Now and for Never

RAZORBILL

NOW AND FOR NEVER

LESLEY LIVINGSTON
is a writer and actress living in Toronto. She has a master's degree in English from the University of Toronto, where she specialized in Arthurian literature and Shakespeare. She is the author of several trilogies for teens, including the Wondrous Strange series (winner of the Canadian Library Association Young Adult Book Award and Ontario Library Association White Pine Honour Book), the Never series (winner of the Copper Cylinder Award, two years running), and the Starling series. She is also co-writer of the middle-grade series The Wiggins Weird with Jonathan Llyr. Visit Lesley online at
www.lesleylivingston.com
.

ALSO BY LESLEY LIVINGSTON

The Never Trilogy

Every Never After (Book 2)

Once Every Never (Book 1)

The Starling Trilogy

Descendant (Book 2)

Starling (Book 1)

The Wondrous Strange Trilogy

Tempestuous (Book 3)

Darklight (Book 2)

Wondrous Strange (Book 1)

For younger readers

How to Curse in Hieroglyphics (with Jonathan Llyr)

NOW AND
FOR NEVER

Lesley Livingston

For Jessica

AD
61

S
tuart Morholt awoke on a boat.

He had no idea where he was, or when … or why on earth the smell of fish was so heavy in his nostrils, which flared at the offence. Which only let in more of the fish stink, and lent a sneering quality—sneerier than usual, if that was possible—to Morholt's countenance.

Good god,
he thought blearily, running a hand over the scrub-brush growth of his tangled beard,
what I wouldn't give for a proper barber.
Or even—unthinkable, except under the most extreme of circumstances, which these were
well
beyond—a disposable razor.
Or perhaps a time machine. Yes. That would nicely solve all my problems.

He frowned and blinked in befuddlement at that last thought.

Why on earth would I need a time … machine … Oh. Right. I remember now …

He'd been so deep in an exhausted state of sleep (his only refuge from hunger, thirst, nausea, and desperation) that he'd quite forgotten he was trapped on a Roman merchant galley somewhere in the middle of a vast expanse of heaving ocean in the second half of the first century. As he'd clambered back to consciousness, for a brief, blissful moment Morholt thought it had all been a dream.

Or maybe a nightmare.

After all, following a rather distressing argument, he'd nodded off during a spectacular supernatural phenomenon—the latest in a series of powerful, all-encompassing, awe-and-terror-inspiring magical interludes that had descended periodically on the ship, interrupting its journey by turning the sea to black glass and the sky to a coruscating aurora that engulfed them in a vast, spinning tunnel.

Those episodes definitely lent credence to the dream/nightmare theory.

If only …

But it wasn't a dream. None of it was.

And so, as had become his custom, Stuart Morholt began the day (not that he could tell what time it was) by having a good stretch and loudly cursing the names Clarinet Reid and Allie McAllister. Then he lay there swallowing against the bile rising in his throat. The heaving of the waves neatly matched the roiling of his stomach and, as had also become his custom, he wondered if he was about to lose his most recent meal— meagre as it had been—over the side of the ship.

He pushed himself up onto one elbow and eyed the nearby railing.

“I'd try hard not to do that if I were you,” a voice said from somewhere behind him.

Morholt glanced around, blinking the sleep-fog from his eyes, until he spotted the handsome, ridiculously muscled soldier sitting on a stack of coiled hemp rope.

“Do what?” he grumbled.

“Hurl.” The young man spoke with a hint of Scottish brogue—mixed with a rolling, Latinate flavour that confused his intonation somewhat—but his tone was definitely hostile. “Those Roman rations loaded aboard in Parwydydd are gone as of yesterday and your psychotic warrior women don't seem particularly concerned with trawling the depths for a feast of
flounder. So whatever you ate last will have to sustain you till we make landfall.
If
we make landfall.”

Morholt found the prospect of starvation infinitely preferable to chowing down on a plate of fish, but what were the odds he'd even survive long enough to starve to death? Not good, if Legionnaire Marcus Donatus gave in to his less noble inclinations.

“Oh, don't be such a sourpuss, Soldier Boy,” Morholt sneered, shoring up his facade of superiority. After all, it was Marcus who was the prisoner, not him.

That's right.
I'm
the one with the power here,
he thought.
Me.

So why did he feel the exact opposite?

Because even without that comically oversharpened sword of his, that little ex-nerd lackey of mine is bloody intimidating.

It was infuriating. And Morholt wasn't about to let Marcus know it. Even if the argument he'd had earlier with the young man had shaken him to the core and made him question his heretofore unquestionable brilliance. No, no. He had to keep up appearances.

Speaking of which …

He reached up to run a hand through his hair in an attempt to impose some kind of order on the matted mess. When it felt as though he wouldn't be able to extract his fingers, he turned the tugging gesture into a dismissive wave.

“You always said you wanted a life of adventure when you were a boy,” he drawled. “Now look at you. All manly warrior and on the adventure of a lifetime—
several
lifetimes—which you'd never have had if it weren't for me.”

“Since you're responsible for stranding me in the far-distant past,” Marcus said dryly. “Twice.”

“Exactly.”

“And almost getting me killed at least that many times.”

“Right.”

“Not to mention getting me stuck on this ship full of
vengeful Druids,” Marcus continued, “hunted by another ship full of angry Romans. With, god help me,
you
as my only company.”

“You're welcome.”

“I really should just throw you over the side.”

“So you've said.” Morholt rolled his eyes, but stopped when that made him even queasier. “At least a dozen times now. So you might as well give up on the empty threats. I know from experience: never make your threats empty; you'll wind up in a barbaric era without a shaving kit or a bottle of Gravol.” He waved one hand desultorily at the young man who had murder in his eyes. “If you were really going to kill me you'd have gotten around to it by now, I should think.”

“Well … I may not have to.
They
might do it for me.”

Marcus nodded at the half-dozen spookily silent women who stood guard around the weapons they'd seized from the galley's few Roman soldiers—thereby preventing those Romans from taking back the ship that had been so effortlessly wrested from their control. The women's lean-muscled arms were painted in strange, swirling designs and bristled with what Morholt thought were an unseemly number of sharp implements of their own, from knives to swords to spears.

“Your star seems to have dimmed a bit in their eyes, I've noticed,” Marcus continued.

The silent guard were the scathach—quasi-mystical, berserker warrior women conjured from some dark past dimension by the Druid priestess Mallora to torment an invading Roman Legion—a Legion in which, until recently, Marcus Donatus had been gainfully employed. Morholt watched the young man—no longer the skinny, awkward, bookish boy named Mark O'Donnell he'd known in Cambridge in the eighties—as he stared at the scathach with narrowed eyes.

Morholt was about to roll out another stinging witticism
when Marcus's attention shifted. In an instant he was on his feet and gripping the ship's railing, a wave of inexplicable excitement washing his features.

“Then again, if the scathach don't kill you,” Marcus continued, “I'm reasonably certain that a very pissed-off lass by the name of Allie McAllister will be more than happy to do the job.”

“Ha! That little autowrecker still has you googly-eyed, eh?” Morholt felt his blood pressure spike at the mere thought of what Allie had done to his beloved Bentley. “Well, I'm sure she's forgotten all about
you
by now. You're outdated technology for a girl like that.”

Marcus shrugged a shoulder, not rising to the bait as he usually did. “You might be right.” A strangely fierce little grin curled the corner of his mouth. “Perhaps she and Clare just came back to finish you off, then.”

“Eh?” Morholt frowned, not sure he'd heard right. “She and what?
What?
”

He climbed unsteadily to his feet and lurched toward the railing where Marcus stared intently out over the sea's wide expanse. The leather straps of his armour creaked as Marcus raised an arm and pointed to where the sunlight reflected off the distant shape of a wind-bellied sail.

A ship. The other ship. It was finally catching up with them.

Along with its angry, stab-happy Romans—Morholt could see them lining the deck rails—but that wasn't all.

Although he'd been expecting this—a turn of events crucial to his designs—Morholt still felt his stomach flip over. Peering hard into the distance, he decided he just might, as Marcus had so succinctly put it, hurl.

They were too far away to make out any details, but he knew. Instantly. Just as Marcus, smiling in grim triumph beside him, had known. The two matchstick-tiny figures standing at the prow of the wave-devouring ship were unmistakable.

Clarinet Reid and Allie McAllister.

“Right …” Morholt said, his voice a queasy warble. “Here we go then.”

Bloody hell. This had better work …

1

“B
ody bag!”

Clarinet Reid froze and stared in alarm at the ravenhaired seventeen-year-old who sat on a high stool in the cluttered back room of the antiques shop. “Al—”