Once Every Never (18 page)

“Wow. A raven, huh?”

“Yeah.”

“Quoth me—‘Nevermore.’”

The girls both laughed a little. It sapped some of the tension out of the situation and for that Clare was grateful. Al really was the best kind of friend.

“Hey Clare … remember what you told me Llassar said about ‘blood magic’? And how you’d pricked your finger on the brooch?”

“I thought about that maybe having something to do with it. But it’s not like we’re related, Al.”

“No, I know. But remember when we did that stupid ‘blood sisters’ thing when we were kids?”

“Yeah.” Clare snorted. “I remember. My mom almost killed us and our thumbs nearly fell off.”

Al laughed again. “Yeah. It was dumb. But maybe that single drop of blood meant something more than either of us realized at the time.”

Clare thought about that for a moment. It
had
only been a single drop of blood that had fallen onto Comorra’s brooch, too … “You really think so?”

“I don’t know. It’s just a theory. But whatever happens, I guess I just wanted you to know that it’s always kind of meant a lot to
me
, anyway. I’m not sure I’d cope very well without you around.”

“I feel the same way, pal.”

“Okay. Just remember that when you’re shimmer-tripping, okay?”

“I promise. Just remember to keep bringing me back.”

“I will. And then, if we get out of this mess—”

“We
will
get out of this mess. I promise you that, too. Stuart Morholt has no idea what he’s gotten himself into.”

THE BENTLEY FINALLY
rolled to a stop and the
thump-thump-thump
of the stereo speakers fell silent. Footsteps, then the opening of the trunk and a shaft of blinding late-afternoon sunshine as Al and Clare blinked up at Stuart Morholt and his gun. He motioned them out and the girls unfolded themselves, clambering stiffly onto the cracked cement floor of a dilapidated, saggy-roofed warehouse that slouched on the banks of the Thames. They could see the river and a seedy stretch of industrial neighbourhood through the gaping shipping doors at the far end. The building itself looked as though it had been abandoned sometime before the Beatles hit it big. It was empty except for a series of sturdily built plywood-walled container rooms with slide-bar locks on the outside and bare-bulb light fixtures that cast ghastly yellowish shadows. The place smelled of diesel and machine oil and the rotting-vegetation funk of overgrown river weed.

Morholt led them deeper into the warehouse. When he reached the last locker he stopped and pointed the barrel of the PPK at Al’s messenger bag that held her super-sleek laptop. “Leave that,” he said curtly. He’d already confiscated their cell phones when he’d locked them in the trunk of the car.

Al reluctantly unslung the strap from across her body and lowered the bag gently to the cement floor. Clare knew it was killing her to do it. Al was never more than five feet from her computer at any time. Even when she slept.

Morholt pointed at the locker. “Get in. I’ve got an errand to run. Contemplate your futures while I’m gone. Scream your heads off all you want. There’s no one in a ten-mile radius to hear. Cheerio.”

With a nasty grin, he shut the door and the girls heard the slide-bar lock slamming home against its fittings with a bang like a judge’s gavel falling, sentencing them to doom. They shivered together at the sound of Morholt’s expensive Italian loafers striding back the way they came, the jungle-cat purr of the Bentley starting up, the slam of the car door as Morholt got in … and then the car fading into the distance as the modern-day Druid drove off.

THE GIRLS HAD
been quiet for almost half an hour, listening for any sound that Morholt had come back. For the last few minutes Al had been crouched down on all fours, peering through the crack under the door of their little prison cell. Finally she sat back and turned to Clare.

“Friendship with you is not dull.” Al smiled wanly. “Have I ever mentioned that?”

“Sorry.”

“Never mind.” Al stood up and undid the clasp of her belt. “I think I might have figured a way to get us out of here.” She held up the belt—it was made of plain black leather and it fastened by hooking a single claw on the back through one of the holes in the leather. The buckle was a silver disk with an X-Men insignia on it. She’d bought it at a comic book convention.

“You’re going to call the X-Men to come rescue us? I hope it’s one of the cute ones and not the big fuzzy blue guy …”

“We don’t need mutants to save us.”

“We don’t?”

“Not with your wicked-ass magic and my mad super-spy skills, we don’t.” Al grinned and dropped down on all fours again. The gap between the bottom of the door and the floor was about an inch—plenty of room to slide the belt under. Al began the tricky job of manoeuvring the hook of her belt so that she could snag the strap of her messenger bag and gently—oh, so gently—drag it over closer to the locker. She sweated and swore for what seemed an eternity until she could just reach and grab the strap of the bag with her fingertips. “Excelsior!” she muttered as she dragged the bag right up to the outside of the door and rolled over onto her back, panting with the effort.

“Al? Even if you could get your computer out of the bag, I don’t think it’ll fit under the door—”

“Don’t need the computer,” Al grunted as she rolled back onto her stomach. After a bit more swearing and scrabbling she shimmied back away from the door and held up Clare’s pompom sock triumphantly.

Clare was unaccountably relieved to see the cloak pin again. “But how would—”

“Look,” Al explained. “When you touch the brooch, you go … but the brooch stays here. When you come back, you come back to where the brooch is. The test of my working theory is this: you touch the brooch, you zot—”

“Shimmer.”

“Shimmer. After you’re gone, I slide the brooch under the door, you un-zot—”

“Un-shimmer.”

“Un-shimmer
outside
the storage container. Get it?”

Clare felt a grin spreading across her face. “This officially makes you the best sidekick ever. You know that, right?”

“Okay … see, how come
I’m
the sidekick? I’m the one with the plan!”

“Yeah, but I’m the one with the superpowers.”

“Good point.”

Clare suddenly grew serious. “Al … what if something happens to you while I’m gone?”

Al shook her head. “It won’t. But, y’know—don’t
dawdle
.” She shook the brooch into her palm and held it out. “After you
shimmer
, count to one hundred. Meanwhile, I’ll get the brooch outside the container. Then we both concentrate hard on bringing you back.” Al paused. “Worth a shot?”

“Hand it over.” Clare glanced around, making sure she wasn’t near anything electrical this time. “Here goes nothing …”

14

C
lare hadn’t planned on materializing in a sunlit, frost-crisp meadow directly in the path of a galloping horse kicking up clouds of sparkling ice-fog as it thundered directly toward her. The creature loomed huge in her field of vision, the size of a tank and just as terrifying. As the ground beneath her shuddered Clare screamed and threw her arms up in front of her face. The horse’s piercing whinny shattered the cold air and it reared back, pawing at the air and almost taking Clare’s head off.

“Whoa!” the rider shouted, sawing on the reins. “Whoa, Meryn!”

Clare risked a glance between her upraised arms as the rider pushed back a hooded cowl and a cloud of strawberry-gold hair tumbled out around her shoulders.

“Clare!” Comorra exclaimed. “Hush, Meryn …” She leaned forward to pat his steaming neck, trying to calm him down. Clare saw now that the horse was barely more than a sturdy pony, not the thundering juggernaut she’d imagined. Meryn danced nervously and snorted, clouds of vapour pouring from his nostrils. Comorra backed him up and turned him sideways so that she could look down at Clare—who stood there in her sundress and sandals, feeling exposed and silly and chilled to the bone.

“Hi,” she said, trying to sound casual. And as though she’d meant to materialize in front of the princess’s horse like that. “Long time no see. Or maybe not. I’m never sure …”

“Shining One,” Comorra said as she swung her leg over her mount’s back and slid to the ground. She looked at Clare closely and tilted her head. “You are shivering!”

With nimble fingers Comorra undid the raven brooch that held her woollen mantle and swept the cloak around Clare. As it settled warmly on her bare shoulders, Clare couldn’t help sighing with relief. The cold had been something of a shock after her shimmering and its usual fiery sensations. At least it was daylight out for once.

“Do you not have early frosts in the Otherworld?” the princess asked her wryly.

Clare smiled. “I know I’m not exactly dressed for the weather. I never really know what to expect when I come here.” She thought of the last trip—and the handsome young Druid who’d been there to ‘welcome’ her with a sword in his hand. “Or who …”

“Did you mean to find Connal instead of me?” Comorra’s voice, musical and low, said one thing while Clare heard another. She was getting used to that phenomenon, but was beginning to wonder if she could get used to Comorra herself. The princess was remarkably straightforward. Blunt even. “You desire him,” she said. “Don’t you?”

“Ex
cuse
me?” Clare squawked. “Where on earth did you get
that
idea from?”

“In his house, the night of my father’s farewell. I saw the way you looked at him.”

“What—wide-eyed with terror?”

“He made you blush.”

“He makes
you
blush, too, Princess.”

Comorra blinked at Clare, her expression carefully neutral.

“Oh, come on! He’s not exactly hard on the eyes, you know. I have a feeling he has that effect on most girls with a pulse.”

Comorra allowed herself to return Clare’s grin and shrugged a bit shyly. “I used to think Tasca would have him. But … I do not think he feels that way about her and … I have dreams now of my own.” She tilted her head at Clare in an almost birdlike fashion. “Do you know that
you
are sometimes in my dreams, Clare?”

“I am?”

“In them, we meet on the bank of the Great River. There is smoke and screaming and Connal and my mother are there with chariots. And my sister … is dead.” Her gaze went cloudy at the memory of the dream. A dream that Clare knew was certain to become a reality. “Were you really sent to me by Andrasta? Are you my protector?”

“Uh …”

Comorra’s blue eyes squeezed shut as the memory of the dream images washed over her. “Tasca will not die. It is only a dream, is it not?”

“I …” Clare absolutely did not know what to say. Her heart went out to the girl. And she shrank from the knowledge that what Comorra had glimpsed was, in fact, a scene from her future. A wave of guilt washed over her at the thought. Comorra’s premonitory dreams were—she instinctively knew—
her
fault. The girl had seen something she’d not been meant to see and it had been because of
her
.

“Clare?” Comorra repeated, her voice melodic, the cadences almost haunting. Her pale blue gaze washed over Clare like a searchlight, self-possessed, wise beyond her years. “In my dream, Shining One, a Roman finds me. And takes me. But before he does so—I always give you
this
.” She held out the brooch that had fastened her cloak closed around her neck.

Clare stared down at the bronze raven. It seemed to stare right back at her.

“I put it in the pocket of your breeches,” Comorra said. “Just before everything goes dark.”

Clare felt her eyes go wide.
So
that’s
how it got there!
she thought.
I was right. I’m not a klepto after all—yay, me!

“I know it is only a dream,” Comorra continued, “but this brooch is yours, now—truly—if only you will beg Andrasta on my behalf to keep my sister safe.”

Clare groaned inwardly. She didn’t need to hear Al and Milo lecturing her about the dangers of monkeying around with the time stream to know that she couldn’t accept Comorra’s gift. Offering. Whatever. Because if she
did
there’d be no way for Comorra to give it to her in the future. Which of course, for Clare, was the past. But if she was in the past now, did that mean it was in her future as well? Her brain started to knot in the way it always did when she contemplated the matter. If she took the brooch, would it mean she’d be stuck in the past with no way to get home? She wasn’t willing to risk that chance.

The eye on the pin seemed to wink at her.

Clare’s mind raced. How could she get Comorra to keep the brooch without offending her or telling her what would happen in her future—an admission that would surely have other, equally dire consequences?

“Uh …” She stopped and tried to imagine what Al might say. “That brooch was made for you, Comorra, um, Daughter of Boudicca.” It was harder than she thought. Then she remembered the words exchanged by Connal and the smith. “The fire spoke its shape to Llassar. It is the gift of Andrasta. It is … oh, hell. Look. Why don’t you just hang on to it? I think that’s probably what would make Andrasta the happiest. Y’know?”