Now and for Never (16 page)

C
lare regretted emptying her bag of everything except survival essentials before they shimmered. That included her makeup mirror and, having always thought green was one of her best colours, she was curious as to just how good she looked. Because, according to Al, she was a vivid shade of it.

“Glarg …”

Al rolled her head in Clare's direction. She was looking a touch viridian around the gills herself. “I'll see your ‘glarg' and raise you a ‘blerf' …” She glanced around to check that none of the men were nearby, then slipped the aluminum water bottle out of her messenger bag and stealthily handed it to Clare.

Clare nodded her thanks and took a small sip, swishing the tepid liquid around in her mouth before swallowing with a grimace.

“Tic Tac?” Al said, shaking a little plastic box full of breath mints.

“
Gawd
yes …” Clare held out her hand.

It turned out that barf bags had been unnecessary. Not because Clare hadn't been barfing enthusiastically off and on, but because she'd had the entire ocean to utilize for the purpose. Once the first temporal rift dissipated, their speed had diminished drastically, as if someone had cut the engine on a mystical winch. But the ship's momentum had kept it
plowing forward—straight into the heart of a good old-fashioned raging tempest.

Clare and Al had scrambled to secure themselves to a nearby stanchion and then proceeded to hang on for dear life for the next several eternities as the ship heeled and plunged and rolled, battered by thirty-foot swells and gale-force winds that tore at the sails and the sailors struggling to reef them. Barrage after barrage of lightning had lit the boiling black sky noon-bright and the accompanying thunder had rattled the girls' teeth and jarred their bones as they clung together, soaked to the skin and scared out of their collective wits. At the time, Clare had been too terrified to give in to seasickness.

But when they'd entered another temporal vortex she had no such reservations. In the blanket of muted silence that had descended on the ship as it sailed onward through the ethereal seascape, Clare made a break for the railing, folding double over it as a wave of nausea swept her head to toe. That had been several hours ago, and she was still feeling a bit like one of the bog zombies they'd fended off in the museum back in London.

Clare chewed a handful of Tic Tacs and then she and Al dozed for a while, leaning against each other and shivering in damp, shared misery. But as the mystical doldrums stretched out, the girls started to get restless. Now Al was pacing up and down the rail, staring into the swirling distance as if she could make Marcus's ship appear before them through sheer force of will.

Clare watched her for a while, then lifted the edge of her shirt and began to pick at the edges of the tape that held the digital camera to her torso. She grimaced and hissed through her teeth as if she was pulling off the world's biggest band-aid, but eventually she worked the little silver packet free. She peeled back the layers (and layers—Milo might have
been a little overzealous on the wrapping job, she thought) of aluminum foil, eventually exposing the shiny red body of the digital camera. By that time Al had stopped pacing and was peering over her shoulder. The camera appeared to have come through unscathed, but of course there was only one way to be sure. Clare unzipped her jacket pocket and fished out a pair of batteries, fitted them in the housing, and closed the little door.

Then she held her breath … and pressed the On button.

The little digital display screen glowed to life.

Behind her Al breathed a long, hefty sigh of relief.

“Go-go-gadget Faraday cage!” Clare exclaimed in wan triumph. “Good thing your cousin's a genius.”

“It is. And he is.” Al sank down to sit beside Clare. “Speaking of Milo … been meaning to ask you something.”

“Yeah?”

“Are you guys, you know …
okay
?”

“Yeah,” Clare said. “We're good.”

“Oh.” Al frowned. “It's just, I kind of sensed that things were a little … strained between you two. I thought maybe while I was stuck in the past you guys might have been fighting or something.”

“We were.”

“Well, that's okay then—wait. You're what?”

“Fighting.”

Al's jaw dropped open a bit. “You said ‘good'!
That's
not good. Fighting is actually un-good!”

Clare shrugged. “Your cousin has a thick skull.”

“All the better to protect his chewy genius brain from zombies, I suppose. But yeah. He does. He can be pretty stubborn when he wants to be. Not like anyone
else
I know …”

Clare ignored that. “It's endearing and infuriating in equal measure,” she said. “On the one hand, it makes him take his shirt off and paint himself with blue spirals. On the other,
it makes him invoke insanely dangerous rituals in order to protect me from doing same.”

Al blinked, puzzling that one through in her head. “So … let me get this straight,” she said. “You were mad at him because he was trying to save you—and me—from danger.”

Clare nodded. “And being kind of a macho shithead at the same time.”

“And he was mad at you,” Allie continued, “because you were trying to save him—and me—from danger.”

“And … um … yeah.” Clare frowned. “Being kind of a … um …”

“Let's say ‘reckless shithead' at the same time,” Allie finished for her. “You're not particularly macho after all.”

“Right.” Clare grimaced. “Yeah.”

“I see.”

The two girls were silent for a long time. The sky roiled overhead, the sea skimmed silently past below. Clare sighed deeply. Al was right—and, as usual, keenly perceptive—when she said things were different between her and Milo. But what she'd perceived as tension was probably the extra, undeniably electric connection that now stretched from her to Milo and back again. And Al—as Milo's much-adored cousin, and more to the point, Clare's best friend, partner-in-Shenanigans, rock, anchor, and constant confidante—had a right to know about it.

“Also?” Clare felt herself blushing furiously. Her hand went to the little charm around her neck, her fingertip tracing the spiral pattern on its surface. “He … he bought me this.”

“Ooh.” Al peered at the charm. “Pretty. And weirdly appropriate.”

“Yeah. And …
also
also? He kinda told me he, um, loves me.”

Al's reaction was not what Clare was expecting. Her grey eyes flew wide, her mouth opened in a silent
O
… and then she burst into tears.

“Gah!” Clare lunged forward to wrap her arms around Al's heaving shoulders. “Hey! It's okay! I said it back. I did. I do! I mean, I really actually think I love your stupid genius thickskulled cousin. And I'd
never
hurt him—I promise! You don't have to be sad for him. Or me. It's a good thing, okay? I'm sorry! I didn't mean to upset you and … uh …” Beneath Clare's arm, Al's shoulders had stopped heaving and began to quiver. “Are you … laughing?”

She broke the hug and sat back.

“You are. You're laughing at me. Because …
that
wasn't why you were crying and I'm such an insensitive jerk oh
gawd
!”

Al shook her head, still laughing a little. “You're
not
an insensitive jerk.
I
am. Here you are telling me that my awesome cousin, who's been crushing on you since, oh, only for-
ev
-aar finally goes all ‘True Confessions' on you—which, by the way, is
awe
some—and I get an insta-case of green-eyed meanies.”

“You did?” Clare raised an eyebrow.

“Kind of.” Al picked idly at the fraying end of a rope coiled beside her on the deck. “I mean … I just think it's great. You and Milo. I think it's the kind of thing
I
might someday want with … someone.”

“With Marcus.”

“Pff. No …” Al rolled her eyes. “It's not like I even know the guy. We're, like, practically strangers. This retrieval mission is just, you know, a moral obligation.”

“Sure.” Clare raised her other eyebrow. “A moral obligation to the guy who thinks you are—and I quote—‘magic.' And ‘the coolest person he'd ever met.'
Total
strangers.
Nothing
doing there …” Now it was Al's turn to blush furiously, but Clare the Merciless wasn't about to let up—not without some kind of a confession. “No sparks, no kissing, no buttockogling … no moonlit whatever-it-was you two were getting up to on top of the Glastonbury Tor that you haven't even told
me about yet because every time the subject comes up your cheeks go nuclear and—”

“Okay, okay!” Al dropped the rope and threw up her hands. “It's possible that it's not simply a
moral
obligation. And … um … it was dancing.”

“Dancing?”

“You know how I never went to any school dances?”

“'Cause they're lame?”

“Yeah,” Al said with a dreamy sigh. “But slow-dancing under the stars to cheesy eighties romantic pop with a guy with eyes like that … and thews like that …”

“‘Thews'?”

“Yes. Thews. Muscles. And eyes—”

“And dancing.”

“It was decidedly
not
lame.”

“Dude.”

Clare grinned and threw an arm back around Allie's shoulders. She hugged her briskly and then stood and stretched, feeling much less woogy than she had earlier. Squinting up at the psychedelic cloud-swirls, she noticed patches of normal blue sky starting to show through and breathed a sigh of relief—they wouldn't be exiting the temporal tunnel into the teeth of another storm. There was nothing left in her stomach anyway—barfing Tic Tacs would be a new, depraved low and Clare refused to entertain the notion. When a beam of clear yellow sunlight suddenly shone down on her face, she felt a renewed sense of optimism. And when she looked out over the merchant ship's bow, that sense of optimism expanded like a balloon.

“Y'know,” she said over her shoulder to Al, “whatever happens on this weird strange trip we're on … I'm glad we're here. I shouldn't have tried to convince you otherwise. You never would have done that to me.”

“Sure I would have,” Al said. “In fact I did, remember? I think I objected strenuously and on several occasions to you shimmering back and forth trying to help Connal and Comorra. You did it anyway.”

“Right.” Clare nodded. “But you wouldn't do that
now
is my point.”

“Nope.” Al was quiet for a moment and then sighed. “I
really
hope we find Marcus.”

“We will.”

“You sound pretty sure of that.”

“I am,” Clare said brightly.

“Clare … we're on a boat.”

“So is he.”

“Not
this
boat.”

“No …” Clare lifted an arm and pointed in the direction their own ship was hurtling. “
That
one.”

Clare hadn't seen Al move so fast in her life. She actually had to reach out and grab her by the shoulders to keep her from hurdling the railing. Like an overexcited bloodhound straining at a leash, Al leaned out over the water. The hunt was almost over. The hunted was in her sights.

“Mark! Marcus!” Al shouted, pointing wildly and jumping up and down. “Clare—look! I can see him!” Then she caught sight of Paulinus, stalking down the length of the ship toward them, the vessel's captain trotting in his wake. “Hey!” she shouted. “Can't this bucket go any faster?”

Clare leaned forward and squinted into the distance. No way in the world could Al have made out which teeny silhouette was Soldier Boy's, but the shadowed shape was definitely a ship. The ship they were chasing. And that wasn't the only thing remarkable about the view. After the unending stretches of nothing but ocean, there was land. A rugged, ragged coastline loomed to the south, silvery-grey cliffs soaring like castle battlements and topped with the dark green contours of lush,
unspoiled forest. The vertex seemed to have drawn them into some kind of gulf or harbour. Or maybe it was an archipelago. But whatever it was, it was land they were leaving behind.

As the line of terra firma dwindled in their wake, Clare caught a glimpse of Paulinus's face as he gazed at the rich, pristine shoreline, seemingly uninhabited. His expression made her shiver. What she saw there was pure, potent avarice. His was the face of a conqueror. It looked as if he wanted to dash over and plant a standard topped with the eagles of Rome.

Of course, Al probably would have shoved him overboard if he'd tried to change course. Ahead of them, tantalizingly close yet still so far away, the ship Marcus was on kept driving ever westward into open water again. It was smaller and sleeker than their own, and probably swifter, but Paulinus's captain managed—eventually—to close the distance between the two. In fact, according to the antique watch Clare had borrowed from Piper—a lovely old windup model with a little window at the top of the dial that showed the phases of the moon— it took almost five more hours (and for Al, several bouts of impatient frenzy) before the other vessel slowed almost to a stop. And now it looked as though that vessel, with its cheery yellow-and-blue sail, was charting a course parallel to their own.

As they came closer, Clare and Al could see why. It seemed as though they were approaching their destination.

An island—a familiar-looking island—was just on the edge of the horizon. And it was growing larger by the second. Clare lunged for her bag and dug around in it until she found the Sharpie marker she'd packed. It was invigorating to know they were finally getting somewhere with this shimmer trip. Somewhere they already knew they were supposed to be.

“Al!” she called. “Where's that Swiss Army knife you brought?”