Every Never After (33 page)

“Is this what I taught you?” the praefect snapped, the words spitting like bullets from a gun out of his mouth. “Cowardice? Weakness? Compassion instead of necessity?”

He does the whole hard-ass act really well,
Allie thought.

“You shame me!” he goaded Marcus mercilessly. “Do what must be done.”

Marcus shook his head in desperation. “No! There has to be another way …”

There wasn’t. They were running—quite literally—out of time. And options.

Allie knew it the second she saw Clare and Milo, with Llassar close behind, running for all they were worth as they crested the edge of the hill plateau off to her right. She knew it because Clare was wildly waving her arms. And screaming.

In another second, Allie saw just
why
Clare was running and waving and screaming. To her left, Stuart Morholt was stumbling
and gasping his way across the plateau from the opposite direction. At his side, eyes blazing, face bone-white within the cowl of her raven-feathered cloak, stalked the Druid high priestess, Mallora. And she was chanting.

Oh, like things aren’t bad enough!
Allie thought as she spun around to see Postumus and Marcus still arguing, oblivious to the approaching Druid peril …

And
then
things got even worse.

Because, not only was the sky beginning to do that weird, shattery thing again, but also (whether due to Mallora’s Druiddyn imprecations, Clare’s now-magic-fuelled diary, the torc around the praefect’s neck, or some kind of overall mystical circuitry overload) the shattery bits were looking grim and angry. In one of them, Allie thought she could see a waiting horde of scathach.

She started to run for Marcus, shouting “Now or never!”

And it was. Because if he didn’t break the curse in the next few seconds, they’d all have every never
after
that—for who knows how long—to contemplate the repercussions.

“Quintus—for the love of the gods—at least turn your back on me so I don’t have to see your face!” Marcus hissed through clenched teeth.

Postumus nodded grimly and spun on his heel. Head high, spine arrow-straight, he closed his eyes and held his breath. Marcus drew back his sword. He glanced over at Allie, almost pleading for her to tell him there was something else to be done.

The thing was … there wasn’t.

Ribbons of temporal distortion were rippling across the hill now, whiplashing the air all around them. Postumus, in an act of supreme bravery that turned him almost blue in the face, screamed “DO IT! That is an
ORDER!
”

Allie turned away and covered her eyes. She heard the sword slice clean through the neck of the Roman commander—a sickening, meaty sound—and she heard the muted
thump-thump-thump
of Postumus’s head as it bounced down the hillside … where it
would ultimately come to rest, buried in a field, waiting for her to find it in a couple of thousand years.

And then she heard an unfamiliar, ice-cold voice.

“
Never
defy the direct order of a superior officer, boy.”

CLARE HAD SHOUTED A WARNING
no one could hear over the chaos of the temporal rifts. A handful of Roman soldiers—led by a tall, harsh-featured man in an ornate, red-plumed helmet— had suddenly emerged out of the trees behind Al and Marcus and Postumus. The moment seemed to stretch out, twisting and distorting before her eyes, as the helmeted man drew his sword, stepped forward, and struck Quintus Postumus’s head from his shoulders.

Clare flinched, throwing a hand up to hide her eyes. Then she heard what the man said to Marcus and knew instantly who it was.

Gaius Suetonius Paulinus.

Come from his bloody successes in the east to exact a vicious revenge on the man who’d dared to defy his horrible orders, refusing to follow him into battle against the Iceni rebel queen. When Clare was able to look again, her gaze fell on something … impossible.

The praefect’s headless body lay slumped at the feet of a horrified Marcus Donatus. And
another
Quintus Postumus stood frozen, suspended in a crackling, flickering temporal rift, head still firmly attached to neck, eyes wide in surprise.

Al’s mouth was open wide in astonishment or a silent scream— Clare couldn’t tell.

And further off in that same rift, Clare could see the paisleyskirted figure of Piper’s grandmother, looking just as surprised as Postumus.

In the current slice of time Clare occupied, the great golden torc slipped from the stump of Postumus’s neck and fell on its side in a widening pool of blood that looked black in the moonlight. A
moment later, the time rifts wavered like mirages and disappeared, leaving behind only the fading screams of a pack of frustrated scathach. Screams echoed by the thwarted Druidess Mallora.

Okaaay …

At least now Clare knew how Postumus managed to survive his beheading long enough to become Nicholas Ashbourne. He’d quite literally been in two places at once when Paulinus had struck his blow. And the coincidence of Piper’s weirdo granny wandering around on the Tor at the exact same time struck Clare as not a coincidence at all. She too, after all, had been a descendant of the same Druidess who now stood screaming bloody murder, hurling all sorts of vile epithets in her ancient language.

Speaking of Piper,
Clare thought, glancing up at the starspattered sky,
now would be a good time, Goggles …

Clare and Milo jogged up beside Al. The two girls hugged briefly.

“That was weird,” Al said, gesturing at where the spatio-temporal rift had vanished. “Weird
er
. Than usual.”

“Yeah,” Clare panted.

“Who was that woman I saw?”

“Grandmother of our helper birdie back in Glastonbury. A girl named Goggles.” Clare scanned the sky again. “She’s gonna call us home any second now.”

Al blinked. “I’ve been replaced?”

“You can’t replace her!” Marcus said, stepping forward. “She’s amazing.”

Clare glanced at him, startled by the fierceness of his tone.

“Al’s not being replaced,” she said.

“I’m not?” Al looked at Clare. “Wait.” She looked at Marcus. “I’m
what
?”

“You’re
amazing.
” He stared down at her as if they stood alone on top of the Tor. No Romans, no Druids, no corpses. “You barely know me. You don’t have to do any of this for me. And yet? Here you are. Risking your own safety for the sake of a guy who was too dumb not to get caught in a time portal years before you were
even born.” He laughed, and it was a small, lost sound. “I never got the girl in school, Allie. I’d never have had a chance with someone like you.”

Al blushed furiously and said in a strangled voice, “I’m pretty sure you must be mistaking me for someone else. Someone cool.”

Clare suppressed a snort of amusement at Al’s utter discombobulation. Milo elbowed her, but it looked like he was biting his own lip to keep from laughing, too.

Marcus didn’t seem to notice. He just shook his head. “I already told you. You’re the coolest person I’ve ever met.” He raised her hand and kissed her knuckles. “You’re magic, Allie.”

Clare felt her heart swell at the expression on her best friend’s face.

It was a lousy moment for the Roman governor with a bad attitude and a sword-happy swinging hand to interrupt. But he didn’t seem big on manners. He’d made that pretty clear with the abruptness of Postumus’s beheading.

“Legionnaire!” he barked.

Marcus turned, glared murder at the man, and executed a precise if desultory salute in his direction. “Governor Paulinus,” he said in a low voice that was almost a growl. “Was that really necessary?” He gestured to the body of the praefect.

“
He
seemed to think it was.” Paulinus grinned coldly—the smile of a predator. “I heard what he said. The man longed for death. No doubt bitterly ashamed of his dereliction of duty. But I confess, I do not fully understand. What just happened here, soldier?”

“
Magic
just happened here,” Al said, stepping out from behind Marcus. “Magic and sacrifice and bravery. And it’s going to keep happening and you’re going to stand there and let it.”

The governor frowned at her in confusion. Clare was about to remind her pal that he didn’t speak English, not that Al seemed to care. But just then a wide-winged, snowy-white owl with huge ruby eyes swooped low out of the tumbled sky. A pale shadow on the wind, the owl drifted overhead, skreeling its haunting cry.

Clare, one fist clutching Morholt’s diary, threw her arms triumphantly in the air and shouted, “Way to be, Goggles! Yes!” She pulled the tin out of her bag, swiftly bundled up the diary, stuffed it inside, shut the lid, and tossed the whole package to Llassar, who stood waiting for it. Then Clare lunged at Al, latching onto her wrist with one hand and grabbing Milo with the other.

“Grab Soldier Boy, Al!” she said as her signature shimmering began to build. “And whatever you do—don’t let go!”

Al reached out …

The owl screeched a second time …

And Stuart Morholt suddenly called frantically to Paulinus, who stood there, agog, the sword in his fist still dripping blood onto the Tor.

“Stop them!” Morholt cried out in mangled, snotty-Englishmovie-villain-accented Latin, pointing back and forth at Marcus and the great Snettisham Torc. “That legionnaire! He knows where the rest of the gold is—
gold!
” He jabbed a finger wildly at the gleaming torc. “It was he who hid it on the way back from Mona! He’s the only one who knows where it is! Don’t let him get away!”

Paulinus’s eyes narrowed and he sprang, cobra-fast, wrenching Marcus from Al’s grasp just before the shimmering took hold. A scream tore from Al’s throat and she thrashed in Clare’s grip, desperate to grab on to Marcus again … but it was too late. The white owl screeched for the third and last time, the night bloomed with fireworks … and Clare, Milo, and Al shimmered away to stardust. Leaving Mark O’Donnell behind once more, in a time and place where he would remain Marcus Donatus.

Trapped in the past.

Trapped with Stuart Morholt.

That lousy, treacherous snake.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I’m so very thrilled to have been given the opportunity to continue Clare and Allie’s story in these pages. These characters and their adventures are so much fun to write and I want to sincerely, enthusiastically, possibly with strange toothy facial expressions and flappy-hand gestures, thank all of the people who have made it possible for me to do so. First and foremost are the usual suspects: John and Jessica. John for his belief in, support of, and utterly indispensible creative contribution to both my life and the books. And Jessica for continuing to fiercely champion both me and my stories.

Massive thanks to Penguin Canada and the fantastic folks at Razorbill, especially Lynne Missen who took up the editorial reins on this go-around. I’m fairly certain that poking my manuscripts into shape feels like herding cats a lot of the time, but she does a fantastic job, asks all the right questions, and this story is stronger and smarter for it. Thanks to Mike Bryan for his enthusiasm and insight. And to Mary Ann Blair and Karen Alliston for time and talent and attention to the details. Thank you once again to the design department for making this book look just as good— if not better—than its predecessor. Thanks to Liza Morrison and Charidy Johnston, both of whom I’ve owed thanks for their unflagging support of me and my books for quite some time now. And thanks again to Vimala Jeevanandam, my wonderful publicist, for taking such good care of me.

Thanks to Matthew Skinner, Humberside Collegiate Institute, for doing my Latin homework!

Thank you, as always, to Jean Naggar and the staff of JVNLA. And “thank you,” in this case, while grossly inadequate, also means that I promise I will not forget to bring another box of TimBits next time I drop by the office. You. Guys. Rock.

Thanks—also grossly inadequate in this case—to my family. I love you guys. Simple as that.

To all of my friends who continue—still!—to indulge me, help me, and put up with me: please continue. Also? Thank you!

To all of you out there who keep reading, and writing, and— this is a biggie, having met so many of you over the last year or two and been witness to your collective awesomeness—blogging, I don’t even know what words to use to convey the depths of my gratitude and glee. So I’m just going to go with my stand-by and assure you that these two words are infused, soaked, positively stuffed with all of that:

THANK YOU.