Boundless (Unearthly, #3)(20)

That’s easy. I don’t even have to think about it for two seconds. “Okay. Take me home. To Jackson.”

“Jackson it is.” Dad moves to stand in front of me. “We will cross now.”

“And what is crossing, exactly?” I ask.

“It’s …” He searches for the words, finds them. “Bending the rules of time and space in order to move from one place to another very quickly. The first step,” he adds dramatically, “is glory.”

I wait for something to happen, but nothing does. I look at Dad. He nods his head at me expectantly.

“What, I’m going to do it?”

“You’ve done this before, haven’t you? You brought your mother back from hell.”

“Yes, but I didn’t know what I was doing.”

“Brick by brick, my dear,” he says.

I swallow. “What, I’m like building Rome now? Maybe we should start with something smaller.” I close my eyes, try to center myself in the now, try to stop thinking, stop processing, just be. I listen to my breath drag in and out of my body, try to empty myself, forget myself, because only then can I reach that quiet place inside me that’s part of the light.

“Good,” Dad murmurs, and I open my eyes to glory’s golden wash around us.

“In this state,” he says, “you have access to anything you ask for. You must simply learn how to ask.”

“Anything?” I repeat skeptically.

“If you ask and you believe, yes. Anything.”

“So if I really wanted a cheeseburger, like right now …”

He laughs, and the sound echoes around us like a chorus of bells. His eyes are molten silver in this light, his hair gleaming.

“I suppose I’ve had stranger requests.” He holds out his hand, and something golden brown appears in it. I take it. It’s like bread, only lighter.

“What is it?” I ask. Because it’s so not a cheeseburger.

“Taste it.”

I hesitate, then take a bite. It explodes on my tongue, like the best buttery croissant I’ve ever had, almost melting in my mouth, leaving a faint aftertaste of honey. I scarf down the rest, and afterward I feel completely satisfied. Not full. But content.

“This stuff is amazing,” I say, resisting the urge to lick my fingers. “And you can produce this out of thin air, anytime you want?”

“I ask, and it comes,” he says. “But now, focus. Where were we?”

“You said that in glory we can access anything.”

“Yes. That is how one passes between heaven and earth, and how it’s possible for me to travel from one place on earth to another. One time to another.”

I get momentarily excited. “Are you going to teach me how to move through time, too?”

I like the idea of giving myself an extra hour to study for exams, or finding out who’s going to win the Stanford-Berkeley game before it happens. Or—a lump jumps up in my throat—I could go to see Mom. In the past.

Dad frowns. “No.”

“Oh,” I say, disappointed. “Not part of the plan, huh?”

He puts his hand on my shoulder, squeezes gently. “You will see your mother again, Clara.”

“When?” I ask, my voice suddenly hoarse. “When I die?”

“When you need it most,” he says, ambiguous as ever.

I clear my throat. “But for now, I can what, cross to wherever I want to go?”

He takes my hands in his, looks into my eyes. “Yes. You can.”

“That could come in extremely handy when I’m running late for class.”

“Clara.” He wants me to be serious now. “Crossing is a vital skill. And it’s not as difficult as you might think to achieve,” he says. “We are all connected, everything that lives and breathes in this world, and glory is what binds us.”

Next thing he’ll be talking about the Force, I know it.

“And every place has a piece of that energy, as well. A signature, if you will. So to move from here to there, you must first connect to that energy.”

“Glory. Check.”

“Then you must think of the place you wish to go. Not the location on a map, but the life of that place.”

“Like … the big aspen tree in my front yard in Jackson?”

“That would be ideal,” he says. “Reach for that tree, the power it’s generating from the sun, the roots stretching themselves out in the earth, drinking, the life of the leaves….”

For a minute I’m hypnotized by the sound of his voice. I close my eyes, and I can see it so clearly: my aspen tree, the leaves starting to turn colors and drop, the movement of the chilly autumn wind through the branches, the whispering as it stirs the leaves. It actually makes me shiver, imagining it.

“You’re not imagining it,” Dad says. “We’re here.”

I open my eyes. Gasp. We’re standing in my front yard under the aspen tree. Just like that.

Dad lets go of my hands. “Well done.”

“That was me? Not you?”

“All you.”

“It was … easy.” I’m shocked by how simple it was, such an impossible-sounding thing as going almost a thousand miles in the literal blink of an eye.