A Twist in Time

Chapter 2

Her breath was knocked back into her as she hit the ground. Grass, punctuated with great gouged muddy places. The earth shook as the machine thunked in behind her. She blinked, disoriented. Around her shouts and screams reverberated. Dim figures leaned forward through the smoke. Were they peering at her? And what was that other smell? Like a butcher shop.

It was blood.

Lucy got to her hands and knees, clutching her bag. My God, it actually worked! Leonardo had built a time machine. In spite of all her obsession, all her daydreaming, she hadn’t really thought it would. Figures loomed out of swirling smoke, frozen, peering at the machine. Where in God’s name was she? A single bulky figure brought up a sword and cleaved another in the neck. The bearded man dropped to his knees with a scream. All around her men sprang into action. Steel clanged on steel.

She’d landed in the middle of a battle. And the fact that she’d appeared so suddenly had meant but a moment’s interruption in the carnage. She staggered to her feet. Giant men in chain mail and leather greaves with huge sharp axes and swords that looked impossibly heavy surged around her. Hair and beards flowed out from under peaked helmets with nosepieces. Saxons? Vikings? Maybe she was in the time of King Arthur. The smell of blood and sweat and smoke was almost overwhelming. Lucy choked as a giant of a man lunged for her. She screamed and pulled away. He turned to parry a sword thrust by another giant. She scurried to the shelter of the machine. Get this thing started and get out of here, wherever and whenever here is.

She crouched beside the silver lunch box. “Blue switch. Check. Two whites. Check, check.” Her voice trembled. She looked up at a shout and saw a man lose his head. She screamed. She’d seen it in movies a lot. But real was something else entirely. No comforting latex, no soothing CGI. Blood spurted. The body staggered forward even as the head thudded to the ground and rolled. The attacker whirled away, beset on all sides.

The eyes are still blinking. It felt like someone else was thinking that. She was frozen, staring at the head as, behind it, the body toppled. Her breath started to come fast and shallow. Darkness threatened at the edge of her vision. Get hold of yourself, Lucy. Got to get out of here. With a wrench she pulled her gaze away from the head. The lunch box began to hum. Be quick. Please be quick. Quick. Quick. Now for the chrome button.

A hand on her shoulder pulled her away from the machine. Hard eyes examined her from behind the battered helmet. The man had bad teeth and worse breath. She struggled, but this time the grip was iron on her arm. He said something guttural. German?

“Let me go,” she screamed as though he could understand her.

A shadow loomed out of the smoke behind her attacker. The shadow roared something, and her attacker turned and met the descending sword by thrusting up his small, round shield. As the two engaged, the one who had been gripping her thrust her away. She plunged back to the power box and pushed the chrome button. The feeling of energy in the air thumped in her chest. She pushed herself up and went to the lever. The two giant men were hacking at each other, parrying and thrusting not two feet away. The younger of the two, who had attacked the one with bad teeth, seemed to be getting the better of the struggle. The rest of the battle was closing in on the machine. Huge men everywhere, sharp edges of steel, leather and sweat and blood. She reached up and pulled the lever down. The gears began to spin. Several men staggered away from the machine, pointing. But any lapse of attention could be punished with a killing blow, so the fighting sputtered but didn’t stop. The two giants stumbled even closer.

Machine! she thought. Get me out of here. The gears were really whirring now. In moments she would just disappear the way she came. November 9, 2009.

Beside her the two men grappled with each other. The younger one thrust the one with bad teeth away. He fell right at Lucy’s feet. The younger one hurled himself on top, but the older man got his axe up and the blade cut the younger one’s thigh. Blood seeped through a long cut in the leather. They rolled and staggered up. But now the older man was like a fury, swinging the axe again and again. A white glow from the machine permeated the smoke. The older man picked up a mace lying over a dead body and swung it at the younger man’s helmet. It clanged. The helmet drooped. The older man reached across the body of his adversary for Lucy. His axe dripped blood. But the younger man pushed up with his sword and it found his adversary’s hip joint. The younger man struggled to his feet in front of Lucy and faced the one with bad teeth, now bared in rage. Was he protecting her?

Things began to slow. Oh, dear. It was happening. She had to focus. November 9, 2009. She hadn’t brought anything back with her. Except the bruises she’d have from that guy’s grip. The colored beams of light crossed wildly through the smoke like a demented circus. The old guy thrust at the dazed man between them and sliced his shoulder. The younger man fell slowly against Lucy. Warm blood soaked her. In this time a wound like that was a death sentence. No S.F. General Trauma Center to stitch up those arteries. The older man raised his axe. It came down toward Lucy, oh, so slowly. She ducked, even more slowly. The axe head hit the huge diamond on the lever and crashed down onto the lunch box. The axe reverberated, sending the attacker back a pace.

Then everything sped up.

November 9, 2009. She looked down at the man leaning against her, gore welling from rents in his chain mail. He really needed a hospital. The sensation of being flung forward engulfed her. All was light and sound and whirling vortex. . . .

“That story is . . . is balderdash.” Brad could see Jensen’s veins bulging on his forehead. Jensen ran the Super Collider Lab, but he was about to retire. Brad had thought by delivering an actual working time machine he’d become a shoo-in to get the job. That wasn’t exactly how it was working out. “There is no such thing as a time machine, and no mere girl could have stolen it.”

“Then how does a fourteen-foot machine just disappear without anyone noticing?” Brad was fighting for his professional life here. “No guards saw it being taken out, no reports in the neighborhood of trucks hauling huge cargo. But the guards did see Lucy.” Blaming it on Lucy was the only way to get clear, he told himself.

“I want him off the project.” Casey’s voice was calm. “He brought her in.”

“I can’t put him off the project until we’re sure there is no project.” Jensen ran his palms over his thinning hair. “On the off chance your story is some twisted version of the truth and the damned thing reappears, he’s the expert. You did say Leonardo da Vinci, didn’t you?”

Brad breathed again. He shot a glance to Casey. “I did. Miss Rossano had a book that showed its design, written by da Vinci in 1508.”

“You brought in a double agent,” Casey was sticking to their story that Lucy had taken the machine when their backs were turned as a matter of self–defense. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t spread a little blame around to Brad.

“You didn’t even know what the machine was until our research turned up the book.”

“Our research? Hers. She played you like a violin, Steadman.”

“Innocent Lucy who always has her nose in a dusty book? She’s lost somewhere and can’t get back. You can sneer all you want, Casey. You just don’t want to admit I was right about this project all along. It’s the most important discovery since space travel.”

“Was the most important discovery—” That was why Casey was angry. Brad knew how he felt. So close to the brass ring . . .

“What am I going to tell the Italian government?” Jensen practically wailed. “Or the police? They’re looking for Lucy Rossano, who has apparently disappeared into thin air.”

“We told you—”

“I’ll take care of the police,” Casey grunted, interrupting Brad.

“Find a way to get that machine back, Steadman,” Jensen threatened. “Or you’ll never work in any government-funded project again.” He spun on his heel and stomped out of the room.

Like energy leaves a trail through time you can track. Brad sighed. But he had to get Lucy back somehow. She needed his protection. She’d been just on the verge of realizing she was in love with him. She’d said he mattered more to her than just a friend, hadn’t she? Everything was spoiled now, just when all his patience with her since her father died was about to pay off.

“I’ll get her picture to Interpol. She must have taken it somewhere.”

Brad grimaced. “Or some time.” They both knew that if da Vinci’s machine was a time machine, she could take it where they’d never find it.

Casey’s eyes glittered. “In the meantime we’ll turn her life upside down. Let’s find out just who this Lucy Rossano really was.”

Lucy squeezed her eyes shut as though that would stop the headache. Had she been drinking? She never drank to the point of having a hangover.

She was lying on something cold and hard. She blinked her eyes open. Cement. A fluorescent light blared from somewhere close. She smelled oil. She raised her head gingerly. Lines were painted on the cement. Parking structure. She was lying in a parking structure. How had she gotten here? She’d had a wild dream. She’d been at Brad’s lab. The machine turned out to be real. One very scary battle in some other time. It all seemed so clear. One hell of a dream.

The parking structure was empty except for one car down at the end that looked like it had been there awhile. A tire was flat. She pushed herself up, squinting against her headache.

The machine glinted in the fluorescent light, quiet, heavy, utterly real. And about ten feet to the right of it lay the young bearded guy from another time who’d been wounded in the battle.

Lucy couldn’t breathe. It wasn’t a dream at all. She’d traveled in time and now she was back, though somehow she wasn’t in the lab, and she’d brought something with her after all, a guy who was Saxon or German or maybe from Camelot. She’d probably just changed the fabric of time or the course of history or something. He’d fallen against her just as she was disappearing. Inconvenient timing. Worse than inconvenient. This was awful.

She eased her bag off her shoulder and crawled over to the man. Was he dead? He was lying in a pool of blood. His chain mail, made of small interlinking loops of metal, was rent over his shoulder and covered with gore. She dared not look closely at the flesh beneath if she wanted to avoid fainting or, worse, vomiting all over him. Even as she reached for his throat to feel for a pulse, he groaned and rolled his head. His helmet clanked against the cement. Okay. He wasn’t dead. Was that good or bad?

She pulled off the helmet. His hair was darkened with sweat and matted against his head. Two small braids hung from his temples. He was at least six feet—probably really tall for back whenever she’d been—and big through the shoulders.

His eyes fluttered open. He muttered something. German? Scandinavian? She couldn’t understand. She shook her head. He tried again. This time he sounded vaguely like a reading of Beowulf she’d heard once at a coffee-house in college. He tried to raise his head. That made his shoulder ooze redly. Great. Whatever blood he had left would end up on the cement at this rate.

She looked around, panicked. At least she was in the right century for medical help. This was apparently the underground part of a parking structure. A green exit sign glowed in the corner. Probably stairs. She’d never get this guy up stairs in his condition. She peered the other way at a sign fizzing weakly. Did it say: Elevator? She scrambled to her bag and fumbled for her iPhone. If she could get a signal down here, she could call the paramedics and use the map locator function to tell them where to pick up the injured guy. She hit the button at the bottom, but no screen came up. Great. She’d charged it earlier today . . . apparently time traveling took the charge out of her phone. No phoning the paramedics.

“All right, buddy,” she said with false cheer. “You have to rally round here. If I go for help, you’ll probably be dead by the time I get back.” She knelt beside him and wormed her arm under his shoulders. He got the idea and with her help he managed to sit up with a grunt. He was woozy with loss of blood. Hope this parking structure is on a busy street. Maybe they could flag down a passing Samaritan.

“On your feet, soldier,” she ordered, putting as much grit in her voice as she could and pulling on his good arm. He managed to get his feet under him and shoved himself up. His leather breeches were soaked with blood on one side under a long rip in the leather. She pulled his arm over her shoulder. Could she do this? If he fainted, it was all over. She staggered as he leaned against her and she put her arm around his waist, slender for the width of his shoulders. They took a few tottering steps. Abruptly he stopped.

“What’s the deal?” She tried to tug him forward. Like that was happening. He just braced his feet, peering around. He spied his bloody sword and pulled her over to retrieve it. He almost toppled over on her as he straightened.

“Okay, you’ve got your sword.” He gripped the gruesome weapon as though it was salvation. There was some kind of engraving on the blade. “No more stops.” They staggered to the elevator. When the doors opened, white showed around his pupils. No elevators in whenever he was from. “Trust me. We need the elevator.” Like he could understand her. But he let her drag him inside. When the doors closed, his lips went grim. She punched Lobby. The result of her disastrous foray into history braced his feet wide and brandished his sword as they rose through five floors. Yeah, elevators felt weird even if you realized what was happening.

The first thing that greeted them when the doors opened was red and white cycling lights across an asphalt drive in front of a huge building blazing with light. The guy stiffened and held up the wavering sword. Two ambulances were backed up to wide glass automatic doors under a sign that shouted: Emergency Room into the cold night air. It was drizzling.

“I . . . I know this place,” Lucy whispered. It was San Francisco General. They had come back through time to the parking lot in front of the only trauma unit in the city.

How wild was that? Had she been thinking about that at the moment the machine slung them forward? Whatever. The General was just what her guy needed now.

“Hey!” she yelled to two paramedics just pushing their empty gurney out the doors. “Help me. This guy is bleeding.”

One thing about paramedics, they decide quickly and they don’t waste any time following through. One big blond ran across the asphalt, dashing in front of a car on its way to the parking structure, and the other one pushed his gurney over at a trot. Her time traveler started to put up a struggle. “It’s for your own good!” she yelled. The paramedics finally wrestled him onto the gurney as he weakened. She put a hand on his chain mail. “It’s all good,” she said, softer this time. He looked up at her. Even in this light she could see that his eyes were really blue. He was breathing hard, but under her hand she felt him stop his struggle. When one paramedic tried to take his sword, her Beowulf guy growled something and gripped the hilt.

“Better let him keep it,” Lucy advised. She lifted the blade to lay it on the gurney.

“Hey, was this some kind of reenactment?” The blond pushed the gurney over the asphalt. The other pulled and steadied it. “This chain mail is really authentic looking.”

“Reenactments hardly ever result in actual blood,” the other observed as they rushed the patient in through the emergency room doors.

“Got a live one, ladies. Ready, camera, action.” The blond pushed the gurney past the women at the registration desk and through the big double doors to the emergency room. Lucy trailed after them in time to see the patient roll his head and try to sit up.

“Bay three.” A big black nurse in green scrubs pointed. “Doctor! Trauma.”

The paramedic at the big guy’s head pulled him back down. “Take it easy.”

A doctor stuck his head out of a curtained bay. “Type him and get an IV going. Epinephrine. How’s our blood supply?”

“Depends on his type.” The black nurse directed people who appeared from everywhere. “Page a gas passer,” she ordered a young girl.

“I . . . I’m O positive, if you need blood,” Lucy said into the hubbub.

“That’s good,” the big nurse said, but her attention was elsewhere. “Let’s get those wounds prepped. I want a tourniquet ready for his leg just in case.” She beckoned impatiently to a harried tech pushing a crash cart.

Lucy watched with wide eyes as orderlies and nurses swarmed her guy and began pulling off the chain mail. They cut off a sleeveless leather jerkin sort of thing he was wearing and then his shirt. Another pulled off his boots and cut the leather strips that held his breeches on. One ripped open some sterile packaging and produced a needle. The big man started to struggle again at the sight of the needle. He was shouting in what sounded like a Scandinavian language again.

“Hey!” an orderly yelled as he took a balled fist in the eye.

“Get me some gas,” the doctor shouted as a nurse pulled on his gloves. “I want this guy out now!” Another man in green ran up and pulled down a plastic mask as he checked some dials. The mask was shoved over the patient’s face. He struggled harder, right until he went limp.

A tech tightened some rubber tubing around her guy’s bare thigh just at the groin.

“Don’t tie the tourniquet, for God’s sake,” the big nurse snapped. “He’ll lose the leg. Leave it loose, so it’s there if we hit an artery.”

Lucy started forward as though she could help. The big nurse strode over, took her by the shoulders, and firmly turned her around. “You,” she said to the paramedics. “Take her outside.”

The blond paramedic took Lucy’s arm and guided her back out to the registration area. Lucy noticed for the first time that there were several gurneys in the hallway with patients on them. “They got him now. They know what to do. He couldn’t be in a better place.”

“You just fill out the paperwork. Let them do the tough stuff,” the other one said. They sat her down in front of a tired-looking Asian girl behind a glass barrier with a round hole for speaking and a slot at the bottom. “We’re outta here.”

“Good luck to you.” They disappeared. Lucy was left staring at the expectant Asian girl.

Paperwork. On a time traveler.

Not good.

The girl’s nameplate said: Bernice. Not exactly Asian, but in San Francisco she could be a fourth-generation immigrant. Bernice pushed a clipboard through the slot. “Just fill these out.”

“Well, uh, that’s going to be a problem.” The truth wasn’t going to do anybody any good here. It might get her locked up, with people feeding her happy pills.

“Just the basics. You don’t have to know his Social Security number or anything. Did they give you his personal effects? An insurance card from his wallet would be great.”

Lucy was tempted to say she’d just found him somewhere in an alley. He had no ID. He could be a homeless person. But with no connection to him, they’d never let her see him, and she had to keep him close until she could get him fixed up and back to his time. Okay. She’d make up a connection. And how to explain the chain mail and the very big sword? Best to go with the paramedic’s first impression. Reenactment.

“He’s a cousin visiting from . . . from . . .” Someplace obscure. “From Finland. I don’t know what kind of insurance they have there.” Was Finland a socialized-medicine state? The girl frowned. Lucy rushed on. “I’d be glad to guarantee payment for his care, though.” She wasn’t sure how charity cases worked, but she didn’t want them kicking him out if he couldn’t pay. “I’ll give you a credit card.” She began digging through her bag.

“Social Services can contact his family and find out the details. I’m sure you won’t be on the hook for it.” But she took the credit card. She ran it through the machine.

Lucy glanced around at the waiting room full of old people of several nationalities, mothers with crying babies, Mission District denizens looking entirely zoned out. Those patients on the gurneys must have been waiting for admission. “You’re really busy.”

“Tuesday nights are usually slow, but tomorrow being St. Patrick’s Day, we’re almost up to weekend busy. I wouldn’t want to be here if St. Patrick’s Day was on a weekend. We’re the official knife and gun club.”

What did she mean, St. Patrick’s Day? Lucy concentrated on filling out the forms. At least she could manage the date. She had that one memorized. November 9, 2009.

“Okay, we’re good.” Bernice handed the card back.

Lucy wrote “Bjorn Knudsen” in the space for the name on the form. That sounded Finnish. Knudsen was the name of the local dairy that made her favorite ice cream. Now for a town. She couldn’t think. Make one up. Helgard. Yeah. Why not? “I can’t remember his street address.”

“We’ll get details from him when they’re done with him.”

Good luck with that. “I can give you my info. He’s staying with me.” Was that a mistake?

“Put that down under the ‘Responsible Party’ section.”

Lucy printed her info carefully. She shoved the clipboard back through the glass.

Bernice scanned the sheet. “You put down the wrong date.” She looked up at Lucy, curious. “It’s March 16.” She raised her brows at Lucy’s blank look. “St. Patrick’s Day tomorrow?”

Lucy felt her stomach drop. She opened her mouth, but nothing came out.

“Two thousand ten,” Bernice said slowly, careful now, as though she was dealing with a crazy person. “You . . . uh . . . lost a few months there.”

Lucy managed a shaky smile. “Oh. Of course it is. I . . . I guess I’m more shaken up by all this than I thought.” She not only hadn’t come back to the place from which she’d left. She also had lost four months of time. Brad must be crazy with worry. She’d better call him. And he was just the one to help her get her time-traveling companion back to his own year. Of course her phone had no charge. “You have some pay phones around here?”

“Sure. Down by the cafeteria.” Bernice pointed down a hallway absently as she changed the date on the form.

“Thanks.”

Lucy headed down the hall following the overhead signs to the cafeteria. She spotted the phones. But suddenly she felt as though she wanted to vomit. She held out her hands. They were shaking. She needed to sit down, pronto. She headed to the cafeteria, filled with neon lights too bright on orange and purple plastic furniture. Enough to make her stomach turn flip-flops. She sat in the nearest chair and put her head down. Shock. She was just shocked by all this traveling through time and battles and bringing back a half-dead warrior and lying to everybody.

She took deep breaths until she felt like sitting up. She needed something in her stomach, even hospital food. She bought some onion soup and a Diet Coke and loaded up on crackers. She sat at a table by some windows, black now with night. The soup wasn’t half-bad. Or maybe it was the Diet Coke that settled her.

She found herself staring at her reflection in the dark window as if it were that of a stranger. She was short and . . . curvy. That was the kind word for it and the main reason she always wore black. Why hadn’t she gotten her father’s wiry build along with his height? Brad was a runner and was always urging her to take it up, presumably to transform her into someone with a runner’s body like his. Wasn’t going to happen. What she did instead was walk. She had walked the hills and hollows of San Francisco as if she was looking for something ever since her father died. She just didn’t know what she was looking for. Her hair wasn’t the dark auburn fashionable at the moment, either. It was red. Really red. Carrot red. Well, darker than carrot. But still really, really red. And curly. She wore it long because she’d grown tired of watching some poor stylist try to make something of it. Now it tumbled to her waist and she could trim it herself. She always wore it in a long braid to confine it at least, but curling tendrils popped out around her face, especially in San Francisco’s damp weather. And then there were her freckles. If you were a redhead with very pale skin you couldn’t escape them. She may have gotten the Italian name from her father, but her looks were from her Northern European mother, dead now for . . . what? Sixteen years.

A wave of shame washed over Lucy. Once she would have known to the hour how long it was since her mother had succumbed to ovarian cancer. Sometimes Lucy missed her as sharply as if she’d died yesterday. Lucy missed her mother’s balance. Her life had been slowly gyroscoping out of her control since she was fourteen. Her father had tried so hard to make her into his own image even though she had no interest in physics. Then, with his death, everything just seemed to fall apart. Maybe because she had no purpose to replace the one her father tried to give her. Brad too. But Brad was easier to resist than her father. True, she liked her work, searching across history and cultures for connections between people, their thoughts, their emotions, through the books they wrote. It wasn’t that. It just didn’t seem like enough.

“Miss?”

Lucy looked up to find the big black nurse in green scrubs from the ER.

“We stabilized your cousin. He’s going into surgery now.”

At least he wasn’t lying on a gurney in the hall. “Will he be okay?”

“The surgeon is very good. Does lots of shoulders. We’ll admit him afterward. You can be there when he wakes up. Seeing a familiar face might keep him calm. He’s a fighter.”

“I’d like that. Do you have enough blood for him?”

The nurse patted Lucy’s arm. “You go down to the basement and tell them you want to donate for a patient going into surgery. Give his name. It’ll make you feel better.”

Lucy nodded. Calling Brad could wait. She was responsible for ripping this guy out of his own time. The least she could do was donate blood for him.

As she came back up to the emergency waiting room, she sported a sticky label on her chest that said she’d donated blood today. She should go back down to the cafeteria and call Brad, but she could hardly think, she was so tired. She wandered back into the crowded waiting room. Here, too, the lights were too fluorescent and the magenta and orange flowered carpet relentlessly cheery. A large industrial clock over the reception area said it was now nine.

The problem with calling Brad was that she’d be calling in Casey, too. She didn’t trust that guy as far as she could throw him. Would they understand the danger of kidnapping a man whose deeds might be an integral part of history? Brad would think of him as a prize. He’d want to “debrief” him (and her) when they should be getting the guy back before his absence changed things too much. And there was a chance Brad and Casey wouldn’t want to risk using the machine again.

But wouldn’t taking him back, all repaired and dosed with antibiotics and germs he got in a modern hospital, maybe change the course of events, too? She had so blithely used the machine because she thought it was some kind of destiny, she hadn’t thought what could happen. And now she couldn’t think what was right to do. She had to be sure what she should do before she called Brad, or he and Casey would just take over and do whatever they wanted with the guy. She tried to think. It was all so confusing. . . .

“Miss . . .” The black nurse was shaking Lucy’s shoulder. “Your cousin is out of Recovery. We’re taking him up to a room.”

“Is he okay?” Lucy rubbed her eyes. She hadn’t meant to fall asleep. The waiting-room clock now showed nearly midnight.

“Groggy and weak. He lost more blood than we could replace. But the doctor said the surgery was successful. He should be back in action and ready for physical therapy in a few weeks. He looks like he’s normally healthy as a horse,” the nurse laughed. “Say, where’s he from? Nobody could figure out what language he’s speaking.”

“He’s . . . he’s from a remote village in Denmark.” Were there remote villages in Denmark? It was a pretty small place. Uh-oh. She’d told the receptionist he was from Finland.

“Well, go on up to Room Fifteen-oh-six and talk to him as he comes out of it.”

Yeah. Like she spoke Beowulf, or whatever it was.

Galen Valgarssen opened his eyes slowly. At first he couldn’t make out anything. His vision was blurred. The place seemed to be all white. He hadn’t thought Valhalla would be white. The skalds told of a jolly great hall with wenches and drinking and a huge fire over which roasted haunches of venison. His shoulder throbbed. And his thigh. Wounds were supposed to be miraculously healed every night in Valhalla. Well, maybe it took a while. He was lying in a bed with the head raised. It was night outside. The window was black. But inside the room a round disc by his bed gave off a cone of harsh white light very unlike candles or oil lamps. The place smelled foul, like urine and something acrid. The blankets were thin but tucked tightly around him. It made him feel like a prisoner. This wasn’t his idea of Valhalla at all.

Maybe he was in Hel’s domain instead—a wintry land below the surface of the earth, according to the Old Religion. That fit with the harsh white and hard surfaces, even if he really wasn’t cold. But he had been an honorable man and a brave one who died in battle. He expected Valhalla. He turned his head. In another bed a very old man with skin like yellow, wrinkled wax breathed laboriously. That one had not died a warrior’s death.

A clear bag hung above Galen on a metal pole, a flexible sort of tube going into his left arm. That wrist was circled with a leather cuff lined with fleece and chained with short links to the metal frame of the bed. His other arm was held to his chest with an elaborate sling, immobilizing it as surely as a shackle. Panic surged up from his gut. Now he remembered. The cursed man in the soft green clothes had tortured him by poking needles into him. They had made him breathe foul air through a mask over his nose and mouth until he passed out. He was definitely in Hel’s realm. He peered down. He was dressed in a thin tunic, pulled over his heavily bandaged shoulder, under the sling.

He had to get out of here. He yanked the chain with his good arm. . . .

“Whoa there, guy, steady.”

The woman had braided red hair and fair skin and very green eyes, not unlike some of his people. He couldn’t understand her, but she took the hand of his shackled wrist and stroked his forearm, making soothing sounds. Her hands were delicate, with very clean nails worn longer than any woman he knew. She smelled like blood, though. Her clothes were black, in stark contrast to all the white around her. He remembered her now. She had appeared at the battle with the great contraption made of brass mill wheels like a Valkyrie come to take him away, and Egil had attacked her, so he had to defend her, and then . . . then he must have blacked out. When he woke she helped him to . . . wherever he was. It was probably his blood he smelled on her. “Are you Valkyrie? Am I dead?”

The only word she apparently understood was Valkyrie. Her eyes lighted up when he said it. A Valkyrie who didn’t speak Norse? She shook her head. “Not Valkyrie.” She smiled. When she smiled, he thought he might be in Valhalla after all. You’d want your Valkyrie to smile like that. She put her hand on her breast. “Lucy. Lucy Rossano.”

“Galen Valgarssen.”

“Not exactly the name I gave you.” She shrugged and raised her brows. “Finn? Norse?”

Finn and Norse he understood. He nodded. She was asking his nationality. “Danir and Saxon.” Half of each, curse be it on him.

“You are Viking?”

That he got. He nodded. “Half.”

She looked frustrated. “I wish I spoke Danish.”

Something to do with Danir. He had many questions he would ask her. He rolled his eyes around the room. “Where is this place?”

She shrugged again to say she didn’t understand.

He tried Englisc. “Hwar es min sweord?”

She looked surprised. “Your sword?”

She understood Englisc. This was good. “Bring hit to m,” he ordered.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

That was no Englisc he had ever heard. He recognized two words—“think” and “good.” He shook his head to signal that she wasn’t being clear. “Unsael thes racetg.” But she only echoed his frustrated shake of the head. Did she or did she not speak Englisc? Or would she just not release his shackle?

The man who had tortured him earlier appeared behind her. Galen started to sit forward and demand that she release him, but pain washed over him and he almost fainted. She made a gentle shushing sound and pushed him down, smiling reassuringly. She began talking to the man very rapidly. He could understand nothing. That could not be Englisc. Were they deciding how to kill him? Were they discussing tortures? He balled his hands into fists. He was helpless here, weak with his wounds, bound to the bed, and unable to understand what they said.

Suddenly, from out of the haze of unknown words, several rang very clear. The man said, “Umerus humerus.” The Latin word for shoulder. Then he heard the word for loss of blood. They spoke Latin.

“You speak the tongue of the Christ Cult?” he asked in Latin.

The man didn’t stop talking, but the beautiful woman turned to him, surprise and relief glowing in her face. “I study—studied—Latin. I speak a little,” she said with a horrible accent.

Galen sighed in relief. This would make things easier. “Good. Is this the Christ Cult heaven? Are you an angel?”

She looked amused. “No.”

“Well, whoever you are, get me my sword now.”

“That is a bad . . . idea.” She turned to the man in green. “He speaks Latin, Doctor.” He recognized only the words “he” and “speaks.”

“I’ve called the police,” the man in green said, whatever that meant. “They’ll be here shortly. You can translate their interview, since I’m sure none of the city’s finest speak either Danish or Latin. He can check out tomorrow in the early afternoon. I’ll leave prescriptions at the nurses’ station. He should see a primary-care doctor for follow-up tomorrow.” He turned and left.

Whatever the man said, it made the girl look worried. “What is it?” he asked in Latin.

She shook her head. “Someone will . . . want . . . to know who hurt you.”

“That bastard Egil,” he snorted. “He never could have laid an axe on me if not for that chariot of iron wheels appearing out of nowhere.”

She looked appalled. “Did I change . . . the . . . the battle only by being there?”

Of course she did. He chuffed a bitter laugh. “Ja.” But he had more important concerns at this point. Like where he was. “What is this place if it is not Valhalla or Christ’s heaven?”

She pressed her lips together. “That is difficult.” She chewed on one of those very clean fingernails and finally shrugged. “Where was the battle?”

She must mean “is,” not “was,” since the battle was no doubt going on without him even now. She spoke haltingly and sometimes had to search for words. “Anglia, in the Danelaw,” he answered. “Egil Ingvansen rebels against Guthrum’s son.”

“And when was it?”

“Are you feebleminded, woman? It was, is 912 as Christians count years.”

She took his hand. Hers were soft, uncallused. She had not done the hard work of a serving maid or a peasant tilling the land. Was she nobility or perhaps a prostitute or concubine? No decent woman would wear clothes that clung so to her body. Or maybe she wore the garb of a sorcerer. For if she was not angel or Valkyrie, she must be a wicce, to own such a chariot of bronze wheels. “Listen to me. This is the year of Christ 2010,” she said. “And you are in the . . . land beyond Iceland. Uh . . . Vineland your people call it.”

He stared at her in shock. “You lie. There is no land beyond Iceland.”

“Oh. The discovery of Vineland was after your time. But there is land beyond Iceland.”

“Why did you take me here? Get me back to the battle.”

“It was a . . . mistake. I did not . . . What is the word? . . . Intend it.”

“Where is my sword?” Whether she lied or whether he was truly somewhere no man had any right to be, he was in deep trouble.

“I know not.” She looked around, then went to a tall cupboard and opened it. “Here, and your clothing.” Then she murmured in her own tongue, “What’s left of it.” He got the words “what” and “of” and “it,” but not the sense.

“Bring them, woman. I must return to the battle.”

He saw by the mulish set of her jaw that she was about to protest when two men in strange dark clothing with short sleeves and golden broaches walked into the room.

Great. Police. Just what she needed. She couldn’t have them arresting the Viking for vagrancy or something. She’d never get him back to 912 if he was sitting in jail. And he sure looked like a homeless person. Tangled blondish hair with crazy braids in each side, and a close-clipped beard—he had no address, no money, no labels in his clothes. He would give his name differently than he was registered. He was a mystery they’d love to unravel.

“Officers.” She smiled. Deceit, thy name is woman. She was about to lie through her teeth to the police. Way worse than lying to the registration girl. “Thank you so much for coming.” The nurse who had escorted them pulled a curtain around the bed that held an old man and left. Lucy turned back to Galen, meaning to tell him who these visitors were, but instead she just stood there, blinking. Even weak and woozy from the anesthetic, he exuded strength and masculinity. What did they call it in martial arts movies? Sai. Of course he was a Viking. What else would he be? Just now he was gritting his teeth and looking very dangerous. She smiled and patted his hand. Wow. That sent shivers through her. Then she turned to the police. “This is my cousin Bjorn Knudsen from Finland. Do either of you speak Finn?” she asked with feigned hope. “No? Neither do I, but we get by in Latin. I’ll translate.”

“Looks like he ran into a little trouble.” The fresh-faced young Hispanic officer flipped open a notebook.

“Gangbangers broke up a battle reenactment down in Golden Gate Park. Bjorn and his friends were doing the Battle of . . . of Anglia.”

“You were there?” The other officer seemed to be the senior partner. His dark hair receded on each side of his forehead, and his face was pocked with old acne scars.

“Yes, I saw it all.” At least that was true.

“Anybody else hurt?”

Oh, lots of people. But she couldn’t tell them that. “I don’t know. These guys took weapons. They attacked Ga—Bjorn. Then they squealed out in those low-slung cars. When I saw how bad he was bleeding, I hailed a cab and yelled to the driver to get him to the General.”

“Front desk says no insurance, no ID.”

“No wallets allowed in reenactments. His backpack got left in the park. I’ll vouch for him, and I told the hospital I’d pay for his care. He’s staying at my place.” She took out her wallet and showed her driver’s license. “That address is correct. And here’s a card for my store.”

The young officer took down the information while the older one asked, “Did you see what kind of a weapon was used? “

“It was an axe.” The shudder she gave was real as she remembered that blade coming down on the man lying in the bed over there. “They took it off one of the other reenactors.”

“Ouch.” The young officer winced.

“Did you get a look at any of them, Miss Rossano?”

“It was just getting dark. Everyone was packing it in for the day. And it all happened so fast. I’m afraid I couldn’t identify anyone.”

“Does your cousin have such a weapon?”

Lucy recognized the trap. She sighed. The staff probably already told them. She didn’t dare lie. “He has a sword.”

“And would it be in this closet?” The one with the scars was already opening the door. He whistled, then took out his handkerchief and picked the sword up just under the hilt. Even in this dim light it looked fearsome. A hilt wrapped with leather over a bloody blade engraved with writing of some kind. Behind her, Galen growled and clanked his restraint. The guy sure wasn’t helping. Could he possibly seem not crazy for a minute? She put a hand on his chest to steady him. The feel of hard muscle beneath the thin hospital gown was . . . interesting.

Now the one with acne scars had gone hard. “Looks like this thing’s done some damage. Like maybe assault with a deadly weapon.”

“That blood is fake.” She managed a half laugh. “Reenactment. Remember?”

“We’ll see about that.” This from the young officer with the notebook.

“In the meantime we’ll be looking for someone else in an emergency room tonight who might have been on the receiving end of it,” his partner added. “If your cousin was engaged in more than reenactment, he’ll be prosecuted.”

They’d find out the blood was real, though no one would turn up who’d been wounded.

“Don’t leave town, Miss Rossano. Or Mr. Knudsen, either.” The young one snapped his notebook shut. “We’ll be in touch.”

She was going to get in so much trouble over this. Even if they didn’t arrest Galen, they’d want to ask him more questions. And, if she could get him back where he belonged, he wouldn’t be around, or traceable. If he was still here, then they wouldn’t like his answers. Loony bin for him for sure. Great. Just great.

The two turned out of the room, taking the sword with them. Behind her, Galen roared.

“They shall not take my sword!”

The officers turned in surprise. He spoke in Latin, but the sentiment was clear. Lucy shrugged apologetically. “Authentic period weapons are hard to come by.”

“He can pick it up down at the precinct, if we clear it of being involved in a crime.” The acne-scarred officer frowned. “If not, you’d better find him a lawyer who speaks Finn.” The officers closed the door behind them.

Lucy let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.

“You let them take my sword.” Galen was outraged.

“You are . . . fortunate they did not take you also.”

“Loose this shackle,” he commanded. “I need my sword.”

“What would you do, fight with them?” Was that the right word for fight? Her study of Latin in order to translate texts wasn’t exactly “Conversational Latin for Time Travelers.” And he spoke it with a rhythm and pronunciation very unlike hers. Possibly because Latin was a dead language and no one now living knew how it sounded. That was also probably the only reason they could understand each other at all. Latin was a language frozen in time. She noted the rebellious look in his eyes. He was so in over his head. If he attacked the officers, they’d just pull their guns and shoot him. He wouldn’t even know what had happened. He’d be no match for Colonel Casey, either.

She was suddenly certain that Casey would lock Galen up. He would not be interested in just letting a living, breathing Viking go back where he came from. And the effect of snatching him out of his time, losing whatever things he would have done in his life, outweighed the danger of sending him back. She made a decision. She’d have to risk it, hospital germs and all. And she had to do it by herself.

“You must go to your time. You want that, yes?”

“Ja. This is a place for feebleminded discards of the gods. I go back to the battle now.” He tried to sit up and went white as the pain struck him. His breathing got shallow and sweat broke out on his forehead. He’d never make it out the door.

“I don’t think so.” That was a problem. Someone was going to discover the time machine sitting in the bottom of the parking structure, and soon. They must use it tonight.

“This place is evil,” he insisted. But he lay back down, causing him to wince anew.

“I’ll get a nurse,” she muttered in English. She left him looking disgusted with himself.

She found a slight woman with mouse-colored hair writing in charts at the nurses’ station. “Excuse me, ma’am, my cousin seems to be in quite a bit of pain.”

“Oh, the big guy? Let me do something about that.” She checked the chart and then went to a locked cabinet and got out a vial and a syringe. “He’s one tough cookie. Put up a real fight in the recovery room.” She glanced to Lucy. “Sorry about the restraints. Must be hard when you don’t know the language and people are doing painful things to you.”

Lucy hadn’t thought much about that. She’d been thinking he was a disaster for her and possibly for the fabric of time, but she hadn’t thought about how he might be feeling about this whole thing. Pretty insensitive of her.

“What’s his name?”

“Bjorn Knudsen.”

“Where’s he from?”

“Denmark.” Uh-oh. She was losing track of her lies.

The nurse bustled out from the station and across the hall. “I’ll have to put it on my list of ‘must-see’ places.” She grinned at Lucy and pushed in through the door to Galen’s room. “We cleaned him up as best we could in Recovery, but orderlies and nurses will be fighting over bath duty tomorrow before he’s discharged.”

Galen eyed the nurse and her syringe with glaring rage. “Will you join them in torturing me?” he accused Lucy as he tugged in vain at the restraint.

“She will stop your pain,” Lucy said. The nurse opened a valve on Galen’s IV and stuck in the syringe, plunged, and twisted it shut.

“There. Should take effect almost immediately.” She smiled at Galen. “That’ll hold you for a few hours, handsome. Get some rest.”

“Will it put him out entirely?”

The nurse shook her head. “It’s just Demerol. It’ll make him groggy. With what he’s been through, he’ll probably sleep.” She blew out a breath and shook her head as she took one more longing look at Galen before she left. To the police he probably looked homeless, but to the nurse he looked good enough to eat. Women were always suckers for blue eyes. And cheekbones. His hair was lightened by the sun so it was a dozen shades of light brown and blond. The narrow braids could be interpreted as exotic, not crazy. His arms were big and muscled under the thin hospital gown, his skin tanned. Lucy could imagine him at the prow of a dragon ship, stripped to the waist.

What was she thinking? She shook herself mentally. “Feel better?”

“Flax in my head,” he slurred. “No weapon . . .”

“Rest. Then we’ll go.”

“Your promise, wench?” But his eyes were closing.

Was that the Latin word for . . . for wench? Or had he just called her a slut? “The name is Lucy, not wench.” God, she was glad she hadn’t lived in 912.

“Looshy . . . ,” and he was out.