Make that bastard pay for what he did to me!
Malcolm sighed, wondering if he should fulfill her last wish or not. Carbo was fated to die anyway, he reasoned, just not today by his sword. Should he meddle with things and just gut the bastard and be done with it? God knows the man deserved it! Malcolm thought of Quintus Barbii, knowing the trader was probably on his way to Rome right now. Would the universe self-correct and have Carbo impeached anyway, regardless of what Barbii did? Or would the trader succeed in his mission? And if he did, what would be the result of Carbo remaining as Consul? Would the Cimbri and Teutones still ravage the countryside as history recorded them doing if Carbo lived, defeating Roman armies before finally the Marian reforms occurred, revamping and modernizing the Roman military? Or would the man, however insignificant he seemed, change history completely? And if so, would it be for the better or worse?
Malcolm shook his head, feeling a headache coming on as he wondered what would be the lesser of the two evils? He glanced at the Consul, who was watching him with hooded eyes. Should he let Carbo live and trust in the universe to deal with him, or kill him here and now and risk possible repercussions down the line? Malcolm couldn’t decide. He had a sudden thought of Caratacus waiting for him somewhere to the east, hopefully with Alodia along with him, and he smiled, realizing with an almost guilty feeling that he was almost free now. Claire was no longer in this timeline, which meant he didn’t need to worry about her trying to change the past here. And wherever she had landed next, Malcolm knew he wouldn’t be far behind her to make sure she didn’t make any blunders. But until that day arrived, he vowed he would live life to the fullest here in this time—he just needed to make a choice first.
Malcolm sat mulling it over for several minutes until finally, he decided to let the universe and Carbo make the difficult choice for him. The man could either hang himself with his own words or save his worthless hide, depending on what he said next. Malcolm tossed the tablet on the bed and turned to glare down at Carbo. “I’m going now,” he said. “I’m taking the girl’s body with me, and you’re not going to stop me. This ends here, understood?”
“Ends?” Carbo said, looking incredulous. The Consul chuckled, slowly sitting up. His face was a mess of blood, but his eyes were bright with arrogance as he smiled broken teeth. “Do you really think I’m going to just let my prized barbarian walk out of here? I have big plans for you, Artturi, and they don’t include letting you go.”
“But that’s exactly what you’re going to do,” Malcolm growled in a threatening voice. “Because if you don’t, then I promise you, I will kill you.”
Carbo stood, wobbling a little before he was upright. He stared at Malcolm, looking bemused. “That’s interesting, Artturi. While I don’t doubt you are capable of murder, I actually think you are bluffing.”
“What makes you say that?” Malcolm asked, surprised the man had suddenly found his backbone.
“Because you already had an opportunity to kill me earlier, and you deliberately chose not to take it. Then you did it again when I attacked you with your own dagger.” Carbo shook his head, gaining confidence as he talked. “Not taking the first opportunity might be viewed as simply bad judgment on your part, but twice, especially after what I did to the girl? No, something isn’t right here. I mean, look at you, Artturi. You’re a natural-born killer. A savage. Killing a man means nothing to a creature like you, yet here I stand healthy as you please.” Carbo chuckled and fingered his broken nose gingerly. “Well, perhaps not as healthy as I was before you went to work on me, but you get my point. No, for whatever reason, Artturi, you want me alive. Which means you’ve got a problem.” Carbo laughed unpleasantly. “Don’t bother trying to deny it, either. I can see the truth on your face. My guess is I have something you want, which puts you in a rather uncomfortable position for negotiating.” Carbo moved to his desk and leaned against it as he waved a hand. “So, let's get to it then. What do you want in exchange for my life, aside from being allowed to leave, that is?”
Malcolm lowered his eyes to the carpeted floor, unable to stand the look of arrogance on the other man’s face, while inside him, Artturi raved, desperate to kill the pompous fool. Malcolm knew the Cimbri warrior didn’t give a shit about timelines, paradoxes, or anything else—he just wanted Carbo’s blood in repayment for what he’d done to the girl. The problem was, the Consul was so full of himself that he didn’t realize how precarious his position was, talking as if they were discussing a simple transaction over a horse or a cow, not his life or death.
Carbo glanced down at Claire’s body and he clicked his tongue. “Such a tragic waste. Marcella was a special child.”
Malcolm felt his face hardening. “Her name was Frida,” he said, low and soft. “Not Marcella.”
Carbo’s eyebrows rose. “Really? I didn’t know that.” The Consul sighed, crossing his arms over his chest. “Killing her was an accident, Artturi. You must believe me when I say that her death was never my intention.”
“You don’t seem too concerned about it,” Malcolm grunted.
“In that, you would be wrong,” Carbo said. He lifted a piece of paper from the desk and studied it thoughtfully, then set it aside with a look of regret. “You see, Marcella was to be my—” The Consul hesitated as Malcolm growled in anger. “Forgive me. I mean, of course, that Frida was to be my greatest masterpiece. I would have completed her tonight if you hadn’t so rudely barged in on us like you did.” Carbo shrugged. “Such a shame, but that is how things go sometimes. I’ll just have to start over from the beginning.” The man grinned, looking relaxed and in control. “Thankfully, there are a lot more canvases almost as perfect as she was on which I can continue my work.”
Malcolm closed his eyes as he saw again Claire’s written last wish. Make him pay for what he did to me! Carbo had been given more leeway than he deserved, but now Malcolm had his answer, and he knew what to do. He smiled, relieved to have the choice finally made as he drew his sword. “That was the wrong thing to say, you bastard.”
“Now hold on, Artturi,” Carbo said, the confident smile on his face fading, replaced by a look of uncertainty. “We still have much to talk about. This is just the start of negotiations, after all.”
“No,” Malcolm grunted with disdain. “This is the end of the negotiations.” Malcolm grabbed the now terrified Consul by the front of his tunic and put the blade of his sword against his belly. He leaned forward, whispering into the Consul’s ear, “This is for Claire and Frida, you son of a bitch. But don’t worry, from what I’ve heard, you can scream all you want in here and no one will notice.” Malcolm grinned, letting the bastard see his death reflected in his eyes. “Apparently, people in this camp are used to screaming.”
Then Malcolm went to work with the gladius.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CLAIRE
The pain was worse than anything Claire could have imagined. She’d thought the lashes from Carbo’s whip these past two days was the worst thing she’d ever had to endure, but the searing heat ripping open her insides now was far, far worse. She pressed her hands to the gaping wound, unable to do anything but stare down in helpless fascination at the dark blood and oozing intestines trying to squeeze past her fingers. Her legs felt weak and she dropped to her knees as Consul Carbo whirled on Malcolm, attacking him with the crimson-stained dagger he’d used on her.
Hurt the bastard! Claire thought as Malcolm easily evaded the Consul’s attack, then grabbed the man’s wrist and forced the weapon from his hand. Claire prayed Malcolm would take his sword and kill Carbo then, but all he did was smash his helmet into the man’s face, then turn and rush over to her as Carbo fell to the floor.
Damn! Claire thought in disappointment as the Consul lay on the floor holding his face and sobbing. Why didn’t you tear into that son of a bitch, Malcolm?
“Oh, Claire,” Malcolm said, looking devastated as he dropped to his knees beside her, staring at her wound in dismay. “I’m so sorry. I should
have kept an eye on the bastard.”
Claire tried to smile reassuringly at him, wanting him to see that she didn’t blame him as she lifted a hand to rub his arm. Some of her intestines fell out onto the carpet when she did that, but Claire was too weak to care now. Malcolm cursed, trying to push them back in, then he finally gave up and lay her down on her back.
“I’ll go get help,” Malcolm said after he’d tried and failed to stop the bleeding.
Claire put her hand on his arm, stopping him. There was no point, and they both knew it. She had only minutes to live, if that, and before she left this life she needed to tell him something. She motioned in the air, hoping he’d understand what she wanted.
“Your tablet?” Malcolm finally asked, looking surprised. “You want your tablet? Now?” Claire nodded weakly as Malcolm looked around, frowning. “Where is it?”
Claire fought to raise her hand as she pointed to Carbo’s desk, letting her arm drop limply back to her side when Malcolm got up to fetch it. Hurry, she thought, knowing she was running out of time. Malcolm finally returned and put the stylus in her hand before he held the tablet out in front of her. Claire could barely see the wax surface, her vision going in and out as she labored to write out the words. She finally finished and let her hand fall back, feeling exhausted as Malcolm stared at what she’d written.
Malcolm paused for a moment, then he shook his head, his face twisted in sadness. “This isn’t the end, Claire.” He smiled, a familiar twinkle rising in his eyes. “Besides, you told me we were both immortal, remember?”
Claire smiled back, appreciating him making a joke at a time like this. She couldn’t feel her limbs anymore, and she fixed her gaze on the ceiling, willing the darkness to hold off just a few moments longer. She felt Malcolm covering her with the sheets from Carbo’s bed, wishing she could tell him not to bother, but there was no strength left in her arms. She could feel the icy clench of death in her veins now, wrapping its cold, relentless grip around her bones, arteries, and organs. She closed her eyes, trying to sum up the will to make one last effort, then finally glanced at Malcolm, motioning for the tablet again. She needed him to do something for her before she left, and Claire was damned if she’d leave this timeline before he understood what it was. Malcolm frowned with disapproval, yet brought the tablet to her anyway, waiting in somber silence as she wrote. When she was done, Claire looked up at him, trying to say something—anything. But the words, like all the ones before them since she’d arrived in Frida’s tiny body, wouldn’t come. Claire sank back, accepting death now as she thought about Gerald and Julie and how much she missed them.
I want to go home, she thought with longing as the darkness took her. I’m tired, and I just want to go home.
Claire opened her eyes, as always, feeling disorientated and weak after a death and then a jump. A dim light glowed in front of her, with everything around it shrouded in darkness. She could hear a strange sound filling her ears, and it took her a moment to realize that it was a clock ticking off the seconds somewhere to her left. The rhythmic, mechanical noise seemed strange and out of place to her, something that she hadn’t heard in several hundred years. Claire’s hands lay palms down in front of her on a desk and she studied them in surprise, noticing that the pale, age-blotched skin looked unhealthy, stretched as it was over the skeletal-like bones of her knuckles and fingers.
Good lord! she thought. How old am I this time?
Two objects sat side by side in the middle of the desk close to her hands, and it took a moment for Claire to realize that she was looking at a syringe and a small vial filled with a greenish-blue fluid.
Oh, my God! she thought, shocked as the sudden realization struck her. I’m back! I’m home!
Claire felt incredible excitement surge through her, remembering that her last thought as Frida’s body had died was to return to this place. And now here she was, back where it had all started so many lifetimes ago, in her own house, just minutes away from injecting the serum into her veins. The Claire Blackwood of this moment didn’t know Gerald would be dead in a few short weeks, and Claire knew if she had, she would never have gone through with using the serum. But the older and wiser time-traveling Claire was well aware of what would soon happen to her husband. She felt a jolt of energy coursing through her body as she realized the incredible gift she’d just been given. She now had the ability to save Gerald from his fate, despite what Malcolm had repeatedly claimed about them not being able to change the past.
Claire frowned as she thought about Malcolm. He had become fixated on the idea that the past couldn’t be altered. Suggesting that there might be some cosmic power that constantly self-corrected, making sure that whatever changes they made wouldn’t cause a paradox in time. Claire had humored him when he’d spoken like that, pretending that she thought it was possible when in reality, she knew the whole concept was bullshit. She’d never met anyone smarter than Malcolm Foster, not even her dear Gerald, but sometimes the man just couldn’t see the forest for the trees. Malcolm had even fluffed off the accidental sinking of the Titanic, claiming that if his theory was right, then all those people would probably have died anyway, just in some other way. It was ridiculous, and Claire had tried to make him realize that, but it had been like trying to debate with one of those flat-earth nutjobs, and she’d gotten nowhere.
Claire stared down at the vial, feeling momentary doubt rising in her. But what if Malcolm was right? What if the universe did constantly self-correct? If that were true, then she knew it would make damn sure she took that serum tonight right on schedule. Claire snorted to herself. She had absolutely no intention of doing that—universe be damned. She decided she would wait until the morning, then find a way to get the serum to Gerald in prison. It wouldn’t be easy with him in solitary confinement, but somehow she’d find a way. Once she did that and they were in the timestream together, then they could go about changing the past just as Gerald had planned all along. Everything was finally going to work out the way it was supposed to when they’d first discussed the idea of past lives.
Claire felt a rush of emotion well up inside her as she realized that now little Frida would never become a slave or suffer at the hands of that monster Carbo. Nor would Margaret have to die a pirate’s death at the end of a noose, either. Sudden regret tempered her happiness as she thought about Malcolm and what this new reality would mean for him. Claire knew JPL-7 had been a godsend for Malcolm, literally saving his life. She felt sudden guilt at what she planned to do, knowing it would sentence him to spend the rest of his days in misery in that wheelchair. Malcolm had reluctantly described what his disease had been like on the walk to Aquileia. He’d pulled no punches about the effects, equating what he’d been living with to being in a thousand hells all at the same time. And now Claire was going to send him right back there.
Claire and Malcolm had become friends again on that walk to the Roman city, despite their differing viewpoints on everything from politics to climate change. She had seen the way he’d looked at her when they’d first set off for Aquileia, shocked to realize that he still had feelings for her after so many years. Malcolm had never been good at hiding his true feelings—back then or now, it seemed—even though he had been wearing Artturi’s face at the time. Claire was ashamed to admit that she’d tried using those feelings to get him to help her more than once. But in the end, whatever affection he still held for her hadn’t been enough to sway him.
Claire had a sudden, uncomfortable thought, wondering if Malcolm had stayed single all those years because of her and what they had shared together. It had only been once, a night that Claire vaguely remembered as being sweaty, awkward, and over with very quickly. She had thought little of it at the time, having her mother's death to fill her mind, among other things. But what if Malcolm hadn’t thought so little of it? What if that night had meant more to him than she’d thought? Claire replayed in her mind some of the things Malcolm had told her of his life after High School, feeling a deep sadnes
s come over her when she realized how empty of love that life had been. In contrast, she’d spent thirty-five wonderful years married to the same man and had raised an incredible daughter, while Malcolm had spent that time alone except for his books and a young Mexican boy that he’d taken in.
Was Claire really responsible for Malcolm’s views on marriage and family, or was he just an introvert who would have done the same thing anyway, with or without her rejection of him in High School? Claire had no way of knowing, and after a moment, she decided that she was being unfair to herself for even thinking about it. Malcolm was a grown man, one more than capable of making his own decisions. She shouldn’t have to bear the weight of his choices just because of something she’d done as a stupid kid almost forty years ago.
You just keep telling yourself that, Claire thought, unable to extinguish the guilt swirling inside her. Maybe he just doesn’t like people and it really isn’t your fault. But what’s going to happen to him without that serum sure as shit will be.
The serum! Claire’s eyes lit up as a possible solution occurred to her. What if she made another dose of JPL-7 just for Malcolm? It was certainly feasible now that she was home and had her fully stocked lab in the basement in which to work. Making another batch would save Malcolm from the chair and remove the guilt Claire felt about leaving him alone to die in this timeline. Claire turned the notion over in her head, feeling excitement rising in her. Then she hesitated, realizing if she did give Malcolm the serum, it was almost certain that he would try to stop her and Gerald, just as he had with her. She and her husband would both be constantly looking over their shoulders, with Malcolm’s uncanny memory there to make sure anything they tried to do would fail.
Past Lives (The Past Lives Chronicles Book 1) Page 37
