Brad. She tried to imagine Brad mourning the loss of his friend. All she could see in her mind’s eye was his triumph that the machine worked, his obsession with why it hadn’t come back in the next minutes. Boy, that would be driving him crazy. And now he didn’t have either the machine or the book that told how to build it. He’d be kicking himself for experimenting prematurely. He’d chastise Casey for letting her take the book with her. Casey would be on Brad’s ass to figure out how to get the machine back and keep them both out of hot water with whoever was funding their project.
She had sure screwed this up. She’d brought back not a small piece of cloth or some kind of writing that could be dated to prove she’d been back in time, but a Viking, for God’s sake, a real, difficult, actual man who was very obsessed with weapons.
So she had to take him back and pick up that souvenir, then get the machine back to the lab in the present. Or close. She’d missed by four months the last time. She’d contact Brad when she had put things right and Galen was safely back where he belonged.
“Are you ready?” She looked up at Galen.
His blue eyes examined the machine. He nodded silently.
“Then we go.” She knelt beside the power source and started flipping switches. The lunch box began to hum. She motioned Galen to her side. “Hold to me.” She moved to the lever.
He stood behind her and put his good arm around her waist. She felt his warmth pressed against her back, acutely conscious that his torso was bare. “Here we go.” She grabbed the huge diamond with both hands and pulled.
It came off in her hands and bounced to the cement, where it rolled away under the machine. The end of the lever, several prongs bent and broken, shot out a jagged blue streak of power. She gaped and they ducked and rolled to the hard cement. Galen grunted in pain. The blue bolt had barely missed them. Ozone drifted in the air, reminiscent of lighting. Gears, barely moving, ground to a stop. The parking structure was silent except for a faint sizzling sound from the lunch box. For the first time she noticed that it was dented.
“Odin’s eye, what was that?” Galen gasped in what must be Norse. But she got the sense.
Lucy blinked. “Egil hit the . . .” She couldn’t think of a word for lever or lunch box, so she just waved a hand toward them. “. . . with his weapon. The machine is . . . damaged.” Was that the right word?
“But you made it come here.”
“Maybe that’s why I’m four months off, ” she muttered to herself. She got to her hands and knees and collected the diamond. “More damaged now,” she said in Latin to Galen.
“What do we do?”
Lucy looked around. Galen was ashen and shivering. “We ask Brad to fix it.” The sigh that thought elicited felt dusty.
“Who is this Brad?”
“My . . .” What was the word in Latin? “My friend.” Galen examined her face, reserve settling in his blue eyes. “Can he fix it?”
“I do not know.” She made a decision. She had to get him someplace warm, and she was not going back into the hospital where she had spun a host of inconsistent lies. “We will go to my house and . . .” How to say this? “Call out to Brad.” She might have just said “shout to Brad.”
“Is your house far?” Galen must have realized his strength was waning.
“Across the city. We will take a . . .” No Latin word for cab. Or car for that matter. “We will hire a . . . cart.” It was the closest she could come. He nodded and she pulled him to his feet with his good arm. Better hope there was a cab in front of the hospital at this hour.
Galen limped down the strangely paved road, leaning on the girl. He was half-glad the metal wheels had not worked. They might come down in the middle of the battle, with him wounded and without a weapon. He would not have lasted long. And Egil would kill the girl or keep her as a concubine slave. Galen wasn’t sure what would be worse for her.
But to be stuck here . . . wherever here was, was equally bad. He looked up at the stark hall where they had stuck needles in him. It was impossibly tall and made of steel like his sword and glass like the little bottles noblewomen kept their scent in, great sheets of it. One got up and down such huge buildings not with stairs but with boxes that moved by themselves. Rooms were lighted by discs that glowed like the moon. Who built such miracles? Gods? But he had seen no gods there, only men and women who tortured him, and this girl.
They walked down a white paved path. He heard a roar and turned. A metal beast with glowing eyes rushed down on them. He crouched and thrust the girl behind him. She shrieked. But the beast passed without attacking them. As it went, he saw that a man sat inside it, both hands on a wheel. He straightened. It was no beast. “What was that?” he muttered.
The girl brushed herself off, looking disgusted. “It was a cart.”
“That was no cart. It moved by itself without a horse.”
“There is no Latin word for it. We call it a ‘car.’ Now come.”
She grabbed his good arm and pulled him toward a “car,” painted yellow with black letters and Arabic numbers and a lamp on the roof that glowed white. She raised her hand in salute, and the car growled like Fenris, the wolf who ate the world at Ragnarok, and its glowing eyes blinked open. It took all his courage to stand his ground.
“Where to, lady?” the wizened man who sat inside the beast asked.
The girl opened a door behind the man, and said, “Sixteen Thirty-two Filbert, a few blocks off Van Ness.” She motioned Galen to get into the cart. He hesitated. To put himself in the grip of magic seemed . . . foolhardy. “You cannot walk,” she said with a frown. “So enter.” She didn’t wait but sat on the seat and pulled her knees in, then scooted across the bench to make room for him.
He was at her mercy and he hated that. But what choice had he? He did not want to linger in a place where they chained him and stuck him with needles. Gingerly he sat and hauled his legs in. The place smelled like old smoke, body odor, and something greasy. She reached across him and pulled the door shut. “Turn up the heater, would you?” she asked the wizened man.
Immediately the cart moved off, picking up incredible speed. The noise whined up and down the scale. Galen braced himself on the seat ahead as the cart careened around a corner. His heart jumped into his throat. The thing would surely overturn and kill them all. But the woman called Lucy was very calm. She buckled a belt around her waist that kept her in place, then reached over and did the same for him. The man in the seat ahead of them began to whistle. Hot air came from somewhere. Apparently this terrifying experience was an everyday occurrence. Galen watched and became sure the man was controlling the cart with the wheel, for he turned and held it in the direction the cart turned. The cart appeared to be run by some kind of power generated in the vehicle itself rather than relying on a beast or a waterwheel.
Galen calmed enough to look out the window. The streets outside the glass were nearly empty, but occasionally another cart passed, going at equally incredible speeds. The halls were grander than any he had ever seen. Some were of familiar stone. Others were needles of black reflection that touched the sky. None were of wood. They towered everywhere. Colored lights blinked in squiggly designs, some of which looked almost like runes or the Latin alphabet. Some flashed lighted paintings of people real enough to capture their soul. The designs changed before his eyes. It felt like many people were shouting at him, competing for his attention.
This city must hold millions of people. It had very steep hills. The cart did not hesitate but went up and down the hills without appearing even to strain, except for a change in the noise it made. As they came over a hill, he saw the glint of black water some way away. Enclosed like this he couldn’t smell the sea, but there it was. He could make out a gigantic bridge hung from a huge rope looped between towers, to hills on the other side of the water. Lights moved across the span. It looked like a spiderweb, delicate but strong. He had ordered his men to make such bridges, much to their amazement, when the Danir army needed to ford st
reams. He thought the design his own. But here was just such a bridge, and bigger than he could have imagined.
“Who built this bridge?” he asked the woman.
“I . . . I do not know. We call it ‘Golden Gate.’ It goes over the . . . the mouth of the bay.” The name was not in Latin. She must not know the words for it. Her Latin was awful. It sounded almost like she said “gylden geat” in Englisc. That was a good name for a bridge over the mouth of a bay. She leaned over to see what he could see out his window. Her braid brushed his chest. It made his nipples pucker. And not with cold. She would be a welcome bedmate after he had rested. “That island,” she pointed, “is Alcatraz. It was a prison.”
“There are many wharves.”
“This . . . bay is a large port.” Her Latin wasn’t up to saying more.
The car careened down the hill, jolting his shoulder. He swallowed but managed not to make any sound.
“Next left,” Lucy told the driver. “Three blocks down on the left corner.” The car screeched to a halt. Lucy fumbled in her bag and came up with some dirty and wrinkled green paper she handed over the seat to the driver. “Keep the change.”
Had she paid the driver only with this tattered paper? But he seemed to accept it willingly. “Thanks, lady, you’re a peach,” he said. Thanks. Was that related to the Saxon “thonc to thu”? It was tantalizing. He could recognize some words, no matter how wrong the rhythm was, and yet the language was not Englisc.
She opened her door and slid out, beckoning to him. He fumbled with the cursed belt with his good hand, but it didn’t have a proper buckle.
“Sorry,” she mumbled, and leaned in. The buckle released itself at her touch. He pushed himself out, ignoring the sear of pain in his thigh and shoulder. The night air slapped him after the warmth of the cart. Now he could smell the sea, along with bread baking somewhere and that greasy, oily smell again. The air did not smell clean. The woman ran to the glass doors and he staggered after her. His limbs felt like they weighed a hundredweight. This house was big, taking up what must be the length of four or so halls, but had only five levels. Not like the place where he had been tortured. Still it was taller than any building he knew. Windows poked out in bays over the street. Lucy punched some buttons labeled with Arabic numbers outside some glass, and a buzz sounded. She opened a door in the glass and dashed in.
It was warmer in here. She went to stand near two sets of doors he now recognized. He gritted his teeth and stepped into the claustrophobic box. As it rose, he noticed that the Arabic numbers lighted. They stopped at 5 and the door opened. He followed the girl down a dim hall. She took out a ring with strange keys on it and used it on a door at the end.
The girl turned the key this way and that, but the door did not open.
Suddenly she stepped back, struck by something.
“This might not be my apartment anymore,” she whispered to herself in her own language. She looked up at Galen, and her green eyes were a little frightened. Then she straightened her back. “I’ll have to wake Jake.”
He reached out and grabbed her arm. “Who is this Jake?”
“A friend.”
How many “friends” did she have? Women did not have male friends. Was she a prostitute, to have so many “friends”? She strode down the hall and banged on a door at the other end.
When no one answered, she called softly, “Jake, it’s Lucy. I know you’re awake. Open up.” She stepped back, in clear view of a tiny peephole in the center of the door, and just waited. Galen leaned against the wall for support.
“He is not there.”
“Oh, he’s here.” She folded her arms under her breasts. They swelled into her neckline. She must be a prostitute to dress so.
She was right. There was a clanking behind the door and then the knob turned. The door opened only a crack. A chain crossed the opening. A gnarled face appeared. “Lucy!” The door shut with a snap but opened wide a moment later. “Lucy, girl. Where have you been?” The man limped out and threw his arms around Lucy. Galen didn’t understand the words, but the sentiment was unmistakable. The man was big but wizened, with a full gray beard and bright, hard eyes. He had been a warrior in his time. Galen knew that immediately. “I’ve been so worried about you.” He glared at Galen. “Who’s this?”
“Long story, Jake. Can we come in and tell it?”
Jake peered down the hall in either direction, then motioned them in. Galen limped after the girl. His vision had begun to blur around the edges. He steadied himself against the wall just inside the door. Lucy turned around, saw him, and said, in Latin, “Galen, come. Sit down here.” She guided him to a soft, long bench with a back, and he sank into it, easing his shoulder against the cushion. His wounds throbbed. The house was very strange. Many books on shelves. Was this man so rich? Strange objects hung on the walls. It had thick rugs but no tapestries. The whole place was warm, though he could see no fire pit.
“Got some water, Jake?” Even he recognized the word for waether. That must be universal. The old man scurried away. Lucy sat beside Galen. “Jake will help us. I have known him for a long time. Be calm and rest.” She squeezed his hand. He liked when she did that. He leaned his head back against the cushion. This bench was as soft as any bed he had ever slept on. How long since he had slept in a real bed? When the old man returned with water, Lucy produced several small white tablets of various shapes, offered them to him with the water.
“What are these?”
She replied to his Latin, “For your pain.”
“It will make me sleep,” he accused. A drug. Like the woman in the white room had given him. It was not safe to lose himself to drugged sleep in such a place of peril.
“It is just Vicodin.” Whatever that was. “You will not sleep.” When he started to protest, she held up a hand. “Just take it.” She was exasperated.
She had been only kind up to this point. Except for taking him away from a glorious death on the battlefield and delivering him to the man with the needles. Still, someone had sewn his wounds and bandaged him. That might be the only reason he was alive. He gritted his teeth and took the tablet and the water. “Odin’s eye and Thor’s hammer. You are a trial, woman.”
Chapter Four
Jake had been her landlord ever since she moved out of her father’s house eleven years ago. He wore an old serape along with huaraches and jeans that had seen better days. His ponytail was as grizzled as his beard. Jake limped from ’Nam. She wasn’t quite sure how he’d been injured, but he’d had multiple surgeries since. Jake never said exactly what he did during the war. Now he was pretty well set. He owned this building, though he employed a service to make the toilets run and fix the garbage disposals so he didn’t have to bother with the tenants. After his hip replacement a few years ago, she’d practically had to force her way in with casseroles so he wouldn’t starve, but she could be stubborn. After a while, she didn’t have to force her way in. They’d become friends. Jake was a fascinating character, interested in everything, a real jazz buff with hints of a dark past. What was not to like? He didn’t seem to have other people he trusted. A bookshelf held a picture of a daughter, but Jake would say only that she’d died.
“You speak Latin to him?” Jake asked from where he leaned against the archway to the kitchen. The sweet smell of cannabis hung in the air.
Lucy glanced over as Galen took the pills, looking disgusted with himself. “He speaks Danish. Latin is the only way we can communicate.” How much was she going to tell Jake?
“Looks like he got in one helluva fight.” Jake’s old eyes were flat, revealing nothing. He was waiting for an explanation as he studied Galen.
She didn’t want to tell Jake the truth. Problem was, Jake was a difficult guy to lie to. “Can I use your phone to call Brad? If you’ll just let us wait for him here . . .”
“Brad?” Jake’s eyes searched her face. “I wouldn’t think you’d want to call Brad.”
“Why not?” Lucy frowned.
�
��Well, Brad and that Casey guy, who is a spook if I ever saw one, came round here and cleaned out your apartment and questioned everybody in the building like you were on the Ten Most Wanted list. They confiscated everything you owned. Went to the trouble of getting the Quantico dirtbags involved.”
“The store . . . ?”
“Closed. Your whole inventory boxed up and removed. They ‘questioned’ Amy until she practically had a nervous breakdown. Couldn’t stop crying.”
Amy was the girl who helped her on weekends. “My God, why . . . Why would they do that?” She was asking herself more than Jake.
“You tell me. Brad seemed pretty mad about something. I have a feeling it’s about this guy you got here who you speak to in Latin but who swears in what I think is Old Norse, not Danish. He’s wearing breeches hand-stitched with gut and cut with a laced-in crotch piece like they used to wear about a thousand years ago, except for that stupid bow, which I expect I can lay to your account since he’s only got one good hand. His boots are deer hide. Don’t see that much these days except on those nuts up in the Utah mountains waiting for Armageddon. And he didn’t get those muscles in a gym. Looks more like he got them on battlefields over years, along with the scars. That fits with the callused right hand. And he’s been cut up bad, all those bruises . . . looks like he met up with an axe or a sword real recently. So what do a spook and your wussy scientist friend want with you and Mr. Anachronism here so bad that they’re willing to get the FBI help to tear up your life?”
Lucy felt like she’d been slapped. Galen started to heave himself up, glaring at Jake. She turned and pointed. “Sit,” she commanded in Latin. She sighed as Galen set his jaw rebelliously. “Please. Please sit.” She shot Jake a rueful smile. “He thinks he can take you even in his condition. He doesn’t know what a rugged old coot you are.”
A Twist in Time Page 6