Every Never After

by Lesley Livingston

  “Anyway,” Milo continued, “if Piper’s right about Al, and I think she most likely is, then we do have a bit of time. I’ll get the skull from my hotel room this afternoon and we can come back and figure out our next move. Okay?”

  “Okay … I just … Milo, I feel like we’re out of our depth here.” Clare’s anxiety had returned the second Milo stopped kissing her. “Maybe we really should tell Dr. Ashbourne about this. Maybe something similar has happened on one of the Tor digs before and—”

  “Dr. Nicholas Ashbourne?” Piper asked, ducking back through the beaded curtain to fetch a cardboard box from a shelf labelled SPOONS.

  Milo turned to her. “You know him?”

  “He was a friend of my old wacky gran’s since back before I was born. She used to buy artifacts from him—things the museum wouldn’t take. I’ve bought a few myself from him over the years.”

  Piper frowned, putting the box down long enough to take Morholt’s book tin—she hefted it as if to make sure the book was still inside—and put it away in a cupboard. Piper eyed them skeptically, but when they didn’t put up a fight, she gave her head a bit of a shake and returned to the topic.

  “Do you trust him?” she asked. “Ashbourne?”

  “Of course I do,” Clare said. “Why wouldn’t I?”

  Piper shrugged. “Moustache like that? I never completely trust anyone who finds it necessary to hide half their face from the world.”

  This from someone with an obvious affinity for feature-obscuring eyewear? Clare refrained from pointing out the irony.

  “At any rate, be careful.” Piper crossed her arms and pegged Clare with a frank, appraising stare. “Surprising as it may be, Miss Reid, you are something extraordinary. You have a rare and precious gift. I believe that rare and precious things should be well taken care of. But there are those who don’t necessarily agree with me.”

  In the main shop, the clamouring for spoons was getting a bit noisy.

  “Step out the back way, will you? The spoon ladies tend to clog up the aisles,” Piper said. “And be careful. Don’t let yourselves fall into the wrong hands.”

  “Don’t worry about me, Goggles,” Clare said as she headed for the back door. “I’m pretty handy with a letter opener, remember?”

  But once outside the shop, she frowned. Piper’s parting words echoed in her head.

  “Wow,” she muttered sourly. “Alarmist much?”

  As Milo took her hand in his she waited for him to brush off Piper’s comment with a bit of his usual disarming wit, but his expression was clouded with worry.

  “She’s right, Clare.”

  All of a sudden she was exhausted. She took a step forward and leaned her head on Milo’s chest, sinking into his embrace as his arms went around her. Clare didn’t give a damn what kind of cryptic warning she’d somehow managed to transmit down through the ages to herself. She wouldn’t tell Milo about the code—just yet—but she also wouldn’t allow herself to think he’d do something bad or wrong if she did. More than likely she’d been trying to protect him, or Al, from something. That had to be it. Milo was … Milo. And he loved his cousin dearly. He’d never do anything that would put her in danger—more danger.

  “I know,” she sighed. “I know she’s right. But I have your hands to fall into and you to take care of me. I’ll be fine.”

  “Damn straight. Because I’m not going to let anything—anything—happen to you.” The way he said it made Clare pull away and look up at him again. His handsome face had shifted into a fierce, hard expression.

  “Milo? What’s wrong?” Clare asked quietly. “I mean, beside the obvious.”

  Milo glanced back at Piper Gimble’s shop.

  “Did you get hold of Maggie yet?”

  “No.” Clare shook her head. “She’s in academic-lockdown mode with that conference for the next few days. And every time I pick up the phone, I kind of chicken out anyway. I’m afraid to tell her what’s happened.”

  “Okay. Good.”

  “What?”

  Milo hesitated a moment. “Let’s keep her out of the loop on this one for the time being.”

  “Seriously. What?” Clare pulled him to a stop in the middle of the sidewalk. “Milo! It’s Maggie.”

  “I know.” He glanced around as if he expected to catch someone eavesdropping. But of course they were alone on the street in the sleepy little town. “It’s not Maggie I don’t trust. It’s everyone who might know something about this and who has access to Maggie. Look … that diary? It came from Stuart Morholt, shadiest of the shady. He may seem like an incompetent boob most of the time, but he had the wherewithal to make sure that thing found its way down through two thousand years to get to you.”

  Clare had to agree that, for an incompetent boob, it was an impressive feat.

  “And remember, the whole Boudicca museum theft, back when you were shimmering, was an inside job. As far as we know it was only Dr. Jenkins working with Morholt, but that’s only as far as we know. A bunch of other people were in on the Druid revival thing back in the day. Who knows how many more of those ‘Free Peoples of Prydain’ freaks are wandering around out there.”

  Clare thought about that and frowned.

  “There were at least three other people just in Maggie’s photo alone,” Milo went on. “I think we should keep this—all of this— between you and me. And, obviously, our friendly neighbourhood girl-antiquarian in there. Something strange is going on.”

  “Ya think?”

  “I don’t just mean Allie’s disappearance. That’s the what. I’m talking about the why. We don’t have the whole picture. I don’t like not having whole pictures.” He took Clare’s hand again and they started walking back toward the Tor. “I even less like the idea that we’re being purposefully kept in the dark.”

  “Kept in the dark? By who? Why?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Clare felt a shiver run down her spine and tried to recall the faces of the other group members in the snapshot.

  Milo was adamant. “I’m not running the risk that one of them might be trying to use you—use your gift—and Allie maybe just got in the way somehow.”

  “And you know you’re kind of freaking me out now, right?”

  “No … no, that’s not what I’m trying to do. C’mon, Clare de Lune …” He gathered her into a sudden, fierce embrace. “You don’t have to worry about anything. But you do have to be careful about everything. Just … let’s take the time to figure this out. To do this right. We need to get Allie back, but in the meantime we need to make sure nothing happens to you. I need to make sure. Okay?”

  “Okay.” Clare nodded.

  But in the back of her mind she still wondered what, exactly, she’d been warning herself about … and why, exactly, she didn’t want Milo to read it.

  13

  When Marcus finally returned, Allie wasn’t sure how much time had passed. She’d fallen into a fitful doze, emotionally and physically exhausted. She hadn’t even heard him come into the tent. She just opened her eyes and there he was, a clothcovered wooden tray in his hands. It might have been the smell of fresh-baked bread that had woken her up—the scent of it wafted from the tray as he crouched down, set it in front of her, and then whisked away the cloth. Arranged on the wooden slab was a small, round loaf of bread, a yellow pear, a chunk of what looked like some kind of hard cheese, and a little silver cup half-full of rich red wine. Allie thought she might actually start to drool right then and there. She’d missed lunch at the Rifleman the day before with Clare and Milo … and she hadn’t eaten since.

  She looked up at Marcus. “Thank you.”

  As he slid the tray toward her she reached out with both manacled hands to grab the still-warm bread. The first bite made her think she’d never tasted anything so delicious in her life. Bread in the twenty-first century should be ashamed of itself.

  Marcus grinned at her. “There’s a saying: ‘The Roman Legion travels on its stomach.’ We get pretty go
od grub. Good for morale and keeping up strength. Although, with the way the scathach raids have kept away our supply trains, we’ll be dining on peat moss and swamp water soon enough.”

  “Are you going to get in trouble with that centurion for this?” Allie asked through a mouthful of pear and cheese—which was sharp and tangy and perfectly complemented the fruit.

  Marcus shrugged. “Only if he finds out.”

  Allie figured the best way to avoid that was to leave no evidence behind. She took another bite of pear and wrapped a chunk of cheese in bread and stuffed that in her mouth, too. Marcus watched her for a moment and then stood abruptly. He started pacing, glancing every now and then toward the tent flap where the guard stood. Then he stalked back and lobbed a question at her that was completely, one hundred percent, straight out of left field.

  “Name the lead singer from Duran Duran.”

  Allie blinked at him, and swallowed the mouthful of wine she’d just sipped. It was slightly on the vinegary side, but she wasn’t about to complain to the maitre d’.

  “You’re kidding me,” she said.

  He stooped suddenly and snatched away the platter with the rest of Allie’s lunch on it. Her stomach clenched in protest.

  “If you come from where I think you come from, you’ll know the answer,” Marcus snapped. “If you don’t, you’re a creature of that Druidess witch Mallora and a liar and I will let them come in here and cut you to pieces to find out what they need.”

  His lips were drawn back from his teeth in a kind of snarl and Allie knew he meant what he said. But she also knew she was tired of him trying to intimidate her. The whole split-personality, good cop/bad cop thing was wearying. Okay … he’d obviously gone through some stuff. But that didn’t mean he had to be a total ass-hat. It wasn’t her fault he’d gotten himself marooned in the past.

  “Do you know the answer?” he asked again.

  “Of course I do.” Allie lifted her chin and looked him square in the eyes. “But only because my lunatic mother has the worst taste in retro bands, like, ever!”

  It was Marcus’s turn to blink. “Retro …”

  “She listens to all this stupid eighties crap.”

  “Stupid!” Marcus spluttered.

  “Yeah—I mean, you should see pictures of these dudes.” Allie rolled her eyes. “They’ve all got enormo-hair and shoulder pads and wear way too much guyliner and—”

  “Guy …” Marcus’s hand crept toward his helmeted head. “Enormo-hair?”

  “And the bands had ridiculous names. They called themselves stupid things like ‘Split Enz’ and sang songs with ridiculous titles—”

  “‘Six Months in a Leaky Boat’ is an instant classic!” Marcus almost roared with rage. If he didn’t have his hands full of her interrupted repast, he might have actually drawn his sword.

  Allie’s mouth snapped shut in mid-rant. She blinked at the Roman soldier and realized that he was quite capable of killing her. So she tried to picture him as he’d been in Maggie’s snapshot. It worked. Sort of …

  “What?” he asked, suddenly suspicious. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

  Allie was trying desperately not to giggle with hysterical nervousness at the mental picture of what his hair used to look like. She wondered what it might look like now, once he took his helmet off. Was it still … poufy?

  Not cool.

  And not him. No. It couldn’t be.

  “Could you … take off your helmet?” Allie drove her fingernails into the palms of her iron-shackled hands to keep from losing it completely. “Please?”

  “Why?”

  “I have issues with authority figures,” she snapped sarcastically, trying to regain some of her earlier composure.

  He just glared down at her. Allie bit her lip.

  Cut the guy some slack, McAllister. He’s obviously just as wigged out about the situation as you are.

  “Please?” she said again, softly.

  He hesitated, and Allie knew he was still wondering if she was trying to trick him or make fun of him. After a long moment he put the tray back down in front of her. Then he reached up slowly and unbuckled the chinstrap that held his helmet on. With both hands he lifted the headgear up and off, tucking it under his arm. Then he stood there. Looking—surprisingly—vulnerable. And kind of shy all of a sudden.

  His hair, Allie was tremendously relieved to see, was in a short, military kind of cut. No pouffage. No mullet. It made him look like any number of boys she was used to seeing at the University of Toronto library where she sometimes went to do homework assignments and dream of the day when she’d graduate from high school. She wondered, fleetingly, if she’d ever see that library again. She wondered if she’d ever get home.

  Mark O’Donnell hadn’t.

  Legionnaire Donatus seemed to notice that Allie was struggling mightily not to cry. It was the abrupt bleakness of her thoughts that had startled her to tears, but he didn’t know that.

  “That bad?” he asked, gesturing at his hair.

  Allie could only shake her head. In fact it wasn’t bad. At all.

  He sighed gustily and ran a hand over his bristly hair. Then he walked over to the wooden stand in the corner of the tent, hung up his helmet, and then took off the belt that held the sword scabbard around his waist, hanging it on another peg on the stand. Without the weapon, he looked a little less imposing. A little.

  He walked back over to where Allie sat tied to the tent post. Her dark hair had fallen across her face and, with her hands manacled, she couldn’t do much about it. It stuck to her cheeks—to the tears that had finally spilled over her lashes and run down her face. Marcus, or Mark, or whatever he called himself, frowned faintly and reached out a hand, brushing the strands of hair back out of one eye with his fingertips. His touch was surprisingly gentle.

  “What’s your name?” he asked.

  She looked up at him, blinking. Dazed.

  “Your name?” he asked again. “You already know mine—both of them—and I’d feel a bit more on even ground if I knew yours.” He almost smiled encouragingly at her. Not quite, but almost.

  “Al. Alice. Um … Allie.”

  “Is that the long or the short version?” He brushed the hair out of her other eye.

  To which she managed to say, “Meep.”

  “How about I go with … Allie.”

  She just nodded, figuring that was the safest bet. Then she took a deep breath and said, “You’re really him. You’re Mark O’Donnell.”

  He didn’t answer, but she could see the muscles of his throat working as he swallowed convulsively.

  “You were a member of the Free Peoples of Prydain—or whatever goofball name it was you guys called yourselves—and you disappeared one night in 1986 from Glastonbury Tor. You are Mark O’Donnell,” she said again.

  “I was,” he said. “Once. A long time ago.”

  “A long time ago that hasn’t even happened yet, you mean.”

  He laughed, a harsh, empty sound, and nodded. “I suppose you’re right. But you see, Allie … That doesn’t really matter now. I’m Legionnaire Marcus Felix Donatus, Second Legion Augusta, under the provisional command of Praefect Quintus Phoenius Postumus—assuming he ever wakes up again. That’s who I am now. For better … or worse.”

  Allie’s heart sank as she watched his gaze start to turn flinty again. She waited until he locked eyes once more with hers. And then she said, very quietly, “Simon Le Bon. The lead singer for Duran Duran is Simon Le Bon.”

  Marcus’s expression wavered.

  “And I heard a rumour,” she said, “that they might be going back into the studio soon.”

  He blinked, and suddenly Allie could see the face of the boy who’d disappeared all those years ago to become the man who stood before her now. “They’re thinking of doing a sixth album?” he asked.

  Allie smiled as gently as she could. “No. They’re thinking of doing a fifteenth album.” She watched as the blood drained from his face and
he went ghost pale. It was, she thought, an appropriate response, given the circumstances—and what she was about to say. “You’ve been missing for over twenty-five years, Mark. Don’t you think it’s time we found a way to get you home?”

  14

  Her mind was so not on the work. To the point where, if Clare actually had unearthed something in her trench—something really real—it probably wouldn’t have even registered. Between semi-regular supervisor patrols she would scratch absently at the dirt beneath her knees like a bored hen in a barnyard. And then, whenever the grad students came by, Clare would fake enthusiasm, manufacture cover stories for Al’s continuing absence (she’d placed Al’s tablet and black cowboy hat on the edge of her trench to make it seem as if she was logging progress or on a bathroom break), and try not to roll her eyes too much behind her sunglasses as ubiquitous coin-discovery chatter drifted down into her trench.

  Whatever …

  Not like she was jealous of the find or anything. Really. Not like all she’d really wanted on this excursion was to maybe do something cool and worthwhile and not time-travelly, even just to prove to herself that she could. I could find my own stupid crappy pitted coin, she thought, remembering Maggie mentioning something about being the toast of the project if she could manage even that …

  Wait.

  Clare sat up and pushed her sunglasses up on her forehead, blinking in the bright sun. She put a hand into the pocket of her jacket. And pulled out a stupid crappy pitted coin. Well. Mission accomplished, then.

  Oops …

  It was the coin that Professor Ashbourne had tossed at her when she and Milo went to see him in his tent. Back in the early days of the Shenanigans, Clare had almost convinced herself she was a klepto. It was Al who’d convinced her she wasn’t. Now, it seemed, there was no convincing to be done either way and Al wasn’t around for an I-told-you-so in any case. She’d nicked the artifact from Ashbourne’s tent without even realizing it.

  And frankly, she was rather hard-pressed to give a damn.

  Bloody Nicky—the guy who was supposed to be all reverential about the past—hadn’t seemed to really give one either. Clare wondered if he’d even noticed that one of his precious finds was missing. She somehow doubted it. The archaeologist had seemed awfully distracted when she and Milo talked to him …