Past Lives (The Past Lives Chronicles Book 1)

by Terry Cloutier

  Claire sighed, feeling her excitement fading, replaced with sad resignation. She couldn’t risk Julie’s life that way, she realized, not even for a man who had done so much to try and keep her safe. Malcolm had already made his feelings clear about anyone meddling with the past, and she knew he wouldn’t think any different this time if he went back again. And having Gerald along was bound to only make things worse, Claire knew, since Malcolm had no love for her husband. No, unfortunately, Malcolm would just have to live with his fate in this new timeline. In the end, Claire’s family was more important.

  Her mind made up, Claire decided to get some sleep, but though she told her body to move, she remained seated where she was, staring at a picture of her and Gerald walking with Julie in the park when she was a child.

  What the hell?

  Claire tried again, but nothing happened, feeling sudden panic rising in her.

  “I know your secret, girl,” Claire suddenly said, startling her. She hadn’t spoken, or, at least, hadn’t meant to say anything. But there was no question the words had come from her.

  Claire looked up as a dog started barking somewhere outside, then a man’s voice began shouting at it to shut up.

  Oh shit! Claire thought, realizing she wasn’t the one who had made her head move. She wasn’t in control of this body at all at the moment. There had been instances before in some of her past lives when she’d briefly lost control of the host. But they had been few and far between. The most common issue had been dealing with unwanted emotions—sometimes at the worst of times. But this felt very different from those times to her. Claire tried to clamp down on original Claire’s mind, attempting to wrest control of her body from her, but nothing she did worked.

  You have got to be kidding me! Claire screamed in her mind. But original Claire seemed oblivious to her, having returned her attention to the picture. Claire could read her thoughts as if they were her own, finding the two minds working at the same time incredibly confusing. Original Claire was remembering the day the picture was taken and how she and Gerald had stumbled on buying this house by accident.

  A car’s headlights suddenly lit up the room, and original Claire chuckled, knowing the car would be back once the driver realized the road was a dead end.

  Goddamn it! Claire screamed in horror, realizing she was helpless to stop original Claire from doing anything. She thought bitterly of Malcolm’s theory of the universe and self-correction, picturing him smiling somewhere at her plight.

  “You’re just wasting time, girl,” her host said as she stood stiffly and stretched.

  Claire could feel everything the other woman did, shocked at the pain in her back and how old and worn-out she felt. She’d forgotten how much her cancer had taken its toll on her body. Original Claire moved to the bookcase behind the desk, with Claire in a panic, realizing this helpless feeling must have been what it was like for Margaret and Frida and all the other past lives she’d taken over. It was a sobering and uncomfortable thought to imagine those wonderful people had all gone through the same terror that she was experiencing now—some of them for many years. Claire’s host flicked on the lights in the bookcase, then studied the pictures of Julie on the shelves for a time before she took out Mysticism, the Occult, and the Past Lives Inside Us All.

  No! No! No! Claire screamed, all to no avail as her other self flipped the book over to look at the back.

  “I miss you,” Claire said in a soft, tired voice as she stared at the picture of Gerald grinning back at her.

  The room was suddenly lit up again when a second car drove down the street, revealing the clock and that it was almost two in the morning. The original Claire returned the book to its spot, then sat at the desk again, staring at the syringe in weary resignation.

  No, Claire! Claire cried in silent horror, knowing she was running out of time. Don’t do it!

  Claire’s host paused, glancing up and looking around as if startled.

  That’s it, Claire thought, feeling sudden hope that she was getting through to her. Can you hear me? Claire?

  The original Claire finally shrugged, shifting her hand away from the syringe and vial to the desk drawer, which she opened. She took out a bundle of papers, barely glancing at the top one as she spread them all out on the desktop.

  My test results, Claire thought, remembering the day she’d been given the diagnosis of terminal brain cancer. It had been devastating, she recalled, like being run over by a dump truck several times over.

  Claire’s host winced as searing pain arced across her head and she rubbed at her temples, while Claire gasped inside her, shocked by the severity of the headache. She’d forgotten how bad they’d been.

  The original Claire finally began going through newspaper clippings, reading each one slowly as the clock on the wall ticked ever closer to that moment when she would take the serum.

  No! It’s not fair! Claire raged, helpless to do anything else. It’s just not right! I’m so close! Please, Claire, please! You have to hear me!

  But Claire’s host didn’t hear her, and finally, after she finished reading the newspaper clippings, she bundled them all together and put them back. Then, after a brief pause, she reached for the syringe with a trembling hand.

  No, Claire! Claire cried, sobbing now. Please, no!

  Original Claire inserted the needle in the vial and carefully drew out the greenish-blue fluid.

  You’re going to kill him! Claire screamed in her head. If you take that needle, Gerald will die!

  Claire’s host hesitated again, pausing to glance behind her in bewilderment. She let her eyes roam over the darkened room, then after a moment, turned back and squeezed a minute amount of fluid out from the syringe.

  No, Claire moaned as her host plunged the needle into her flesh, then pushed the plunger, sending burning fluid into her veins. Original Claire started to count backward when she was done, while Claire waited in horrified silence, powerless to do anything else. She was going back, she knew, back into the timeline. She’d been so close, so goddamn close, yet in the end, nothing had changed at all. Claire could feel the bitter taste of defeat as her host started praying to a god neither one of them believed in anymore. Claire wished, if nothing else, that she could ease her other self’s fears. Original Claire had no way of knowing if the serum would work or not yet, and inside she was terrified.

  Claire felt the serum burning along her body, stunned when she realized every facet of original Claire’s mind was suddenly open to her. She remembered everything that her host did, every incident almost from their birth. It was all there, every last moment, and Claire could sift through and zero in on anything she wanted like a computer program. She realized that nothing she or Malcolm had done in the past had changed the future much—not even the sinking of the Titanic. But what was odd and somewhat disconcerting was Claire now had two separate memories of the same event in her head—the before and the after. One where the Titanic had made it to New York safe and sound, and a second one where it had sunk. Other memories didn’t quite connect as well, but nothing major enough to have made a difference to any of their lives in the end. Julie was still dead, and Gerald was still in prison in this timeline, just like the one before it. And now Claire was going back into a past life, but this time she vowed she’d do it right. This time nothing was going to stop her, not even Malcolm and his damned self-correcting universe.

  I’m ready, Claire thought as the darkness reached out for her. And this time, things are going to be different!

  Then she was gone.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  MALCOLM: 105 BC: Village of Arausio on the Rhone River

  So many dead Romans. Malcolm shook his head, disheartened by the waste. He’d known it was coming, of course, but reading about this epic battle in a dusty history book and living through it were two very different things. He sighed as he surveyed the carnage from atop his horse, watching with weary resignation as defeated legionnaires begged for mercy from the unsympath
etic Cimbri and Teutone warriors moving amongst them. The pleas of the Romans were quickly diminishing, drowned out by the sounds of axes and swords rising and falling with meaty thuds all along the bank of the river.

  The battle of Arausio was finally over, with Roman causalities numbering more than a hundred thousand men. It was a staggering death toll to try and comprehend. Two separate Roman armies had reached the Rhone around the same time a week ago; one led by Consul Gnaeus Mallius Maximus and one by Proconsul Quintus Servilius Caepio. The two men despised each other, and that dislike ultimately had led to one of Rome’s greatest military defeats of all time. The two commanders had encamped their respective armies on either side of the river, refusing to join them together out of spite and distrust. Proconsul Caepio, fearful that Consul Maximus would make a move before he did and gain all the glory for defeating the barbarians, had decided to attack without notifying the Consul ahead of time. That attack proved to be a disastrous mistake, one that ended up with Caepio’s entire army being annihilated. The Cimbri, aided by the Teutones and their allies, then followed up by swarming over Consul Maximus’ camp, which was positioned poorly with the backs of his army to the river. Unable to cross the water and retreat due to their armor, the Romans had made a desperate stand, only to die almost to the last man. Now those few that had managed to survive were being executed without exception.

  The big spotted stallion Malcolm rode suddenly shifted its weight to snap at a fly, and he winced as pain shot along his right shoulder where a Roman shield had struck him. That was the only wound he had taken in the battle, however, for which he considered himself lucky. But Malcolm knew his luck, and that of the coalition of tribes was almost over. In four short years from now, the Cimbri would be wiped out entirely by the Romans on the plains of Vercellae, with even the women and children killing themselves rather than becoming slaves. It was something Malcolm tried hard not to dwell on.

  Artturi was thirty-two years old now—a veteran of countless battles—and it seemed a lifetime ago that Claire had died and Malcolm had escaped the Roman camp at Aquileia. He wondered what had happened to her after that and where she’d landed in time, knowing that soon he’d be joining her there. The thought gave him no pleasure at all, as he was content with who and what he’d become here—perhaps for the very first time in his life. Malcolm knew with the time dilation that Claire would have had plenty of time to create mischief without having to worry about him trying to stop her. But strangely, that thought didn’t bother him all that much. He’d begun to believe Claire and he were somehow an integral part of the timestream, like two balanced forces canceling each other out. Malcolm was certain whatever trouble Claire had gotten into in another time would be counteracted by him once he arrived, so he rarely gave it much thought. Besides, life in this time was good, and Malcolm hopefully still had four more years to enjoy it before it all ended and he had to start over again.

  Cheering and whistling sounded from behind him and Malcolm turned, watching as hundreds of Cimbri women began streaming down a large knoll where they’d stood to watch the battle unfold. Most of the women were young, with their bared breasts bouncing and gleaming with sweat in the harsh sunlight. Malcolm couldn’t help but smile at the sight. He wasn’t sure how much the nearly naked women had helped distract the Roman legions in the fight, but guessed it had been effective enough. Malcolm even found himself becoming mesmerized by the display as he watched them run, despite having witnessed it many times over the last few years. The women had been given the go-ahead to search the bodies for loot, and they were laughing with excitement, each one eager to arrive on the battlefield first. Malcolm saw a familiar flash of blonde hair amongst the women in front and he frowned with disapproval, knowing it was Alodia. She was moving fast but awkwardly, her naked, ponderous belly beneath her swollen breasts sporting a jagged scar that he could see clearly even from two hundred yards away.

  “Shit!” Malcolm cursed, worried for the child Alodia carried in her womb. “Has she lost her mind?” It had been a miracle she’d conceived at all, and Malcolm was terrified something would happen to the baby before it was born.

  “I thought you told your woman to stay in camp?” Caratacus said as he rode up to Malcolm.

  “I did,” Malcolm grunted in irritation. He shrugged. “But she’s never listened to me yet, so why start now?”

  “So true,” Caratacus said with a sigh. “That sword in the stomach sure hasn’t slowed her down much. If anything, it’s had the opposite effect.” He clucked his tongue as he halted beside Malcolm, watching the running women with obvious admiration. “I tell you, old friend, if I weren’t a married man, I’d be tempted to take a roll with a few of those.” Caratacus shook his head, motioning to a pretty girl with large breasts who had a ten-foot lead on all the others. “Thor’s hammer, is that little Karsyn? The last time I saw her, she was no higher than my knee. When did that happen?”

  “You got old and missed it,” Malcolm said with a grin. “I’d be careful where I look if I were you. If Reganne sees you drooling over that girl, she’ll cut your balls off and roast them over a fire.”

  Caratacus laughed. “Now, why would she go and do that, Artturi? Who will bed her in the way she is accustomed to if that happens?”

  Malcolm chuckled and shook his head. He paused to study his friend, surprised to see a great deal of grey in his beard now. The Cimbri warrior still fought almost naked, with his tattooed torso crisscrossed with so many scars that it was hard to tell one from the other. Caratacus fiddled with the leather patch over his left eye as he watched the women approaching. He’d lost the eye four years ago to a spear after the tribes had invaded the Roman province of Gallia Narbonensis, which someday would become southern France. The Romans under Marcus Junius Silanus had tried to resist but had been easily swept aside by the might of the Cimbri and Teutones. And now, after four long years of fighting Romans, it seemed that the strength of the Republic was finally broken once and for all. Unfortunately, Malcolm knew better.

  “Will we go south next and take Rome, do you think?” Caratacus asked.

  Malcolm shrugged, knowing from history that the tribes would not press their advantage and sack Rome. Not doing so would turn out to be a major tactical error, one which would enable the newly elected Consul, Gaius Marius, time to completely revamp the Roman military—something that would later become known as the Marian reforms. Before the Consul’s coming changes, the Roman militia had been made up by law of only able-bodied, land-owning citizens. But Marius would alter that after the humiliating defeat at Arausio, replacing the army with paid soldiers drawn from landless volunteers. The Consul would then set about improving and standardizing all training, weapons, armor, and equipment in the army as well as completely reforming its command structure. He would also transform the familiar maniple formations into units called cohorts, which would become the legions' main tactical and administrative elements for many hundreds of years to come.

  “Well?” Caratacus asked with an impatient look. “Are we going south or not?”

  “Who can say what my father and Teutobod will do?” Malcolm said evasively.

  “Well, I for one hope we go to Rome,” Caratacus grunted. “I’ve heard the women there are beautiful and that all the streets are paved with gold.” The Cimbri shook his head in wonder. “Can you imagine such a thing?”

  “No, I can’t,” Malcolm replied, chuckling at the notion. Where had Caratacus heard something as ridiculous as that?

  “Uh, Artturi,” Caratacus said in warning. He gestured to his left as a band of grim-faced Teutone warriors rapidly approached on foot, led by two men who could have been twins.

  Malcolm felt his jaw tightening, automatically looking for Alodia amongst the women who were now pillaging the dead Romans.

  Caratacus saw Malcolm’s expression and he pointed north. “She’s over there, Artturi,” he said. “Nothing to worry about. She’s safe.”

  Malcolm felt relief wash over him when he sa
w Alodia on her knees, rifling through a corpse’s clothing with eagerness. He focused back on the approaching warriors, trying not to let his dislike for them show.

  “So, Artturi,” the first man called out. He was tall, with braided brown hair and a hooked scar beneath his right eye. His name was Eachan, and the man next to him was called Miach. The two were Clovis’ younger brothers, and though they looked almost identical, they had actually been born more than a year apart. “At the back of the line as always when there’s fighting to be done, I see,” the older brother, Eachan, added with a sneer.

  Malcolm growled low in his chest, his hand automatically dropping to his sword. He knew he was being baited, but knowing it and being able to resist are two different things.

  “What do you want, Eachan?” Caratacus asked, his single eye hard and unfriendly. “You know what the council told you about this.”

  Eachan grinned up at the Cimbri. “Yes, Caratacus, I remember. My brother and I are to stay away from Artturi and his whore.” The warrior stopped ten feet away and spread his arms. “So here I am, staying away so poor Artturi doesn’t piss himself.” The two brothers smiled, while behind them, their companions laughed, though many of them were fingering their weapons as they did.

  Goddamn Teutones, Malcolm thought. They’d been nothing but trouble for him and Alodia ever since he’d killed Clovis. The seeresses had all agreed that the fight was fair and that the gods had established Malcolm as the truthful party, but Clovis’ brothers didn’t believe them, nor, Malcolm suspected, did their father, Teutobod.