A Twist in Time (6 page)

You can translate their interview, since I’m sure none of the city’s finest speak either Danish or Latin. He can check out tomorrow in the early afternoon. I’ll leave prescriptions at the nurses’

station. He should see a primary-care doctor for follow-up tomorrow.” He turned and left.

Whatever the man said, it made the girl look worried. “What is it?” he asked in Latin.

She shook her head. “Someone will . . . want . . . to know who hurt you.”

“That bastard Egil,” he snorted. “He never could have laid an axe on me if not for that chariot of iron wheels appearing out of nowhere.”

She looked appalled. “Did I change . . . the . . . the battle only by being there?”

Of course she did. He chuffed a bitter laugh. “
Ja
.” But he had more important concerns at this point. Like where he was. “What is this place if it is not Valhalla or Christ’s heaven?”

She pressed her lips together. “That is difficult.” She chewed on one of those very clean fingernails and finally shrugged. “Where was the battle?”

She must mean “is,” not “was,” since the battle was no doubt going on without him even now.

She spoke haltingly and sometimes had to search for words. “Anglia, in the Danelaw,” he answered. “Egil Ingvansen rebels against Guthrum’s son.”

“And when was it?”

“Are you feebleminded, woman? It was,
is
912 as Christians count years.”

She took his hand. Hers were soft, uncallused. She had not done the hard work of a serving maid or a peasant tilling the land. Was she nobility or perhaps a prostitute or concubine? No decent woman would wear clothes that clung so to her body. Or maybe she wore the garb of a sorcerer. For if she was not angel or Valkyrie, she must be a
wicce
, to own such a chariot of bronze wheels. “Listen to me. This is the year of Christ 2010,” she said. “And you are in the . . .

land beyond Iceland. Uh . . . Vineland your people call it.”

He stared at her in shock. “You lie. There is no land beyond Iceland.”

“Oh. The discovery of Vineland was after your time. But there is land beyond Iceland.”

“Why did you take me here? Get me back to the battle.”

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“It was a . . . mistake. I did not . . . What is the word? . . . Intend it.”

“
Where
is my sword?” Whether she lied or whether he was truly somewhere no man had any right to be, he was in deep trouble.

“I know not.” She looked around, then went to a tall cupboard and opened it. “Here, and your clothing.” Then she murmured in her own tongue, “What’s left of it.” He got the words “what”

and “of” and “it,” but not the sense.

“Bring them, woman. I must return to the battle.”

He saw by the mulish set of her jaw that she was about to protest when two men in strange dark clothing with short sleeves and golden broaches walked into the room.

Great. Police
. Just what she needed. She couldn’t have them arresting the Viking for vagrancy or something. She’d never get him back to 912 if he was sitting in jail. And he sure looked like a homeless person. Tangled blondish hair with crazy braids in each side, and a close-clipped beard—he had no address, no money, no labels in his clothes. He would give his name differently than he was registered. He was a mystery they’d love to unravel.

“Officers.” She smiled.
Deceit, thy name is woman
. She was about to lie through her teeth to the police. Way worse than lying to the registration girl. “Thank you so much for coming.” The nurse who had escorted them pulled a curtain around the bed that held an old man and left.

Lucy turned back to Galen, meaning to tell him who these visitors were, but instead she just stood there, blinking. Even weak and woozy from the anesthetic, he exuded strength and masculinity. What did they call it in martial arts movies?
Sai
. Of course he was a Viking. What else would he be? Just now he was gritting his teeth and looking very dangerous. She smiled and patted his hand. Wow. That sent shivers through her. Then she turned to the police. “This is my cousin Bjorn Knudsen from Finland. Do either of you speak Finn?” she asked with feigned hope. “No? Neither do I, but we get by in Latin. I’ll translate.”

“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?”

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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.”

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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?”

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“
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?”

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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.

“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?