Tesla Time Travelers Books 1-3: Tesla Time Travelers

Chapter 1

A storm is coming.

And not just the one overhead tonight. I’m about to rain one down on that jerk Nick I was dumb enough to date.

There used to be nothing higher on my Things to Hate list than lightning. Thanks to this stunt, Nick just catapulted to the top. Lightning makes me hurt. Nick makes me feel.

My plan tonight was to work late, sculpt some steel, avoid any altercation with this giant brewing storm, and go home in the morning to bright sunshine. Figures Nick would find a way to screw that up.

I huff, fogging my goggles. He couldn’t follow directions during our entire relationship. Not sure why I’m surprised he’s not following them now.

Lightning forks overhead, and I flinch. Squeezing my thighs tighter against the gas tank, I twist the throttle and send a pulse of horsepower through me. Too bad it does nothing to ease the pain. Streetlights turn to strobes as I race along the empty two-lane highway. Pools of light chase away the heavy darkness of the storm. Moist air filled with the promise of rain lashes my hands and neck, filling my helmet with its strong perfume.

I can hold my own in the shop against bearded bikers, sculpt a precision instrument from raw metal, but I get all stupid when a gringo tells me he likes my curvy Latina ass. At this point in my dating career, I’d take a Neanderthal; at least then I’d know what I was getting. Good thing I gave Nick all that cash last week, too. Never going to see that again. I want to bang my head against something.

Another twisted fork of light spears the blackness, illuminating the snow-capped Wasatch Mountains that ring Salt Lake. The uneven light makes the peaks curl forward like monsters chasing me through the darkness on the deserted highway, but the Frankensteins in my belly worry me more. Lightning brings them to life like a thousand tiny cobras, writhing and striking me from the inside out.

Beneath my wide drag bars, skulls dance across the gas tank, animated by the night’s shifting personality. The sharp snap of ozone captures my attention. I risk a glance at the storm clouds pressing against the mountain peaks. Blue bolts race across the underside of their black bellies, tumbling over one another like baby demons gathering inside an enormous beast. It inhales, preparing to belch a stream of pain through me.

One day I’ll figure out why I’m so attuned to lightning. Tonight I just want to survive.

The rumble of thunder is lost beneath the vibration of the bike, but as each bolt rips apart the black sky, the lightning’s sting activates my every nerve ending, as if I’m plugged in to the electricity pulsing through the air. Blindfolded, I could mark where each white-hot finger splits the night. It’s mirrored with nasty precision along the inside of my ribs. Big storms like this make me feel like I’ve swallowed a bug zapper and a wasp’s nest.

Another ping fires low in my belly, and I hold my breath until the pain subsides.

I hate lightning. Hate it. I can’t believe I’m willingly riding through it, though I’m glad my nosy neighbor, Mrs. Steinaman, called to tell me what was going on. Why couldn’t he just move his own stuff out and leave mine alone? We had a plan.

He’s such a douche.

Which makes me the idiot. It’s not like he’s been Prince Charming. Ever.

He was Mr. Hyde the day I met him, and when I saw a flicker of Dr. Jekyll, I thought I could change him. Lesson number one in Evy’s new dating handbook—you can’t change a monster, especially one wrapped in good looks.

Shit. I swerve around a puttering Toyota Camry going the speed limit, then cut back into my lane. Time to pay attention.

Red light. I release the throttle, and the bike growls in dissent. We roll to a stop, and I plant my feet on the pavement. Sweaty leather sticks to the back of my right knee, and I try to shake it out while I stare at the traffic light.

Come on, come on.

My flat screen better damn well be where I left it.

A lone Prius rolls across the dark intersection, its hybrid purr hidden beneath the loud growl of my chopper. I rev my engine, hoping to scare it across faster. Finally the cross-traffic light flashes yellow, reflected across the Prius’s rear window, and I tap the gearshift down. Green light. My bike roars, and the intersection disappears. Ahead, a blue Tacoma lumbers up a short incline, and I miss its bumper by a few inches.

Seriously, who let all the lousy drivers out tonight? I need wide open roads and no cops.

Why did I buy a place so far from the shop? Because I was a sucker for the big garage and the insane view of the entire city from the master bedroom. Tonight I may actually learn the meaning of the word consequences.

I glance at the dark sky and weigh my current choices. Should I take the I-15 or shortcut over the mountain? The construction on the interstate won’t be any better than it was this morning, especially when it starts to rain. I shiver.

While I ponder a giant orange obstacle course, Mrs. Steinaman’s shaking whispers echo in my head. I can almost see her little gray curls as she sits by the window, peeking through the curtains. Evy, honey, he’s taking everything. He already loaded your couch. I know that’s your couch, not his. I watched you move it in. Better hurry.

Shortcut.

The street hugs a jutting finger of the steep mountainside, and I shift my weight to mimic the curve and glance down at the speedometer.

Wonder if I can break a hundred before I hit the intersection? As a challenge, the light turns yellow up ahead. Not a chance I’m sitting through another red.

I speed up and lean into the corner, my leg near the pavement as I turn up the narrow canyon carved through the towering mountains. Sparks erupt as the foot peg carves the asphalt. Elation mingles with my anger.

Spark, baby, spark.

Every part of me molds against the bike like we’re one machine, and I bring us upright on the straightaway. Flat expanses of deserted parking lots stretch wide on both sides of the road, large pine trees standing sentry along the edges. This climb is normally my favorite spot in the city, especially at night. Soaring over the twinkling city lights at dangerous speeds, weaving in and out of traffic, whipping past hulking trees. It’s beautiful and dangerous—my recipe for life.

Intimate with every twist, dip, and slick spot, my foolish confidence lures me to the center line as we climb. Each shift of weight works against the knot of emotions swirling in my belly, stripping away everything but the basics.

Streaks of lightning overhead twist the forest lining the narrow mountain road into swirling Paso Doble dancers, and I push the bike faster. The storm closes in, and I measure the distance by the intensity lancing through my map of nerves. I’m pressing my luck. Should’ve taken the train or called Papi.

Clearly I’m hunting the Guinness record for bad decisions tonight.

If the storm catches me before I make it home, I’m screwed. There’s no way I can handle the bike through the pain.

Dr. Parzych says I’m sensitive, but it’s more than that. No one I know feels like this during electrical storms. It’s like my bones are made of metal, like somehow every pipe I’ve ever bent has become a part of me. Each lightning strike reverberates along my body, singing like a hellish tuning fork.

There’s nowhere along the canyon to hole up. I’ve got to make it all the way. At least there’d have been the occasional Maverick or McDonald’s at every exit if I’d taken the highway.

In a darkly comedic answer, the entire sky brightens with multiple strikes above the valley. We haven’t had an electrical storm like this in a decade. Thanks a lot, Nick, you stupid jackass.

To my right, the creek boils over rocks and rips a path under trees, leaving roots reaching over the bank like mangled fingers. I fill my lungs with rain-drenched air and taste the scent of the pine needles on my tongue. I downshift as the curves in the road tighten, and the brisk mountain wind bathes my face.

A brilliant flash washes the night away as a sizzling bolt of electricity pounds a forty-foot pine on my left. Sparks rain down as the entire canyon lights up like it’s noon.

The shockwave nearly tears me from the bike, and my guts twist as if I’ve just slammed a pint of Jack Daniels. I gasp. Pain sears me, locking my muscles. My fingers clamp down on the throttle, and I can’t pull them free. Dash instruments illuminate like they’re powered by a thousand volts, and the engine races. For a millisecond, the bike tries to die and time freezes.

Blackness surrounds me.

How the hell does the power go out on a mountain?

Another blinding light bombards me. I flinch and tuck my cheek against my shoulder, waiting for the lightning strike.

The intense white fades into a sandy color stretching in every direction. An older woman stands at a completely different roadside. My bike is gone.

Abuelita? I ask, stunned this is what death looks like.

She steps closer, and as she does, I realize it’s not her. Profound sadness tugs the wrinkles around this stranger’s eyes until they almost melt into her leathery cheeks. A mournful wail in the opposite direction spins me around. Amid a pile of bodies, a small child clings to a limp hand. I choke back a cry and raise my hand to my mouth.

Crumbled buildings lean on each other for support. Bodies, some alive and most not, clutter the doorways. The stench of decay and forgotten life overwhelms me.

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 walking 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 bolt? 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 fly free, but I jam them under the material. 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 mixture 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 tinge of blood slides across my tongue, startling me. I must have bit it when the bike took off. I take a couple 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 one-word 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 wait, 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, a tiny silver thread crisscrossing 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 reappears at my side, and at his approach, 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 of 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 up the pavement 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 down and feel my way along the wall to the first stair. 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 now, 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. I take a second to acknowledge I’ve just wielded the most badass weapon ever concocted.

A blue hue colors my empty living room, and I remember why everything is gone. My emotions crackle and flare like the ball I hold.

I ricochet between anger and disappointment that I still haven’t learned. I can’t stop myself from focusing on the disappointment. Even with the 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 feeling of 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.

Blue lights splinter from the doorknob, reaching outward. The lightning isn’t gone after all. I fight the giddy surge that accompanies it.

With a twist of the knob, I push the door open. Moonlight bathes the room in a silvery glow.

I stare for a moment before exhaling. With one flicker of decency, Nick left my drums. I pull the door shut and my shoulders drop. My brain fumbles in slow motion, and I can’t remember whether I saw Ike when I came in the house.

He wouldn’t!

I’m chased down the steps by the memory of Nick’s crude comments about turning Ike loose to fend for himself in the wild.

After the last step, I hit the wood floor in the kitchen and scramble to make the corner. I fly down the next set of stairs and jump the last three.

I turn too fast, catch the chunky toe of my boot on the last entryway tile, and twist my ankle as I hit the ground. My elbow lands on the edge of the tile in the gap between grout and carpet. Pain jolts up my arm. It’s a tenth of the pain from tonight’s storm, and I stagger to my feet and stumble toward Ike’s aquarium across the room.

My ankle won’t hold the weight, so I limp the last few feet. The glare from the light reflects on the glass, and nothing moves.

I yank the heavy lid and send Ike racing to the other side of his big glass enclosure. A piece of paper flutters into his cage and settles on his head. I reach in to stroke his spikes, and the note slips from his head. He leans into my palm, safe.

Graffitied with Nick’s dark slashes, the note lies half in Ike’s water dish, and I pick it up to see what brilliant prose he’s left behind.

I never liked this stupid lizard and you can’t play drums for shit.

Dick. I crumple the paper and hold it in my palm.

Just to see how cool this new toy is, I glare at the paper and command it to burst into flames. Nothing. I try again and get the same result.

I hold it out for Ike. His tongue flicks, and he munches the paper into mushy pulp.

He’s not a stupid lizard, jackass—he’s a Red Iguana. And about a thousand times the man Nick is.

I bite my lip and force myself not to be upset. He’s a textbook asshole. I should be skipping around, overjoyed at the twist of fate that forced our lives apart.

Above Ike’s cage, the air conditioner clicks on, and I shiver. I run my hand along the top of Ike’s aquarium and hang my head. No more taking guys at face value, no more blind trust in their lies, no more creeps, no more thieves, no more dicks.

Ike bumps my hand and waddles to his empty food bowl. Whether he ran out of time or vengeance, Nick had left everything in this part of the house alone. Handy, since he hadn’t left anything in the fridge.

I dig slices of dried melon from the Tupperware dish on the shelf above Ike’s enclosure before scratching under his wide mouth while he slurps the orange squares.

I plop a few more pieces in his cage. Tears blur my vision, and I swipe my eyes with the back of my hand so I can make out the small tin at the back of the shelf.

I shake the tin just to be sure. The melodic rattle of its contents loosens the knot in my belly, and I set it next to Ike’s aquarium and wrestle the heavy lid back into place. Later, buddy.

He scratches the glass with his long claws.

I grab my tin, hobble to the front door, and stare at the deadbolt. Nick has a key, and there’s not much I can do about it. As I flick the light switch next to the doorframe, a tiny line of electricity leaps from my finger.

With a laugh that sounds a little dark, I guide the bolt across the wall to the deadbolt. The metal glows with the same blue jumping light, and I trace the circle of the lock, fascinated.

Even after dropping my hand, the tiny strand of lightning stays in place, slithering and arcing across the metal surface. I cradle the tin and grip the banister, hopping up the flight one stair at a time.

On the landing, I glance back at the blue stream of electricity locking me in. That dark, glowing place in my belly hopes Nick comes back tonight and tries his key.

Chapter 2

An orchestra of rock music, grinders, and torches serenades me through my workday. Another cloud passes over the sun, dimming the room and jerking my attention to the high window. There’s still some blue sky. While I scan the curling edges of the white clouds, I rub the gloved tips of my left hand together, feeling for the slightest tingle, but whatever that was last night stays silent.

I sigh and twist the knob on my torch, killing the flame. After it cuts out, I flip up the welding helmet and survey the weld. Good enough for today.

Bye, boys. I toss the helmet, gloves, and apron on the bench and give the frame a final once-over before leaving.

Three grunts and a high-pitched goodbye escort me to the door, and I slip between everyone else’s rides and onto my own leather cradle.

Jax stands at the garage door, chain in hand. He gives me a hesitant wave and I blow him a kiss, but today the reddening around his ears does nothing for me. I roll past him, and he pulls the big door down behind my bike. I bite my lip. Delaying isn’t going to make this any easier, so I fire the engine and roar away from the shop.

Evidence of last night’s storm litters the route. Gutters overflow with winter debris washed downstream, pink and purple flowers poke up from the damp ground, green shoots tint the edges of winter-burned grass. At the entrance to Mami and Papi’s neighborhood, two tall oaks stand as guardians, their spindled branches stretching toward each other in attempts to unwrap the leaf buds at their tips. I duck my head and barrel up the main street.

One street, two street, yellow park, three. I almost crack a smile at my old silly habit, but then the moment vanishes as I turn into their circle and ease over the bump in the driveway.

I tuck the bike beside his Dodge, kill the motor, and sit. A school bus slows at the intersection, and four neighbor kids tumble out before screeching and shoving their way up the block. Last day of school today.

Enough.

I get off, and my ankle pinches, still sore from last night. Limping, I cruise through the carport, knocking on the back door as I enter.

Papi?

Surrounded by blueprints and a wild assortment of tools in his office, he leans back in his chair. "Hey mija. What’s up?"

Silver-haired and soft from years of family and kids, he barely resembles the world-champion fighter everyone else remembers. I never cared, but sometimes I think he misses the fighting and the traveling. Posters of every conceivable vacation locale plaster the walls, maps cover the desk beneath protective glass, a globe on a stick pokes up from his pen jar. I swallow and force myself to make eye contact.

He smiles, and my nerves melt. Nothing can get me here. Not even my bad choices. I lean against the door and blow out a breath. Tears sting my eyes and I blink rapidly.

That gets him flying out of his chair and wrapping me in an embrace of sweet comfort. I bury my face in his collar but just for a second. He smells like sawdust and peppermint.

I’m fine. Really.

He holds me at arm’s length, and I fidget. Come. Sit. Tell me what’s got you on my doorstep.

As I step away, he pats my wild hair. Rough night?

Mmm. You could say that. I settle into his office chair, and he moves a giant stack of papers to unearth a stool. He climbs on and pats my knee.

Spill it.

I flutter the edge of a set of blueprints. I need a place to crash.

What? Here? Of course you can stay here.

Maybe for a couple weeks. I, um, had to sleep on the floor last night.

What happened? He draws the words out, like he already knows the answer and he isn’t happy about it. It’s the tone of voice I’ve been waiting for. Damn.

Let’s just say Nick is really good at getting even.

You give him money?

Some.

He was going to pay you back, right?

Before I can answer, he drops his chin to his chest like I’ve whipped him. My heart cracks. Will I ever stop disappointing him? After too many seconds, he lifts his face, a slight smile on his lips. He pats my knee again.

"I’m glad you’re home, mija."

I fight the tears and twist my fingers together. Mr. Steinaman’s bringing a few of my things over later.

The walking burrito? he asks.

Iguana. And yes. Ike is nearly the only thing Nick left.

Papi flinches, and my commitment to the new No-Jackass policy renews itself. This wouldn’t happen to my love life if I could find someone like Papi. Loyal, respectful, hard-working, and insanely in love with my mami.

Oh! Didn’t Mami leave today? Are you already a bachelor?

He rolls a pen back and forth across his desk. And Tia Marie picked up the little girls. They’re excited about having a pool. Tiana’s excited about some new neighbor boy of Tia’s. I took your mami to the airport this morning, not that I wanted to. Damn stubborn woman.

Is she really going for the whole summer? I lean back and cross my legs.

He grunts. I guess. Who charges a bunch of abuelitas two grand to paint trees and shrubs for three months?

I nudge his knee with the toe of my boot. Or lets his wife go to the other side of the country for a whole summer?

"Lets, he says. Like I let your mother do anything."

That makes me laugh.

I’m not saying I mind, but seriously, she could at least ask.

My insides warm. You’re a good man, Papi.

He twirls his pen and stares out the window long enough to make me feel uncomfortable. I hope she left on good terms. They haven’t fought for a long time, but then again, I’m not around much. Something that’s going to change.

After a big sigh, he shakes a few antacids from a bottle on the corner of his desk and turns his attention back to me. You eat?

Nope. What are you making me?

He snorts. As if. Your mami spent a week stocking the freezer.

I scrunch my nose. I love Mami’s cooking, but are you sure you want to eat tamales for three months straight? How about Chinese?

He stands and moves toward the door. Don’t tell her, he says over his shoulder. She worked hard so I wouldn’t starve while she’s gone.

Pretty sure she won’t care if we eat out one night.

Have you met your mother?

We laugh, then he gets quiet and does that Papi-stare.

I fidget and drop my gaze to the seam of my pants.

"I really am sorry about what happened, mija."

My pants blur and I blink the tears away. Only when I’m certain there’s no trace do I lift my head. It’s just stuff, right? And money. I’m better without him. I smile through the ache in my chest. Besides, now you won’t have to be alone all summer.

No, but you might. I don’t know how much I’ll be around.

I shrug, trying to act like I don’t care, even though I wouldn’t mind catching a few fights with him, maybe having a beer. Shitty timing. One final win for Nick.

Papi opens his arms. With barely a hesitation I stop trying to be tough and launch myself from the chair. As his arm encircles my shoulders, I’m a little girl again, right where I belong. He gives me a big squeeze, then lets go, like he’s wary of babying me. I stare at my empty hands. It’s me who’s made him feel that way. Maybe this is a chance to right our relationship, mend a few sore spots.

He digs in his shirt pocket and sets a pair of reading glasses on his nose before tilting his head back to read the screen on his phone. I stifle the building giggle.

Let’s see. Chinese place. His fingers work across the screen, but I can see it’s kicking his butt.

I grin and tug it away. Here. Let me do it.

Through his reading glasses, his brown eyes are clear and huge. I can do it.

I laugh. We’ll starve first.

We wander through the back family room toward the kitchen, and I pull up the number of the Chinese place down the street. Before I can call, I miss the first step on the small flight of steps, and my ankle rolls. Stabbing streaks of pain shoot clear up to my knee. I stumble forward, crashing my shin against the second stair, and the phone slips and spins across the tile. I roll onto my side and clench my ankle. Stairs dig into my ribs.

Evy!

I moan. It was just getting better.

Here.

He scoops his hands beneath my arms and helps me stand. I lean on him, and we make it up the last step and into the kitchen. Those damn things get me every time.

I know. One of these days I’m going to redo that room.

He helps me settle on a stool at the breakfast bar, and we prop my foot on another. He goes for ice, and I glare at the short flight of steps leading from the kitchen down into the family room. What a stupid design.

Otherwise, the worn laminate countertop and gold linoleum floor of the small, outdated kitchen is cozy. Some of my favorite memories live here. We pretty much lived in this nucleus growing up.

Papi wrestles with the overstuffed freezer and curses as everything begins to shift. He yanks out an ice pack and slams the door. I make a mental note not to open it anytime soon.

Though he tries to be gentle with the ice pack, it makes me wince, and I turn away. Against the wall, a worn cardboard box sits totally out of place. What’s that?

Not sure. Your mama found it in the attic when she was looking for her brushes and paints. She thought it was my father’s stuff.

I jerk my head. You haven’t opened it yet? Balanced precariously, I lean across the counter and tug it closer. I’ve never seen anything of his.

With surprising quickness, he jumps around the bar and holds the top closed.

Leave it.

The doorbell chimes. Papi’s hands flatten against the flaps, and he rubs the length of them once. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he was afraid. I shift on the barstool, and he looks up from the box.

Stay here. His stern expression says the rest. Stay out.

He and Mr. Steinaman bring in my lone box of stuff and settle Ike into the back bedroom. While they discuss the Cardinals’ chances in the playoffs this year, I scoot closer to the box. Sitting up as high as I can, I crane my neck and lift one flap. The yellowed tape comes away, and I can almost see inside. I lean closer, tipping my barstool up on two legs.

Bye, Evy, Mr. Steinaman calls from the door.

I jerk and slam the stool back down. The flap drops back into place. Thanks Mr. Steinaman. Tell Mrs. Steinaman hello. My voice is too high.

Will do. Hope you’re back soon. He peeks around the corner into the kitchen, his bald head rimmed with a silver crown of short flyaway strands.

I wave.

Papi closes the door and returns to my side. I try to wipe the guilty look off my face.

I’ll grab dinner, he says.

Great! Orange chicken for me. I practically shout. Chill.

Plucking his keys off the low table by the back door, he’s oblivious to my larcenous thoughts. He shrugs into a denim jacket, then pushes the heavy back door open and lets his retriever, Bimni, in through the storm door. Her brown and white coat catches the buzzing fluorescent light, making it shimmer. Hand still on the glass, he peers over the backyard. Looks like it’s going to storm again tonight.

Fantastic, I say with a snort. All my lightning ropes were gone when I woke up this morning, and my meager attempts to recreate them failed. Whatever that was last night, it didn’t stick around. But that doesn’t mean I want a repeat. Even inside Papi’s house, I’m not thrilled about the inevitable pain.

He lets the storm door fall shut but leaves the inner door against the wall, bathing the kitchen in mottled pre-storm light.

Back in a few.

After he ruffles Bimni’s ears, she comes over to say hi to me. She licks my hand, but her eyes never leave Papi as he crosses the kitchen and heads toward the carport door. He tells her to stay, and she whines.

It’s okay. I drop my hand to her neck. When she’s sure he’s not coming back, she pads to her bed, circles twice, and lies down.

When the rumble of his diesel fades from the carport, I scoot closer to the box and slide it away from the wall. Both flaps pop open easily, and I peer inside. A thick book fills the lower third of the box, but that’s all. The leather cover is worn to a smooth tan color along the edges, stained and dark brown along the spine where who-knows-how-many palms have held it. I glance over my shoulder, then dip my hands into the box and ease it out. My fingers barely wrap around it, and I have to prop my knee on the stool for leverage. It’s the same size as the scrapbooks Mami made but thicker. After I get my fingers under it, the box bows enough for me to wrestle it out. As I do, a wooden coin slips off the cover and into the box.

Beneath my hand, the leather is smooth and cool, except for the tooling in the top corner. Diamonds and crisscrossed lines mingle from the spine to the front edge, and they feel warm against my skin. I peer closer.

Hmm. A maze.

I sniff. Instead of smelling like musty paper and leather, it smells like vanilla.

From this angle, I can barely make out the lettering in the lower middle. Rivera is on there in gothic scroll, which kind of makes sense if this was my grandfather’s, but something smaller is printed below it. I pick up the book and tilt it backward and forward. A bright ray of sun breaks through the storm clouds and illuminates the cover.

Lightning Rider.

I drop the book and the loud thump echoes my pounding heart.

What the what?

I flick my fingertips with my thumbs. The lightning, the old woman in my vision who called me Rider, and now this—that’s a few too many coincidences.

My hands clench and relax, then clench again. I peer at the book, waiting for it to… well, do something.

Bimni snores, making me jump.

Gah! Stop being such a girl.

I take a deep breath and dive at it, flipping the cover open. Jumbled bits of scrawled writing line the pages, but I can’t make it out. I lean forward and lift the parched paper. The next page looks the same. I can tell it’s in Spanish, but it’s not exactly legible. So much for finding out anything while Papi’s gone.

A few pages in, the handwriting changes, then changes again, like the book’s been passed down and holds generations of stories.

I rub my hands together and wonder how someone becomes a lightning rider. Whatever it is, it sounds cool.

Behind me, the ping of Papi’s engine warns me, and I close the book and lower it back into the box on top of the coin.

When he comes in, I’m drumming my fingers on the counter and the box is back against the wall.

Pausing on the top step, he twists his head so he’s staring me down with only one eye. I raise my eyebrows and lock down every other muscle.

What?

He sets the grease-stained bag on the counter and grabs plates. How’s your ankle?

Still sore. The absurdity of our conversation makes me want to laugh and scream at the same time.

We load our plates and push food around. I force myself not to scoot farther away from the box. If he doesn’t tear into it soon, I’m going to freak out. Finally, he sets his fork down and stares at the box.

You going to open it?

He runs a hand through his short silver hair. Yeah.

He stands and slips his plate beneath mine, and I shove both to the end of the counter and mop up the grease with a tiny brown paper napkin. With my head bent, I catch him shoving his hands in his back pockets, still afraid of what he’s going to find.

Since I already know what’s in there, I find his reaction… curious.

Want me to do it? I slide my hand across the counter.

He bats it away. No.

With both hands on the box, he tugs it away from the wall, throws open the flaps, and braces his hands flat on the counter before peering into the depths.

He doesn’t flinch. Then his face falls, as if he was hoping for something different. He tugs the book out, none too gently, freeing a collection of smaller booklets that were tucked between the pages. He sets the book on top of them without looking at any of it before going back for the coin and placing it next to the book. Then he tips the box on its end, as if hoping to reveal a false bottom.

Curious didn’t come close.

He sighs and lets the box tip back down.

I curl my fingers curl around the edges of my stool and squeeze, silently begging him to open the book. Or the booklets. Or examine the coin. Any of it.

He brushes his fingers across the cover. This can’t be his.

Are you sure? Chill out.

With a wistful shake of his head, he taps the edge of the coin against the counter.

How’d he die again? I release my grip on the stool and stretch toward the book.

Lightning, he answers softly.

I freeze. Cold electricity spreads through my stomach. The three bites of Chinese feel like sour lumps.

Coincidences no longer exist.

What if it is? I whisper.

He looks up, and horror and pain mingle on his face. What?

"What if it is your father’s?"

You didn’t know him. Hell, I barely did. This isn’t his.

Read it. I tip my chin toward the journal.

He tosses the coin, and I catch it without breaking eye contact. I’m telling you . . .

With a huff, he pulls the book closer and flips it open. A drawing covers the first page.

I roll the coin over and examine the backside.

A similar etched design to that on the page fills the back of the coin. A curved diamond reaches toward the edges, a sharp point on the bottom tip, perfect circles on the other three, and some sort of maze weaving through the middle. Bolts of lightning stretch outward from the silvery orbs.

We lift our heads at the same moment.

I’ve seen this before.

This looks like my top.

What? we ask in unison.

This design, I say. It looks like my top. The one grandma gave me.

That doesn’t make sense. Why would Grandma Reese have something like that on a shirt?

Not a shirt top, a toy top. And it wasn’t Grandma Reese. Abuelita Rosa gave it to me. Your mom.

Now it’s his turn to freeze up. Do you still have it? he asks, his voice a mere croak.

Should be in the box Mr. Steinaman dropped off. I ease my foot off the stool. I never showed it to Nick.

Throbbing rings of pain envelop my ankle, but I make it to my room without a mishap. I find the tin and take a quick second to change out of my work clothes and into some of my sister Tiana’s comfies—a black T-shirt with a sparkling pink jolly roger over gray sweats and rhinestone-encrusted flip-flops. The girl has nothing resembling leather.

I hurry back, and while I’ve been gone, Papi’s found an old bottle of tequila and two glasses. If this situation doesn’t qualify for a drink, I don’t know what does.

The caramel liquid splashes as he fills a short tumbler. While I settle on to my stool, he throws back the first shot and thumps his chest. His eyes water.

Been a while? I scoot my glass toward him and he fills us both. We clink glasses and shoot. I lick my lips. It hasn’t been long since I’ve had a drink, but it has been too long since I’ve had the good stuff. He tucks the bottle on the floor next to his stool and the box.

I hold a small red and white tin, and he pops it open. The toy top rests sideways inside.

Its design is identical to the drawing on the first page of the book and the engraving on the back of the coin.

This design was on his pocket watch, Papi says. And the face of the clock on his nightstand table.

Really?

We never talked about him after he died. My mamá packed away his things, and that was the end of him. I thought. He rubs the back of his neck. I thought she’d packed away memories of him in here.

What is this stuff, Papi?

The booklets don’t make sense—I scanned them and they’re lesson plans or something—and the big journal is worse. It’s just story after story of close-calls and near misses with strangers. He flips to the middle. See? This one . . . He runs his finger down the page. This paragraph describes a flood, and the author saving a woman. This one is a tornado, and saving three children. This one a train wreck… seven people. Car accident… one person. It’s the same thing, over and over.

He looks up. But every page references lightning. I don’t get it.

I might.

I bend around him and reach for the tequila bottle before lifting it to my lips.

Over the bottle, I wince at the burn and his disapproving scowl.

Chapter 3

While Papi pinches the toy top and rolls it between his fingers, I drum out a riff on the countertop.

I think it might be aluminum, I say. I would think it was a superalloy if it wasn’t so ancient. I take the top and bounce it once in my palm. No, has to be aluminum.

He glances up. Why?

Alloys weren’t big until the military figured out all the applications in the space program. I have them on the brain because we’ve been playing with them for some of the fenders and bottom rails of the bikes. They’re nearly indestructible but wicked expensive. I spin the top, sending it twirling across the counter.

I haven’t seen that look on his face in a long time. Maybe ever.

What did Rosa say when she gave it to you? he asks.

Oh, you know, that I might be some sort of freak who controls lightning.

Like the stuff that killed your father.

Instead, I say, She didn’t, really. Just thought I’d want to have it. Said it was Lito’s.

My father’s?

Your grandfather’s.

He grabs it and examines it again, then holds it next to the coin. So you think the coin is my father’s and the top is my grandfather’s?

I shrug.

Looking perplexed, he hands me the top, and I settle it back in the tin, snap the lid shut, and tuck it beneath the waistband of my sweats, pressed against my skin. The top clinks with every movement, and I palm the tin through the cloth.

I’m not exactly nostalgic, so I don’t know what’s made me attached to a trinket from a man I never met. I don’t do sentimental—Mami’s convinced her emotional gene skipped me.

Papi examines the coin again before slipping it into his shirt pocket and wandering to the storm door. Beyond the glass, the storm grows. A fork of lightning flashes, and I shiver.

Of all things, why did my mamá save these, and what was my papi doing with them in the first place? he mumbles to the darkening day.

In his voice I hear the scared little boy who’s just lost his father.

I’m not sure he’s expecting an answer, so I make one last swipe at the grease on the counter and twist the book around so I can read the odd instructions. Papi pushes the door open and steps outside to ruffle Bimni’s ears and throw her slobbery ball across the yard. Thunder rumbles too close for my comfort, and I try to ignore the flicker of answering lightning that glows beneath my fingertips.

A discolored edge of paper pokes out the bottom of the book, and I slice my fingernail between the pages to find it. Once freed, the paper slides onto the counter. The words… flicker.

I lean closer, and the paper shimmers like it’s made of something unreal. Sounds about right. There’s a bluish tint to the paper, like the pulp is infused with light.

Rain blankets the yard in a soothing patter as Papi comes back in, pausing for a second on the threshold to hold the door for Bimni.

I ask, "What does this mean? Yo soy todo."

I am whole.

"Estoy lleno de luz?"

I am filled with light.

"Nada existe más allá de este momento en el tiempo."

Nothing exists beyond this moment in time.

Thunder booms and the windows rattle.

"Las rutas son míos para hacer y deshacer."

Paths are mine to make and unmake.

"El tiempo es flexible."

Lightning illuminates the yard and bright tendrils surround Papi.

Time is pliable.

Heat and noise bombard me like the house is collapsing around us, and I try to scream but it’s frozen in my throat. The lights are out but it’s blacker than black, and I can’t feel anything around me, as if I’ve been launched into a black hole. I throw my arms out, searching for the counter.

Papi? The word is quieter than a breath, as if the darkness steals the sound as well as the light. A spark ignites around my waist, and I flinch, my hands flailing to brush it away. The spark tracks my smallest movements, and I brush at it again, but it stays—even as I lift my hands to my face, the spark follows.

It’s coming from me. It’s the same blue bolt that showed up last night. I can inhale at last, and my adrenalin spike ebbs. It’s still dark, but I have light. I am the spark.

I focus on making the erratic embers glow in unison. They splinter, frayed ends whipping into the blackness. I have no idea what I’m doing and can only make useless sputtering tendrils.

Papi, talk to me. Where are you?

The moment I get the flickering bolts concentrated into one erratic line, I’m blasted by light and noise, and the intensity forces me backward. My lungs compress and there’s no air to scream. I stumble. Hard stone rakes my toes and shin. Air finally floods my lungs and I gulp it in.

I fall to one knee and dig my fingers into the cracks between the stones beneath my feet.

I hear old women chattering in Spanish, and that totally throws me off because the only person who speaks Spanish in our neighborhood is that skinny white kid in the immersion school. It can’t be anyone I know, because Abuelita Rosa died two years ago.

Shit-shit-shit.

I push myself up, and my eyes adjust to the blinding light. I’m outside. There’s no dark storm, no lightning. Now I’m surrounded by bright blue sky. Only… the crisp mountain air is gone, replaced by a salty humidity that’s making my sweats stick to the backs of my thighs. At home, the rustling of leaves is a constant reminder of a light mountain breeze, but here there is a boundless repetition of waves somewhere close.

Nervous laughter bubbles in my chest, and I trap it, swallowing hard against the sudden constriction in my throat. I did not just admit to being somewhere other than home. Because that’s not possible.

I squeeze my eyes shut and force myself to count to three before opening them again.

Nothing has changed.

I’m still in the shade of a sand-colored, stucco building. Across the wide cobbled road, its twin stands guardian. Its red tile roof absorbs the bright rays of the afternoon sun, shuttered windows open to the salty breeze, and tall orange clay pots overflow with purple flowers.

I kick at the rosy cobbles. Soft clouds