Every Never After (25 page)

“Allie … Allie!” he called. “Oh,
shit
… Say something. Please be okay! Allie …”

So close. She’d been so close to going home. The bitter taste of that nearness made her throat ache and she felt a single tear slide out from under her closed eyelid.

“Oh, thank god …” she heard Marcus sigh in relief. “You’re alive.”

“What makes you think that?” she murmured through the pain.

“Corpses don’t cry.”

Carefully, he took his arm from around her torso as Allie struggled to sit up under her own power. It felt almost as though she’d dislocated her shoulder, but she could still move it, so she knew she’d be fine. At least they seemed to have outrun the scathach.

“Weren’t you
listening
when I said you’d never survive out here?” Marcus asked, exasperation soaking his every word. “I told you there were things that would try to kill you.”

“What happened?” She glanced around. “That was crazy. It was like multiple shimmer doors opening one right after the other …”

“They’re like … waves,” Marcus said, sitting back on his heels. “Bands of temporal distortion. I’ve experienced them before. Most of the soldiers in the Second Augusta have. It’s one of the reasons they all think this place is haunted. The anomalies appear without warning, but usually they’re barely even tangible. Not like these. And certainly not like the one that sent me—and, I’m guessing, you—here.”

“Um, yeah …” Allie kept glancing around, but the distortions had vanished like heat waves after the sun goes down. “That was close, but not, obviously, the same. Because I’m still here. With you.”

“Try not to sound so excited,” he said dryly.

Allie just wiped the dampness of the tear from her cheek and rolled an eye at him.

“Right. Anyway. You walk through one, or one washes over you, and you come out the other side,” Marcus continued. “Back where—
when
—you started. It’s just that there are pockets of weak temporal displacement. I think they emanate from the Tor itself. They’re a nuisance, but usually if you just stay in one place, they’re harmless. Unless, of course, you happen to step into the path of an oncoming war band or a beer delivery truck. Like you just did. Uh—repeatedly.” He shook his head. “You either have the best or the worst luck I’ve ever seen.”

“Thanks.” Allie shifted and groaned in pain.

“Can you stand?”

“Do you care?”

His expression was unreadable.

Allie pushed herself up onto her hands and knees. “How come you never tried to use one of those things to get back home?”

“You think I didn’t? Every time we came up this way on patrols over the last four years I’ve tried to find one. But I never could. They’re unpredictable. And like I said … it used to be you just walked through and came out the other side. But what just happened: that was weird. I’ve never seen that many at once. And the sensations have never been so corporeal.” He shook his head. “Something’s changed … and I don’t think it’s for the better.”

“It could be my friends,” Allie said, a glimmer of hope stirring. Maybe they’re trying to get me back home.”

“Yeah?” Marcus’s lip quirked up in an irritating half-sneer. “That’s great. Mine never did.”

Allie looked down. He was definitely bitter.

But then, maybe realizing how upset she really was, Mark gave her a sad smile. “Here’s hoping they don’t get us both killed in the process, yeah?”

“Maybe … maybe if you could keep pace with one of the distortions for long enough—”

“Forget it, Allie. It’s too dangerous.”

“Right. The scathach.” She glanced around nervously.

“No,” Marcus said. “I mean in general. The scathach attack the camp itself only after the sun goes down.”

“Only?”

“So far. Thankfully. But when we actually send out a patrol they appear out of nowhere and wreak bloody havoc, day
or
night. We can be out on a wide-open moor and then … wham. Surrounded in the blink of an eye. It’s like evil magic. We can’t leave. If we stay hunkered down inside the walls, at least the men have the daylight hours to recuperate and regroup after the attacks. But it also means very little sleep, and the stress is starting to wear the men down.” He stood and held out a hand to her. “Can you stand?”

She could. And she did. Wordlessly and without any help. And she absolutely would
not
let him see how much it hurt.

He huffed a sigh at her stubbornness. “Great. Can you walk?”

“Of course I can walk.”

“Then follow me. And I mean it this time. Because if you don’t, I won’t run after you again. Next time you bolt, you’re on your own.” Marcus stalked past, heading back in the direction of the encampment. Ten feet in front of Allie he stopped and looked at her over his shoulder. “So what’ll it be? Should I say goodbye and good luck now? Or are you going to be a good girl and let me save your life? Again.”

She gritted her teeth, biting back the retort she knew would just get her abandoned. Marcus was pretty obviously at the end of his tether where she was concerned. Moment of tender panic when he thought she might be dead—what the hell was
that
about, anyway?—notwithstanding. In all honesty, Allie was hard-pressed to find the fault in him for that. Running away had been a pretty bone-headed thing to do. Temporal whammy waves or no. Her chances of survival out in the Somerset marshes would have been slim to none under
normal
circumstances.

“Fine,” Allie muttered. “Whatever. ‘Lead on, Macduff.’”

He grinned (a bit evilly), and set off at a brisk pace.

Trailing behind as Marcus stalked sure-footed over the uneven ground, Allie got a good look at the lean, defined muscles of his legs—at the way the straps of his armoured leather kilt slapped against his thighs and how the laces of his sandals tightened against his sinewy calves with every stride. Marcus Donatus had muscles on his muscles.

Thews,
Allie thought.
This is what all those romance novelists mean when they talk about the hero’s “thews.” Muscles.

There was simply no denying the fact that, irritating personality or no, the guy was positively ripped. Not in a bulgy, pumpingiron kind of way. More like in the not-an-ounce-of-fat, nicely defined, ridiculously manly kind of way. One thing was certain:
Marcus Donatus
wasn’t
Maggie’s Mark O’Donnell. And if he ever had been? He sure as heck wasn’t anymore.

This
Marcus was Allie’s very own—

Okay, wait. Stop
right
there.

Allie shook her head sharply to dispel any such random, unfortunately worded thoughts. Whoever this guy was, he was not “hers.” He had nothing to do with her. Other than the fact that he’d taken her captive. He’d made her a prisoner of the Roman Legion, for crying out loud! Unacceptable. It didn’t matter how sexy his accent—either of his accents—was. Were. Or how tanned and chiselled his features. Again: he was a ruthless Roman killing machine.

And she couldn’t even imagine how that had come about in the first place.

“Hey,” she said, lengthening her stride a bit to catch up. “How did all this happen to you? I mean—the army thing. Not the time-travelling thing. I’ve already got a handle on that part.”

He walked in silence for another minute or so and Allie thought he might not even deign to answer. But then he said, “When they found me I’d been here, hiding in the forest beneath the Tor, for about three weeks. Lost. Alone. I managed to convince them that I’d served with the Twentieth—the Valeria Victrix, one of the Legions stationed in the north. And that I’d been captured by the enemy, had managed to escape, and had been running ever since. I’m pretty sure Postumus didn’t entirely believe it. But he did take pity on me.”

“That was, uh, good of him,” Allie said, panting a bit to keep up. “I guess.”

Marcus shrugged a shoulder. “Over time, I proved myself useful. I could communicate with the locals, and so he used me as a kind of emissary in dealing with the friendlier tribes south of here, closer to our permanent camp.”

“Right!” Allie said. “That happened to my friend Clare. Once she came into physical contact with Comorra, she found that she could understand the Iceni language—and they could understand
her. It’s part of the functioning of the magic. I guess that’s what happened to you, right?”

Marcus barely glanced at Allie and didn’t slow his pace. “No. In fact, I didn’t discover that until I’d been here for some time. The Legions aren’t known as being a particularly touchy-feely bunch and I certainly wasn’t going around pawing at the locals just so I could communicate with them.”

So the way the magic worked
had
been different for him, too, Allie realized.

“Oh. Right,” she said. “I mean … everyone could see you right off the bat, I’m guessing … like you could all see me. Maybe it’s only Clare who’s invisible when she shimmers. Because it’s her going back into the past, and not the past swallowing her whole. Like it did us.”

For her and Mark, it was just ZOT! and they were there. Fully corporeal in that world and time. It must have been specific to Glastonbury. But it didn’t explain how Marcus could understand the Celts—or be understood by them. Allie frowned, puzzled.

“But then how—”

“Linguistics prodigy,” he said. “Seven years of intensive study before I … found myself here. When I was eight my parents realized that I was watching foreign-language programs on the telly and understanding them. I can pick up the basics of almost any language usually within a few hours of listening to someone speak it. Brilliant for winning scholarships, not so great for developing anything even remotely resembling a social life. Still … I suppose it’s what’s kept me alive here. That, and the praefect.”

“Right. Because he thought you were a Roman.” Allie snorted. “I’m guessing it would have turned out a little differently if he’d thought you were just some random Celt. Like your Legion buddies seem to think
I
am.”

“Some of the men have cause to be wary—even hostile—toward the tribes, you know. They’ve lost friends to the scathach. Then again … some of them are just maladjusted jerks,” he conceded
with a tilt of his head. “Postumus isn’t one of those. He saved my life. He’s a good man. A decent one—even though it’s cost him.”

“Cost him how?” Allie asked, curious.

“He was left in charge of the Second Augusta when our legate was killed during the raids on Mona. When Suetonius Paulinus was setting out to exterminate Boudicca, he ordered Postumus to send the Second to help him rout the Iceni. Postumus basically told him to go to hell. He thought it was the wrong way to deal with the uprising. Said it would end badly … and it did.”

“Boy, did it ever.” Allie thought about the hundreds of thousands of lives lost.

Marcus nodded. “Mostly for the Iceni, but still. It’ll prove to be career suicide for Postumus, though, once Governor Paulinus gets around to dealing with him.”

“Suicide …” Allie murmured, frowning at a niggling memory. “Wait. The name Postumus …” It was familiar. “Oh! I
remember
that guy. I read about him. And it wasn’t just career suicide— he actually killed himself!” She blurted out the words before she could stop herself.

“What?” Marcus rounded on her. “No … it
can’t
be. You’re wrong!”

“Um …” Allie felt immediately terrible for having said so. She had the distinct feeling that, whoever this Postumus guy was, he’d been more than a commander to the young, lost linguist trapped in the past and utterly alone. He’d been a mentor. A father figure. A friend. “Um. M-maybe. I mean … That’s just what I read, at least.”

Marcus had turned positively ashen. “Read where?”

At the gutted expression on his face, sympathy twinged in Allie’s chest. But then she
also
remembered that they were talking about a commander in the Roman army here. The same Roman army that had been cheerfully responsible for the death of Queen Boudicca. And her husband and her offspring and
most
of her people. And they’d almost (accidentally, but still) killed her best friend.

So this Quintus Postumus guy decided not to join in the fun. So what? Big deal,
Allie thought.

It didn’t mean he was any better than a guy like Suetonius Paulinus. In fact, from what she’d read, it just made him a coward. Why should she feel sorry for him? Or for Marcus Donatus, who so far hadn’t directed very much sympathy her way?

“Where did you read such a thing?” he demanded again.

“Um. Tacitus the historian. Actually, Tacitus via Wikipedia, but since you won’t have the faintest idea what that is, let’s just leave it at Tacitus.” She frowned again. “Wait. You’re a Latin super-geek and you don’t know your Tacitus? I thought you’d have read his stuff for fun.”

“Actually I read Pliny the Elder for fun,” he murmured. “I read Tacitus when I was nine and he bored me. I don’t remember him mentioning the praefect. I … I can’t believe Postumus would have done such a thing.
Why?
”

“Tacitus said it was because, once he saw what a success the Boudicca smackdown was for the Legions, Postumus couldn’t live with the shame of having denied his troops all that glory. So he offed himself. Real noble.”

“It’s not true!” Marcus exclaimed. “He doesn’t think that way. He thinks the whole mess was a tragedy. A bloody, unnecessary slaughter. Postumus thinks Suetonius Paulinus is a monster. And I agree with him. We all do!”

“Junius doesn’t.”

“
Most
of us agree with him.” Marcus squeezed his eyes shut. “Men like Junius … they think with their swords. Like I said: maladjusted jerks. They’re little better than mercenaries. Governor Paulinus lauds them but Postumus has weeded most of that brand of soldier from the Secunda. He believes in the Legions as a force of peace and progress. That’s why I just don’t believe what you’re telling me.”

“All I know is that’s what I’ve read.” Allie crossed her arms over her chest.

“Do you believe everything you read?”

“Ye— Um. No. Of course not.”

“The man you’re talking about is not the man I know.” Marcus shook his head. “He saved my life … and then he taught me how to survive on my own. I used to conjugate verbs for fun.” He laughed a little. Ruefully. “Look at me now.”