Bottled Lightning

“Stop moving the condenser,” Mateo said, his voice rough with the static that had been building in the air for hours. “You’ll short the primary coil if you keep jerking it like a startled cat.”

Natalie didn’t stop. She kept her eyes on the brass gauge, watching the needle twitch toward the red zone, and tightened her grip on the iron lever. They were in the heart of the Storm-Keeper’s tower, a cylindrical stone throat rising from the jagged spine of the Blackwood Cliff. The air here tasted of ozone and old copper. Outside, the sky was bruising purple, the first heavy sheets of the year’s great storm slamming against the granite walls. Mateo was supposed to be gone. He had been gone for three years, chasing off her property with half-empty jars of lightning, but tonight he was here, standing between her and the main intake valve, his broad shoulders blocking the dim light from the lanterns.