Lightning Rider (15 page)

Constantine steps away, and before I can figure out the secret he’s keeping from me, his mask of indifference slides back in place.

“There is one last thing,” Penya says.

I break our visual standoff.

“You must not let Ilif know any of this. I don’t yet know what he’s up to, but you must stop antagonizing him. We don’t want him curious about what you’re doing when you arc. And whatever you do, never give him reason to think you are betraying him.” She shivers. “Ever.”

I cock my head. “Is my father in danger?”

With a vehement shake of her head, she says, “Ilif will protect him with his life. He is a rider. And a man. To Ilif, there is no one more important. Not now, anyway.” She pats my arm. “We’ll talk later about Ilif. For now, know that he will keep your father safe and will do his best to teach him.”

“He’s made it clear he doesn’t want to teach me. Can’t
you
teach me?”

“I don’t travel like Ilif does. And my experience with riders has been . . . different. My role in this alteration is to support you. I will give you what I can, when I can, but there are other things I must attend to while Ilif is distracted. For now, we must hurry, before he discovers what this alteration will mean to the future he intends. And please, get rid of that metal top he gave you.”

“My abuela gave it to me.” I press my hand to the side of my bra. It’s become second nature to tuck it in there. “How will I travel without it?”

“Is that what he told you?” She slaps her wide thigh and laughs. “It has nothing to do with arcing. It’s part of how he tracks you.”

“He mentioned that.” 

“Don’t worry, you can leave it behind next time. Worry about how you must soften him, give him a reason to teach you so you can use it as cover to finish this alteration.”

“How am I supposed to do that?”

“You’ll figure it out.”

“He hates me,” I say. Constantine grunts, and I look at him. “What does that mean?”

Penya shoves us from the room. “Go. You have less than a week.”

“Wait!” I spin toward the door to ask the rest of my questions, but she closes it in my face before I can utter a single one.

I turn to Constantine. “A week?”

“Less. Come.”

“You may have the art of war figured out, but you could seriously use some help in the art of communication,” I say.

Ignoring me, he pulls me down another hallway. Wide, doorless rooms to the left and right are filled with weapons and armor. Huge piles of spears and swords cover tables and lean against walls. The bitter tang of metal in the air coats my tongue and makes me breathe through my mouth with short, shallow breaths. “You don’t expect me to learn how to use all these, do you?”

He shushes me as we stop at the only other room with an actual door. He knocks, and moments later a small blonde answers. “Come in, come in. I’m all set.”

“Anna. Evy,” Constantine says by way of introduction.

Anna circles me, and I can’t keep from judging. Though she looks about my age, she’s my physical opposite. Everything about her is straight—straight blond hair falls past her slim shoulders, her hips flare barely wider than her tiny waist, and her feet and hands are miniatures of mine.

What she lacks in physical stature she exudes in vibrancy. Again, my antithesis.

I don’t like her.

“You’re quite a bit curvier than I imagined,” she says, bubbling with excitement. “I thought I could guess well enough, but I’ve never made armor for a woman, and well . . .” She puts her arms around my chest. “Heavens, you’re almost as big around as Constantine’s waist, but that’s okay because I only need measurements for a few pieces.” She rushes to the back of the large open room, dodging tall stacks of leather and rolls of fabric.

I glance at Constantine as he leans against the wall, ankles crossed, his bored expression failing to mask the crease of humor around his eyes.

“Who is she? What are we doing—I thought you needed to train me.”

With casual nonchalance, he lifts an index finger to his lips.

My eyebrows shoot up. “Seriously?” I ask, barely able to spit out the word without hissing like a wet alley cat. “You want me to be quiet, follow you around like a—a servant and blindly obey you?”

His scowl deepens.

I scowl back, unable to keep my arms from flailing in frustration as he turns his attention to studying his fingernails.

Since he’s not talking to me, I scan the room. Twice as big as Penya’s, this room is deep and narrow like the weapons rooms we passed. Fabric and trimmings spill from containers stacked in every possible space. Winding paths spin away from where we stand, curving around buckets of colorful dye and loose piles of white linen and cotton. It’s less stuffy than the hallway, and I spot a few leafy plants teetering on narrow shelves. At the back, a wide window stands open, and there’s a screen of bushes and trees a few feet beyond, blocking either her view or someone else’s. A few small birds hop between branches, and their songs trail through the open window.

Like a hummingbird, Anna flits from the stacks, pulling rolls of fabric and straps of leather from shelves and cubbies. She darts back and wraps sections around my shoulders, chest, and waist, making tick marks and mumbling. Back and forth, she selects wider sections and different colored leathers, half-compiled pieces, and raw scraps.

“What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?” I ask, even though Constantine’s still scowling and ignoring me. If this is how he plans to train me for the next few days, we’re going to have issues.

With a sigh, he steps closer, taking in the entire length of me from my boots upward, lingering over my hips and chest before continuing to my face. “Nothing—for a barbarian. You reveal everything. I cannot have you dressed like a distraction. You need armor for protection before I can train you, and something that will hide your . . .” His eyes drop to my tight T-shirt. “Your assets.”

Anna returns and pulls my shirt out of my pants before I can react. I grab the material and we get in a tug-of-war.

“Enough!” I yank my shirt free before closing the distance to Constantine and poking his chest. “Either you tell me who Viriato is, why we only have a week to kill him, and any other pertinent details I think I need—”

“Or what?” The corner of his mouth twitches.

I fling my hand toward the door, my voice rising. “I have a perfectly fine life at home. I may not be saving the world, but I’m respected. People ask me nicely when they need things, they don’t insult my clothes or the way I do things, and
I
say which projects I take. That either happens here right now, or I’m out.”

Constantine holds up a hand, halting Anna’s progress. Without complaint, she gathers her fabric and bobs her way across the room where two wide benches flank a small table.

A slow smile spreads across Constantine’s face. “There may be a warrior in you yet.”

I huff. “I think one sullen, overbearing jackass is plenty.”

A short bark of laughter pulls his grin wide. “Possibly.” He extends one hand to me and motions toward Anna’s benches with the other. “Come, sit.”

Nervous about his touch clouding my choice, I cross my arms. He shrugs and walks to the far end of the room before stopping and lowering himself next to Anna. I follow, watching them. In the cozy conversation area, she’s dwarfed by the man leaning into her. Constantine’s crouching form presses close, his cheek against hers, his words too quiet to overhear. One hand rests lightly on her arm, the other drapes around behind her. By the way she’s leaning toward him, I’d say they’re more than familiar with each other.

I stop a few feet away and tap my foot. If he needs some TLC, he can get it on his own damn time.

Anna tips her face to his and presses a light kiss against his cheek before scrambling away. “Bye, nice to meet you, thanks for letting me make your armor,” she says on her way out.

The door closes, and I take my seat and relax until the shock drains from my face. She’s going to take some getting used to.

“When I first arrived in Hispania,” Constantine says, “a goat herder—Viriato—was raiding our camps and stealing valuables. The raids escalated. His troops slaughtered countless Roman soldiers and ignited rebellions across Lusitania.

“To end his foolish raids and grandstanding, we laid a trap for him. Viriato escaped and led survivors to safety. That move branded him a leader among the outlying tribes.

“Five years passed and with them, many clashes. One battle found Romans as captives.” He looks over my shoulder and shakes his head, as if unable to fathom how it happened. “He forced a peace treaty then, allowing our defeated soldiers to go home, but he demanded Rome respect his borders and identify the Lusitanians as
amici populi Romani
—friends of the Roman people. For years, we have tried to capture him—”

“But you’re the Roman Army,” I say, unable to keep from interrupting. “It seems impossible that one man could cause so much trouble.”

“I have no explanation. He’s defeated every surge we’ve attempted. His movements have thrice been such the inverse of ours I wondered if he had a spy among my men.”

“Isn’t all of Spain—uh, Hispania—at war? Why does this guy matter so much?”

“He’s a profound leader to these remaining tribes of the North. If we can eliminate him, the other insurgents will fall and our occupation of Hispania will be complete.”

“What about the peace treaty?”

Constantine tenses his upper body. “What the Senate does has no bearing on the battlefield. They pick and choose which peace treaties to ratify, ignoring the slaughter of their own countrymen. If we are to gain and maintain control, Viriato must be killed, peace treaty or no.”

“But won’t that come back on you?”

“It would . . . if we hadn’t acquired your talents. With you, we can penetrate his camp with a small pocket of soldiers. Viriato keeps a small group of men close, but our efforts to infiltrate them have been—like everything else—unsuccessful. With you, that will work to our advantage. We can strike deep and, if you’re capable of what Penya thinks you are, instantly. Perhaps it might even appear accidental, so no one thinks we breached the treaty.”

I cross my legs and pull my braid forward, brushing it across my lips. “I don’t like it. He’s just a guy, a rancher, fighting to protect his home. You’re the invaders, the aggressors. Why should I help you?”

“The
why
is Penya’s concern. She approached me years ago with information we needed to win a major battle. Her information has yet to fail me, which is why I trust her implicitly where you’re concerned.”

“And you call
me
a sorceress?” I ask.

“Wouldn’t you?”

I look away.

“If your home were as exciting as you’d like me to believe, you wouldn’t keep returning,” he says quietly. “Something here attracts you. Besides, I know you want to play with your powers, learn them, use them. I don’t know what your world looks like, but here you have places to exercise and test your abilities.”

I can’t exactly throw lightning around in parking lots back home. “But I’m not killing anyone there.”

“You won’t need to here. You just need to get me close enough.”

I take in the breadth of him, how his wide shoulders sweep into a broad back and muscled chest, his frame narrowing only slightly at his hips before flaring again in bunches of deadly muscle on his thighs. Not exactly someone you can sneak into a place. “Where am I supposed to hide you?”

He steeples his fingers against his lips, aggravatingly patient while he waits for my answer before divulging even the tiniest hint of the training that’s to come. 

Maybe home is a little dull, and sometimes building bikes gets repetitive . . . and there
is
this prophecy thing. First-ever female rider sounds cool. While I’m not sure I’m ready to off someone just to infuse my day-to-day with a little excitement, Constantine did hit the lightning thing right on point. It calls me constantly, begs me to use it. It’s like ice on my fingertips, a constant reminder that it’s there, just below the surface.

My parents are scarcely willing to talk about our heritage. They preferred to thrust my sisters and me into this new American culture instead. I don’t speak Spanish. I don’t know the history. And now I’m teaming up with the crew responsible for extinguishing a Spanish legend. Clearly my loyalties hang out in the shallow end of the pool.

Not a newsflash.

I cross my arms. “Fine. But you will stop keeping me in the dark. If I’m going to help you, I get to know what’s going on. Don’t expect me to take your orders just because everyone else thinks you’re important.”

“Fine.” He stands. “Anna will finish your armor. We have much to do. First, you must obey Penya and return to Ilif, smooth things over. Return quickly.”

So much for chit-chatty Constantine. I extend my hand, and he tugs me from the bench, catching me by the arms before I bounce off him.

“Don’t forget to come back,” he says softly.

I step away, open my palm, and build a softball-sized lightning ball. Anna’s room shimmers and fades. My final image is Constantine’s open-mouthed shock.

Chapter 12

My transitions are getting smoother. The colors of Papi’s living room ease into my vision and unfold around me like I’m emerging from a soft afghan. Papi’s voice mingles with Ilif’s in the kitchen.

Papi sounds stressed.

Ilif sounds perplexed.

I’m pretty sure they’ve noticed by now that I’ve arced. I take a step toward the doorway, and like after my last return, a vivid memory assaults me. Someone else’s memory. 

I open a door and see myself standing next to Constantine in Anna’s room. I look us over, but my gaze lingers on Constantine, sweeping over his shoulders, calculating the space between his body and mine, discerning the look on his face.

Holding on to the back of the couch for support, I wait for the memory to wash over me and dissipate. Anna’s emotions cling to mine—concern for Constantine, curiosity about me, deep compassion for their bond.

Then, as suddenly as it appeared, it’s gone and I’m back in my own brain. I shiver.