Lightning Rider (Lightning Rider Alterations)

by Jen Greyson

  Is this a joke? Another cruel way to punish me? I imagine him bent over this book, pouring out thoughts, dreams, plans . . . if this were written after Aurelia died, he might have purged anguish too dark to share, yet too deadly to keep inside.

  The words shift from Latin to English. They blur again, and I wipe my eyes then spread the tears on my bare thigh in a long, wet streak.

  When I begin again, the rich timbre of Constantine’s voice carries the words to my heart.

  Aurelia mortuus est hodie.

  Aurelia died today. She died in the worst way imaginable—without me there to save her. She died alone while I busied away the day on insignificant trifles of war. It was a mystery flood that carried her away from me forever. I wonder now how I will go on living, for I do not know how I will survive such pain. I am without breath. Without sunlight to guide my path.

  My grief is without boundary. It threatens to consume me. To kill me. Oh, I wish it could. I would die in a flame of grief if it could take away this pain.

  Her death renews my grief for my parents, a grief I thought unbearable but that has no size compared to what I feel at the loss of my precious. My sweet Aurelia is gone. Gone, not to a husband I could choose, but to a lover who stole her from me without warning or apology.

  Another entry, months later . . .

  I relive the morning of her journey again and again. Would that I could change it. Take back her leaving, make her stay. She wouldn’t have listened, but my grief would be an increment smaller had I tried to keep her home. I search my memory for some indicator of the freak storm and flash flood. Did someone tell me the weather was turning for the worse to the north before her chariot was readied?

  No. That point pierces me the deepest. No one could have prevented this horrid murder.

  I remember her face that morning, her jubilation to visit her friends, to bestow upon them her approval. Her constant smile, warm like the sun on my face. It is her laughter I miss the most.

  I hear it, chasing me through the halls. She calls to me from the grave, beckons me to come and play. This life needs me for something, though I know not what. I can feel it like an abrasion under my finger, for it is the only other feeling I have beyond my pain and sorrow. I tire of this grief. Would that it were an enemy I could take my sword to. Banish it from my life. Lessen its grip on my heart.

  I miss her. I miss her so.

  My hands drop from the journal, and the pages fan themselves into a rainbow of sorrow. He’d brushed the edge of this with me on only a few occasions. I’m not sure he’d have bared it all, even if we’d had the time.

  And now Penya wants me to find Aurelia and save her before he has to go through this. Eradicate all this sorrow and pain from his life. But how much does that change the man I know . . . the man I loved?

  With a sigh, my head drops back against the couch, and I close my eyes as my fingers drift to the pages, feeling my way across the indentation of his words.

  Who is Aurelia meant to be? Ancestor to a famous scientist, but who will she be? A mother, a wife . . . a daughter. My thoughts drift, bouncing and floating from one to another.

  Drowsy from the emotional beating, it takes me a minute to realize the bright column of light shining in the middle of the room isn’t coming from a window. Silvery and perfectly round, it slowly rotates counterclockwise.

  “Penya!” I leap off the couch and dive toward the light.

  Morphing and shifting until I can make her out perfectly, she looks down at me then glances at the journal on the couch. “Good, good.” Her voice sounds far away, like she’s standing at the end of a tunnel. “I wasn’t certain the journal would travel without me.”

  “You left it?”

  “Who else? Ilif certainly won’t be helping you on this one. He’s almost figured out Aurelia’s connection. You must complete the alteration now.”

  “It’s Christmas. I have dinner in four hours.”

  “You’ll be back in time.”

  “You don’t know that. Last time cost me six months.”

  “You must risk it. If Ilif gets to her first . . .” She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. “You must go now.”

  I grind my teeth. “Fine.”

  “Good-bye.”

  “Wait!” I press forward on my knees. “Where are you? How do I get to you?”

  “I still do not know where or when I am. But I am fine. Ilif is counting on stopping many of your alterations, but I don’t yet know why. He leaves for days at a time—”

  Her head jerks to the right, like she’s watching something I can’t see. “Save Aurelia. Now.” There’s a dangerous undertone in her whisper.

  Her image flickers once, then vanishes.

  “Penya!” My hand grasps air, fisted where her waist was just seconds earlier. Dammit. I hadn’t planned to go so soon.

  The soles of my feet stick to the wood floor as I wander back to the bathroom and restart the shower. After dropping my panties, I step under the stinging spray, unbraid my hair, and think about what’s coming. This time will be different. This time I’m knowingly walking into the situation and knowingly trying to alter history to save Constantine’s daughter.

  I wonder where I’ll meet her and if he’ll be there. Shampoo slides in soapy tracks down my face, and I turn into the hot spray.

  I’m not ready to deal with Ilif yet, balanced as he is between Bad Guy and someone I need to work with. No chance he’s lightened up on his feelings about females, and as long as I’m still wearing a set of boobs, we’re at an impasse. I certainly don’t trust his recent crazy-train flip-flop, especially since it was obvious he just wanted to use me for his own benefit.

  I towel off and snag the chocolate leather pants off the pile before stopping to think about where I’m headed.

  I need to find Aurelia while she’s still alive, which means before 149 BC, and I know she died in Rome. I toss my pants back on the pile and scout the closet for something a little less barbaric. The only skirt I have is from someone’s funeral, a pinstriped black number with a slit up the back, not exactly something I can wear traipsing around ancient Rome. I finger the top rack letting my hand travel across my long-sleeved tees, my cashmere sweaters . . . at least now the juxtaposition of my wardrobe makes a little more sense. I’m not meant to live in one time period.

  Time traveler or no, nothing here will work in ancient Rome. Last time, Constantine’s sister, Anna, made me the greatest wardrobe ever. I miss those clothes—sure would be nice if I could catch a break and take clothes back and forth between times. With a sigh, I resort to the leather pants over a matched set of baby-blue bra and panties, then tug on a soft green short-sleeved tee. Leather motorcycle boots on, hair braided, I make my way back to the living room and stand in Penya’s empty spot.

  Arms relaxed at my sides, palms open, fingers splayed, I let go of everything else and allow the lightning to come.

  Blue bolts spark from my fingertips, writhing and crackling against each other, slipping backward over my elbow, stretching down toward the floor. Ready.

  With a deliberate slowness, I bring my hands together until they’re eight inches apart. Attraction pulls the bolts together until they form a blue electric ball. I think of Aurelia, her spirit, her love of life and of friends, her willfulness.

  Black arms of nothingness open wide and embrace me in an all-consuming possession. In an instant I am deaf, blind, and mute.

  And my heart doesn’t hurt.

  Don’t miss a thing.

  Stop by Jen’s website at http://JenGreyson.com

  Follow her on Twitter @JenGreyson

  Acknowledgements

  A book is never a solo adventure. I’d like to thank the amazing people who came with me on this journey.

  First, to my readers. Some of you have been on this ride as long as I have. Thanks for sticking it out, Melissa Goins, Jason Cowan, Adam Fullman, and Courtney Green. Your feedback got me here. A special thanks to Kriston Skillicorn: sister, every writ
er should have a cheerleader like you.

  Thanks to my writing buddies for your insight, especially my trustworthy critiquers: Scott Eder, for being my rock; Amber Kizer, for paving the way Big-Girl style; and Amy Jarecki, for pulling me back from the ledge more times than I can count. An extra heaping of thanks to my “first-look” editor, Joshua Essoe. Your attention to detail is astounding, and I’m ever thankful that you helped me unearth the jewel that is this book.

  Mom and Dad, thanks for always believing in me and for your unwavering support. Bryan, you’re the man I always knew you’d grow into. Thanks for sharing the best of your life with me. Love you guys. To the rest of my awesome family, thanks for telling the best stories and for being uniquely loveable.

  Thanks to Isabel Muntadas at Museo de la Moto de Barcelona for your quick response and impressive depth of Spanish motorcycle information. I will come visit. Thanks to Uncle Gary for filling in the other motorcycle blanks.

  To the men’s bible study that meets at the Beans & Brews every Saturday morning and kicks me out of the squishy chair, may God speak to your hearts, guide your actions, and use your words to light the world.

  Thanks to Two Steps from Hell for writing the music of my soul and the “soundtrack” to this book—I pretty much wrote it with Undying Love and 1,000 Ships of the Underworld on repeat. Stay epic.

  Dave Wolverton, mentor extraordinaire, thank you for leading me through both sides of publishing. You are a phenomenal teacher, writer, and friend.

  To my editor, Hayley German Fisher, I’m so grateful that my publication journey started with you. Your insight, wordsmithing, and care of both this book and my career are unmatched. Thanks to Amanda Hayward and the entire team at The Writer’s Coffee Shop for believing in this book and putting all your muscle behind it.

  Dr. Kevin, you know that’s what you’d tell me. *wink*

  And lastly, but most importantly, thanks to my boys. Chris, without you, this book wouldn’t be. Thank you for your tireless support, your gift of time, your love, and our babies. Even as a time traveler, I’d never have enough nights with you.

  About the Author

  From the moment she decided on a degree in Equestrian Studies, Jen Greyson’s life has been one unscripted adventure after another. Leaving the cowboy state of Wyoming to train show horses in France, Switzerland, and Germany, she’s lived life without much of a plan, but always a book in her suitcase. Now a wife and mom to two young boys, she relies on her adventurous, passionate characters to be the risk-takers.

  Jen also writes university courses and corporate training material when she’s not enjoying the wilds of the west via wakeboard or snowmobile.