A Twist in Time (7 page)

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.

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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.
“Hw et 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
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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?

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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 clipboard 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
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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.

Brad. She tried to imagine Brad mourning the loss of his friend. All she could see in her mind’s eye was his triumph that the machine worked, his obsession with why it hadn’t come back in the next minutes. Boy, that would be driving him crazy. And now he didn’t have either the machine or the book that told how to build it. He’d be kicking himself for experimenting prematurely. He’d chastise Casey for letting her take the book with her. Casey would be on Brad’s ass to figure out how to get the machine back and keep them both out of hot water with whoever was funding their project.

She had sure screwed this up. She’d brought back not a small piece of cloth or some kind of writing that could be dated to prove she’d been back in time, but a Viking, for God’s sake, a real, difficult, actual man who was very obsessed with weapons.

So she had to take him back and pick up that souvenir, then get the machine back to the lab in the present. Or close. She’d missed by four months the last time. She’d contact Brad when she had put things right and Galen was safely back where he belonged.

“Are you ready?” She looked up at Galen.

His blue eyes examined the machine. He nodded silently.

“Then we go.” She knelt beside the power source and started flipping switches. The lunch box began to hum. She motioned Galen to her side. “Hold to me.” She moved to the lever.

He stood behind her and put his good arm around her waist. She felt his warmth pressed against her back, acutely conscious that his torso was bare. “Here we go.” She grabbed the huge diamond with both hands and pulled.

It came off in her hands and bounced to the cement, where it rolled away under the machine.

The end of the lever, several prongs bent and broken, shot out a jagged blue streak of power.

She gaped and they ducked and rolled to the hard cement. Galen grunted in pain. The blue bolt had barely missed them. Ozone drifted in the air, reminiscent of lighting. Gears, barely moving, ground to a stop. The parking structure was silent except for a faint sizzling sound from the lunch box. For the first time she noticed that it was dented.

“Odin’s eye, what was that?” Galen gasped in what must be Norse. But she got the sense.

Lucy blinked. “Egil hit the . . .” She couldn’t think of a word for lever or lunch box, so she just waved a hand toward them. “. . . with his weapon. The machine is . . . damaged.” Was that the right word?

“But you made it come here.”

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“Maybe that’s why I’m four months off, ” she muttered to herself. She got to her hands and knees and collected the diamond. “More damaged now,” she said in Latin to Galen.

“What do we do?”

Lucy looked around. Galen was ashen and shivering. “We ask Brad to fix it.” The sigh that thought elicited felt dusty.

“Who is this Brad?”

“My . . .” What was the word in Latin? “My friend.” Galen examined her face, reserve settling in his blue eyes. “Can he fix it?”

“I do not know.” She made a decision. She had to get him someplace warm, and she was
not
going back into the hospital where she had spun a host of inconsistent lies. “We will go to my house and . . .” How to say this? “Call out to Brad.” She might have just said “shout to Brad.”

“Is your house far?” Galen must have realized his strength was waning.

“Across the city. We will take a . . .” No Latin word for cab. Or car for that matter. “We will hire a . . . cart.” It was the closest she could come. He nodded and she pulled him to his feet with his good arm. Better hope there was a cab in front of the hospital at this hour.

Galen limped down the strangely paved road, leaning on the girl. He was half-glad the metal wheels had not worked. They might come down in the middle of the battle, with him wounded and without a weapon. He would not have lasted long. And Egil would kill the girl or keep her as a concubine slave. Galen wasn’t sure what would be worse for her.

But to be stuck here . . . wherever here was, was equally bad. He looked up at the stark hall where they had stuck needles in him. It was impossibly tall and made of steel like his sword and glass like the little bottles noblewomen kept their scent in, great sheets of it. One got up and down such huge buildings not with stairs but with boxes that moved by themselves. Rooms were lighted by discs that glowed like the moon. Who built such miracles? Gods? But he had seen no gods there, only men and women who tortured him, and this girl.