Once Every Never

by Lesley Livingston

  “He’s just going to stand there and whine if we don’t,” Clare said, rolling an eye at him. “You’re welcome.”

  They cut Morholt free and removed his plastique vest. Al stood watch over him with the cricket bat while Maggie patched up the gash over Milo’s ribs and Clare slumped against a display case, exhausted. Dr. Jenkins was still unconscious and utterly unresponsive. Maggie thought she might have lapsed into some kind of shock-induced coma. Clare was struggling with feeling sorry for her. Or Morholt.

  After they cut Morholt free, the five of them stood gazing around at the ruins of the Ancient Britain display room.

  Milo kicked aside a shard of glass and picked up Boudicca’s discarded sword, waving it at the devastation. “We’re gonna have a hell of a time explaining this to Scotland Yard,” he said.

  Maggie shook her head. “Leave that to me. I’ll tell them Ceciley’s off her chump and has been displaying extremely odd behaviour lately. That she had some misguided notion that the Claxton Spectral Warriors exhibit was disrespectful to the dead. After all, she’ll not be telling tales of demonic possession and Druid blood curses. And if she does? They’ll find her a nice quiet room in a nice quiet institution, I dare say. I think we can safely convince the authorities that you lot were visiting me at work and that when she went on her rampage we just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  Clare winced at the turn of phrase.

  “Sorry, duckling,” Maggie patted her arm. “You know what I mean.”

  “Right!” Morholt suddenly smacked his palms together and rubbed his hands vigorously. He took a few steps in the direction of the exit. “Cheerio, then. Speaking of the authorities, I rather suspect that my presence here—seeing as how Scotland Yard considers me deceased—would only serve to complicate things. We don’t want the police looking into this in any more detail than is absolutely necessary, don’t you agree, Magda?”

  Clare glanced at her aunt, who seemed … conflicted. “Mags?” She would go along with whatever decision Maggie made. Clare suspected that, deep down, her aunt might still harbour some kind of feelings for Morholt, and she wasn’t going to press her on the issue.

  But then Milo glanced around and said, “Where’s the torc?”

  They looked over to see Morholt creeping away, his knapsack clutched tightly to his chest.

  “Open that,” Maggie said in a flatly accusatory voice.

  “I will not.” Morholt stiffened as if such a suggestion were an affront to his dignity.

  “Al …” Clare called over her shoulder.

  With a look of pure delight Al hefted the cricket bat and strode toward Morholt with all the menace of a security guard advancing on a stoner at a rock concert. “You. Utter. Slimeball!” She yanked away the knapsack and pulled out the drawstring bag full of treasure from Boudicca’s barrow. And the Snettisham Great Torc—Clare could clearly see its outline through the canvas. But now, with the swiftness of a striking serpent, Morholt snatched the bag right back.

  “Drop it!” Clare snapped, reaching for it.

  “I will not!” Morholt pulled out a bronze Iceni dagger and waved it at Clare. “I haven’t been thwarted, attacked, kidnapped, plastique-wrapped, near-exploded, and generally abused by smarty-pants teenagers just to walk away from this nightmare with nothing to show for it. I’m leaving and I’m taking my little bag of souvenirs with me!”

  Clare went rage-blind. She threw herself at Morholt, grabbing the canvas bag. The drawstring pulled open, the great torc dropped toward the floor, and without thinking Clare reached and caught it mid-air at the same time as Morholt did.

  Clare’s shimmering triggered the instant she grabbed hold of the torc. Only this time it was different. This time, she had company. Clare found herself hurtling through a stomach-churning, vertiginous maelstrom of sparkling darkness as she struggled to free the torc from Morholt’s grip.

  Suddenly Clare felt a jolt of pain, sharp enough to make her snatch her hand away. “Son of a—” she yelped, and in that instant—just as the lightning began to flare—the shimmering abruptly stopped. Milo lunged for her as if she stood at the brink of a precipice and pulled her to his chest.

  “Clare!” Maggie cried out. “What happened?”

  “He bit me!” Clare shook her hand and glared at the stinging, livid impressions of teeth stamped like tiny crescent moons into her flesh.

  “Where’s Morholt?” Al asked, staring at the empty space where the self-proclaimed Druid had stood only a moment before. He was gone. So was the bag of treasure. So was Boudicca’s torc.

  Clare cast her mind back to that instant just before she’d let go of the torc. What had she seen? She remembered a flash—a momentary impression—of moonlight glinting on water, far off in the distance. And the smell of the sea.

  “Clare?” Al laid a hand on her shoulder. “Are you okay?” “Yeah. I think so …”

  “And Stuart?” Maggie wondered.

  “How far is Snettisham from the sea?” Clare asked.

  “It’s right on the coast,” Milo answered.

  “I think I know how Boudicca’s torc got buried there,” she said wonderingly. “I think that’s where I left him.”

  Maggie and Milo exchanged a glance. Al patted her on the shoulder.

  “I can’t get him back.” She shrugged helplessly.

  No brooch. No silver cuffs. No torc. And although the Battersea Shield, safe in the restoration room in the basement of the museum, might still get her back, there was no sure way of finding Morholt if it did. Besides, Clare knew what had happened to the shield—and she definitely wasn’t going to risk a one-way trip to the bottom of the ancient Thames … not for Stuart Morholt.

  She really hoped, for his sake, that Stu was as handy with his real Iceni dagger as he’d been with his fake James Bond gun.

  OUTSIDE THE MUSEUM, dawn was breaking in a silent, pastel-soft sky. Maggie had called the police and the group went out onto the front steps to wait for them to arrive. Milo held Clare by the hand. Al walked at her other side. The two cousins were arguing over the top of her head.

  “Seriously,” Al was saying, “chaos theory is no laughing matter, Mi—”

  “Oh, don’t give me that line about ‘the beating of a butter-fly’s wings,’ cuz. It’s poetic nonsense.” Milo snorted. “And Jurassic Park was just silly.”

  “So … what then?” Al countered. “You think this whole thing was a closed-loop event? What about ripple effect?”

  “I was thinking more along the lines of quantum—”

  “Guys!” Clare’s head felt as though it were coming off her shoulders. “Really, are apes ruling the planet? Is it raining doughnuts? Are dinosaurs roaming the streets? No.”

  Milo and Al looked around as if wanting to confirm that assertion.

  “Then let’s leave it alone, shall we? Everything is the same as it’s always …” She looked up at Milo and frowned. “Have you always worn an earring?”

  He put a hand up to the tiny gold hoop. “Yeah. Why? Don’t you like it?”

  “No …” Clare murmured. “No … I do.” She shook her head and looked up into the sky. High above, a lone black shape was winging its way through the ruby-misted air, but it paid her no attention. It wasn’t her raven. “Hey Maggie?”

  “Yes, dear?” Maggie answered as she sank down to sit on the steps.

  “I think I know what I want to do after I graduate.”

  Al turned and raised an eyebrow at her. This was news.

  “I mean … I know I’ve got a year left and there’s always a slight chance I’ll be able to pull off the grades to get into a university program, but I figured maybe I’d go the practical route instead. And I was hoping you could help me.”

  “What do you mean, duck?”

  “Well … I was wondering if you could maybe help me get an internship or apprenticeship or whatever on one of those archaeological digs you’re always going on.”

  Maggie looked as though Clare had sudden
ly started speaking in tongues, but Milo smiled down at her and gave her shoulder a squeeze.

  “Are you sure, Clare?” Maggie said.

  Clare looked over at Al and grinned. “Yeah,” she said. “I’d like to give it a try. I’m one of the smartest people Al knows, after all. And I think I might just have some useful insights into the past.”

  Maggie smiled at her wayward niece as they heard distant police sirens growing closer.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  This particular tale has been a long while in the telling. Now that it’s out there, I’m thrilled to finally be able to properly thank those who made it all possible. First and foremost are the two people who made sure this actually happened: John and Jessica. John for (along with everything else) helping me bring Clare and Comorra’s story to life in the first place. And Jessica for (along with everything else) never losing faith that we would find it a proper home once I did. Without both of you, I’m pretty dang sure I would still be typing into the void. Much love and gratitude. Much.

  Massive thanks to Penguin Canada—to the lovely Jennifer Notman, who brought me into the fold, and to Caitlin Drake, my fabulous editor, who took such extraordinarily good care of me once I was there. I owe you. Large. Thanks to Mike Bryan, Lynne Missen, Nick Garrison, Mary Ann Blair, and Karen Alliston. Thank you to the design department for making this book look so good, and to Vimala Jeevanandam, my publicist, for making sure people see it. Much appreciation also goes out to Hefina Phillips for graciously accommodating my Celtic linguistic queries.

  Thank you, as always, to Jean Naggar and the staff of JVNLA for continuing to take excellent care of me. You guys make me feel like part of the family. And it’s an awesome family.

  Thanks to my actual family, who are beyond awesome—my mom, my brother, Shelley, Janna, and Dayln. And thank you to all of my friends who continue to indulge me, help me, and put up with me: Mark and Danielle, Adrienne, Joanna, and Joe. Thank you Cecmonster for all sorts of inspiration.

  And thank you, most of all, for reading.