read is to slow the natural chaos of your thoughts. Once you master that, you’ll likely no longer need the chant. You will require only a talisman, designed and crafted of your specific compound. In fact . . .” He pauses to study me. “You must already have it on you to have arced already. Quite extraordinary really, that you read the correct chant during a lightning storm.”
Papi and I exchange looks. I don’t remember telling him that.
“So, we can only travel during lightning storms?” I ask. “That seems incredibly inefficient. What if I’m busy with something else or inside or the lightning is on the other side of the valley?”
Ilif blinks a few times, and I fight the urge to bare my teeth. Get used to me, buddy, I’m not going anywhere.
“Yes, that would be challenging. Fortunately, you have additional resources to generate your own lightning once you’ve been assigned an arc.”
“Assigned?”
“Arcing is an incredible power. If used without rules or guidance, riders would hold incredible advantages, could create worlds, manipulate events . . .”
“Figure out lottery numbers, invent Harleys . . .” Wow, some serious possibilities.
“Precisely. Your gift is far too great to be wasted on material idiocy.”
“I’ve read it’s either impossible to change history or it’s a very bad idea,” Papi says, and I can tell he’s a few steps behind, still reeling from his memories of Rafe.
Ilif shifts in his chair. “It is both and neither. A future already exists based on decisions and alterations made to date. Any alterations you introduce would create a new future, so while an alteration may affect one future for the better, the same alteration may adversely affect another.”
“And the monitoring?”
“Evy,” Papi says.
“What? Like you don’t have the same questions?”
“Cool it. Give him a second.”
“Thank you,” Ilif says, adjusting the top button of his jacket. “As I said, the monitoring allows you to stay tethered to the alteration, and it gives me an exact time and location so I may assist as needed.”
I drop my head and study my chewed up nail bed. I wonder how ironclad this monitoring is.
After a moment, Ilif continues. “As our training proceeds, you both will choose a talisman to keep with you at all times.”
I look at Papi and raise an eyebrow in question. At his nod, I dig out my toy top and hold it toward Ilif. Papi scoops the coin from his shirt pocket.
“Like these?”
The air wheezes from Ilif, rendering him speechless for the first time since he showed himself. He expected something else when he got here. Though he says he’s been watching us, I feel like this isn’t the first time we’ve caught him off guard—like we’ve adapted too quickly to suit his needs.
He leans in and lifts a reverent hand to the top. “I thought these had gone missing.” He fingers the metal and studies me for a long moment. I force myself not to move a single hair. “Interesting.”
“What?”
He ignores my question and asks one of his own. “How many languages do you speak?”
“One.” I hold up my index finger, but then add another, making two. “Well, before today.”
Calculations twist and arrange themselves in his eyes as he assembles a puzzle. “Another genetic enhancement, but one I’ve not seen for three generations—a
nd never on a non-rider. They had the gift of autotranslation, and their receptors didn’t require any preexisting knowledge of the language. You can speak and hear fluently?”
Dismissing his BS line about my being a non-rider, I shrug. “I guess. It was only Spanish. I assumed it came easy because it’s my native tongue.”
He lifts a hand to his lips and strokes his thumb across the skin beneath his chin. “Do advise me if it works on writing as well.”
As if. When he starts advising me, I’ll return the favor. I wait for Papi to ask him more questions, but the mood has shifted since we showed him the talismans. Maybe Papi isn’t blindly following. We’re still a long way from answers, but we’ve already solved things Ilif wanted either to keep secret or to reveal himself. I’m sure he wanted to play the brilliant genius, exposing knowledge with a flourish.
Papi straightens. “Now what?”
“The chant,” Ilif says, ignoring his question. “Was it written somewhere?”
Papi rubs his thumb over his knuckles. “On some papers we found in a box of my father’s. It’s where we found the talismans.”
I keep myself from reacting. Did he purposely lie just now? Papi’s face betrays nothing.
“Are there books?”
“No.”
A blatant lie.
Ilif studies him, then glances at me. I stare back, betraying nothing.
“Well, no bother. I propose you read what you have, even if it’s minimal. We can meet again when you’re ready. I’ll answer any other questions then.”
Papi glances at me. I shrug. I’m not the one with the issues, but I answer to buy Papi some time to come to terms. “I can be ready tomorrow.”
Papi hasn’t looked away. Now more than ever I wish for that familiar readable face. Staring at this stranger, I can only guess at his thoughts.
“You can come back, but we’re not traveling again,” he says at last, still staring at me. A warning.
“I understand your reservations—”
“That wasn’t a maybe.” Papi shifts his stare to Ilif.
Wow, a little steel at last. Welcome back, Papi. I stifle a smile.
Ilif clears his throat. “Yes, well, I only meant—”
“I’ll listen, but that’s as far as I’m taking this adventure.”
Scorecard goes to the champion. I want to stand and cheer, even if it means I’m back where I started. At least Papi isn’t hanging on Ilif’s every word.
Ilif stands and tugs his jacket lapel straight. “Until tomorrow, then.”
Without so much as a flash, he vanishes.
Chapter 8
Turning from the vacant spot, Papi flexes then deflates as his adrenalin spike ebbs. For a flicker, he looks his sixty-plus years. Papi may have landed the final blow and won the match, but Ilif’s info-dump sucker punched him pretty good. I have the luxury of being a generation removed from the tragedies of Rafe and his own father. Papi rubs his eyes and slides his hands through his hair before linking them behind his neck. I can’t imagine losing him now, let alone when I was ten.
I push up from the couch. Exhaustion scatters my thoughts, and I glance at my watch then pause. That’s weird. It must have stopped a few hours ago and I didn’t notice. It feels like midnight, certainly much later than five. I check the clock above the kitchen door, and it matches mine.
“What’s wrong?” Papi asks.
“What time is it?”
He unlinks his fingers and checks his own watch for too long, then looks back at me. “How can it be five? You got here at six, we ate, then we . . . you . . . went to Spain.”
I shrug. “Guess we have another question for Ilif tomorrow.”
He huffs.
“Do you trust him?”
“I don’t think that’s the question. He is well versed on the subject, I suppose. But I don’t need to trust him.”
I leave it for now. Maybe tomorrow will pique some curiosity beyond what happened to his father. I only need a toehold.
He stares through me, then says, “You okay if I turn in?”
I hug him, holding tight a little longer than usual. “Good night, Papi.”
He kisses my cheek and wanders toward his bedroom, swaying and ricocheting off the wall like a pinball. He’s always so in control. Even with all of Ilif’s new info, the memory of Rafe’s death has drained him.
Paired with the move to America and his father’s death just a few years later . . . I suppose I should have asked him about it before now. But I didn’t know how. It wasn’t exactly dinner conversation. And I was always so busy with my own agenda.
I scrunch my nose and lips. Some things never change.
Sighing, I turn from the empty hallway. From here on out, I vow to pay better attention to what’s going on beyond my self-centered sphere. Or at least try . . . I’ll try.
I wander through the house, turn off the lights, and check door locks. There’s nothing to worry about here. My lightning has gone quiet anyway, and I wonder why Ilif didn’t mention it. I sure wasn’t going to be the one to bring it up. I thought about it when he talked about our additional resources, but I’m not willing to share everything. Not yet.
If ever.
I let Bimni in and absentmindedly give her a treat and a bedtime scratch before I close the kennel door.
Curling up on the sofa, I flip channels then turn the television off. In the kitchen, I peruse the fridge, but nothing looks good. Same for the pantry. I double-check the front door and wander to my room. Ike’s asleep, but I’m not ready for bed, even though my eyes are burning and sore. Besides, it’s only five o’clock.
I pluck my drumsticks from my sad box of stuff and twirl them while I pace. I wonder if the time reverses every time we arc.
One way to find out, I suppose.
I glance over my shoulder at Papi’s closed bedroom door. There’s no reason he needs to know. Especially if I come back before I left.
My fingers pick up speed, and the drumsticks spin faster.
What’s the worst that could happen? I mean, it’s not like I’m going to make any—what’d Ilif call them?—alterations. I’ll just do a bit of studying.
He told us to study.
My toes tease the threshold of Papi’s office, drumsticks swirling with enough velocity to lift the flyaway strands of my hair.
Paris, Rome, London, Chile. Posters, postcards, travel brochures, and random sticky notes cover every conceivable space of non-construction-oriented square footage. If Papi decides to do this, it will be out of some sense of family responsibility and his passion for traveling.
Even with my new commitment to paying attention, I only want to play. Sure, things got a little dicey last time, but it was nothing I couldn’t handle. So where do I want to go? I snap the drumsticks to a stop and lower them to Papi’s desk.
I trail my fingers across a map of Europe.
Papi loves these old things. This one is from right before Rome invaded Spain. I trace the Ebro River. I want to go back. But not the conquered version with all its Roman influence, like that last trip. I want to explore Spain like it was meant to be—the ancient Spain.
I probably should read the book first, but I’m a better learn-by-doing student.
The lightning wakes up in my belly, flickers travel outward, and two miniature bolts sizzle from the tip of my index finger on the map. I take my tin from the waistband of my sweats and set it next to Spain’s border. Blue-white bolts race across the lid.
I should’ve told Papi about my lightning before he went to bed. There won’t be a good time to add that to his growing pile of info. Pretty sure it will freak him out, but we can’t keep secrets about this stuff.
The tin vibrates, and I drum my fingers across the lid, playing out the fissures of lightning like sparkly yo-yos. I’d be a fool to rely on Ilif for info. The more I can gather on my own, the better.
First thing on the agenda is to figure out how time moves. Details like that are probably in the book, but what a lame
way to find answers. Who knows when Ilif and Papi will put the hammer down on traveling.
According to Ilif, going should be as easy as saying the chant. I wonder if I have to find a power plant every time I need to come home. That could get tricky.
I’ll figure it out. I jog back to the kitchen, dig out the book, and flip to the loose page.
I scan the words and say them quickly in my head.
Nothing happens.
I read them aloud.
Across the room, Bimni whimpers.
“Shhh.”
I stand and balance the heavy book. I’m missing something. I replay the first time, then set down the book and take a deep breath. I need to chill out for a second. My mind is vibrating. The chaos slips away and I remember the top. Forcing myself not to run, I slip back in the office, grab the top from inside the tin, and let my lightning out to play.
Darkness enfolds me in black wings.
Silence deafens me.
Lightning dangles from my hands, and I fight the urge to freak out. This time I focus on my breath, and I close my eyes to the blindness.
There’s an explosion of color and noise, and I stumble against a familiar stuccoed wall, drenched almost immediately in a fragrance of blooming flowers and seaside village humidity.
I made it.
Judging by the cool air and the long shadows leaning away from the buildings, it’s morning here. Dirt has replaced cobblestones, and buildings are missing, but the green hills still sport an array of colorful flowers, and the unmistakable tranquility hasn’t changed.
Crap. I didn’t change clothes.
Since I didn’t bother to think anything through, I’m pocketless again, so I jam my little toy top in the side of my bra and take a look around. Same villa, same flowery balcony, different time. The building doesn’t show any age like last time. In fact, it looks brand new. I can hear the clucking of old women in the courtyard. Clearly some things never change.