Once Every Never (9 page)

“Well, uh, he was looking at the wrong ones.”

“How do you know that?”

“
Duh
—I have the damn thing sitting on my bed. Besides, the sapphire just didn’t have the same punch. And I do know how to accessorize, do I not?” she added dryly.

“You know something?” Al mused. “I’m not sure if you just screwed with history or if history just screwed with you.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I mean, you might’ve just thrown a monkey wrench into the whole space–time continuum!”

“The who?”

Clare could almost hear Al shaking her head. “The space– time continuum—do you watch
any
TV? You could have already sent the entire universe careening out of whack. I mean, sure. It’s all theoretical. But even the smallest alteration in the past could
potentially
cause the universe to split into alternate realities. Or collapse in on itself. Or alter the course of history dramatically. It’s like a domino effect. You might’ve changed
history
, Clare—”

“I did not!”

“We might not even be in the
same
universe
anymore.” Al was on a roll. “This could already be a
parallel
existence
we’re in now!”

“Oh, come
on
!” Clare protested. “It was one itty bitty gem-stone! No wrenches, no monkeys, and I seriously think Mr. Blacksmith would have figured it out himself. And anyway, the brooch had a red stone in it when I found it in my pocket and that was before—well, y’know, after—I switched it so doesn’t that
prove
the universe remains unaltered?”

There was only the soft hiss of static for a long moment as Al went silent; either contemplating Clare’s hypothesis or—more likely—staring at her phone in bemusement.

“Besides,” Clare continued, “the dude just thought it was a flash of inspiration from whatsername.”

“Whatsername?”

“Yeah. Another one of those Celtic names I have a hard time remembering.”

“You seemed to remember this Connal dude’s name just fine,” Al noted.

“Oh, shut up,” Clare muttered. She frowned, trying to conjure up the sound of the name in her head.
Andrasta
… the name whispered across her mind. She blinked.
Andrasta …

“Uh … Al? Do you have internet access?” Her voice sounded a little hollow in her own ears.
Andrasta …

“Uh-huh,” Al said. “Why? Don’t you?”

“Maggie doesn’t have wireless and I’m not gonna start using her computer—she knows I don’t do the research thing. Just Google the name ‘Andrasta’ for me, will you?”

“Okay. Why?”

“That’s whatsername’s name,” Clare explained. “I just remembered it. From the way they were talking about her, I think she was a goddess.”
Or something …

While she waited, Clare jammed the phone between her ear and shoulder and folded the scarf around the brooch. Then she dug around in her luggage, which she still hadn’t unpacked, and found a lone pink pompom sock—
why did I pack a lone sock?
—and stuffed the wrapped brooch into it, folding the entire neat little bundle into the inside pocket of her shoulder bag.

The click of Al’s keyboard sounded over the line. “A-n-d-r … here it is … Andrasta. Oh you’re so right! Andrasta was a Celtic war deity—and the patron goddess of the Iceni tribe,” she read out in a scholarly tone. “Her name means the ‘Invincible One.’ She has the ability to travel the pathways between the worlds as both a messenger and a harbinger. She ‘ferries spirits to and fro’ between planes of existence—she sounds kinda like a Norse Valkyrie if you ask me—and she is closely identified with the raven as a totemic animal …”

“Yeah, I got that part.” Clare remembered what Connal had said about Comorra’s being chosen by the Raven.

“It is thought … Holy
crap
, Clare!”—Al’s pedantic tone evaporated in a sudden flash—“listen to this! It is thought that
the British warrior queen Boudicca
may have prayed to the Raven Goddess on the eve of her battle against occupying Roman forces. Rituals involving this goddess may have included human sacrifices …”

“Ew.” Clare shivered, thinking gruesome thoughts.

Al read on: “It is also possible, however, that Andrasta can be linked to the more peaceful Gallic goddess, Andarta—”

Clare shook her head, remembering. “I don’t think so.” “What?”

“That last part.” She was remembering the look on Connal’s face as he beheld the raven brooch. “I don’t think this Andrasta chick had very much to do with peace.”

“Well, you might have a point there.” Clare could hear the sound of rapid mouse clicks. “There’s more on her here. Stuff about blood curses and magic and sacrifices … Also—I did a little background check earlier on Ms. B., and I gotta tell ya, she had quite the rep …”

Clare jumped just then, hearing Maggie’s footsteps on the creaky wooden staircase. The last thing she wanted was for her aunt to start asking questions—
more
questions—and getting suspicious.
More
suspicious. “Tell me tomorrow,” she interrupted Al. “I gotta go.”

“Promise you won’t do anything
else
stupid?”

“I promise,” Clare crossed her heart, even though Al couldn’t see her do it, and said, “I won’t do anything
else
stupid. Tonight.”

“Okay then. And remember we’re meeting up tomorrow.”

“I know. I’ll be there.” Suddenly Clare was overcome with the urge to sleep. “G’night, Al.”

“Hey Clare?”

“Yeah?”

“Milo wanted me to tell you he says hi.”

“Wh—”

“Pleasant dreams, Freak Girl.” Al chuckled and hung up the phone.

7

“W
ow.”

“Yeah. She’s something, huh?”

Clare nodded slowly as she stood, mesmerized, staring up at the monument. “It even kind of looks like her. A little.”

“It does?” Al asked.

“Well … no. But there’s
something
. Something of her, uh, her spirit, maybe …?” Clare expected Al to mock her for the New Agey sentiment, but she just looked back up at the massive bronze figure in the chariot looming high above them against the bright blue London sky. It also loomed high above a seriously tacky souvenir stand—stuffed to the awning with plastic Bobby hats and plushy Union Jack bears and foil balloons—but somehow the statue’s dignity remained wholly intact.

Across the Thames, the observation pods of the giant Millennium Wheel rotated serenely. All around them people and vehicles bustled to and fro in a noisy stream of humanity. But it faded away to background noise for the two girls standing beneath the shadow of grandeur cast by that queenly figure, frozen in the moment of a thundering charge.

This was what Al had insisted that Clare meet her to see. She had come across a reference to it in her internet searches: the great bronze statue of Boudicca that stood on the banks of the Thames next to Westminster Bridge and the Houses of Parliament. Commissioned by Prince Albert in the nineteenth century, Thomas Thornycroft’s sculpture depicted its subject as a commanding, unbowed figure. Arms raised high, a slender spear gripped in one strong fist, Queen Boudicca stood straight and proud on the deck of a scythe-wheeled chariot drawn by a pair of rearing stallions, two young girls crouched behind her. One of the girls was hunched in a protective posture, arms pulled in to herself, as she peeked solemnly out from behind her mother’s flowing cloak.

But it was the other girl that Clare couldn’t take her eyes off. Her clothes, like those of her sister’s, were dishevelled and loose, torn to the waist, her young body exposed. Frozen forever in time, she gripped the side of the careening chariot with one fist and craned her neck trying to peer forward, past the charging horses, as if to see what was coming. As if she could somehow see into the future and wanted to meet her fate with eyes wide open, no matter how awful it might be.

And Clare had the immediate sense that it had, indeed, been awful.

“Comorra …” she murmured.

Al regarded her silently for a moment. “And the other one must be Tasca, right? The … uh …”

“The dead girl I saw?” Clare shivered a bit. “I suppose.”

“C’mon,” Al said, tugging on Clare’s purse strap. “It’s a gorgeous day and I didn’t bring you here so you could spend it feeling all mopey about something that happened over two thousand years ago. I just wanted you to see the statue. You know … for a little perspective. Now let’s go get something to eat.”

Clare followed reluctantly, glancing back over her shoulder as if the long-dead queen and her daughters had cast a spell that would take some effort to shake off. The girls bought a couple of kebabs from a hole-in-the-wall kebab shop and set out along the pathway beside the river, strolling along until they came to a bench overlooking the smooth expanse of dark water. Maybe Comorra had strolled along this very river—maybe the very same stretch of riverbank—all those centuries ago …

“Al?”

“Yeah?”

“What’s happening to me?”

Al was silent for a long moment. She tore open a bag of crisps and threw a few of them to a squabble of pigeons, her brow creased in thought beneath the dark fringe of her hair. “I honestly don’t know, pal,” she said eventually. “This takes a bigger brain than mine.”

“Great,” Clare sighed. “I suppose, in that case, I’m doomed.”

“No you’re not.” Al grinned suddenly. “What time is it?” Clare checked her watch, but—of course—the display was still fried. She’d put it on that morning out of habit. Instead she pulled out her cell phone, which had probably escaped similar electronic death by virtue of Clare having forgotten it at home when they’d gone to the museum. She checked the screen. “It’s just after five. Why?”

“C’mon.” Al stood and headed back in the direction they’d come from. “He usually likes to work for an hour or two after everyone else has gone home.”

“He who?”

“Milo. His office is only a few blocks from here.”

Clare stopped short in the middle of the path. “No. Way.”

“Look—he’s the biggest brain I know.”

“Yeah, but—”

“If
he
can’t figure out what’s happening to you, no one can.”

“Yeah, but—”

“D’you wanna solve this or not?”

She did. She really, really did. But the thought of telling Milo that she, well, that she was some kind of freak, made Clare queasy. Of course, the mere thought of seeing him again cancelled the queasy out. Nearly.

THE LATE-AFTERNOON SUN
was pouring through the tinted floor-to-ceiling windows in the high-tech, open-concept space that served as the London office of the Ordnance Survey. The quiet hum of a bank of processors behind a glass partition was the only sound they heard as the receptionist let them in through a set of tall double doors on her way out. The place was deserted except for a corner workstation where Milo, a pair of oversized headphones clamped over his ears, stared fixedly at a slowly rotating graphic on the high-def monitor. His long fingers danced over the ergonomic keyboard and sections of the spidery, spinning graphic filled in with variegated shades of green and brown and blue …

“Milo,” Al called.
“Milo!”

Clare picked up a paperclip and an elastic band from a supply tray on a nearby desk, bent the little piece of wire and shot it across the room. It pinged off the back of Milo’s head and he jumped a bit and turned, his look of annoyance melting into a surprised smile.

“Clare!” he said. “Hi!” And then, “Hey, Allie …”

He took off the headphones and shook his hair out. The dark blond waves fell just over the top rim of his stylish-cool glasses, catching the sunlight and haloing his face, highlighting his fairly spectacular bone structure …
Oh boy
, Clare thought, still trying to reconcile
this
Milo with the one she’d once known as a puppyish, slobbery little boy in Superman jammies and cape.

Nope. Does not compute
…

Maybe, she thought,
this
Milo was a by-product of the same paranormal forces that had sent her spiralling back in time the day before.

Heh. Maybe I changed history
.

Clare was amused by the possibility for a brief instant. Then her amusement turned to a stomach-clenching anxiety. What if she
had
?

Milo stood and stretched, his lean-muscled physique showing through the thin material of his T-shirt, which had a picture of a despondent stormtrooper hunched over a beer in a bar with the caption
“Those
were
the droids I was looking for …”

Okay … maybe she
hadn’t
altered the timeline. Milo was obviously still a nerd. He’d just morphed into a hot nerd.

“So, Clare de Lune.” He grinned at her as he reached over and flicked the screen to sleep mode. “To what do I owe the unexpected pleasure of this visit?”

“Did he just call me crazy?” Clare murmured to Al out of the side of her mouth.

“It’s a song,” Al murmured back. “It’s a compliment. Go with it. I’ll explain later.”

“Uh …” Clare was lost.

At the moment, all she really wanted to do was stare at Milo. Maybe flirt charmingly. She wasn’t sure. And she
really
wasn’t sure how to broach the subject they’d actually come to discuss with Al’s cousin. It was the stuff of sci-fi novels and movies. But then again … that stuff was sort of Milo’s forte, wasn’t it?