Once Every Never (24 page)

“Sounds like she wasn’t really thinking all that clearly, pal,” Al said. She was transcribing the details of Clare’s visit into a database that they could cross-reference for tomb clues. Morholt had allowed her to stay out of the storage locker as long as she could make herself useful. “I mean, imagine what that kind of trauma does to your thinking processes. Not to mention the blood loss. Somebody probably should have made sure she’d stayed in bed.”

“Yeah, well Llassar was probably a little preoccupied with stitching Boudicca back together …”

The image of Comorra charging at her with a sword swam up before her mind’s eye again. Clare shook her head violently. “Screw it. I’m not going back. You can shoot me if you want. I can’t do it.”

Morholt straightened up from where he’d been perched on a broken chair and went over to his briefcase. Clare figured he was getting his gun so that he could threaten her again, but instead he pulled out a bottle of water and handed it to her. “Here,” he said, his tone soft. “Drink.”

Clare gulped thirstily. It tasted flat and chemical compared to the spring water she’d shared with Connal in his horn cup, but she was parched. Exhausted. Morholt seemed to know it. He sat down again opposite her and leaned his forearms on his knees.

“I am sorry this is difficult for you.”

“Please do not get all Stockholm-syndromey on me, Stu. I don’t think I can handle compassion coming from you just at the moment.”

“You think me mad.” He cocked his head, gazing at her intently. “Or possibly evil?”

“I think
that’s
giving you too much credit.” She finished the water and handed him back the empty bottle. “Right now, I just think you’re a plain old garden-variety thief.”

“Even after you’ve seen the power of the Druiddyn? Experienced it firsthand?
Tasted
it?” That feverish light sparked in his eyes again.

Okay. Maybe he was a
little
mad …

“Don’t you want to see this through?” he asked, his stare boring into her. “Don’t you want to know if you’re right about Connal?”

“No!”

“You know, there have long been rumours. Stories of a blood curse that would be cast upon those who disturb the grave of the queen.”

“And so you want to disturb it. Good plan, Stu.”

“Only because I happen to think that you, my dear, with your otherwordly talents, are the only one who could do so without bringing that curse to bear. And at the same time, it could answer all your questions. Aren’t you the least bit curious about the mysteries of Boudicca’s ultimate end?”

Was she? Of course she was. So far she was the only person living who knew what had really gone down with the legendary queen. She exchanged an uneasy glance with Al, who bit her lip but remained silent. Clare knew perfectly well what her thoughts were on meddling with history—but she also knew that Al was in some ways just as conflicted as she was. Her scientific curiosity demanded to be satisfied even while her pragmatic self counselled her to leave well enough alone.

“You are, whether you like it or not, a part of her mystical legacy, Clarinet,” Morholt pressed.

“I
so
am not!”

Morholt raised an eyebrow.

“You’re an idiot,” she said.

He raised the other one.

“You
really
believe all this ‘curse’ bull?” Clare shook her head. “I take it back. You’re not just a thief. You’re an
insane
thief. You are bonkers, Mr. Morholt. Certi-freaking-fiable! I mean—I’m the one actually doing the time travelling and
I
don’t believe it!”

“Yes, well. I am also one of those rare souls who put stock in those things that are not readily explained by the mundanities of science. Things like the Lost City of Atlantis and shaman spirit guides and voodoo and curses. It’s why I’d never steal anything from the Tutankhamun Collection. And—speaking of blood curses, I wouldn’t go near the Hope Diamond, either.”

Al snorted. “As if you could. I’ve seen it. It’s sitting in the Smithsonian behind three inches of bulletproof glass!”

Morholt’s eyes glinted at them. “You’ve really never heard of me, have you?”

“Sorry to disappoint.” Al glared sourly at her captor. It seemed to Clare as though she was taking the whole getting-agun-pointed-at-her thing rather badly. Good for Al.

“I will admit that surprises me a touch. Especially coming from you, Miss Reid.” Morholt glanced at Clare and chuckled dryly. “I’d always rather fancied that your aunt Magda might have fallen into a habit of mentioning me often. And with great fondness.”

“The first time I ever heard your name was yesterday. And I wouldn’t say her reaction was ‘great fondness.’ More like seething rage.”

“Dear old Magda.” Morholt picked up the gun again and toyed with it absently.

Clare decided to change the subject. “Hey … Why does everyone think you’re dead?”

Morholt put the gun back down. “Because it suits my purposes to have it so.”

Clare stared at him until he clarified.

“The authorities tend to stop hunting you once they think you’re dead.”

“Why were they hunting you in the first place?” Al asked.

“I have a fondness for antiquities.” His smile slid back into place. “And explosives. I have ideals. And I have an extreme distaste for the Establishment. These things tend to dovetail nicely every now and then.”

“Maggie never thought you were dead,” Clare muttered.

The smile wilted a bit on his face. “Your aunt is, among other things, keenly intelligent. More’s the pity that she and I did not ultimately see eye to eye. I still miss her sometimes …”

“Oh
whoa
!” Al exclaimed suddenly, rearing back from her computer. “Did you know—well, I’m pretty sure you
don’t
know, ’cause I discovered this myself—but did you know that Boudicca’s army butchered
seventy thousand people
during her colossal freak out? How pissed do you have to be to do something like that?”

Clare thought again about the sight of Boudicca as she had beheld her daughter, Tasca, dead on the floor of Connal’s chariot. “Pretty pissed.”

“I’d have to agree with that assessment,” Al murmured. “Did you also not know that there’s a buried layer of ash
three inches thick
under London that’s all that was left of the city after this chick was done with it?”

“Gee,” Clare said. “Just the kind of thing that would make my aunt giddy as a schoolgirl.”

Al raised an eyebrow. “I can’t even imagine that.”

“I can,” murmured Morholt.

Clare shuddered once and chose to ignore the implications of that statement. She sat there silently for a moment, her thoughts drifting back—not to Boudicca or even to Comorra, but to Connal—and she realized with a sinking feeling that Morholt was going to get his wish. She was going to go back.

“I’m going to go back.”

“What? Why?” Al gaped at her in astonishment. “I thought you just said—”

“I did. Apparently I was wrong.” Clare checked to make sure her shoelaces were tied tight and pushed the curls that had escaped her hair elastic back off her face, securing her ponytail tighter.

Why are you doing this?
she asked herself. Did she want to see Connal one last time before he met his gruesome end? She remembered the grisly display at the museum and her heart ached to think of him dying like that. Maybe she just wanted to know why he’d ended up that way. And … maybe she wanted to stop it from happening. Clare shook her head sharply.

Time monkeys. Angry, angry time monkeys
.

She remembered what Connal had told her about being able to sense her before he could see her. How he’d said it had felt as if someone he knew had been staring at him. Maybe, Clare thought, it was because—in her world—they already
had
met. Sort of. In the museum. He’d just been dead for two thousand years and lying in a glass case …

“Clare?” Al’s voice was small and worried-sounding. “I know you’re gonna go through with this whatever I say, so … I just want to say this: keep your head down. Roman archers used to set fire to their arrows before shooting them.”

Terrific
, thought Clare,
flaming arrows
. Just another typical Saturday night in the life of Clarinet Reid, Girl Average. As Morholt and Al watched, she approached the cigar box on the crate once more and crouched down in front of it. She ignored the whispering voices in her head—the ones that beckoned her on and the ones that warned her away—and flexed her fingers as if she were about to play a concerto on her mom’s piano back home. Then Clare reached out to touch Boudicca’s golden torc … and tried very unsuccessfully not to think about fiery death raining down from the sky.

THE SKY WAS ABLAZE
, but thankfully not in the way Clare had feared. She stood for a moment and marvelled at the beauty and brilliance of one of the most spectacular sunsets she’d ever seen. She had shimmered onto the raised hump of land where the great hall of Venta Icenorum stood: Boudicca’s hall. Clare wished Al hadn’t told her that after Boudicca was defeated the Romans would raze the village, knocking down the roundhouses and the thatch-roofed hall. They’d build their own squared-off, regimented Roman town there as a constant reminder to a conquered people of just how conquered they were.

Clare sighed. A little knowledge was a depressing thing.

In the distance she could hear voices—mothers calling children, men hailing each other—and the muted cacophony of livestock being tended to before nightfall. It seemed as though she’d shimmered into a quiet, ordinary evening. Clare walked over to one of the few windows set high in the curving wall of Boudicca’s hall, pulled herself up by the sill, and peered inside.

So … not an ordinary evening, then
. She swallowed against the sudden tightness in her throat. Boudicca stood in the centre of the hall where a roaring fire blazed. She was alone except for the company of her daughter, Comorra. Who was pleading with her.

“You cannot do this!” Comorra said, crouched on a low stool and staring up at her mother with desperate eyes. “Mother!”

“I can and I will.” Boudicca reached into a wooden chest at her feet, selected a pair of spiralling gold arm rings, and slipped them up her well-defined upper arms. Beneath a long pale wool cloak swept back over her shoulders, the queen wore a sleeveless white tunic that was richly embroidered along its borders and belted with more gold. Her hair gleamed in the firelight, trailing down her back in twin plaits fastened with gold, and dark-red stones shimmered at her ears and on her fingers. They reminded Clare of drops of blood. It was obvious that Boudicca was dressing with a great deal of care that evening. “It is necessary.”

“I will hate you forever. I will never forgive you.”

“In time you will understand.” Boudicca picked the great golden torc out of her jewellery chest next and slipped it around her neck.

“I won’t.” Her daughter glared up at her. “I
won’t
understand.”

“Comorra. Andrasta watches over you. I need her to watch over
all
the Iceni. You know as well as I do that the Raven will give her favour only when blood is spilled. When a life is given freely. It is his destiny. It is why he is here.”

Comorra slowly rose to her feet. “I love him, Mother.”

A shadow flashed across Boudicca’s face and Clare sensed that the queen was thinking of her own lost love. Prasutagus. But Prasutagus was dead. Murdered by the Romans who were now trying to steal her land and sell her people’s legacy into slavery. Her expression turned stony once more. “Then honour his sacrifice.”

Boudicca turned and swept out of the room. Comorra sank down beside the fire pit, wrapped her arms around herself, and wept bitterly.

Clare waited until the queen was well down the path. There was a biting chill in the air and she shoved her hands into the pockets of Al’s jacket. And that’s when she got an idea. A wild, ridiculous brainstorm that—if she was luckier than she had any right to be—might just save the day. Or at least a Druid.

Once she could no longer see Boudicca’s fiery hair in the distance Clare counted to ten. And counted to ten once more. Then she went around to the front and shouldered open the heavy oak door, slipping into the shadowy hall. The smell of roasted boar and spices and beer wafted all around her. It seemed as though there’d been a feast of some kind recently.

A farewell party for the soon-to-be spirit warriors, maybe?
Nice
, Clare thought.
More like a last meal for the condemned
.

“Are you here to gloat?” Comorra’s voice cut through the smoky gloom.

“Nope.” Clare crossed the rush-strewn floor and crouched beside the princess. “I came here to apologize. And maybe help you if I can.”

“Help with what?”

“Well … correct me if I’m wrong, but isn’t your mom on her way to go sacrifice Connal to a goddess before she marches down to Londinium to start a great big ol’ war?”

Comorra nodded. Her pretty face was blotchy and tear-stained, blue eyes full of misery. “Connal has been chosen as a gift for the goddess. A spirit warrior.” She drew a shaky breath. “He will die the triple death at the head of twelve other chosen warriors. With their sacrifice, Boudicca will beseech the goddess to aid us in our plight.”

Thirteen sacrifices. Thirteen glass cases in the museum. “I thought so,” Clare said grimly. “There’s a bog not too far from here, isn’t there?”

Comorra nodded. “A sacred place. It is neither land nor water. It is where the Druiddyn sometimes perform their rites.”

If you could call murder a “rite,”
Clare thought. She remembered what Al had said about the way the bog victims had died: stabbed, bludgeoned, garroted, and thrown into a marsh for good measure. Well, she’d be damned if she let something like that happen to Connal.

But it has happened
, said a voice in her head. The one that she usually had an argument with.
You know it’s happened. You saw the remains. You can’t change that
.

Couldn’t she? She could certainly try.

Time monkeys be damned
, Clare thought grimly.
Connal is worth the continuum chaos. I hope …