by Jen Greyson
My eyebrows shoot upward. “I—I . . . uh . . . no. That’s okay. I’m just going to sightsee again. Can’t hurt anything since I’m just a time traveler.”
He nods then addresses Papi. “Victor. I’ll be waiting.”
“I’m ready now.” He gathers a stack of documents from the counter and tucks them under his arm.
“Fine,” Ilif says.
They disappear together, leaving me wondering if I managed to accomplish Penya’s assignment or not.
Feeling grimy and in need of some quiet time before Spain, I head to the bathroom. I peel my clothes off and turn on the shower, willing the water to help me sort through what’s important and what’s not. This is the first chance I’ve had to stop and think.
Steam coats the inside of the glass doors, and I step into the heat. Water runs over my hair and into my face. I force my scattered thoughts to coalesce. I’m a time traveler. But not just any time traveler, one with the ability to change the world. That’s a little terrifying. I open my mouth until the water fills it and spit it against the wall.
I’m not normal. For the first time in my life I’m scared, and it’s because of responsibility. Granted, it’s responsibility the size of the planet, but still.
Rivers of water wear away my ragged edges, soothing the fear and replacing it with courage. If I’m going to take this on, I have to commit. Even Constantine’s demand of my willingness didn’t get me there. It got me close, and I lied about the rest so he’d get off my back. Now I need to get there for me. I blow out a huge breath. I don’t know how to do stuff half-assed.
Next, I need to find out how Viriato died and align that with what Penya’s told me.
The water turns cold. I turn it off and twist my hair up in a towel, then wrap another around me and cross the hallway to my old room. I have exactly no new choices of clothes, but I’d really love an actual pair of pants and new underwear.
Behind me, I hear the clack of nails and turn to see Ike’s scaly figure emerging from his newest hiding place under the bed.
“Hey, buddy.”
I’ve completely forgotten about him, but as far as he’s concerned, it’s only been a day since we came to hang out here. Keeping track of when I fed him might be a challenge. I pull a few slices of melon out of his container and slide them under his nose.
Holding my towel, I slip down the hall and rifle through Tiana’s closet. Last time I raided her clothes, the sparse selection didn’t offer much. I’m hoping she has something stashed away large enough to fit me. We may be only a couple of years apart, but she’s the size of a pixie. Even pregnant, she was still a twig. I dig through her drawers and find some leftover hand-me-downs I gave her last spring.
A lightweight thermal, a yellow three-quarter-length tee, and baggy, low-slung jeans are all I can find. No chance her bra will fit, so I don’t even bother to look, but I jam my feet into my favorite hiking slip-ons. I don’t have anything non-barbarian, but I hope my shoes are close enough to sandals that Constantine will let me keep them.
On my way past the bed, I spot Tiana’s laptop and shove a pile of her clothes out of the way to open the lid. It’s ancient and slow as a cold motor. While it whirs and beeps, I think about Ilif’s grand speech and all the things he’s told us before today. Sometimes his vehemence toward me is so unchecked . . . like some woman wronged him and he sees her in every female alive. Not that it matters. Whether it’s me or someone else, the outcome is still the same. I’m not sure how Penya and Constantine thought I could play nice with him. He has no intention of teaching me anything.
Finally the computer screen lights up, and I type Viriato into the search engine and click the online encyclopedia entry. Before the window opens, the laptop’s critical battery alarm goes off. I will the page to load faster and kick at the clothes pile in search of her plug, but I don’t see it anywhere. The battery readout says less than four minutes. The computer will shut down in two, which I know all too well from trying to chance it when I’m finishing a new design. I skip the plug and scan the page. I need details. Lots of them.
Words jump out:
. . . Betrayed by Romans . . .
. . . Man of great physical strength . . .
Very clear on both these points, but not what I need.
The battery chirps again.
I scroll and scan.
. . . Part of a legend . . .
Yeah, me too.
The header for ‘Death’ jumps out and I lean closer. Scan the words faster.
. . . final battle . . . Small entourage of Roman soldiers . . . Enemies died . . . Viriato returned to his village a hero . . . Years later Viriato’s son led a massive battle . . . Tens of thousands killed . . . Destroyed Spain’s infrastructure . . . Country never recovered . . . Viriato died of complications from old age.
No. I clap my hand over my mouth.
The screen goes dark and her hard drive shuts down.
“No!” I leap off the bed, toss the laptop on it, and pace.
We don’t win. I don’t affect anything.
Screw that.
There has to be a different answer. Penya said my future would cease to exist if we failed. What I just read must be the future that happens without my alteration.
Small entourage of Roman soldiers.
Died.
I squeeze my eyes shut and fold my body in half. Constantine cannot die on me. Sure, he’s intense and overbearing, but I need him. Not only has he agreed to train me, he’s kept me alive. I can’t do this without him. I’ll do whatever Penya says if it means keeping my team alive. I’ll play nice with Ilif. We can’t lose.
I take a gulping breath and straighten, replaying what I read. Spain’s infrastructure destroyed and never recovered? That isn’t right. Spain, for the most part, is thriving. But I haven’t completed the alteration . . . yet. If I could tote the laptop around with me back to Spain . . .
The entry would change.
Trust the alteration, Penya says.
The memory of that frail little girl holding her dead mother’s hand gives me courage. I cannot waver. Not for my own reasons. Not because of a Roman I’ve grown fond of. Not because of what I read of Viriato’s legendary life.
Right now, in my birth time, he’s already dead. It’s already happened . . . by my hand or nature’s.
In trusting the alteration, I’ll find the truths amid the lies, even though the truth might be scarier.
I shake off the distracting thoughts. It’s time to stash them and focus on getting back to Spain. In Papi’s office I find the books and flip to the beginning of one of the booklets, looking for an entry that can tell me how to get back to the specific time I want. Four pages in I find what I’m after. Once a rider intersects a life, they wear a “path” in the timeline. So, according to this, I can find Constantine anywhere along his lifetime, I just have to figure out when.
I’m worried about showing up at the wrong place, especially if he is this safeguard Ilif talked about. If I show up in the middle of a battle, will he compromise himself to protect me? I don’t want him bound to me, and I sure as hell don’t want him in love with me. Even if it would protect me, it seems wrong to force him.
I burst into laughter. There’s no forcing Constantine. Not even with magic. Any “binding” Ilif’s witnessed could never affect Constantine.
I set my jaw and shake my arms out. Get it together, Evy. Constantine’s not a potential boy toy. I bounce on my toes to rattle my thoughts. I replay our last encounter, Anna’s flitting movements, her bright, narrow room. That’s where. It’s the last place I saw Constantine, and if I time it correctly, he’ll be right where I left him.
Buried in the front pocket of my jeans, my little toy talisman is ready to catapult me, and the metal is warm through the thin fabric. Then I remember Penya’s warning. I dig it out and toss it on the bedspread.
My hands loose at my sides, I focus on my lightning. It sizzles and sparks from my fingertips.
Blackne
ss.
My bolts flare in the darkness, then retreat. In the wake of the blinding light, a warm glow flickers in my periphery. I blink a few times to clear my vision.
Constantine is draped over a massive wooden bench next to a fire, arms spread wide, feet splayed. It’s the most relaxed I’ve seen him. The fire blazes tall in the hearth, cooking the room. I step beyond the radiating heat and into a cooler section. “Where are we?”
“I thought you were coming right back,” he says.
“How long?”
“A week.”
“Better than five years,” I say. He looks pissed. “What happens now?”
“We missed our best chance. You decipher that.”
Yeah, he’s pissed.
“Should I leave?”
He grabs a mug from the low table by his seat and makes me wait for an answer while he drinks. Some of the amber liquid sloshes down the front of him before he sets the mug down.
I lean closer. “Are you drunk?”
An eerie laugh rumbles through the room. “I’ve been drinking for two days. When you didn’t return, there didn’t seem like much point in saving the wine.”
Now I’m pissed. “Are you blaming me? I’ve done this exactly five times in my life, and you’re expecting me to be some sort of expert?”
He takes another drink and then scrutinizes me over the rim of his mug.
“I don’t need this,” I say. Before I can even turn toward the door, he’s roaring and barreling toward me.
“Don’t you dare leave me!”
I sidestep him, but his arm shoots out and captures my waist. He pins me against the wall with his body, cursing and barely containing his frustrated rage.
I seethe and bristle against him. The crush of our bodies releases a wave of stale wine and unwashed male.
“Why weren’t you here?” he asks, his voice a low growl.
“I just left thirty minutes ago!”
“We failed!”
“You failed! Don’t include me in your fuckup! I’m not even on your team!”
He blows out a breath, covering me in a cloud of alcohol, and stares at the wall above my head.
“I hate being forced to depend on you.”
“You think I don’t know that? You think I don’t hate that you are? Back off! I’m learning this.”
“We have no room for error.”
“No shit,” I say.
He puts a small amount of distance between us, but his fingers trail down my arms, like he’s afraid I’ll bolt if he lets go.
There may be some truth in that.
“Will you stay?” he asks. “Will you search with me for another opportunity?”
I weigh his words and measure them against his actions. While I’m not keen on him directing all that anger and frustration my way, I can’t run. I’m done running.
“Yes.”
He sags in relief. Then he tugs me past the big bench next to the fire. Maps and papers cover a large table against the far wall. Next to it, a small stool sits beneath a narrow table adorned with a single metal platter and cup. A basket of fruit nestles against a white pitcher. The whole space would fit in Papi’s living room.
On the other side of the room, I spot a small cot beyond a half-closed door. Everything in the room is utilitarian and necessary. No comforts, no extravagance.
“Is this your house?”
“Mmm.” He moves maps around on the table, consumed with the task and ignoring my question.
I want to search his house, find the secrets he keeps here, something that will tell me about him, what he wants, why he’s so hell-bent on this mission. “What is that?” I point to a leather bustier on a stand in the corner.
“Your armor.”
I’m shocked. I imagined something like the guys wear, which is super hot on them, but not so much for me. “I thought it was supposed to hide my assets.”
He glances over his shoulder and lets his gaze roam the armor, then my assets. “Anna listens as well as you do.”
I walk over and finger the leather. It’s exquisite. Hard, dark, leather strips lace together beneath the bust, which is soft and supple. At the neck, more hard leather creates a tall collar and rounded caps that would protect my arms. Everything probably has a special name, but I will only ever call them Badass. On the floor are what look like armbands and a leather skirt that will come to my knees, crafted with more strips of leather bound together only at the tops, so the bottom two-thirds can move freely.
I’ve never wanted to wear anything more in my entire life.
“Either put it on or get over here.”
While I finger the leather, he bends lower, examining his battle plan in the dim light from the fire. I allow myself the moment to wonder about his life beyond this mission, about his family, about what drives him. Is it merely love of country? His raging frustration over the failure—my failure, according to him—seems incredibly misplaced. For the second time, I feel like he’s hiding something important.
Just like everybody else.
Taking the armor, I step into the shadows and undress before guessing at how the pieces fit. Each new strip of leather sends a tingle up my skin, and I relish how powerful it makes me feel. Unlike any pair of off-the-rack leather pants, that’s for sure. As I lace the pieces together, I glance at Constantine’s bowed head again and ask, “Why do you want this so badly?”
“The man is an archenemy of Rome.”
“No, this is personal.”
His movements pause. “War is personal.”
I laugh. “Nothing is more impersonal than war—killing another man for conquest, to find a new hill to plant your flag, to cry victor.”
Papers rustle again on the table. His voice is quiet. “You know nothing of war.”
“Maybe.”
“Come.” He waves me forward. “I’ll teach you.”
“No killing.” I cross the room and set my folded clothes on the other side of the half-open door of his room. Behind me I hear a sharp intake of breath and I smile, but when I turn around, he’s addressing the map on the table. My grin widens.
Without looking up, his hand encircles my wrist. He pulls me in front of him and points at the map. “First you must learn strategy.”
Chapter 13
Constantine leads me through the back door, and we cross a large open field stretching several hundred yards behind the building, flanked on the south and west by a tall forest. Short grass covers the flat expanse, and overhead the full moon hangs low, bathing the ground in silver. Cool air caresses my bare knees, and I tug at the hem of the armor pieces.
Grunts and the clatter of weapons from the other training grounds tumble over the rooftop. Fewer may train in the darkness than in the day, but there is no rest here.
In the middle of the empty field, Constantine stops and turns, his hand outstretched, a short sword in his palm. “Another strategy you must know.”
I cringe. “I told you I don’t want to learn how to kill.”
He pokes the handle of the sword toward me. “Then use it for defense.”
“No.” I wipe my palms on my hips.
He drops the sword to his side and lets out an exasperated sigh. “You must.”
“I thought that’s what you were for.”
“I cannot be everywhere.”
“What if I promise to stay close when I’m here?”
He snorts. “Even if I thought that were true, I want you to have a weapon.”
Tendrils of lightning crackle in my palm. “I’m good.”
He glances at my hands, shrugs, and tosses the extra sword to the grass at his side. I’m surprised at how easily that went. I really thought he’d put up more of a—
“Ohmigodwhatareyoudoing?”
He’s charging me, sword drawn. I duck and spin away, barely escaping his attack. Sparks illuminate the night. He charges me again, sword high, face full of intent. I crouch as he lunges and shove my hands toward his chest, terrified I’ll kill
him. Shards of bright light explode between us, pushing him away with a bubble of energy. My aim is off and he spins to the side, unaffected.
Frantic and riding a surge of adrenalin, I fling my arms out, and thick ropes of lightning dangle from my wrists. Constantine doesn’t give me a chance to figure them out, but attacks again, his sword low and deadly.
Imagining a bullwhip, I twist my arm over my head and snap my arm to the ground. The bolt releases too early and flies through the night like an arrow until it takes out a tree at the far edge of the field.
Constantine snickers as he sweeps behind me.
I panic, and my other bolt fizzles and vanishes. Before I can turn and defend, he wraps his big arms around me and squeezes tight, immobilizing me.
With his arm around my throat and his sword at my cheek, he whispers, “Try again.”
A small tendril of lightning sputters from my hand and dies. Splaying my palms wide, I try again, but Constantine tightens his grip and, as my breath rushes out, fear seeps in, imprisoning my lightning wherever it lives. My heart races and I fight for air. Too many emotions battle for control. The lightning is there, too—beneath the fear.
“I can’t.” I curl my fingers around his arm and dig into his skin.
“Try.”
I close my eyes and take a deep breath. A bolt flickers for a moment, then fades. “I can’t.”
“Lightning just is,” he murmurs against my ear. “It does not decide between good and bad. Lightning is not conflicted by right and wrong as you are. Let it exist as it was meant to, and stop trying to restrain its purpose.”
“How do you know?”
“My sky is the same as yours.”
He’s right. Lightning, fire, wind, water . . . they’re all energy. Different forms, capable of different levels of destruction. I judge them, weigh them, dismiss them.
The skin of his arm is hot against my throat. Another transfer of energy. I focus on the heat, concentrate on where our skin touches, the angle of his blade, my fury at his attack. More energy. It’s nearly tangible.
A breeze ruffles my hair. My grip falters on the image. I shake my head, but I get it now.
He lowers his sword and slowly releases me.