by Jen Greyson
He moves in front of me until our bodies almost touch. I have to tip my head back to see him. “I would do it again.”
He presses closer, trying to intimidate me with his size. “Then you are of no use.”
“Liar.”
“Commit to do whatever is necessary when the time comes, even if it means killing.”
“Why? You still haven’t told me why he has to die. You’ve given me vague answers. I want the rest. Now.”
He bares his teeth. “I’ve given you more than enough.”
“Not even close. You’ve given me why you think he should be exterminated.” I fist my hands and squeeze tiny lightning stress-balls. “You can do the killing. When you’re ready to give me answers, and if I accept them, I’ll help you. But he won’t die by my hand.”
He stares for a long minute, then stomps to the fire. “This is why I don’t teach women. They’re too unstable.”
“Oh shut up,” I say. “You’re a piece of work yourself.”
“I can leash my emotions,” he says to the fire, his hands punctuating his frustration. “You are all over the place. One minute you’re willing to aid my cause, and the next you’re stomping off because I’ve hurt your feelings. You already made this choice.”
“You—”
Penya touches my arm and moves me away from Constantine. Her voice is as soft as her touch. “I know this is difficult, niña. We’ve thrown a lot at you, and a weaker person would have run long before now. Do not let fear rise up now. I know your future. You know your future, you’ve witnessed it. Spain must fall to Rome. Here. Now. Viriato’s death is crucial. You’re intertwined with Constantine’s mission to stop him. Beyond that, I have no answers for you. One day, perhaps, but to have that conversation today would only muddy what is barely becoming clear to you.
“The greatest lesson you can learn from these alterations is trust that beyond what you can possibly know in your limited slice of the picture, something bigger is guiding you. You are in the right place, doing the right thing. I no longer question the validity of alterations. They are always right, always necessary, even when the means to obtaining them may war with our beliefs, both internal and social. One thing I can promise you, in the moment when time stands still and the alteration shifts the universe, you will know without hesitation that you’re doing the right thing.”
“Well that’s something,” I say.
Her hand moves to my cheek, “I’ve been waiting years to intercept you, guide you, and train you so you might claim your birthright.” She wraps her other hand around my arm, barely gripping me with her cool, light touch. “You’ve read the prophecy. Do not deny what it contains because the morals taught to you by your current century are getting in the way.”
“But—”
She shushes me. “This is a different time. Men die every day, sometimes for good reasons, sometimes not. Constantine will do everything he can to lead the mission and end Viriato. Perhaps you will not see it happen as you wish, but we must know you will finish it if something happens to Constantine or his men.”
“Why can’t he take another warrior?” I want to whine, “Why me?” again, but her softness is a tenuous spider silk.
“He’s tried. We’ve tried. I’ve guided him for years, waiting for a rider. When one didn’t come and Viriato continued to gather more troops and thwart Constantine’s best efforts, we tried different things. I tried teaching him how to travel . . .”
“You did?”
“It didn’t work.” She waves the question away. “When Viriato attempted his attack last week, I knew he would be separated from his army and badly injured in the battle, giving Constantine and his men a chance to end him. When you arrived a few days before, I thought we were at the alteration.”
“So why not keep me here?”
“I made a poor choice. But no matter what Constantine says, niña, he cannot succeed without you. Train with him, let him teach you. Learn from him and open your heart to the woman you are meant to be.”
I prefer her jabs and short words to this kindness she’s showing me. It’s more honest. This feels like a desperate attempt to convince me to dive into a cesspool of destruction hidden beneath a bubble bath of niceness.
“I will train with him, even though I don’t know how we’ll ever get close to Viriato.”
“Leave that to me,” Constantine says. “Penya, finish with her so I can complete the mission and get her out of my life.”
Chapter 16
Constantine slams another log on the fire and stabs at it. Probably visualizing my forehead.
“We’re almost done,” Penya says. “I have one last thing.”
He grumbles and collapses onto his bench, glowering.
These two exhaust me. I glance around for a seat. Technically it’s been days since I slept, mere hours for them, and the adrenaline is wearing off. “Do we have to do it now?” I ask.
“There is no time for waiting, and I fear you will accidentally screw something up if I don’t.”
I sigh and lean against the table. “Things you could have mentioned before now.”
“I didn’t realize how aggressively the alteration would move you forward through time. What I said before was true. You must accomplish certain things every time you travel to manage the excess energy that isn’t used up during each arc. Part of the energy becomes a unique signature you leave behind—the residue Ilif uses track you—and that I erase upon your arrival here each time. When you learn how to manifest it in other ways, your signature and the amount of excess energy will dwindle. But there is always a”—she glances at Constantine—“payment required for every energy transfer used during the arc. Either you choose, or the energy will choose on its own behalf.”
“Payment?” I stiffen. I don’t like where this is headed. At her description, a microthought nags just outside my reach again, teasing me to grab at it.
“Energy must transfer. It is a condition that must always exist. It cannot be diffused, only exchanged. When lightning strikes, even in its simplest form, it must ground and the energy must go somewhere.”
“Why wouldn’t Ilif tell me this?”
“He’s not what he seems, niña. You must remember that always,” she says. “The energy finds a way to balance itself. Sometimes by diffusing itself and manifesting things in . . . creative ways.”
“How do I choose?”
“It’s different for each rider. You must discover for yourself how to manage the energy.”
She pauses as I digest the information. There’s a piece I can’t quite sort through. I let the words swizzle around in my brain, and my head drops forward. My eyes burn from lack of sleep, and none of my thoughts is crisp. I draw them into focus, but then they slip away. What she’s telling me about lightning and energy hovers around details I tried to forget from my quantum physics class. At the thought of school, my brain brings up a tidbit from a different class, a microscopic morsel about electrochemical issues with the brain and the strong tie to memory retention.
I jerk my head up as the puzzle pieces slam together. “Constantine, tell me about the time Aurelia learned to walk.”
His mood changes instantly, and he smiles. “Ah, I—” His face goes blank.
Even though I expect it, nothing could have prepared me for the flood of guilt at his confusion.
He looks lost. “I can’t remember.”
My voice quiet, I fill in the blanks. “She was wearing a white dress, her wispy hair flying wild around her head. She squealed when she saw you come home. You bent down, and she walked across the room to you.”
His jaw goes slack.
I turn to Penya. “It’s choosing.”
Penya purses her lips. “How many other memories have you stolen?”
“How was I supposed to know this would happen?”
“How many?”
I quickly tally them. The little girl, the maid, the attacker, the horse, three from Constantine. “Seven.”
“This is not good. Every time you arc with Constantine you will steal one of his memories. Unless you can find a way to protect his mind.”
“I can defend myself against her.”
“Maybe,” Penya says. “Are you willing to take the chance?”
He shrugs. “The benefits outweigh my pointless memories.”
I widen my eyes. His coldness catches me off guard, and I don’t understand how he could want to win more than he wants to remember his daughter’s life.
“You don’t get to choose the memory, Constantine,” Penya says. “What if it’s one related to the mission?”
“Do we have a choice?” His voice is exhausted.
They’re talking about me like I’m a plague they must endure.
I step behind the door to Constantine’s small room and unlatch hooks on my armor, a war raging inside me. They need me to succeed but might pay a steep price for my participation. And not just them but strangers as well. What would happen if I arced to the middle of a concert or a coliseum of people? Would I gather one from everyone? Do they stay with me forever, blending with mine until I can no longer discern my own past?
I sigh, wishing I could leave. I’m never going to change. When things get tough, I find the nearest exit.
The difficult projects and relationships I’ve seen to completion number in the single digits. This feels like a test to see if there’s still hope, if there’s one tough thing I can stick with. To see if I can look uncertainty in the face and charge forward anyway. Constantine doesn’t care about his memories. He’s willing to risk them all, and I’m the one stressing.
Penya’s blaming me for things I have no control over. She never warns me, just lets me bobble around until I screw up and then gets pissed. If she’d bother to give me a heads-up, maybe we wouldn’t need all these Evy’s-a-screw-up chats that make me feel like an ass.
I want to bail. Oh, how I want to bail. Leave them to their own devices, without my twisted, deadly version of help. It’s hard to see how we wouldn’t all be better off.
I toss my collar on the ground and rub the raw patch of skin at my collarbone while Penya and Constantine whisper. I could interject, take the choice away from them, relieve Constantine of his sentence. I could leave before I have a death on my conscience. The weight of the scroll feels heavy in my waistband.
Ilif’s speech pierces my thoughts. I might never know which alterations are the big ones and which ones aren’t. If I’m going to do this thing, I have to find a way to blindly trust the alteration.
Penya’s right. As much as the situation frustrates me, there’s no going back, no return to normal, and certainly no walking away from the power. And Constantine . . . could I walk away from him? He inclines his head toward Penya and quietly answers her question, but anger keeps his posture stiff.
I press my fingers into my eyes. How did I get here, to this horrible spot?
Dropping my hands, I sigh. The last three days have changed me from the inside out. I’m no longer a carefree dropout-cum-bike-builder who worries about nothing more than my next design. Somewhere along the way, I’ve become a warrior. A lightning rider. And yes, the actual answer to a prophecy.
Regardless of what we say here tonight, we don’t choose our birthright.
It chooses us—it chose me. It’s waiting for me to rise to the challenge.
I straighten my shoulders. I can do this. Somehow.
“You must teach Constantine to travel.” Penya’s voice cleaves through my thoughts.
I search his face as he turns from the fire, unreadable and fierce. The ultimate partner in an endeavor that will rewrite history and possibly get us killed.
“He will be limited to the powers of a mere traveler, but it might be the only way to get him close enough to Viriato.”
Guilt stabs me in the stomach, but I push it away. The more we travel together, the more memories he’ll lose—though he made the choice about his memories, not me. “Can he even learn?”
She shrugs. “Anyone can time travel with the right instructor. You have all the pieces now.”
“I barely know what I’m doing. Are you sure you can’t teach him?”
“I’ve tried, but I lacked Ilif’s intimate knowledge. We couldn’t recreate the steps. While it seems simple, precision is required.” She pulls a narrow booklet from the folds of her skirt. “This is what I’ve been working on while Ilif has been distracted. There’s more I need.”
She tucks it into my palm and curls both her hands around mine. “I will continue to push you, niña. Know that. I believe you are capable of great things. Life-changing things. Few alterations are ever more difficult than your first. Yours is doubly so. Though you were unaware, I’ve been watching you, waiting for this to happen. You are perfectly suited to this task. Do not let anyone tell you differently. Not me. Certainly not Ilif.”
I shift uncomfortably. It’s been a long couple of years since I’ve heard an abuelita-like speech.
She releases my hands, and I want to respond but I don’t trust my voice. The thin book trembles once in my hand, and I pull myself together and fan the pages. Different handwritings mark them, and I skim a few. The chant is there, along with other jotted notes that look like instructions.
“Don’t wait long to teach him.”
“I’ll pay you.” A small ripple of desperation colors Constantine’s words.
I set the book on the floor and lean it against the mantle, then step to him. As I settle my hands on his chest, he bristles beneath them. “You can’t go see her,” I say, gentling my voice like I’m talking to a starving feral cat.
“This has nothing to do with Aurelia. All my men are paid, even my trainers.”
I search his face. He will go see her, but his mission comes first. I trust he can turn off his emotions—I’ve watched him do it.
He places his hands over mine, and I think he’s going to throw them aside, but he presses them deeper into his chest until his heartbeat thumps beneath my fingertips. “Why does she weave this spell?” he asks, his eyes never leaving mine.
“What spell?” Penya asks.
“This one that traps me.”
Penya cackles. “Her only power is the lightning. Her beauty is her own. Any spell you think you’re under is merely lust.”
“I do not suffer from lust.”
Behind me, her laugh changes to a deep, genuine sound. “It seems you have much to learn from each other.”
She evaporates with a flash, and neither of us turns. He holds my fingers trapped against his chest, and the room seems too small. Firelight plays across his face, softening the hardness of his cheekbones, rounding the sharp lines of his mouth. His lids shutter and his penetrating stare wavers, then drops to my bare skin and skims my exposed collarbones, over the hollow in my throat and the swell of my breasts above the constricting leather bustier encasing them. My skin warms more from his look than from the fire.
He whispers, “Release me.”
I swallow. “I can’t.”
“You’ll get us killed.” He dips his head and moves his lips within inches of mine. Our breath mingles, but his is another caress on my bare skin. His fingers spread over my wrists and up my forearms, pulling our upper bodies tight together. My hips sway closer and his thigh shifts my legs apart. I close my eyes as he brushes his lips across mine. After another feathered kiss, he lifts his head and presses his lips to my closed eyes. “And while you might be worth dying for, I need to stay alive a bit longer.”
“Might?” I tease, fighting the elation swelling in my chest.
“Might.” He nips my lower lip then trails kisses down my neck, dipping his tongue in the hollow above my collarbone. I shiver, earning a soft chuckle. He does it again, and I reward him with the same response. He kisses all the way to my shoulder, around the curve, then makes his way back. Never letting go of my hands, he tips my head to the side and softly kisses the pulse in my neck before moving north to my earlobe. I tense and bite my lips, both praye
rful and distressed that he’s about to touch my ears. Sensing my change, he hesitates, then draws my most erogenous zone into his warm mouth.
I moan and desperately try to think of rotting fish and dirty ashtrays to keep from having an orgasm right now. When he laughs again, the deep rumble travels across the sensitive skin of my ear and straight to my belly.
With the tip of his tongue, he rims the outer edge of my ear, and I squirm, rubbing our bodies together. Every sweet spot I have is lit up like it’s Christmas. When I can’t take it any longer, I turn my face and open my eyes. His are the color of molten gold, and there’s no mistaking his need.
“I want you,” he says and crushes me to him, kissing me with desperate starvation. My tongue sweeps across the dark hollow of his mouth, and he growls and slants his head, thrusting his tongue deeper. I match him, swirling my tongue against his, learning him, savoring the taste of him.
Still restrained by his grip, I’m helpless to move in any direction but against him. I curl my fingers around the top of his hard chest plate and grind my hips against his tensed thigh.
“Jupiter,” he swears, sucking air through his teeth as he drops my arms and grabs fistfuls of my ass. Fingers spread, he tugs me forward and tilts his hips, dragging me across the hard length of him.
I gasp and grab the back of his head, wrapping my hands tight around his neck. His firm hands slide over the curve of my bottom, dipping into the cleft, pressing gently against me as his fingers continue down my leg. I push against the pressure, but he doesn’t pause and give me what I want, even when I cry out. He lifts my thigh, curling it around his waist, trailing his fingers all the way down my calf to my ankle. I whimper, unable to think beyond what he’s doing to my body.
Holding my ankle behind his waist, he thrusts against me again and wraps my braid around his other wrist, trapping my head. He licks my exposed neck then scrapes it with his rough beard. The sensation sends a wave through me. I sweep one hand into his hair and reach the other between our bodies and inside his tunic, fumbling to get underneath his armor. He twists and my fingertips find an opening. At my touch on his warm skin, he freezes and opens his eyes. I splay my hand wide across his stomach, delighting in how his abs bunch and squirm beneath my hand. I slide it higher, teasing the hair on end as I ruffle it. I trace the outside edge of his armor until his chest fills my hand, and I flick his nipple with my nail then rub the hard tip across my palm.