Once Every Never

  Now his sword lay naked on the ground beside his feet. Connal’s skin was spattered with blood that looked black in the moonlight. The blue paint on his face and naked chest was smeared now, marring the intricate designs. Clare swallowed nervously and sat up, her side aching from where he’d shoulder-checked her.

  “I’m sorry,” he said quietly.

  “It’s okay.” Clare grimaced a bit from the pain.

  “No. Not that.” He shook his head. “Well, yes, I am sorry I hurt you. But that’s not what I meant.”

  “What did you mean?”

  “I’m sorry you had to watch me kill that man.”

  “Oh. Right. That.”

  “You have not known death before now, have you, Clare?”

  She thought about that. Aside from her beloved beagle, Reggie, buried in a corner of the yard back home, Clare hadn’t ever experienced death firsthand. She’d certainly never had to watch someone die. Or be killed. Until now. Until Connal.

  “I thought not. I am truly sorry.”

  She looked at him and smiled wanly, feeling older than she ever had before. Possibly even a little wiser—if that was possible. “Are you crazy?” she asked him finally, finding her voice. “You saved my life, Connal.”

  “Oh, I am most definitely not sorry about that!” he said, grinning a little. Then his expression shifted. “I think, though, that I was only returning a favour, was I not?”

  Clare blinked at him. “How did you know?”

  “The rest of them couldn’t see you hiding behind ‘Andrasta’ in the back of that boat, Clarinet, but I could.”

  Of course he could. Clare had hoped he’d been too hopped up on whatever mystical narcotics they’d shovelled into him to notice. She wondered if Llassar had seen her too.

  “Don’t be mad,” she said. “I know you keep saying it was your destiny and everything, but—”

  He shook his head. “If it was so, I would be dead even now.” He toyed with one of the bracelets on his wrist, his expression thoughtful.

  Clare followed his gaze. The matched silver cuffs were works of art—with knotted designs that looked like stylized ravens chasing foxes, or maybe the other way around.

  “Those are beautiful,” Clare said.

  “Boudicca had Llassar make them for me,” he said softly, a touch of something that sounded like regret in his voice. “She has had him make … a lot of things.”

  “He’s a talented guy,” Clare said.

  Connal nodded. “Llassar’s gift is great. His magic, powerful. He is one of the only Druiddyn left I know of who can work the blood magic. The Raven’s magic. And although he does not do it lightly, he does it for her. For Boudicca.”

  “Why do you sound as if that’s a bad thing?”

  “Blood magic has consequences, Clarinet. Sometimes unexpected ones. But she asks it of him because it is a hard temptation to resist. Especially when one is as wounded in spirit as Boudicca is.” Connal shrugged as if there was a heavy weight on his shoulders he needed to shift. “Blood magic offers the pathway to retribution in her eyes. But I fear this war of hers may be one of those consequences. Andrasta—the real Andrasta—does not give without taking her Raven’s share.”

  In the far distance they could hear the faint cries of those still fighting and dying in the forest. A look flashed across Connal’s face that told Clare he wished he was fighting too. Alongside his queen. Or as her spirit warrior, maybe.

  “Connal, I hate to tell you this,” Clare said, “I really do. But even when you did lead her spirit warriors, it didn’t matter. Boudicca still lost.”

  He frowned at her, confused. “What do you mean—even when I did lead them?”

  “I mean the Iceni aren’t going to win this war. With or without your sacrifice.”

  “You have seen this? In your … distant future?”

  “Yes. Sorry.” She watched a flurry of emotions twist across his handsome face. “But listen, it’s not … they don’t conquer everything. I mean, the Romans don’t get the whole island. Parts of the west stay unconquered. The Celts fight … they hide. And in the end, a lot of years from now but in the end, the Roman Empire goes down itself and fades away. And please don’t tell anyone that because I’m pretty sure I’ve already drastically altered history as it is.”

  “Clarinet. I’ve never met anyone like you.”

  “I can believe that.” Clare had come a long way from thinking of herself as just an average teenager from Toronto. She laughed a little. “I’m the kind of girl a guy like you only meets once every—I don’t know—never?”

  “Will you stay and help us fight this fight?”

  “I can’t. This isn’t my world, Connal.”

  He reached up and put a hand on either side of her face. “But you keep coming back. Something draws you here …”

  A shiver ran up Clare’s spine as Connal tilted his head and pulled her closer. Despite the powerful attraction she felt for him, she couldn’t help thinking about Comorra and how she felt about him. Clare reached up to push Connal’s hands away, her fingertips brushing the cold metal of his silver bracelets.

  Suddenly the shiver turned to shimmer and Clare jerked her hand back, startled, as the familiar, electrified jolt of energy flooded up her arm.

  “What the hell?” Clare glanced back and forth from her fingertips to Connal’s silver bracelet. His wrist cuffs weren’t just made by Llassar. They were tied to her, somehow. Specifically. They were shimmer triggers, too—just as the torc and the shield and Comorra’s brooch were. Why? How?

  She stared at Connal, waiting for an explanation. The Druid prince looked wary and, for some reason Clare couldn’t immediately fathom, almost embarrassed.

  “Is there something you should be telling me? Maybe something about what exactly it is that draws me here?”

  “I … I’m sorry,” he murmured.

  “What for?” There was an uncomfortable churning in her stomach. She felt a sense of premonition—almost as if she knew what he was going to say, or that she wasn’t going to like it very much.

  “The queen is using something I gave her. Or rather she is making Llassar use it—to create talismans to bind your magic to the Iceni to aid us in our troubles.”

  “What?” Beneath a building sense of dread, Clare was utterly confused. “Bind me how? Connal—I have no idea what you’re talking about. But I do know you’re scaring me.”

  “I didn’t mean for her to do it and it is my fault because I told her of you. I suppose I just wanted to prove to her that I was worthy. That I had power to help my people. I gave her a cloth—one with your blood on it. From when I cut you.”

  “My …” At the mere mention of her blood, Clare felt faint. “You gave my blood to Boudicca?”

  “You are a creature of powerful magic, Clare,” he said as if explaining to a small child. “And the need of the Iceni is great. We need all the magic we can get to call the goddess to protect and guide us.”

  The goddess. Clare understood now. Boudicca had “dedicated” her to Andrasta just as Connal had been. The queen had made Llassar cast a spell with Clare’s blood. A spell that somehow ensured that, two thousand years later, the objects she had enchanted would call to Clare. Just as Comorra’s raven brooch had when Clare herself had accidentally bled on it.

  Clare almost blew out a frontal lobe trying to figure out which had come first—her shimmering or Boudicca’s enabling her to shimmer. Chicken … egg … chicken … egg …

  What did it matter? It was done and there wasn’t anything she could do to turn that particular clock back. Her own existence hurtled on in a linear fashion no matter how profoundly she screwed up reality all around her. And it wasn’t Connal’s fault. It was hers.

  “Blood magic,” Clare murmured.

  “Blood …” The raven sitting on the branch above her head seemed to answer back.

  Clare closed her eyes—and let the shimmering take her away from Connal and the faraway sounds of Boudicca’s war.

/>   20

  “Why is there blue stuff on your face?”

  Clare took a deep breath and counted to ten before she opened her eyes. “I was partying with Smurfs. I wanted to fit in.”

  “Sounds like fun. Did I call you back too soon?”

  “No!” Clare struggled to sit up. Her muscles screamed at her—it felt as if she’d just run a marathon. “Talk about dawdling—I thought you were never going to call me back!”

  “I had a few things to take care of first.” Al held out a hand to help her up. “Notice anything different?”

  Clare was suddenly hit with the fact that she was no longer in a deserted warehouse. She and Al were sitting in a secluded area of a park with birds singing overhead and no sign of Stuart Morholt anywhere. Clare turned back to Al, who was grinning like the proverbial canary-swallowing cat. She’d done it. Somehow, while Clare was counterfeiting deities and dodging fiery death from the sky, Al had wrought their escape.

  “Okay … This officially elevates you from sidekick status. How the hell?”

  “Extreme geekness has its advantages.” Al shrugged nonchalantly. “The entire time I was doing my Iceni research and collating your reports for Stu in the warehouse, I was also messaging with Milo.”

  “I thought the wi-fi there sucked.”

  “I just said that to get Morholt off my back. I didn’t want him suspecting what I was doing.”

  “Ah.”

  “Anyway, Milo hit the forums on hack-chat.com for me and—it took a while and probably a boatload of owed favours—but he remotely downloaded a couple of nifty little high-end pieces of software to my machine. The first one turned the Bluetooth capability on my laptop into essentially a frequency transmitter and the second was a key-code sequencer. Morholt’s Bentley is one of those cars where everything responds to a keyless remote, see?”

  “No.”

  “So all I had to do was input the make and model of the car and the sequencer just cycled through until it found the right RF and numeric code that, once transmitted, would unlock and then remotely start Morholt’s car and—bingo. Now do you see?”

  “No.”

  “At any rate, we’re free. And I now own the title of World Junior Miss Grand Theft Auto.”

  Clare knew perfectly well that her jaw was hanging open. Wide open.

  Al laughed at her expression. “With you gone, I don’t think Stu considered me much of a threat. He was on his cell phone most of the time arguing with someone and he just got kind of careless. I made it pretty obvious that I was trying to eavesdrop, and eventually he went outside on the waterfront to continue his chat. So I grabbed the torc, hit the transmitter hack, beat feet to the car, burned rubber, and got the hell outta Dodge.”

  Clare could tell that Al was trying to be super cool about the whole thing, but her cheeks were bright pink and her blue-grey eyes sparkled fiercely. She was damn proud of herself and probably still scared out of her wits …

  “I can’t believe you did all that!”

  “Hey. You were gone a long time. I had to amuse myself somehow.”

  Clare hugged her hard. “Please don’t ever not be on my side.”

  “I could say the same for you.” Al squeezed her back and then pushed her away to arm’s length. “Now let’s get to somewhere where we can hail a cab and go back to Milo’s place. You can give me your shimmer report on the way!”

  IN HUSHED TONES in the back of a boxy black London taxi, Clare told Al everything—from confronting Comorra to disguising her as an angry goddess to the Roman ambush. Right down to the flaming arrows. Al sat rapt, listening to every crazy detail as if she were sitting around a campfire hearing the best ghost story in the world. Which, in a way, it was. All those people were long gone. Comorra was long gone. Connal was long gone. Finally Clare lapsed into silence, thinking about what that meant.

  Al’s voice broke in on Clare’s reverie. “He’s gonna be really glad to see you, you know.”

  “What? Who?”

  Al just sighed and shook her head.

  “What?” Clare said. “What did I do wrong?”

  “No—nothing,” Al said. “I was just thinking about Milo. I guess you weren’t, huh?”

  “What? Why would you say that?”

  “Well … I guess it makes sense. I mean, you’ve got your super-hot Bog Bait waiting for you in the past. And he’s exciting and dangerous and … blue. I’m just feeling a little bad for the guy in the present, I guess.”

  “Milo? You think Milo … what? Likes me?” She’d been trying to quietly ignore the possibility; hadn’t dared hope that it might be true. Milo had been wonderful to her, of course, but she feared he was too cool for her. And too smart: Al put up with her, but Al was her best friend. Milo would never find an academic slacker like Clare worth expending any serious brainpower on, regardless of how much he had to spare. Would he?

  “You really think so?” she asked Al.

  Al just rolled an eye at her.

  “That’s borderline ridiculous, Al,” Clare snorted. “Milo doesn’t even know me. Not really.”

  “Milo’s been in love with you since he was fourteen years old.”

  “I …”

  “He told me.”

  “When?”

  “Well … when he was fourteen,” Al said dryly. “The first time. And pretty much on a yearly basis, every time I’ve seen or talked to him since then.”

  Clare had to bite her lip to keep from making outraged squealing noises. “Why didn’t you ever tell me?”

  “Because he didn’t want me to.”

  “Why the hell not?”

  “Because he knew what you thought of him.” Al shrugged. “You thought he was a nerd.”

  “When he was fourteen he was a nerd, Al!”

  “In his mind, he still thinks he is.”

  “Well.” Clare threw her hands in the air. “Obviously. And the reason he thinks that, of course, is because he doesn’t own a mirror.”

  “Okay, so he’s a little insecure. We geek folk tend to get like that.”

  “He doesn’t have to be.” Clare shifted around to face Al. “You don’t have to be. You’ve been a nerd the entire time I’ve known you. I hardly even notice your nerdliness now.”

  “Gosh. Thanks.”

  “I kid.” Clare sighed and shook her head. “I guess I know what you mean, though. And I was probably a total jerk to Milo when we were younger.”

  “Probably. Although, apparently not enough of one. He’s nuts about you, Clare. And if you tell him I told you that, I will kill you dead.”

  The taxi pulled up in front of the tall glass condominium tower where Milo lived. Al paid the driver and the girls walked into the lobby. Al had her computer bag slung across her body and was carrying the rosewood cigar box containing one of the great treasures of British history tucked under one arm.

  “Hey,” Clare asked suddenly. “Why didn’t we just drive the Bentley here?”

  “Oh, yeah.” Al grimaced. “I kind of drove into a lamppost once I was far enough away from the docks.”

  “On purpose?” Clare gaped at her.

  “Yup. I figured the police would find it and then maybe they’d try to find Morholt. Even if they don’t, the dent in his swanky fender will probably send Stu into an apoplectic fit. And that idea appeals to me enormously.”

  “Why didn’t you go to the police after you got away?”

  Al laughed. “Mostly because I didn’t think they’d believe my story. And even if they did they probably wouldn’t have let me hang on to this.” She patted the rosewood box with the torc inside. “I figured it might not be the greatest thing if you got back from your latest shimmer and found yourself locked in a police evidence vault somewhere. Would’ve been a waste of all Milo’s hacking and my wicked cool super-spy skills.”

  Right. Clare probably wouldn’t have thought of that herself. “Damn.” She shook her head ruefully as they stepped inside the elevator. “It’s really hard keeping up with you some
times.”

  “What are you talking about?” Al punched the button for the thirteenth floor.

  Clare shrugged. “I mean, sometimes I just feel really dumb next to you. And Milo.”

  Al blinked at her silently for a moment. “Clare, no offence, but that’s the stupidest thing you’ve ever said.”

  “What?”

  “Do have any idea what you just did? You saved Connal’s life and you did it in a particularly ingenious way.”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “For as long as I’ve known you, you’ve never given yourself enough credit,” Al sighed. “You’re one of the smartest people I know. You’re also one of the bravest. So you’re a little reckless. And you can’t do math. And you’re easily distracted. And maybe you should study a little harder in English class. Oh—and your sense of direction really truly does suck, but—”

  “Okay! Okay.” Clare held up a hand. “I get it. I’m not a complete moron.”

  “Nope. Not a complete moron. And I’ll say it again: you just saved a guy’s life.”

  “A guy who’s been dead for centuries. Does that count as ironic? I’m never sure.”

  “I think it does. But still—think about it. He’s dead now, yeah. But not then. And who knows how many years he lived after you and the princess hauled his butt outta that swamp, and how many of the Iceni and his own tribe he actually saved in turn? At least he didn’t die for nothing as a victim of Boudicca’s madness. At least he was still there to take care of Comorra. Who, by the way, you also saved.”

  Clare frowned, thinking about that as the elevator doors slid open—and Milo almost tackled her to the ground.

  “YOU’RE ALL RIGHT,” Milo murmured into her hair as Clare stood there, not daring to breathe for fear he might let go.

  Al was right. Milo cared about her. Really cared about her. Smart, funny, sexy Milo.

  “I’ve been going crazy with worry. You’re all right …”

  “Yup. I’m good,” Al said with cheery sarcasm as she stepped around Milo and Clare and headed off down the hall. “Don’t worry about me, cuz. Came through unscathed. No problemo. Miss Junior World Grand Theft Auto, here. I’m kind of a genius …”