Lightning Rider (2 page)

“You’re too late,” she says.

“Where am I?” My words are barely a whisper. Please don’t let this be hell.

“Spain.”

I blanch. “No. No this is . . . somewhere else. This is a war zone. Why does Spain look like this?”

“Because she never fell to Rome. Start at the beginning, rider.”

Another flash of lightning.

I’m yanked away with the snap of a slingshot and plunged into darkness.

The bike is between my legs again. I shake my head hard to try and clear what I’ve just seen. Then, like a wild stallion startled by the clap of thunder, the bike leaps forward.

I wasn’t hit. Was I?

The bike surges up the mountain, gaining speed with every corner. Our oneness is gone. Now I’m an intruder, a helpless passenger. The trees are no longer distinguishable as individuals, the landscape blurs in the black. The bike’s headlight spears the night ahead, but my vision is obscured by the remnant of the blue bolt that hit the tree.

I fight through the pain, navigating the corners by feel and hope. The engine screams as the RPMs climb. If I can’t shift soon, the engine is toast.

Another turn.

I take it wide, and we drift into the oncoming lane. Not a single car has passed me on this road, and I clamp my jaw, searching through the semi-blindness for any oncoming headlights around the next curve.

The bike dies. 

“Shit! No!”

It decelerates hard, and I fight the thousand-pound dead fish and struggle to keep it upright. Navigating to the edge of the lane is a tricky balancing act, and I’m all too aware of the river a few feet away from the pavement.

The bike rolls to a stop and teeters, but my feet feel glued to the pegs. They finally come loose and I get them on the ground, but I’m trembling all over. Tiny electrical surges race along my nerves, like marching fire ants. I pry my fingers off the handlebars and rub them against my thighs to get the blood flowing again. The friction sets off a wild cluster of blue sparks.

Now my vision’s messed up, too. I flick my hand, but it only sends a bigger web of sparks shooting into the darkness. Okay, it’s not just my vision that’s jacked. The way my guts tingle, it’s as if the lightning has turned me into a huge ball of static electricity. I snap my fingers to test it and a spray of mini lightning bolts fracture into the darkness.

“Whoa.” I shudder.

I gulp air, but the goggles are too tight on my nose and I can’t get enough. My fingers fumble with the clasp under my chin. I clench my hands to stop them from shaking.
Breathe, Evy.

My helmet pops loose and I toss my goggles in, then wedge the whole pile against the handlebars. I inhale, focusing on the rise and fall of my chest and trying really hard to ignore the jagged blue streaks roaming over the bike. Are they residue from the strike? Does this happen when any idiot rides a metal lightning rod a dozen feet from where a bolt kisses the earth, or is it just me?

Truth presses against my skull, but I busy myself with retying my bandana over my braid with trembling fingers. Floating strands escape, but I jam them under the fabric. Whether I want to admit it or not, I’ve always known something intensely strange would happen if I ever found myself anywhere near a strike. 

And now I’ve got these freaky baby lightnings clinging to me and the bike. Acting all too cozy with me.

And me with them.

Like we’ve played together before.

My entire body vibrates with a toxic cocktail of fear, adrenaline, and electricity. I need to get home, but I’ve got way bigger problems than a thieving ex-boyfriend.

Red and blue flashes illuminate the canyon as the patrol car pulls up behind me.

“Fantastic.”

I drop my head forward and gulp oxygen. A coppery tang of blood slides across my tongue, startling me. I must have bit it when the bike took off. I take a couple of shallow breaths as the cop’s car door opens. I’ve got to act normal. The last thing I need is for him to think I’m wasted.

A blue ball of light hovers in the right half of my vision, and the acrid stench of burning wood floats amid the pine needle scent.

Feet crunch on the gravel, and I lift my head, excuses ready.

“Good evening,” the cop says.

“Hi.” Half his face is a bright blue ball, and short answers are about all my tongue will manage.

“Everything okay? You can’t park here.” He waves his flashlight over me.

“The bike died.” I shrug, hoping it doesn’t look like a seizure.

“Need a tow?”

“No.” I don’t want to be stuck waiting. “It should start now. I’ll go.”

I must not have sounded convincing, because he hesitates as if making up his mind about me. And just like every other time I’ve been within thirty feet of a cop, he says, “Why don’t you give me your license and registration?”

I unzip my jacket pocket across my shoulder and dig them out. As he takes them, a twisting strand of blue light arcs between our fingers.

He yanks his hand back and shakes it once. I hold his gaze. Good luck figuring me out, because I don’t have a clue what’s going on with those.

He reads the name on my driver’s license. “Evy Rivera, huh? You related to Vic Rivera?”

Great, a fan. “I’m his daughter.” 

He smiles in wonderment. “Man, I used to watch him box when I was a kid. He was something.”

“Yeah,” I say, hesitant to get into a conversation about my papi’s record or his knock-outs or anything else that’s going to keep me out here for one second longer.

He turns and marches to his car, his steps a little hurried now. I sigh, grateful for the time to pull myself together, and notice more blue strings of light shooting down my leather pants. These snakes of electricity winding their way across my body are definitely a new side effect—usually there’s just pain. A normal person would probably show a little fear, but that’s always been half my problem. I don’t have normal reactions.

Besides, what harm could these teeny-tiny lightning remnants cause?

They zig and zag in erratic patterns. Thin hairs when they first appear, they grow as thick as my finger while traversing the surface of my clothes. I stab my finger into the middle of an especially bright, jagged one as it streaks down my leg. It flares where I touch it but continues its course, dissipating around my knee. I twist my head around to see if the cop is paying attention—these things must make me look like a frigging strobe light. He’s busy on his computer, trying to find something to ticket me for.

Another bolt fires from the crease at my hip and crisscrosses the black leather.

Thunder rumbles again, and a handful of silver threads on my thigh change to thick snakes of light. They untangle and slither down my pants, leaving an icy, tingling trail.

I should definitely be afraid.

The cop approaches, but when he’s still two strides away, the electrical snakes snuff out.

Trippy.

When he hands my stuff back, no sparks erupt this time. I jam my documents into my pocket while waiting for his sentence.

“All checks out,” he says, mild surprise in his voice. “Tell your dad he was fantastic.”

Right, because he’s been looking for a president for his fan club. “Sure. Can I go, then?”

“Yep. Get home and out of this storm.” As if in answer, a huge raindrop splits the air between us. Two more drops fall across the gas tank. I flinch as the lightning’s forewarning singes my nerves.

It flashes far above but close enough to illuminate us both. He reads the pain on my face and, cataloging it as fear, extends a hand toward my elbow, in full protective mode now.

“Are you sure you’re okay in the rain?”

“Just fine.” I slip my helmet on and force myself to turn the key. The engine roars to life like the day I installed it. He steps back and waves me around in a U-turn. I ease into the opposing lane and accelerate to the speed limit. 

Raindrops hit me like bullets as I wind my way down the mountain. I’m grateful the house is less than five minutes away. Nick had better be gone.

A red gas can signal flashes on the dash.

You’ve got to be kidding me.

I had half a tank when I left the shop. No way my devil ride used it all. Must have been vaporized when the lightning struck. Is that even possible without blowing it up?

I don’t want to stop, but I’ll never make it back to the station in the morning if I don’t fill up now.

What a shitty end to my day.

I roll into the gas station as the engine sputters. Nice to see I made one good choice today. I scan my card and set the lip of the nozzle in the tank. The readout beeps.

“Declined? What the—” I swallow the curse, trying to hold my temper as I look inside the store window. Devon’s working. I push the intercom. “Hey, what’s the deal with my card?”

His dark head bends to check the readout, and he shrugs, lips against the speaker. “Says your card was declined. You not making any money up at that fancy-pants shop anymore?”

I force a laugh. A dark foreboding drips down my back with an icy raindrop. “I only need a gallon. Hook me up and I’ll swing back in the morning with cash.”

“Yeah. Like I haven’t heard that before.” He grins behind the glass.

“Today, Devon.”

He pushes buttons and gives me a thumbs-up. I fill the tank and roar out of the station. I don’t want to consider the current location of the four grand that was in my account this morning, but I have a pretty good idea, and its name is Nick. Too bad Mrs. Steinaman doesn’t have a curtained window at the bank so she could have warned me of that, too.

I pull onto my sidewalk and barely let the bike stop before I’m off and plowing through my front door.

Behind me, Mrs. Steinaman open hers and calls after me, “You’re too late, dear.”

A blue halo lingers in my vision, plunging the entryway into a lopsided darkness. I slow and feel my way along the wall to the staircase. The three-story townhouse seemed like a good idea when I bought it two years ago, but tonight it feels like the long climb to the hangman’s noose. Fury propels me up the first flight. Even though his car is gone, I’m itching for him to be here.

At the second landing, I scan the kitchen. Dark wood floors shine, and the counter gleams empty.

Normal. Maybe I was wrong.

I lean my jacket and helmet against the corner of the wall and walk to the fridge. My boots echo louder than usual in the room.

I freeze, close my eyes, and turn toward the living room.

Drawing one big breath deep into my lungs, I brace myself.

“Mother of dickholes.”

I chew my lip and survey my living room. Not only did he take the stupid gaming chair I bought him, but the dick took my magazine rack and my new issue of
Latina
. He also made off with my leather couch and the entertainment center that took three paychecks to buy. At last I see the giant hole gaping in the middle of the wall, cables dangling.

I roar.

A sizzle of blue light streaks down the left side of my pants.

I feel for the tingle of the bolt and snatch it off my pants, meaning to flick it away. The moment my hand closes around it, the bolt responds. It snaps and rolls, extending a few feet from my hand but with actual substance—like I’m holding an electric eel. I didn’t mean to grab it, but now that I have, it feels so right. There’s no sting, and it’s cold, not hot. I turn my hand over, and it falls toward the floor, extending a few more feet.

“Maybe this isn’t such a shitty day after all.”

With no idea what to do, I let fury and embarrassment fuel my actions. My lips curl up over my teeth, and my biceps twitch. I close my eyes and see myself throwing a lance of lightning through that bastard’s heart. I swing the rope of light over my head like a bullwhip, and it extends and retracts with each rotation. The motion comes naturally, like I was born to it, like the bolt is as much an extension of me as the bike. I whip my hand to the floor, and the bolt cracks and sizzles. What I wouldn’t give for Nick to be in this room right now.

Nick. I fist my hand and squeeze the lightning. What kind of dumb ass leaves her extra debit card with the PIN on a sticky note in the silverware drawer?

I trusted him. I trusted him with my home, my money, and my heart. I’m not sure which one makes me feel more foolish.

Nothing of his remains in the room to destroy. Not much of mine either—a dirty coffee cup, a punching bag that’s screwed into the ceiling, a set of drumsticks. I pace the length of my living room, the silvery blue rope dangling from my fingers. It trails behind me like a tail, writhing and popping against the floorboards.

I drag the lighting forward, and it roils and twists until I’m holding a blue ball in my palms. My heart pounds, and I stare into the crackling mass of the most badass weapon I’ve ever wielded.

A blue hue colors my empty living room, and the reminder of why everything is gone plunges me into a deep abyss and back to the day’s low point.

I ricochet between that and the high of this new toy, and finally berate myself that I still haven’t learned. Even with this coolest-ever distraction,
defeat drags at my limbs like I’ve pulled a thirty-six-hour build, and the glowing ball fades. I rub my hands together, frantic not to let this dream come to an end, but the ball winks out and reality crashes over me. My emptied-out living room. My bamboo floors crisscrossed with burn marks. My ruined night in a long string of ruined nights.

Nick and his stupid timing. Figures. He’d ruined my birthday, Valentine’s Day, and last Wednesday, too.

Scrounging for a degree of normalcy, I march to the fridge. Big surprise—he’s emptied that, too. Now I have no couch, no tunes, and no beer.

I hang my head and let the dread wash over me before I close the door on my empty shelves.

What else has he made off with? My head snaps up. “So help me, if he . . .” I drop the curse and jog up the stairs to the bedrooms on the third floor. He’s left the master bedroom door ajar.

Empty.

In three hours? How the hell does a lazy piece of shit empty an entire apartment in three hours? He could barely get himself dressed in half that time.

At the spare bedroom, I rest my head against the door, my hand on the knob. I don’t want to see the expanse of carpet on the other side, but I have to know for sure. There’s no reason he would have stopped at this point, not after taking everything else.