Connal’s lucid state.
“Connal,” she said gently, helping him up into a sitting position. “Thank you. Thank you so much for everything. We did it. We got the torc back and Maggie will make sure it never falls into anyone else’s hands ever again. I promise. Now we have to get Milo to a hospital.” She reached for the silver cuff on his arm. “It’s time for you to go—”
“No.” His hand shot out and gripped Clare’s wrist. “I will not go back, Clarinet.”
Over his shoulder, Clare saw Al skid to a halt. Maggie, who was hurrying after her with a first aid kit, almost ran into her.
The grip on Clare’s wrist tightened and Connal stood, hauling her effortlessly to her feet with him. His gaze had become flinty and there was a hard, determined set to his mouth.
Clare felt her stomach clench with apprehension. “Milo?” she said loudly. “Milo! Can you hear me?”
Connal shook his head. “He sleeps. Let him sleep forever so long as I can be with you.” The silver cuff began to glow with a reddish light that pulsed in time to the blood Clare could see coursing beneath his skin.
A chill of dread flooded through her veins as the Druid prince stared feverishly out at her from Milo’s eyes. Comorra had been willing to kill Clare so that she could have Connal. Would Connal be willing to do the same to Milo? It was somehow so easy to forget how different their world was. His was a place and a time where lovers’ quarrels might be settled on the point of a knife.
A place where Connal had already lost so much. He must have seen things … done things during Boudicca’s rampage that had horrified him. And with the Iceni tribe in tatters, the queen gone, and Comorra—the girl he loved, even if he had barely begun to acknowledge it—dead …
It was easy to understand how he saw this as the path away from all that misery. He could stay here. With her. In his desperation he would do it. It was madness, but everything Connal had been through may have put cracks in his sanity—and dragging his spirit into the present might have finished the job. It would be impossible to convince him to set Milo free.
Milo’s mind—Milo’s big, beautiful geektastic mind—would shrivel up and die, locked away in a prison made of magic. And it would be all Clare’s fault.
“Miiilooo!” she shouted at the top of her lungs.
Suddenly, he doubled over with a cry of pure agony—his or Connal’s, Clare couldn’t be sure—and when he straightened up again his face was twisted in a snarl. His hands shot out and he gripped her by the shoulders, bringing his face down to hers and crushing his lips against her mouth. Searing heat bubbled up from deep in Clare’s chest and waves of warmth flooded out to the ends of her fingertips. It was like shimmering but without the time travel. Every nerve ending in her body tingled and sparked, and the rest of the world seemed to vanish all around her. She kissed him back, hard, and as he stole the breath from her lungs she melted into the fierceness of his embrace. When finally Clare had to pull away she was gasping for air—wide-eyed, astonished, flushed, and weak-kneed—and dead certain that it hadn’t felt anything like that when Connal had kissed her before …
“Clare …” he ground out between clenched teeth. “… de Lune …”
Clare de Lune!
That hadn’t been Connal kissing her at all! She knew it!
“Milo?” She took a hesitant step forward but he thrust out an arm, warning her away. She gaped at Milo’s face as it twisted and contorted. “Milo—take off the cuff! Take it off now!”
Milo’s long fingers gripped the edges of the knotted silver band as he strained to tear the bracelet from his arm. It wouldn’t budge. “Too strong … Clare … help me …” His body arched grotesquely as he fought against the presence that sought to overwhelm him.
That’s it, Clare thought. Time to play hardball. Dodging his flailing limbs, she grasped the sides of his face with both hands. She ducked in and kissed him on the mouth again, inhaling sharply through her nose as his arm went around her like a vise and crushed her to his chest. Milo’s lips moved hungrily over hers and Clare returned the kiss with an almost equal fervour. It was almost enough to make her forget what she had to do. Almost.
Until the second she realized that it was no longer Milo kissing her.
“You see?” he murmured in Connal’s voice. “You want me. You know you want me.”
Sure she did.
She wanted him … to get the hell out of her prospective boyfriend. With Connal so passionately distracted Clare broke the embrace and hauled back with her fist, winding up to crack him across the jaw as hard as she could. She didn’t have to. With a hollow thud Milo’s head suddenly jerked to one side and he slumped to the floor.
Clare looked up to see Al grasping Milo’s cricket bat in two hands.
“He’ll be fine,” she panted, hefting the bat. “He has a really hard head. Used to fall out of trees and land on it all the time when he was a kid …”
Clare stared at her for a moment, eyes wide, and then dropped to her knees to make sure Milo was still breathing. He was. She checked his wrist and grimaced. The edges of the cuff’s design looked as though they had begun to meld with the skin on Milo’s arm. Boudicca’s death-cursed torc had been powerful enough, but Connal’s bracelet had carried the Druid’s living spirit through time and poured it into Milo’s body. And now it was trying its damnedest to stay there. Clare got up. She knew what she had to do.
She glanced over at Stuart Morholt, who was still taped to his information stand and staring at Clare and Al with something that might have been a measure of respect.
Then she turned to Al and Maggie. “Can you keep these two under control until I get back?”
Maggie eyed the bat in Al’s hand and her mouth quirked in a half-grin. “I think we’ll be able to handle things.”
“What are you going to do?” Al asked.
“If Comorra never drinks the poison Boudicca left behind,” Clare said, “if that Connal is there to stop her, then this Connal never exists. I’m going to go find him and make sure he gets to Comorra on time. This time.”
“He won’t be out for long, you know,” Al said with a worried glance over her shoulder at the outstretched form of her unconscious cousin.
“I know.” Clare nodded tersely. “Ten minutes. Give me that long and no longer.” She thrust her gloved hand into her pocket and grabbed Connal’s other bracelet—the one she’d taken from Boudicca’s bier. He wouldn’t need to leave it at the bier anymore—he wasn’t going to go to the bier. He was going to take Comorra and run. Clare was going to make sure of it.
“Okay.” Al checked her watch. It was a retro-cool vintage wind-up and had survived the shimmer trip to Boudicca’s tomb just fine. “Ten minutes and then I’m calling it, pal.”
“You bet.” Clare nodded. She stripped off one of her driving gloves and placed her hand on the cuff. The cold, sinewy surface of the twisted silver bracelet sparked fire against her bare skin. Then the shimmering took over and she was gone.
IF SHE HADN’T been looking for him, Clare wouldn’t have seen him.
Connal was a shadow. Just a shape in the gloom of early night, hunched and breathing heavily, clutching a shoulder wet with blood. He was crouched beside the bole of a mighty oak, his eyes closed and his face drawn tight with pain.
“Connal.” Clare knelt beside him, shaking him gently.
His eyes snapped open, filled with animal wariness, and it took him a moment before he even recognized her. But then the ghost of his killer smile curved his lips and he murmured her name. “Clarinet … Shining One … have you come to take me to the Otherworld?”
“Actually, I came to ask your help so that I can keep Comorra out of the Otherworld.”
“What?”
“She’s on the verge of making a terrible mistake, Connal, and you have to help me stop her before she does.”
The Druid’s gaze sharpened and his mouth pressed together in a hard line. “Help me stand.”
“Good. If you think you
can make it, then we’ve got to go now.” Clare got her shoulder under his arm and helped him to his feet. “How far is it to the village?”
“Not far. Just over that ridge. I was on my way there—”
“I know. Can you run?”
Connal nodded, fierce determination in his eyes. “I can try.”
In fact, even though he was wounded, Connal could run a hell of a lot better than Clare could. She had to push to keep up with him as he fell into a loping, ground-eating jog. The terrain was a little rough but they made it to the Iceni town in probably just under five minutes. This is cutting it close, Clare thought.
The paths were deserted and most of the buildings in the village were dark. When they reached the Great Hall they saw that its doors gaped wide like the black maw of some huge, dead beast. Only a reddish flickering light shone deep within the shadowed roundhouse, the remains of what would normally have been a roaring blaze in the central fire pit.
Boudicca was draped over a low, backless chair beside the council fire. Still. Lifeless. Emptied of rage, elegant in death. At her feet, hunched and shaking, her hair hanging in front of her face, sat Comorra.
She looked up. “Hello Clare,” she said, her eyes empty of all emotion. “Have you come to say goodbye?”
“Not exactly.” Clare steeled herself and stood tall, knowing that Comorra was fragile and unpredictable in that moment. She didn’t want her doing anything stupid. Like drinking from the poisoned cup she held in her hand. “I came to get you out of here.”
“It’s time to leave, Princess,” Connal said softly. “I will take you over the mountains, to my home in the tribe of the Dyfneint.”
“So that I may carry the blight of my mother’s rebellion to another’s door? I will not go.” Comorra gripped the poison cup, her knuckles white. “My life would mean the deaths of hundreds more Celts, Connal. You know that. Maybe thousands. The Legions will not leave anyone alive who will stand as a rallying point for the tribes. I would live as one hunted and those around me would die.”
Connal hesitated. A deep frown shadowed his brow.
“I don’t have time for this,” Clare muttered, automatically glancing at her fried, useless watch. She nudged the Druid sharply with her elbow. “Stop dawdling and say something!”
“He cannot.” Comorra laughed mirthlessly. “There is nothing to say. He knows I’m right.”
“Connal—” Clare was getting frustrated.
“The princess is right.” Connal shook his head, his expression full of pain. “Our world is changing, Clarinet. It has changed. The Iceni are a proud people. We do not surrender without a fight—and usually not even then! This was a battle that the gods decided we were to lose and it will not end as long as Comorra lives. There would be no peace for the princess.”
“But—”
“It is Comorra’s decision, Clare.” Connal’s voice was harsh with leashed emotion. “One that I will respect.”
“So she becomes just another casualty of war. A sacrifice to Andrasta.” Clare tried but could not keep the bitterness from her voice. “And you’re okay with that.”
“Comorra is a princess.” Connal said proudly. “And she is wise. And—”
“And you’re in love with her, you dumb-ass!” Clare shouted. A thick, shocked silence descended on the three of them.
“He’s … what?” Comorra asked quietly.
“In love with you.” Clare took a deep breath. “If you kill yourself, Comorra, it will wreck him. Utterly. Believe me on this one. So there you go—there’s another casualty of war. And sure, in the grand scheme of things, whoop-dee-doo, who gives a crap about some dude’s broken heart. But what about the not-so-grand scheme? Doesn’t love count for something? Do you think all this … this carnage would have happened if the Romans hadn’t taken Prasutagus away from your mother? If she hadn’t been so blinded by grief maybe she would have found a way to work things out with the governor instead of goading him to war.” Clare shrugged helplessly. “I don’t know. Maybe not. Maybe two people alone in the darkness can’t generate enough light to drive it back. But maybe they can be a beacon for others. A candle in the window at midnight, you know? I mean, they can at least be there for each other, right?”
“Connal …?” Comorra’s expression warred with itself—as if she didn’t dare to hope. But it also looked as though her grip on the cup might have loosened a little.
“And, by the way, she’s in love with you, too!” Clare turned on the Druid prince. “And if you’d both take a second and stop being all noble and stubborn and ridiculous, you’d realize it. And you’d do something about it.”
“But the war …” Comorra protested weakly.
“To hell with the war! It’ll go on with or without you two around to join in the fun. It’s already ruined enough lives. Don’t let it ruin yours.” Clare glared at the Druid prince. “Connal, you once told me you’d die for Comorra—”
“No.” Connal slashed the air with his hand and turned to Comorra. “I will not die for you.”
Comorra stared at him, unshed tears rimming her wide blue eyes.
Clare held her breath.
Suddenly, in half a dozen strides, Connal was across the room and towering over Comorra where she sat hunched on the floor. He reached down, snatched the goblet from her hand, and hurled it across the hall. Then he grasped Comorra by her shoulders and hauled her to her feet.
“I will not die for you,” he whispered fiercely, inches from her face. “That was what your mother wanted me to do. But she is no longer my queen. You are. And I tell you I will not die for you. But I will live for you. We will leave this place. We will run, hide, fight another day … but we will live. Together.”
Comorra stared up at Connal, speechless and flushed.
“Clarinet is right. I do love you.” He smiled gently down at her. “I have loved you since I was fourteen years old, Princess.”
Clare blinked in astonishment. So Milo wasn’t the only one who carried a slow-burn torch.
“I never dared say it before, because I always knew my destiny was in your mother’s hands.” Connal took Comorra’s hands in his and turned her palms upward. “It is in yours now. As is my heart. Come away with me.”
In the next instant Comorra was kissing him and crying and Connal’s strong arms were wrapping around her in a fierce embrace. Clare grinned and tried to find something interesting to look at in the pattern of the rug.
“Hey …” she said after a few moments, “I don’t mean to interrupt, but I have to get going. I just wanted to give this back to you first, Princess.” With her gloved hand Clare reached into the pocket where she’d stashed Comorra’s brooch. In all the craziness she’d forgotten to leave it back in the tomb. But as it turned out, this was a much better way to return it. She tossed it lightly through the air and the red stone of the raven’s eye reflected the firelight, winking at her before Comorra caught it.
Outside, high above their heads, a raven perched on the peaked roof of Boudicca’s Great Hall called Clare’s name. At the sound of that harsh, imperative cry, Clare felt herself turning to stardust and shadows in front of her Iceni friends’ eyes. She raised a hand in farewell and smiled as Connal put his arm around Comorra. She hoped with all her heart that he would never let go.
27
Milo’s blond hair fell over his forehead as he sat against the base of a shattered display case. Connal’s silver bracelet was gone, leaving only a fading red welt circling his wrist.
“It vanished,” Al told her. “Just before you came back. That’s how I figured you’d done it.”
The one that had been in her pocket was gone, too. As if it had never existed.
Milo raised his head wearily and smiled at her. Clare dropped to her knees in front of him and threw her arms around his neck, sobbing his name into his hair.
“Hey …” he murmured weakly as he pulled her close. “Hey, Clare de Lune … don’t cry. The guy had a point after all …”
�
��What?”
He smiled at her, blue eyes clear and full of nothing but Milo. “I would have fought just as hard to be with you if I’d been him.”
“You’re not him.”
“Well … no. Not anymore.”
“And you don’t have to fight to be with me.” She grinned and wiped the tears off her cheeks as she helped him to stand. “Just ask me out on a date.”
A slow, shy smile spread across Milo’s face, and for a second Clare thought he would back off a step, or maybe quip disarm-ingly. But then he bent his head and kissed her. Clare gasped and closed her eyes so she could watch the fireworks going off in her head at the touch of his lips against hers.
“Tomorrow night,” he whispered in her ear. “I’ll pick you up at seven o’clock. Dinner, dancing …” He glanced down at where the wound Boudicca’s sword had made still seeped blood through his shirt. “… slow dancing, and no Druids allowed. Deal?”
Clare suddenly, fervently wished she could travel forward through time. “Deal,” she whispered back, and kissed him again.
“Right.” Morholt’s voice floated over to them, intruding massively on the moment. “How romantic. Lovely, yes. Look, can someone please cut me loose? I’m losing feeling in both major and minor extremities.”
Al snorted. “I think we should leave him right where he is.”
Clare sighed, seriously contemplating it. He was still damned annoying, but at least he wasn’t splattered all over the gallery. She disentangled herself from Milo’s embrace. “Let’s cut him loose.”
Maggie crossed her arms and glared balefully in Morholt’s direction.
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