A Twist in Time

by Susan Squires

  “Looks like he ran into a little trouble.” The fresh-faced young Hispanic officer flipped open a notebook.

  “Gangbangers broke up a battle reenactment down in Golden Gate Park. Bjorn and his friends were doing the Battle of . . . of Anglia.”

  “You were there?” The other officer seemed to be the senior partner. His dark hair receded on each side of his forehead, and his face was pocked with old acne scars.

  “Yes, I saw it all.” At least that was true.

  “Anybody else hurt?”

  Oh, lots of people. But she couldn’t tell them that. “I don’t know. These guys took weapons. They attacked Ga—Bjorn. Then they squealed out in those low-slung cars. When I saw how bad he was bleeding, I hailed a cab and yelled to the driver to get him to the General.”

  “Front desk says no insurance, no ID.”

  “No wallets allowed in reenactments. His backpack got left in the park. I’ll vouch for him, and I told the hospital I’d pay for his care. He’s staying at my place.” She took out her wallet and showed her driver’s license. “That address is correct. And here’s a card for my store.”

  The young officer took down the information while the older one asked, “Did you see what kind of a weapon was used? “

  “It was an axe.” The shudder she gave was real as she remembered that blade coming down on the man lying in the bed over there. “They took it off one of the other reenactors.”

  “Ouch.” The young officer winced.

  “Did you get a look at any of them, Miss Rossano?”

  “It was just getting dark. Everyone was packing it in for the day. And it all happened so fast. I’m afraid I couldn’t identify anyone.”

  “Does your cousin have such a weapon?”

  Lucy recognized the trap. She sighed. The staff probably already told them. She didn’t dare lie. “He has a sword.”

  “And would it be in this closet?” The one with the scars was already opening the door. He whistled, then took out his handkerchief and picked the sword up just under the hilt. Even in this dim light it looked fearsome. A hilt wrapped with leather over a bloody blade engraved with writing of some kind. Behind her, Galen growled and clanked his restraint. The guy sure wasn’t helping. Could he possibly seem not crazy for a minute? She put a hand on his chest to steady him. The feel of hard muscle beneath the thin hospital gown was . . . interesting.

  Now the one with acne scars had gone hard. “Looks like this thing’s done some damage. Like maybe assault with a deadly weapon.”

  “That blood is fake.” She managed a half laugh. “Reenactment. Remember?”

  “We’ll see about that.” This from the young officer with the notebook.

  “In the meantime we’ll be looking for someone else in an emergency room tonight who might have been on the receiving end of it,” his partner added. “If your cousin was engaged in more than reenactment, he’ll be prosecuted.”

  They’d find out the blood was real, though no one would turn up who’d been wounded.

  “Don’t leave town, Miss Rossano. Or Mr. Knudsen, either.” The young one snapped his notebook shut. “We’ll be in touch.”

  She was going to get in so much trouble over this. Even if they didn’t arrest Galen, they’d want to ask him more questions. And, if she could get him back where he belonged, he wouldn’t be around, or traceable. If he was still here, then they wouldn’t like his answers. Loony bin for him for sure. Great. Just great.

  The two turned out of the room, taking the sword with them. Behind her, Galen roared.

  “They shall not take my sword!”

  The officers turned in surprise. He spoke in Latin, but the sentiment was clear. Lucy shrugged apologetically. “Authentic period weapons are hard to come by.”

  “He can pick it up down at the precinct, if we clear it of being involved in a crime.” The acne-scarred officer frowned. “If not, you’d better find him a lawyer who speaks Finn.” The officers closed the door behind them.

  Lucy let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.

  “You let them take my sword.” Galen was outraged.

  “You are . . . fortunate they did not take you also.”

  “Loose this shackle,” he commanded. “I need my sword.”

  “What would you do, fight with them?” Was that the right word for fight? Her study of Latin in order to translate texts wasn’t exactly “Conversational Latin for Time Travelers.” And he spoke it with a rhythm and pronunciation very unlike hers. Possibly because Latin was a dead language and no one now living knew how it sounded. That was also probably the only reason they could understand each other at all. Latin was a language frozen in time. She noted the rebellious look in his eyes. He was so in over his head. If he attacked the officers, they’d just pull their guns and shoot him. He wouldn’t even know what had happened. He’d be no match for Colonel Casey, either.

  She was suddenly certain that Casey would lock Galen up. He would not be interested in just letting a living, breathing Viking go back where he came from. And the effect of snatching him out of his time, losing whatever things he would have done in his life, outweighed the danger of sending him back. She made a decision. She’d have to risk it, hospital germs and all. And she had to do it by herself.

  “You must go to your time. You want that, yes?”

  “Ja. This is a place for feebleminded discards of the gods. I go back to the battle now.” He tried to sit up and went white as the pain struck him. His breathing got shallow and sweat broke out on his forehead. He’d never make it out the door.

  “I don’t think so.” That was a problem. Someone was going to discover the time machine sitting in the bottom of the parking structure, and soon. They must use it tonight.

  “This place is evil,” he insisted. But he lay back down, causing him to wince anew.

  “I’ll get a nurse,” she muttered in English. She left him looking disgusted with himself.

  She found a slight woman with mouse-colored hair writing in charts at the nurses’ station. “Excuse me, ma’am, my cousin seems to be in quite a bit of pain.”

  “Oh, the big guy? Let me do something about that.” She checked the chart and then went to a locked cabinet and got out a vial and a syringe. “He’s one tough cookie. Put up a real fight in the recovery room.” She glanced to Lucy. “Sorry about the restraints. Must be hard when you don’t know the language and people are doing painful things to you.”

  Lucy hadn’t thought much about that. She’d been thinking he was a disaster for her and possibly for the fabric of time, but she hadn’t thought about how he might be feeling about this whole thing. Pretty insensitive of her.

  “What’s his name?”

  “Bjorn Knudsen.”

  “Where’s he from?”

  “Denmark.” Uh-oh. She was losing track of her lies.

  The nurse bustled out from the station and across the hall. “I’ll have to put it on my list of ‘must-see’ places.” She grinned at Lucy and pushed in through the door to Galen’s room. “We cleaned him up as best we could in Recovery, but orderlies and nurses will be fighting over bath duty tomorrow before he’s discharged.”

  Galen eyed the nurse and her syringe with glaring rage. “Will you join them in torturing me?” he accused Lucy as he tugged in vain at the restraint.

  “She will stop your pain,” Lucy said. The nurse opened a valve on Galen’s IV and stuck in the syringe, plunged, and twisted it shut.

  “There. Should take effect almost immediately.” She smiled at Galen. “That’ll hold you for a few hours, handsome. Get some rest.”

  “Will it put him out entirely?”

  The nurse shook her head. “It’s just Demerol. It’ll make him groggy. With what he’s been through, he’ll probably sleep.” She blew out a breath and shook her head as she took one more longing look at Galen before she left. To the police he probably looked homeless, but to the nurse he looked good enough to eat. Women were always suckers for blue eyes.
And cheekbones. His hair was lightened by the sun so it was a dozen shades of light brown and blond. The narrow braids could be interpreted as exotic, not crazy. His arms were big and muscled under the thin hospital gown, his skin tanned. Lucy could imagine him at the prow of a dragon ship, stripped to the waist.

  What was she thinking? She shook herself mentally. “Feel better?”

  “Flax in my head,” he slurred. “No weapon . . .”

  “Rest. Then we’ll go.”

  “Your promise, wench?” But his eyes were closing.

  Was that the Latin word for . . . for wench? Or had he just called her a slut? “The name is Lucy, not wench.” God, she was glad she hadn’t lived in 912.

  “Looshy . . . ,” and he was out.

  Chapter Three

  “Okay, sleeping beauty. Time to wake up.”

  Lucy turned his head toward her by his bearded chin and watched his eyelids flutter. It was four in the morning. She dared not wait longer if she was going to take him back to 912 tonight. She’d filled his prescriptions at the all-night hospital pharmacy: a batch of antibiotics and a big bottle of Vicodin 750s for pain. She’d bought some bandages and surgical tape and some hydrogen peroxide to send back with him. Who knew what dirty rags he’d end up binding his wounds with in 912? Even the antibiotics wouldn’t help him if he didn’t keep them clean.

  The question was whether she had to take him back herself. She’d had four hours to think about it. She sure didn’t want to. He could go alone and the machine would come back to the present in two or three weeks. But who knew what could happen to the machine in that time? Losing Leonardo’s machine would be a tragedy.

  Then there was the question of exactly what time to return Galen to. If she went back to before he was wounded, would there be two of him in the battle? That couldn’t be good. All the time travel stories or movies agreed that having two of you in one place and time was very bad.

  Great. Using sci-fi as your only guide? She really was in unknown territory.

  But she couldn’t send him back to a time later than the battle, either. What if the locals thought he had died of his wounds instead of disappearing? When he reappeared they’d think he’d been resurrected or something. She didn’t want to be responsible for starting a new religion. Changing things in ways she couldn’t foresee was the most frightening thing of all.

  “Do you want to go from this place?” She switched to Latin.

  “Ja. We go now.” He blinked away his sleep, though he was still groggy.

  She bent over his forearm and carefully peeled back the adhesive tape that held the needle flat. “Do not move.” She slid the needle out. A drop of blood oozed. She tore off a little bit of gauze from the roll in her bag and pressed it against the needle-stick, then sealed the tape across it again. “Not bad if I do say so,” she muttered in English as she surveyed her work.

  Galen clanked his chain. “Unbuckle this, woman,” he ordered.

  “Don’t you ever say ‘please’ and ‘thank you’?” she grumbled as she worked the leather straps. She couldn’t manage the sentiment in Latin. When he was free, he rubbed his wrist, though the restraint had not been tight. Maybe he just wanted to rub away his helplessness.

  He sat up, carefully this time, his jaw clenching. Boy, she sure hoped he could make it out to the time machine. She let down the side rail of the bed and got him sitting on the edge. The nurses had put blue socks with rubber treads on his feet to keep them warm. He looked over his shoulder. The hospital gown tied loosely in the back but would leave a clear view of back and buttocks. That gown would be no match for a San Francisco March. She turned to the closet.

  Behind her, she heard a grunt. “Hwet unnytt hemeth is this?” She turned just time to see him rip the hospital gown from his back with his good hand. “Bring my clothes,” he ordered.

  Lucy just stood there, a blush creeping up to her face. Even marred by the bandages on his shoulder and thigh and the red and bluish bruises that were forming in several places, the man’s body was . . . well . . . impressive. Broad chest, heavily muscled, and lightly covered with blond hair. His abs undulated across his belly. His thighs were massive and . . . and he was very well endowed in the reproductive department as well. There were old scars here and there—hip, chest, right arm. He’d been in battles before.

  He raised his brows at her and then a self-satisfied little smile crossed his lips.

  She shook herself and turned away. Damn that little smile. The phrase that came to mind was “cocksure of himself.” “They cut your shirt. It’s useless,” she said by way of punishment for the smile. She rummaged through the closet. “You have only your breeches.” She put the armload of leather and thongs on the bed beside him. It looked like they’d cut the thongs near the knots, so there was probably enough leather to rewrap them. He’d better be able to dress himself, because she sure wasn’t going to do it. She turned back for his boots and pretended to brush the clots of dried mud from them. They were soft leather that bunched at the ankle and were soaked with blood. She could hear him grunting and breathing hard. But, finally daring to glance over her shoulder, she saw he was standing with his sliced and bloody leathers on trying to tie the laces to the crotch piece at his waist with one hand. At least the important parts were covered.

  “I’ll do that.” She set the boots next to him and took the leather thongs. Her knuckles brushed his belly as she tied a bow, and that brought the blush up again. It also brought feelings between her legs that made her hate herself. She looked up to find him glaring at her. “What?”

  “Not a manly knot.”

  At least that’s what she thought he said. “Then you tie it.” She held up his leather jerkin, but it was stiff with blood and cut in several places. She sighed.

  “No need for shirt or tunic,” he said.

  “It is cold here.”

  “I have been colder.”

  He had stepped into a boot and she tugged it up his leg. “San Francisco is very cold.”

  “Colder than Danmork or the lands of the Volga River?” He stepped into the other boot.

  Well, that put things in perspective. She pulled his boot up ruthlessly. “Now we go.” She hoped he didn’t faint on her. She took his good elbow, and in spite of his bravado, he leaned on her. Since the room was just across from the nurses’ station, she’d have to brave the hospital staff.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” the mousy-haired nurse asked, hands on hips. Other nurses and orderlies either behind the counter or down the hall turned to look.

  “This place is making him crazy. The doctor said he could go home tomorrow, and I think we’d better head out a little early.”

  “You’re the one who’s crazy. He was in shock when he came in. He’s had surgery. He needs to stabilize before he’s discharged.”

  “He’s strong as an ox and he was fussing at those restraints,” she pleaded. “Really, he’ll be better off at home. The receptionist has all my information.” She fished in her bag. “Call her if you want. We’re not trying to sneak out without paying.” She could feel Galen holding himself ramrod straight beside her. He’d better not collapse. . . .

  “Let me call a doctor.”

  “The doctor won’t say anything to change our minds. You can’t hold him. He’ll sign whatever you want.” Could Galen even write his name?

  The nurse pursed her lips. She knew Lucy was right. “Okay,” she finally said. “It’s on your head.” She fished out a clipboard and slapped a pen on it. “You’re signing out against medical advice. You know what that means?”

  “Yup. You aren’t responsible for anything that happens.” Lucy signed her name on the form with a flourish.

  Before she could hand the clipboard to Galen the nurse snatched it back. “He doesn’t speak English and I don’t have forms in Danish, so his signature wouldn’t be legal. You’re the one on the hook for this.” She motioned an orderly to collect a wheelchair.

  “Okay.” Lucy handed the clip
board back. Galen didn’t put up a fuss at the wheelchair. In fact, he looked relieved. At least they might make it out to the parking lot.

  “Get him to his primary-care doctor today for follow-up,” the nurse called after them.

  Lucy waved acknowledgment. Galen was so glad to be leaving he made no protest at the elevator, though he held tightly to the arms of the chair. Out through the thinning crowds of the emergency room. There were no ambulances or cars to dodge. At four in the morning, the place was finally quieting down. Now to get rid of the orderly. “I’ll take it from here,” she said, smiling.

  “Can you get him into the car?”

  She nodded. “And I’ll bring the chair back to the ER.” Almost before he had saluted and disappeared, Galen pushed himself up to standing. They left the chair where it was and headed across the driveway to the parking structure.

  Galen stopped so suddenly she stumbled. “We will get my sword now.”

  Oh, good. Not this again. “The . . . the army has your sword.”

  “I need my sword to go back to the battle.” His lips were set in a stubborn line.

  “It is far. They are many. Therefore—no sword.” She could be as stubborn as he was, even in broken Latin. “Do you want to go to your time, or no?”

  He gritted his teeth and glared at her for a long moment, then started across the asphalt.

  It seemed a really long way to the parking-structure elevator. Galen’s breathing was getting ragged. The machine had begun to seem like a figment of her imagination. She couldn’t believe the elevator doors would open and there it would be, on the bottom level of a San Francisco hospital parking structure.

  But it was. Both she and Galen stood and stared at it, gleaming in the flickering fluorescent light. Lucy swallowed. They’d go back to a time after the battle. Better chance him looking like a miracle than running into himself. And she had to go with him. She couldn’t in good conscience send him back alone. And Brad would kill her if she left the machine back in 912 for very long.