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 streams. 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 cushio
n. 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 4
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.”
“He’s got a protective streak.” Jake softened. “If you’re in trouble, Lucy, you came to the right place. But you’ve got to tell me what’s going on.” He folded his hands over his chest, waiting. When the only result was her chewing her lip, he said, “What you need is breakfast.”
“I couldn’t eat.” Lucy pressed her palm against her forehead. She had an awful headache.
“Well then, I’m going to make him breakfast, because I’ve got a feeling he doesn’t chew Vicodin real regular and on an empty stomach he’s likely to throw it up all over my rug.” Jake turned and went through to his kitchen.
Lucy glanced to Galen and shrugged. “He will give us food.”
Galen pushed himself up. “I will watch. He could use a knife as a weapon.”
Galen didn’t recognize the many guns, antique and modern, mounted between the bookcases in the living room as weapons. Jake had a license for every one of them. He wasn’t really a whacko, just a guy with definite opinions, mostly involving the government.
“You are wounded. You should rest. He’s a friend.”
“I am Danir. I fight whole battles wounded. I will rest later.” He stood, a little shaky.
Lucy was too tired to argue. She trailed into the kitchen, Galen stomping after her.
Jake’s corner unit had views out to the bay on two sides. After he’d recovered from his hip replacement and could get around, he’d remodeled two units into one larger living space. Instead of bare walls and linoleum, his apartment was filled with things he loved. In his kitchen he’d put up open-fronted cabinets to display his handmade pottery collection. It was a cozy place of earth-tone tile and wood, except for the stainless-steel restaurant-grade appliances. Jake liked to cook. A big butcher-block dining table doubled as a cutting board. Lucy slung her bag over one of the spindle-back chairs at the table and sat. Galen took another. He was wavering. The fool. Trying to prove something. Food was probably a good idea.
“So tell me the story, while I whip up a couple of omelets.”
Lucy ran her hands through her hair. What did it mean that Brad and Casey had removed the contents of her apartment and her store? Could they think she’d stolen the machine by bringing it back to some other location? Like she could hide it in her apartment. Maybe he was looking for the book, or a clue to where she took the machine.
Jake retrieved an armload of eggs, cheese, and vegetables from the Sub-Zero. Lucy followed his glance to Galen and saw a watchful furrow in the Viking’s brow. “Begin at the beginning.”
“Well, it began with a gigantic coincidence,” she started.
“No such thing as coincidence,” Jake growled as he cleaned scallions at the sink.
“It sure seemed that way to me. I had a book, my most prized possession. It was by Leonardo da Vinci, and it showed diagrams of a machine he wanted to build.” She swallowed. Here was the tough part.
“A machine that could travel through time.”
Jake pushed his lower lip up and nodded his head. “Maybe that’s what they were looking for—book must be worth a pile.”
That wasn’t the part that was hardest to believe. “Yeah. It’s worth a pile. I never told anyone about the book. It was too precious to me. Until one day we were out at the Palace of Fine Arts, and . . . and I had the strangest urge to show it to Brad.”
“And the coincidence was . . .”
“He was working at the lab on getting power to a medieval machine in partnership with the Italian government. None of them knew what the machine was supposed to do. I knew right away, in my gut, that it was the machine from my book. Leonardo had actually built it.”
Jake grinned as he chopped scallions at the table with a huge knife. Galen tensed beside her. She put a hand surreptitiously on his good thigh under the table and gave it a pat. “Bet it frosted that ole spook’s ass that you knew what it was and he didn’t,” Jake said.
“Maybe it did. Well, anyway, we went down to the Super Collider Lab and there it was, all gears and jewels. It’s a beautiful thing. Colonel Casey—”
“Got to be CIA or NSA or some damn thing. I recognized him as special ops right off.” Jake straightened, hands on his hips. “So you tried it and it worked, right? That’s where you got your friend.” He looked like the cat who’d swallowed the canary. Leave it to Jake to accept the unbelievable. Galen never took his eyes off that big knife.
“I thought I was going to have to show you the book.”
“Hell, if you got the book, I’d love to see it. But let’s eat first. Wouldn’t want to get egg all over it.” He put down the knife, right within Galen’s reach, and cracked eggs into a bowl. He swung round and got out a small Calphalon pan and turned on a burner of his Viking range. Viking. That was rich. “So, was it you who went back?”
“Yeah. Boy, was I stupid. But it felt . . . I don’t know. It felt like my destiny or something.”
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