Once Every Never (17 page)

The princess nodded at him, her eyes never leaving Clare’s face. “I missed you at my father’s farewell, Connal …”

“It’s my fault,” Clare said. “I wanted to visit you again, Comorra. I had no idea it was such … bad timing. I sort of accidentally surprised your Druid friend here and we had a bit of a … misunderstanding.” She gestured at her bandage. “But it’s all cleared up now.”

Comorra’s gaze flicked to Clare’s neck wound and then over to Connal, who’d gone to fetch a small earthen jug and mugs. The tense set of her shoulders relaxed a bit.

“I’m really sorry about your father.”

The princess ducked her head and nodded silent thanks as Connal poured out some kind of thick, foamy drink into the cups. He gave one to the princess and held one out for Clare. But as she reached out to take it, inside her head she heard a cry so sharp it caused her actual pain.

“Milo!”
Al’s voice cut through her mind.

Simultaneously, she heard the cry of a raven outside the window.

“Damn!” Clare exclaimed as the cup dropped through the space where her hand had been only a moment before, spilling its contents on Connal’s rug. “Sorry …” Her apology faded into the darkness as, right before the astonished eyes of Comorra and Connal, she shimmered out of existence.

13

“M
ilo!” the raven’s voice echoed, harsh and angry in her ears.

No … that’s Al’s voice
.

Clare’s head spun dizzily.

When the disorientation seeped away and she opened her eyes, Clare was cautiously pleased to find that—in
her
world—the sun still shone through the wall of tinted windows, the sky was still blue, and London was still there. Apparently she had managed yet another successful shimmer into the past and back again. All without altering the timeline. At least, not appreciably. Everything seemed normal and exactly as she had left it.

Well … not exactly everything.

For one thing, there was a large scorch mark on the carpet where the laptop had had a meltdown. The smell of burning synthetic fibres hung in the air and a sputtering fire extinguisher lay on its side on the floor. Clare would have to remember to be careful around electronics when shimmering in the future, she thought in the seconds before she realized the other thing that was different.

Milo was lying face down on the floor, with Al and Stuart Morholt facing off over his unmoving form. For a brief moment Clare started to panic, thinking Milo was dead—that Morholt had shot him—all while she’d been busy heavy-breathing over someone else in the far-distant past. But then she saw that his chest was definitely rising up and down as he drew breath and she went weak-kneed with relief. And guilt. Not that she thought—in any reality, or any timeline, no matter how far-fetched—that she had any kind of shot with Milo. Still …

Clare turned to Al, who stood rigid, hands balled into fists, glowering at Morholt. “Did Milo pull teenage ‘girl power’ bravado crap after I left?” Clare asked.

“Yeah,” Al said sourly. “He did. And then Ninja Assassin here karate-chopped him.”

“It was judo.” Morholt rolled his eyes. “And I’m not about to apologize for taking corrective behaviour against an impulsive young fool. There’s a time and place for gallantry. That was neither.”

“You sonofa—”

“Language, Miss Reid.” Morholt tutted. “He’ll live. Let’s see if you two can manage the same feat.” He glanced at the smouldering laptop and his lip twitched. “Interesting. It seems your ability throws a mean electrical charge upon activation. I dare say you’d short-circuit just about anything you came into contact with that had a live current running through it. You’re a veritable walking thundercloud, my dear.” He smiled at his little joke. “Something to keep in mind for our future jaunts, eh?”

“What exactly do you mean by ‘our future jaunts’?”

“In good time. Now. Let’s have some answers. Where did you go and what did you see?”

Clare felt her jaw clenching. She didn’t want to tell him. Sharing the intimate details of Comorra’s father’s funeral with someone like Stuart Morholt … well, it just seemed like a further betrayal of the princess. And her grieving mother,Boudicca.
I could lie
, Clare thought.
Make up the details. Fudge the truth …

But Morholt’s eyes narrowed at her as Clare hesitated, and she knew that, with his knowledge of the ancient Celtic world, he would probably see through any lame-ass story she could make up.

“What did you
see
?” he asked again, less gently this time.

Clare took a deep breath and told him everything.

WELL … SHE MAY HAVE
left out a few of the less important details about a certain flirting Druid. Still, once Clare got into the telling of the tale, even Al seemed to forget her righteous indignation and listened, rapt.

“There’s one thing I don’t understand—why did she give the Romans Prasutagus’s torc?” Al wondered when Clare had finished. “And why did your Druid pal say she’d started a war by doing that?”

“It was an insult,” Morholt murmured, half to himself.

Al raised an eyebrow. “A big, shiny, gold insult?”

“On such an occasion,” he explained, “it should have been the Romans bringing Boudicca gifts. By giving
them
one instead, she was pointedly drawing attention to that breach of etiquette and respect. And by making it a gift of such richness, of such significance, she was adding insult to injury. In the eyes of the Iceni, Rome and their emperor would have lost face—hugely—because of it. And even though it may not have been the Roman custom, that officer surely would have understood Boudicca’s intentions in the context of Celtic tribal traditions. He would have been perfectly well aware that she was flouting Rome’s authority and sending a message that she, as queen, would not be as biddable as her husband before her.”

Clare shook her head in admiration. “Wow. That was pretty … um …”

“Ballsy?” Morholt said dryly. “We are talking about Boudicca here.”

“Yeah. I guess that was the word I was looking for.” She sat down on the edge of the desk, feeling suddenly exhausted from everything she’d been through in the last few hours. “Are we done here? You got your in-depth report about what life was like back in the day. Can’t you just leave us alone now?”

“No …” Morholt’s expression had started out thoughtful. Now it looked as if he was hatching a nefarious plan. Clare felt her stomach clench in apprehension. “No,” he said again, “I don’t think I’ll be doing that.”

“What?”

“I shall require your services, Miss Reid.”

“What?”
Clare gaped at him. “After all that? Look—you know now that I don’t have some kind of power of invisibility, so you know I’m no use to you.”

“We shall see about that. Let’s go.” He motioned Clare toward the elevator.

“I can’t go anywhere,” she said. “Because whatever it is you want from me, I can’t shimmer without Al.”

“Oh please. Do you think me a fool?”

“You don’t want to know what I think of you,” Clare muttered sourly. “Believe me or not, I don’t care. Irregardless, I can’t do my little magic trick without her.”

“‘Irregardless’ isn’t a word, you ridiculous girl.”

Clare just glared at him.

“Fine,” Morholt sighed. “Then I guess you’re both coming for a little ride.”

Shit
. That wasn’t what Clare was hoping for. She was hoping that she could stall him and keep him at Milo’s office long enough for Milo to regain consciousness. Three against one and they might have had a chance.

“What about Milo?” she said desperately. “I … uh … I need him, too!”

Morholt snorted. “Your lying skills need almost as much work as your vocabulary. I’m willing to hedge my bets with your little sidekick, but I’m afraid Prince Valiant stays here.” He walked over to a desk and picked up a packing tape dispenser, tossing it to Al. “Wrists behind his back,” he commanded, gesturing to the unconscious Milo. “Bind his ankles, and a piece over his mouth for good measure, please.”

Al did as she was told—she was smart enough to know that they were pretty short on options to the contrary. When she was done, Morholt gave the binding job a cursory glance and rolled an eye at Al.

“A predictably shoddy job. Don’t worry. I didn’t expect cello-tape to hold him for long. Just enough for the three of us to get reasonably long gone.” Morholt scribbled with a Sharpie on a piece of letterhead. Clare read the words as he wrote them:

You’re smart enough to know that calling the authorities would be a very, very bad idea. The well-being of your lady friends depends on your good behaviour. So behave.

Cheers, S. M.

“Long gone?” Clare asked as Morholt tucked the note in the collar of Milo’s T-shirt where he’d be sure to find it on waking. “Long gone
where
?”

“You’re both coming for a little ride.” He pointed to Comorra’s brooch where it lay on the desk. “Wrap that up and bring it along,” he ordered Al. “And let’s not dawdle.”

Clare and Al hesitated, the seriousness of the situation sinking heavily upon them. They were being kidnapped. At gun-point. Clare swallowed and felt herself grow pale.

“Oh, go on,” snarled their abductor. “I’m not going to shoot you.
Yet
. But please don’t think for a moment, ladies, that I will put up with any further crap from either of you. The car is in the garage. Now, mush, you two.”

Al wrapped the raven-shaped pin back up in its sock and stuffed it in the side pocket of the messenger bag she carried. Then she fell into step beside Clare as Stuart Morholt marched them toward the elevator, down to the deserted parking level, and over to a sleek, silvery-grey car.

“Wow,” Al said. “Choice ride, Evil-doer.”

“A limited-edition Bentley Mulsanne. And yes. It
is
rather choice.”

Morholt pressed the button on a key fob as they approached and the engine started up remotely with a sonorous growl. The car was elegantly muscular, with a distinctive snub-nose front grille and long, sweeping lines along the body. It sported gleaming chrome detailing, ominously tinted windows, and—the girls soon discovered—a roomy trunk, good for hauling antique furniture, stolen artifacts, or two kidnapped teenagers.

“WAS I SEEING THINGS
back there, or was that a cut on your neck?”

“It was. Has it stopped bleeding?”

“Looked like it.” Al wriggled around in the dark confines of the trunk, elbowing Clare in the head as she shifted and squirmed. “What happened?”

“I got a little too close to my friendly neighbourhood Druid,” Clare said, gingerly touching the side of her neck.
Way
too
close, actually
. She felt herself blushing at the memory and thought she could actually feel Al’s stare intensify. “Anyway. Not really the issue at the moment. How are we going to get out of our present predicament?”

“We could start banging really loudly on the trunk lid,” Al suggested.

Except that Morholt suddenly began blasting rap music at an insane volume—no doubt to mask any attempts the girls might make at attracting the attentions of passersby. Besides, they could tell that he was driving fast enough that no one would have time to notice. He’d probably planned a route with the least traffic stops just in case. Seemed like the type. The fact that he hadn’t duct-taped them or tied them up meant that he was pretty sure there was no way they could escape. However, that didn’t stop Al from blindly exploring every inch of the inside of the sedan’s generous trunk.

“Tire iron,” she muttered, “bolted down …”

Clare shifted her butt as Al’s hands patted around. “

Emergency road kit … okay, some of this could be useful …”

She could hear Al rummaging through the kit, but she couldn’t imagine what it could possibly contain that would prove useful. A tire gauge and socket-wrench set still weren’t going to make them a match for Morholt’s firearm. But it seemed to provide a nice distraction that kept Al from freaking out. Clare wished she felt the same.

“Nice bluff back there, telling Morholt you needed me to help you shimmer.” Al pitched her voice over the thrumming bass coming through the car speakers.

Clare shrugged as much as the close confines would allow. “Wasn’t.”

“Er.” Al stopped rummaging. “What?”

“Well …” Clare shifted around so that she was facing Al, even though she couldn’t see her in the darkness. “I don’t so much need you to
go
as to
get back
. I think. That’s my, you know, working hypothesis. Maybe.”

“Okaaay.” Al sounded skeptical, but willing to explore the possibility. “What makes you think that?”

“Did you shout out Milo’s name just before I shimmered back last time?”

“Um, I think so.” Al paused, remembering. “Yeah. Right after Mr. Ninja took him out. Just a natural reaction, I suppose … Why?”

“Because I
heard
you. Only you sounded like a bird.”

“You’re kidding.”

“If I could glare at you sardonically right now, I would,” Clare said dryly. “That is not something I would likely make up, is it?”

“Good point.”

“And I’ve started to realize … there’s
always
a bird. A raven. It’s what brings me back. I think it’s you. Your, um, spirit? Or something. You’re like my anchor to the present, I think.”