by Jen Greyson
“Fine!” I spin around and punch through the door to my bedroom before stopping in the middle, shaking and heaving for breath. That could’ve gone better. He may look like a stranger, but he’s still Papi—gentle, kind, worried about my safety. He’s swayed by sweetness. I sigh. I’ve been working it all wrong. I take a breath and walk back to the kitchen.
“Aren’t you even a little bit curious?” I say to his back, keeping my voice soft and earnest.
He grunts.
“Do you want to know where I went?”
“I only care that you’re home safe.” He turns, but his face betrays nothing. I don’t know how to read him anymore.
Obviously.
“Where did you go?” I ask.
“We’re not talking about this. I don’t want you getting all excited about something we’re never doing again.” Soda splashes from the can as he waves it around.
“What if I read the book this time? And the little booklet thingies? Find the right way to do it? Then would you talk to me about it?” I trail my fingers along the countertop, stopping at the box. “Think, Papi. Who left this for you? If Abuelita Rosa stashed it all away, why? And if your father really was involved in something as crazy as time travel, did he put this box together, thinking he could share it with you when you got older?”
“I can’t, Evy. Just stop. This isn’t as simple as you’d like it to be. When I was there, I was someone else.” He waves at his clothes. “I had mobster clothes on. I talked differently. I didn’t even remember here.”
“How did you bring home money, but not clothes?”
“Exactly. We know nothing about this. I have to figure things out.”
“By yourself. Like always.” My spine stiffens. He hasn’t even asked about my trip, just assumes it was awful like his was.
“Look who’s talking,” he says, scolding me like I’m seven.
I hold my tongue this time. We square off.
“You’re asking me for things I’m not capable of,” he says. “Not right now.”
Truth spills from lips I don’t recognize. I soften again and turn so I’m not looking at this young fighter. I caress the box’s top edge, close my eyes, and speak to my other image of Papi, the one I never spend enough time with, the one I miss, the one who holds up my world.
“I thought . . . maybe it was something we could do together. Like old times.” I close the flaps on the box with finality, and my heart breaks in two as I accept what he’s telling me. “Guess not.”
I turn and jog down the steps into the back family room and curl up on the sofa. I swipe the remote and aimlessly flip through channels. The television blurs a few times, but I blink the tears away and try to ignore Papi’s movements.
Through the wide doorway, I catch his path. Ice cubes rattle against glass, and the freezer door thumps closed. He wanders back to the box and stares at it, his sculpted shoulders high and ready for an attack.
I shift on the couch so I can’t see him.
His phone rings, and he groans. I turn up the volume.
Pain knifes through me, sears my guts, and blasts me off the couch. I scream. Focused on staying upright, I crash into the coffee table, bang against the armchair, and crumple against the sliding glass door. With my right shoulder against the cool glass, I dig into my belly, trying to dislodge the pain.
The one I never wanted to feel again.
Chapter 6
It’s happening again. I grind my teeth and glare at the wet lawn beyond the glass. The earlier storm dissipated while we traveled. Whatever this is, it’s not lightning.
Fighting through it, I kneel and tip my chin toward the room, searching. A familiar pair of polished wingtips peeks out from beside the couch.
He’s here.
I gasp and try to straighten, but a new wave of pain twists my guts again, folding me over like a giant hand controls my movements. All I can manage is a glare.
“You,” I say through clenched teeth.
He flinches and glances at his own body parts as if taking inventory, patting at his charcoal tweed suit, straightening his navy tie, fussing with the French cuffs of his pristine white shirt. If I weren’t on the verge of puking, I’d scoff at his pompousness. Seemingly satisfied, he crosses his arms and takes in the rest of the room, like I can’t see him.
Papi leaps off the top step and races to my side. Pompous Ass staggers backward.
Another wave of pain overtakes me. I grind my molars together and try not to pass out. I don’t think Ass expected anyone else here.
“Evy, are you okay? What happened?” Papi asks, kneeling before me.
I point a shaking finger toward Ass. “Ask him.”
“What? I don’t understand.” He twists around and looks over the room before turning back to me, his gentle fingers tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. I breathe through a fresh contraction.
From across the room, Ass says, “A girl?”
Papi doesn’t react.
“It can’t be a girl . . .” Ass mumbles. “A daughter? There must be other children—boys. She was supposed to be some random traveler . . . not his daughter.”
He’s freaking me out, and I don’t like that Papi doesn’t even seem to notice him. Blackness creeps along the edge of my vision, and the intensity of the pain ratchets up another notch. I moan.
From the far end of a tunnel, Ass’s voice addresses me. “I can help you.”
Papi leaps up and steps in front of me. “Where did you come from?” Finally.
I can feel Ass looking around Papi and speaking directly to me.
“It’s your power,” he says. “You must stop fighting. The lightning exists as part of you now. The harder you resist, the more painful its occupancy will become. You have already found it to travel. Find it now. Isolate the main coil and accept its residency in your body. Your lightning is as much an organ as your heart. You know precisely where your heart is, can feel it beating. Do the same with your lightning. Find it, acknowledge it, and the pain will cease.”
As he speaks, the pain ebbs and spikes with each syllable. Though I don’t want to trust him, I do what he says. Like with the power plant and our earlier interaction in Spain, my lightning responds. Now it flares bright and intense, impossible not to find. I block the television noise, Papi’s harsh breath, and my own reactions. Turning inward, I focus on the nucleus of pain. Instantly, it settles, as if only wanting recognition. It changes to a thinner, tamer version of itself, but it doesn’t vanish like it does on my hands. It feels like a bomb of adrenalin, waiting for a charge, but there’s no pain now. I unfold and stagger upright but stay behind Papi.
“How did you know that would work?”
Ass steps back and sweeps his arm toward the couches. “It seems we have many secrets to share.”
Papi’s body tenses, and his arm keeps me pinned behind him. “Who the hell are you and why are you in my house?”
The stranger meets my glare and asks, “Evy, correct?”
“Right.”
He shifts his attention back to Papi. “I had the pleasure of meeting your daughter recently.” Extending his hand slowly, as if afraid to startle Papi, he says, “I’m Ilif Rotiart. I’ve waited a long time to meet you.”
Chapter 7
The energy in the room is palpable. Shielded behind Papi’s rock-hard body, I witness their standoff. Papi hasn’t fought in decades, but we’re in the ring now and the bell just rang for round one.
Papi steps toward Ass—Ilif—and drags me behind him, my hand tight in his grip. Like the world champion he is, Papi circles, gauging Ilif’s reactions, assessing his weak spots. Ilif projects open and vulnerable. Smart man.
For a pompous ass.
Somehow he fits into this wild adventure, but I’m not about to ask how. Now he’s saying he’s been waiting to meet Papi.
Papi’s grip on my fingers is almost painful, and I lift my other hand to his shoulder. He tenses beneath my touch. Since Ilif made me feel better, Papi’s some
where between accepting him at face value and knocking his lights out.
“How did you find me?” I ask.
Papi glances over his shoulder at me. “You know him?”
I tug from his grip and rub my palms on the back of my pants. “He showed up while I was in Spain.”
He spins around and grips my shoulders with both hands. “You went to Spain?”
I shrug. “We didn’t really get to talk about what happened before you decided we weren’t going anymore.”
Ilif steps forward. “What do you mean?”
Papi waves him away like a pesky gnat.
“I just want you safe. I didn’t know you went to Spain.”
I scowl. I never thought my location would have been his tipping point. “I didn’t know it mattered. Does it?”
It’s his turn to shrug. “Well, Spain’s a bit different from New York City.”
“Ah. New York City, with the mob,” I say. “We should talk.”
“Yes, we should,” Ilif says. “Please, sit.”
Papi glances between the two of us. He sighs, and his whole body relaxes. “If someone can shed a little light on the situation, I’m willing to listen. Even if my only option is a perfect stranger who materialized in my living room.”
He pulls me in front of him and makes me sit on the far side of the couch, keeping himself between me and Ilif.
Ilif looks relieved as he lowers himself. “I assume you’re Victor.”
“Vic.”
“Vic.” He clasps his hands together. “And Evy. Do you have other children? A son, perhaps?”
“Four girls.”
Ilif clears his throat. “Well then . . . the last time I saw you, you were just a boy.” Ilif lowers his eyes. “If I’d had any idea it would be almost sixty years before I saw you again . . .”
I can’t hold it in any longer. “What does that mean? Who are you? How do you know who we are?”
Papi pats my hand. “Relax.”
I resist the urge to shake him off. I want answers, and if Papi’s willing to listen to this guy, I want every possible morsel of info that might sway his decision to let us keep doing this.
“Will you allow me to start at the beginning?” Ilif asks Papi, ignoring my barrage of questions.
After a long hesitation, Papi finally answers. “Go ahead.”
“Some of this is going to be incredibly implausible,” Ilif says. “This information should have been given to you decades ago. I’m hoping your father filled in a few of the gaps—”
“He died when I was ten,” Papi says.
“Oh dear.” Ilif removes a handkerchief and dabs at his forehead. “This is more complicated than I’d anticipated.”
“Maybe you’d better get to telling the story,” I say. What a drama queen.
Papi growls at me to be still.
“Yes. Sorry. I hope you know I’m as off-balance as you,” Ilif says, lowering his eyes while he refolds his monogrammed handkerchief.
“I doubt that.”
Papi doesn’t bother to reprimand my outburst this time. I know I’m lending voice to all his feelings, too, but respect for his elders and a warped sense of hospitality is getting in his way. Luckily I don’t suffer from that filter. Not today. And not with Pompous Ass here.
Ilif slips his handkerchief back into his pocket and addresses Papi. “You’re a time traveler—a lightning rider. Your entire family has been for centuries. I’m their guide. Your guide.”
“Where have you been?” I ask, annoyed. I could’ve skipped the entire fight with Papi if this guy would’ve shown his face before now.
Ilif holds up his hand to me, and Papi settles his on my arm. Silver tentacles of lightning crackle between our skin, and he jumps. I tug my arm free. This isn’t about my issues. Papi eyes me, a promise of a later discussion marked by the stern set of his lips.
“Lightning riders play a critical role in the existence of all things,” Ilif says. “It’s not a power to be taken lightly. And it’s the reason a guide is necessary. Your ancestors have prevented disasters and altered history for generations. You travel via lightning and—according to our tests—via a genetic mutation that allows you to manipulate the energy as your own personal time portal.”
“And what about the fountain-of-youth thing happening on his face?” I ask.
“A benefit. The toll on the body is immense. It must remain in pristine condition.”
Papi chokes. “I’m going to look like this forever?”
“You’d never survive otherwise.”
I drum my fingers in my lap. “Guess I’m already pristine.”
“I’m not sure how it works with females,” Ilif says.
“What? What does that mean?”
“There’s never been a female rider.”
Papi and I look at each other, and I puff up. There’s nothing cooler than being the first. I have so many questions. “How do we decide where to go?”
“You don’t. I watched you both today.” Ilif studies us and shakes his head as if some detail about us troubles him before inclining his head toward me. “I was unaware of your relation until my arrival here. In Spain, I thought your friend on the motorcycle was the rider. I assessed you as a mere traveler. You both exhibited interesting anomalies.”
“Like?” I ask. Seriously, getting details is like pulling teeth.
“First, you’re a female. Second, I’ve never had a beginning rider return without completing the alteration.”
I grin. I have no idea what that means, but it seems I’m abnormally gifted.
“And you.” He shifts his attention to Papi. “What you managed in New York was outstanding. Such a different set of talents. You both have a natural ability I’ve never encountered in all my years.”
“What did you do?” I ask Papi.
He shrugs and shoots a look at Ilif. He doesn’t want to tell me in front of our new guest. Fine by me, but he’d better not think he’s getting out of including me again.
“Such modesty.” Ilif turns to me. “He manifested a complete existence. Riders have always shown up as themselves, but somehow Victor understood an alternate version was necessary. It makes me quite proud.”
“So we just pick a place?” I ask. “And create a—what did you call it—an alteration?”
“No, lightning riders don’t know when or where they’re needed. Similar to how we never know precisely where lightning strikes, a lightning rider must be ever watchful and ready to arc at a moment’s notice.”
“Arc?”
“The arc is the movement between places.”
Papi stands and paces. “Let me get this straight. I’ve had a virtual superpower, quite possibly a dangerous one, with obvious physical and historical implications, and no one bothered to tell me? My parents didn’t think it was worth mentioning, and you were . . .” He turns on Ilif. “Where were you, exactly?”
Ilif looks away. “I suppose I owe you that.”
“Oh, and don’t think that’s the only question. I have lots,” I add.
“Me, too,” Papi says. “Not to mention the New York thing. It was far from what you described.” He walks to my side of the couch and glances at the seat cushion beside me, then the arm, then the chair. Finally, he folds his arms and leans a hip against the corner of the couch. He grimaces, and I wonder if his guts ache, too, or if he’s just frustrated. I wish his face was the old Papi’s.
“You would have been about eight,” Ilif says. “Your brother had just been killed, and your father wasn’t taking it well. He asked for some time. We knew how to turn off the access to the lightning, to close the door, so to speak. Because it’s a reaction that occurs in the brain, we discovered a way to trip the signal. A simple chant, a short meditation is all it takes. The danger, of course, is that when it’s turned off, I no longer have the ability to trace the rider.
“That detail never mattered until your father disappeared. After a week, I came to check on him, but he was gone.” He looks at Papi. �
��You all were gone. I searched everywhere I could think of, but you’d just . . . vanished.”
“We moved. Right after Rafe died.” Papi’s eyes drift closed, and the words tumble out in a pent-up torrent. “I was upset. I wanted to stay with his things. But we were moving to America, of all places. It nearly killed my mamá, but my father insisted. He never told us why. I assumed it was the memories.” Startled, his eyes fly open. “It was you.”
Ilif jerks. “No. It was your father. He couldn’t leave your mother alone anymore, couldn’t leave you. I understood his pain, but—to use your term—people with ‘superpowers’ don’t get a day off. There were people to save, alterations to manifest.” He stands. “People didn’t get saved, because your father couldn’t handle the pressure.”
Papi steps toward him, raising his fists. “His boy—my baby brother—was dead!”
“Not because of me. Not because of anything that could have been prevented. It was an accident.”
“Why didn’t he go back in time and save him?” I ask.
“It doesn’t work like that,” Ilif says. “Lightning riders don’t choose the when or why of their arc. I’ve spent years working on what determines it, but we still don’t know how each alteration is selected.” He turns to Papi. “Your father couldn’t accept that. He knew in his heart Rafe’s death was an accident, unpreventable. But he became obsessed with getting back to that moment to create an alteration. I did everything I could to help him, but we’d never been successful in pinpointing a location before. He wouldn’t listen to anyone on the team. He kept at it for days. He didn’t sleep, just tried to conjure the lightning over and over, but nothing worked.”
“So if he couldn’t save his own son, he didn’t want to save anyone else’s?” I ask.
“Evy,” Papi says, his voice low. “Watch the disrespect.”
I twist my mouth and duck my head.
“I don’t think it was that simple,” Ilif says. “Or that selfish. Rafe’s death crushed his focus, understandably. But he was so deeply affected by the loss, we were unsure of his future, unable to predict how he would manage the level of intensity he’d exhibited in the past. Lightning is energy. Powerful energy, that must be managed at all times, or there are repercussions, both physically and mentally. I consider both of you lucky to have managed it as well as you did without any preparation or instruction.