Shadow Boxer: NA Fantasy/Time Travel (Tesla Time Travelers Book 2)

SHADOW BOXER

Jen Greyson

With the man she loves stuck in ancient Spain, her mentor kidnapped, and her father refusing to embrace their destiny as the only family with the ability to alter history, Evy must go back to work as the lone female lightning rider.

She’ll get a chance to see Constantine when she arcs back to Ancient Rome, but this time he won’t know her. And she’ll have no way to warn him that she’s come to save his daughter.

Even with a success, there won’t be time for his praise, swept into the biggest part of her mission—befriending the super-genius Nikola Tesla at the request of both Ilif and Penya for very different reasons. Tesla’s world-changing patents are at stake and Evy must keep them out of the wrong hands—but does she know who to trust?

Nikola and his work will reveal more questions than answers and force Evy to explore not only her ability as a rider, but as a woman.

C
HAPTER
1

B
ASED
ON
THE
last two, I’m getting an increasingly bad taste for Tuesdays.

“Damn.” I grind my teeth as the needle stitches color onto my right shoulder blade.

Brin rakes a paper towel across the bloody area and slathers Vaseline over my new tattoo. “Wanna see?”

I press my shirt over my boobs and hop off the chair. The ache in my back radiates through my entire arm, but I peer over my shoulder at my reflection and his impromptu handiwork. High on my right shoulder blade, he’s painted a vibrant orange-yellow sun with a crescent moon piercing the bottom, and eight long strands of lightning radiating outward in feathery bolts. Day blurs into night and back again, held together by nothing more than lightning. A perfect illustration of time’s chaotic movement for me.

I gingerly pull my shirt on. “Nice.” One-word answers are enough here. I’m not capable of much else.

“Eighty bucks work?”

I dig in my front pocket for a crumpled hundred. My waistband slides over my hip and I grimace at how much weight I’ve lost. I don’t like being this skinny. I want my curves back.

Brin takes the cash, enveloping my hands between both of his. “Merry Christmas, Evy. You have plans?”

I force my gaze to stay steady, though I wince inside. “Dinner with the folks.”

“Cool.” He lets me go and taps the cash register, popping open the drawer.

I wave away his money. “Keep it.”

He jams the bill into the drawer and hums “Jingle Bells."
“Thanks, babe. Don’t be such a stranger.”

I test a smile and fight the burn stinging my eyes. “Thanks for fitting me in. Tell Tasha we need to go out for a drink.”

He walks me to the door and holds it open. “She’d like that.”

Back in Papi’s truck, I roll my shoulders. Even though some of the tension is gone, I still fight to stay above water. Please let this get easier. I’m going to run out of skin if this is how I have to unload the stress of an arc every time.

A snow-covered Accord slides toward my bumper and I brace for the impact, but the driver gains control at the last second and waves in apology. She grins, buoyed by the Christmas packages piled high in the back of her car. I manage to lift my hand in forgiveness. If only the rest of my problems were that easy.

I shift Papi’s truck into drive and pull out of the snowy parking lot, grateful he didn’t let me take my bike. I know he’s worried about me, but I don’t know how to reassure him—or if I even can. Not that he’s faring much better than I am, but at least he’s had a couple months to come to grips with what we are.

Lightning leaps from my fingertips and rings the gearshift. Another bolt races around the steering wheel. My heartbeat steadies and my chest expands with a calming fullness. I need to play with it again. Nothing else can get me balanced and centered like my lightning. My throat tightens and I fight the flood of memories.

Empty streets guide me home, but as I pass each driveway overflowing with visitors settling in for the long holiday weekend, my chest tightens and the stiffness returns to my shoulders. I suppose I need to decide where I’m going to spend it as well. Someone’s shoveled my driveway, and I park between the small mounds of snow.

It’s weird to be back here in my own house. I’ve spent what feels like months between Papi’s house and ancient Spain. Everything here is so… normal. Bamboo floors gleam, the stainless-steel kitchen is unused as ever, and the couch and gadgets remain untouched.

I pace the length of my living room. The plan Papi and I formed earlier disintegrates as quickly as I try to recall the details. It seemed so easy and simple while we talked through saving Aurelia and then rescuing Penya.

I pull a blue strand of lightning from my middle finger and twist it around my hand, covering and uncovering my fingers. That’s not the right order. Penya’s abduction weighs on me, but not just because I failed to save her in the forest. That whole situation doesn’t feel right. The longer I wait to save her, the more chances of something going wrong. She thinks Aurelia is important—and I completely agree—but leaving Penya to Ilif’s mercy until I save Aurelia makes me uneasy.

The lightning jumps and pops around my hand. I close my eyes and inhale, drawing the cord of light out and back in a slow rhythm. When my mind empties and the unease quiets, I snuff the lightning and return to my living room.

Badly as I want to leave this decision up to someone else, I need to decide between the two. Time travel should not be this hard. In a perfect world, I could stop time and do both. Ilif is both the wild card and the ultimate pain in my ass.

My shoulders sag and I run a hand over my braid. It’s crusted and beyond grunge. I have no idea the last time I washed it—a week ago, a month? Time holds no meaning for me anymore.

I growl and shake my arms. “Snap out of this, Evy! Do something. Anything!”

A shower will help me sort things out. Right now any movement is progress.
 

I toe my boots off and pad across the floor to the bathroom. Even the opulence of my simple place is jarring. I twist the knob on the shower and peel my T-shirt off, wincing at the new soreness on my back and the days-old scrape on my forearm.

The one Constantine gave me.

Tears burn the back of my eyes, and I swallow and scramble to get myself under control. We knew it was an impossible situation. We knew a relationship wouldn’t work. As I shimmy out of my pants, my fingers brush the bruise on my hip where he had me pressed against the rock wall of his bedroom while my naked limbs entwined with his. I can’t hold the sob anymore. It bursts free in a tortured wail.

My hand flies to my lips and I bite my fist. No falling apart. Even though I gave myself permission to do it once I was alone, this is no time for a meltdown. Only a few hours until Christmas dinner, and I need days to purge all this.

I grip the edge of the sink and lean over the marble countertop, avoiding my image in the mirror. My braid slithers over my shoulder like his fingers across my skin. I squeeze my eyes shut and block everything. Bolts absentmindedly extend from my hands. They skitter across the counter and retract like an electric yo-yo.

I force a breath into my lungs and hold it then let it seep out. The exhale shakes as it leaves my lips, but I calm, even if just a small amount. On trembling legs, I turn toward the shower and check the water temperature. I slip my fingers beneath the waistband of my boy shorts—
Thunk.

Something hits the closed door.

I freeze.

It can’t be Ilif. Not yet. Not here.

I hold my breath. Straining for any sound, any indication of which stranger prowls my hallway.

Ilif doesn’t know where I live.

He’s never been here, but who knows what kind of tracking software he uses to monitor me now. If he’s using Penya to compensate for his shortcomings, he could go anywhere… even here.

I force air from my lungs before I hyperventilate. I’m a warrior and need to effing act like one.

Down the hallway, the floor creaks, but the silence stretches too long for a footstep. I press myself against the door and listen again. Nothing. Steam curls above my head and against the ceiling, swirling and billowing in white clouds.

I flick the light off and let my eyes adjust then curl my fingers around the doorknob and twist, concentrating on silence, drawing on all the warrior stealth Constantine taught me. The steam sneaks out before me, my lookout. Tendrils of lightning crisscross my palms. Tensed for battle, I take one big breath and sweep into the hall, silent on bare feet.

Something hard strikes my foot and I stumble. Instinctively, I tuck and lean into the momentum. With a roll and twist so I can see my attacker, I come up on one knee, hands splayed with thick bolts of lightning leaping from my palms. Snapping white bolts extend all the way past the bathroom door.

The hallway looms empty except for a strange, small book propped against the doorframe. I ease toward it, ready for whoever left it.

My ragged breathing and the crackle of electricity are the only noises. Standing, I retract my lightning. I like that my reaction time is getting better. I suppose attacking a book isn’t exactly the right response, but I’d rather be ready than dead. Not that Ilif would kill me… but then again, I’m not one hundred percent positive he wouldn’t.

I march to the stairs and peer over the railing. Nothing moves.

Returning to the book, I crouch and poke at it, but as far as I can tell, it’s exactly what it seems. A leather thong holds the worn cover closed. Deep grooves carve the front, and the edges are worn with what I imagine must have been constant use to make the leather so light. I rub my hand over the smooth surface to wipe away a fine layer of dust then turn it over and examine the back. There’s no writing or anything.

No one sneaks into a house, drops off an old book, and leaves. Whoever left this is coming back. Cold fingers of ice trace my spine. Coming to harm or to help.

With my luck lately, my money isn’t on help.

I tuck the book beneath my arm and turn off the shower. Silence. Still half-naked, I creep upstairs, but all the rooms are empty. Downstairs is the same. I don’t get it.
 

Taking a breath, I relax. It’s no good for me to stay wound this tight. I need to chill until they face me. Nothing I can do until then. I retrace my steps and burrow into the corner of the couch, tucking my feet beneath me. I undo the book’s strap and ease the cover open. Hard slashes of script mark the page, punching me in the gut and yanking me instantly to another place. My fingers trace the letters, recognizing the handwriting from a map drawn nearly two thousand years ago while I stood next to
him
.

If this is someone’s idea of a joke, it’s beyond brutal.

I see him bent over this book, pouring out thoughts, dreams, plans…
 

A sob wrenches from my throat, but I choke it down before it breaks completely free. My lips tremble and I bite them hard until my breathing slows.

I try again. On the page, the words shift from Latin to English.
 

Aurelia mortuus est hodie.

They blur, and I wipe my eyes and spread the tears on my bare thigh in a long, wet streak.

When I begin again, the rich timbre of Constantine’s voice carries the words to my heart.

Aurelia died today. Without me there to save her. She died alone while I busied away the day on trifles of war. A mystery flood carried her away from me forever. Such pain. I am without breath. My grief threatens to consume me. To kill me. Oh, I wish it could. I would die in a flame of grief if it could take away this pain.

My sweet Aurelia is gone. Gone, not to a husband I could choose, but to a lover who stole her from me without warning or apology.

My heart twists until I can’t breathe, but I force myself to keep reading. I flip a chunk of pages to another entry, months later...

I relive the morning of her journey again and again. I search my memory for some indicator of the storm, but I find nothing. I remember her face that morning, her jubilation to visit her friends… her laughter.

I hear it, chasing me through the halls. She calls to me from the grave, beckons me to come and play. This life needs me for something, though I know not what. I can feel it like an abrasion under my finger, for it is the only other feeling I have beyond my pain. I tire of this grief. Would that I could take my sword to it.

I miss her. I miss her so.

My hands drop and the pages fan closed in a cascade of sorrow. There’s more, but I can’t bear another word. Every page is full. When we were together, he brushed the edge of his misery with me, but not like this. I didn’t know…
 

“Oh, Constantine.” I close my eyes and relive the aching horror when we saw a glimpse of her. In that split second I got a clue about how losing her devastated him, but somehow, seeing such emotion in his own hand… It kills me.