Now and for Never (8 page)

“What the hell do you mean by that?” Milo said, interposing his lanky frame between Clare and the professor.

She did a double take. Milo's recent demeanour had been … surprising. His laid-back, easygoing, brains-beforebrawn nature seemed to have much more of an edge to it of late.

“Do you mean to say that Clare should have sacrificed herself?” he asked.

“Yes.” Ashbourne nodded gravely. “If it meant not putting anyone else in danger, then yes. Sometimes sacrifice is a necessary evil.”

“Yeah, see,” Clare said, “I'm not big on evil. Necessary or not. In the same way I'm not real keen on sacrifices. Which is why we're here.”

“I don't understand.” Ashbourne's eyes narrowed.

“I need to borrow one of the coins your students found the other day.” She gestured to the tray on the desk. “One of them is a shimmer trigger. I'm going to use it to send me and Al back. I'm getting Mark O'Donnell and bringing him home.” She looked at Al. “
We're
bringing him home.”

Al flashed a brief grateful smile at Clare.

“You are
not
going back. I forbid it.”

This,
Clare thought,
from the guy who was all gung-ho on me shimmering back to relay the very information that would get him killed. Now he's up in arms because I want to go back and actually
save
someone? What gives?

“Forbid all you want,” she bristled, moving to one side to get around him. “You don't get a say in this. I need to see those coins.”

“You'll have to step over my dead body first,” he said, blocking her way again.

“Been there, done that,” Al muttered.

“No more. It's unnatural and it has to stop. You broke the curse and for that I'm grateful. But it's over now. No more going back.” Ashbourne shook his head. “Certainly not with Piper as your anchor.”

Clare tilted her head and regarded him. This sudden transformation from genial blowhard to angry commander was downright startling. Al had gotten to know the other Ashbourne a bit—the Roman army hard-ass who'd been used to barking orders and having them instantly obeyed—and had developed a measure of respect for him. But Clare didn't suffer Roman army hard-asses gladly and she wasn't about to make an exception.

“Don't you think you're being a little harsh?” she said. “Especially since
you're
the one who started the whole ‘arcane mess' ball rolling? Let's not forget it was your cranium that opened up this temporal can of worms in the first place!”

“And now it's time to seal that can shut,” he argued, almost toe to toe with Clare. “The dangers inherent in your shimmering—”

“
Not
unfamiliar with them. Doesn't matter. I'm doing it.”

“Marcus is
stuck
back there!” Al shouted up into his face.

“And that may very well be my fault. But I'm
not
sorry for what I did.” Ashbourne's gaze was flinty. “It saved countless lives. That the life of one young man was made inconvenient is unfortunate, yes. Collateral damage, even. But I will not apologize for that decision. There are the needs of the many and the needs of the f—”

“And
now
you're treading dangerously close to quoting Mr. Spock in
The Wrath of Khan,
” Milo snapped, an angry light flaring in his eyes. “It riles up the Trekkie in me and that annoys
the Druid in me and, for all I know, that makes me prone to random acts of wizardry. We all know that what we've been doing is dangerous. No one's suggesting we start monkeying for fun or profit. Allie just wants to rescue a friend.”

“Yeah, Nick.” Piper frowned. “It's a snatch-and-grab. No big deal—”

“It
is
a big deal!” Ashbourne's face grew red with fury. “It's an enormous deal! You're involved now, Piper Jean Gimble— blood-tied to this … this witch!” He jabbed a finger at Clare.

“Witch?”
Clare blinked.

“I won't have you put in harm's way!” he continued, his face flushed almost purple. “I made a promise to your grandmother years ago that I'd do everything in my power—everything!— to make sure no harm would ever come to you. That you'd never become tangled up in this terrible business. I don't intend to break that promise!”

Without warning he snatched the coin tray off the desk and stalked across the tent to where a small, sturdy safe stood underneath a worktable. He opened the safe, tossed in the tray, slammed the door shut again, and then spun the combination dial.

Al was aghast. “You'd leave Marcus back there, condemned to an existence he never asked for?”

“No. But he's not my concern.”

“And I
am
?” Piper said.

“Of course you are.” Ashbourne's words came out strangled and a sheen appeared in his eyes. “You're my granddaughter.”

A shocked silence descended like a swift, heavy blanket of fog.

And into that silence walked Dr. Magda Wallace, consulting archaeologist for the British Museum and Clare's formidable aunt.

“Well, Nicky old chum,” she said without preamble, “if that's the case, then you'd bloody well better hand over those
coins and let Clare and her friends get about their business. Assuming you don't want your lovely young descendant here vanishing from the pages of history as if she'd never existed.”

“Mags!” Clare exclaimed, relieved beyond measure that her no-nonsense aunt had made such a sudden dramatic, welcome entrance. Maybe she could talk some sense into the crazy old archaeologist—

Who just said he was Goggles's what now …?

The declaration registered with a heavy thump in Clare's brain.

Oh. Bloody hell.

“Magda?” Ashbourne stepped out from behind his field desk, a storm-cloud glower darkening his brow. “What on earth are you doing here?”

“I came when Clare called me. And it seems a good thing I did. You clearly have need of a good dose of advice when it comes to dealing with exceptional young people.” She turned to Clare while the archaeologist sputtered. “Hello, dear. Milo, Allie. I trust you're all well? Excellent. Good to know. Now, Nicholas, may I speak to you for a moment?”

She held open the tent flap and gestured him outside.

Ashbourne nodded brusquely and preceded Maggie out of the tent.

After a long moment of silence, Piper, looking as if someone had just smacked her upside the head with a good-sized trout, murmured, “Oh … my …”

Clare felt a swell of sympathy for her, even as she realized that it all made a kind of shocking sense. Quintus Phoenius Postumus would have been the ultimate stranger in a strange land once he'd crossed over into the time fracture where Piper's flower-child granny (in her pre-granny days) wandered the Tor, dowsing for ley lines or communing with nature sprites or whatever it was she thought she was accomplishing. Must have shocked her to the soles of her Birkenstocks when the
strapping Roman commander tumbled out of a spectral light show almost into her lap.

Clare remembered Ashbourne telling them that, in his “past” life as Postumus, he'd been born in
AD
20. Which meant he'd been about forty when the time shattering sent him into the future. The past future. Probably the late seventies. Clare (surprisingly) did the math.

“Wait. He must be in his eighties!” she blurted.

“He's seventy-two,” Piper corrected. “I made him a birthday dinner last week …”

“Okay, but I mean, he looks pretty damn spry for an old guy!”

Milo shrugged. “Look at William Shatner.”

“No. No way. Take away the silver soup strainer?” Clare made moustache-y gestures with her fingers. “Get rid of that and he doesn't look a day over fifty. There's something wonky about— Hey! … Uh … Goggles?”

Clare thrust out a hand to steady the other girl, who suddenly looked to be swaying a bit on her feet.

“Piper? You okay?”

“Hm?” Piper turned and blinked at Clare. “Oh. Oh, yes. I'm fine. Fine …”

“You're fine?”
Al asked. “Bloody Nicky just told you he's your grandfather. You
did
actually hear that part, right?”

“Yes. Yes, of course …”

“Then you're so
not
fine,” she said. “Do you think he's telling the truth?”

“Absolutely
not,
” Piper snapped, a brittle edge to her voice. “Of course, if it
is
true, then I guess that along with ‘madman and sorceress progenitors' I could always fold ‘lying, timetravelling Roman curmudgeon' into the works. Suppose that explains why old Nick always took such an interest in my business, passing me artifacts on the sly. Might've been nice if he'd told me who he was instead …”

Milo put a hand on her shoulder. “What are the odds he changes his mind and gives us the coin?”

“Are you kidding? He's Roman army down to his marrow,” Clare snorted. “And those guys were nothing if not convinced of their own supreme rightness in all matters.”

Piper shrugged. “She's right. He's a stubborn old mule.”

“Well, I guess that's that,” Al said quietly. They could all hear the bitterness in her voice. “Unless we can find another way to go back, or dynamite the door off that safe, Marcus is stuck there for good.”

“Hang on …” Piper got up, walked over to the safe, and knelt in front of the electronic number pad. “I've watched him open this thing enough times that I've memorized the combination. Never thought to try it out before now …” She swore eloquently when the little light on the door blinked red and the handle refused to budge. “Damn it all! He must have just changed it.”

“Denied,” Clare sighed. But then a strange sensation washed over her. Like intuition or instinct. She walked over, knelt beside Goggles, and put a hand on her shoulder. “Let me try …”

There was definitely a shimmer trigger locked away in there, she thought. She could almost hear it whispering to her.

“Clare?” Milo asked. “What are you—”

“Shh.”

She lifted a hand just to the side of the electronic panel and, ever so lightly, placed her fingers on the cool metal of the door. It felt as if it hummed at her touch. She leaned in, concentrating on the murmur of the shimmer coin. Ever so gently, she murmured back her thoughts.

“Are you Vulcan mind-melding with a safe?” Al whispered.

“Shh,”
Clare said. “And enough with the
Star Trek
references.”

She poured every ounce of concentration she had into … whatever it was she thought she was trying to do. A long silence stretched out in the tent as everyone held their breath. And then came the sound of a small metallic object striking up
against the inside of the safe door as if drawn by a powerful magnet in Clare's hand—

TINK!

—and the electronic keypad blinked crazily, sparked, and went dark.

Yes! Shimmer-fried!

Clare rocked back on her heels as the door opened with a whispered creak and the coin fell to the floor of the tent. She reached for it … then remembered what would happen if she touched it and drew back her hand.

“I'll get it, pal.” Al crouched down to scoop up the mystically ill-gotten booty.

When Clare wobbled a bit as she tried to stand Milo reached out to steady her.

“Way to level up the ol' shimmer whammy, Clare de Lune.”

“Thanks,” she said, breathing quickly with excitement at what she'd just done. “And hey,
I
even kept my shirt on while I did it!”

Milo's lip twitched in a grin. “Pity.”

Clare grinned back and leaned down to shut the safe door, jiggling the handle to make sure it would stay closed. Hopefully Bloody Nicky wouldn't be any the wiser until it was too late and she and Al were well on their way.

Sailing the high seas of time …

When the tent flap opened again and the two archaeologists ducked back inside, Clare was once more on the other side of the desk, doing her best to look non-thefty. Al was all shining innocence, Milo a study in nonchalance. Piper was the only one who still looked jumpy, understandable given the geneaological bombshell Bloody Nicky had just dropped on her head. For his part, Ashbourne was looking rather more subdued. Clare recognized the look. Her aunt was a formidable wielder of no-nonsenseness and level headitude. With any luck, she'd already convinced Ashbourne to step aside
and let the Time Monkey Gang get on with it.

Clare watched as the archaeologist's gaze fastened unblinkingly on Goggles.

“Piper Jean … I
am
your grandfather,” he said quietly. “Whether you like it or not—”

“Bollocks!” Piper blurted. Her eyes were huge behind her goggles, which seemed to be steaming up a bit. She reached up, tore them off her face, and leaned across the table, her hands balled into fists. “I call bollocks!”

“It's true.”

“It's not!” She pointed violently in Clare's direction. “She's right. You'd be bloody ancient if it were and—”

“I
am
.” Ashbourne's tone was bitter. “I haven't aged a day since I lost my head to the edge of a sword and stepped through that damned portal.” He glanced at Al and Clare. “In
AD
82.”

Clare's jaw drifted open.

Al whistled low under her breath.

Milo shook his head. “Wow.”

And Piper barked a laugh. “Well,” she said. “Bully for you. Must be awfully nice to—”

“It's a nightmare,” Ashbourne said in a ragged whisper. “Your grandmother Julia was almost forty when I met her, but still so beautiful and full of life.” His gaze dropped to his clenched hands on the table. “Your mother was only sixteen—and an angry, rebellious handful—when she had you. Eighteen when she ran away. I suspect she'd learned of my secret and decided I was a liar or a fraud or a freak. I haven't seen her since and I don't expect I ever will. I had to watch Julia grow old. I watched her die. While I remained the same.” He shook his head wearily. “Growing this ridiculous moustache, combing grey into it, hiding behind this costume, this persona, so that those around me wouldn't look past it to see the man who wasn't getting any older. Soon enough, I'll have to leave Glastonbury and the dig projects behind and
start all over again as someone else. Somewhere else. The only reason I've stayed here as long as I have is you, Piper Jean. You were all that was left.”