A Twist in Time

Chapter 3

“Okay, sleeping beauty. Time to wake up.”

Lucy turned his head toward her by his bearded chin and watched his eyelids flutter. It was four in the morning. She dared not wait longer if she was going to take him back to 912 tonight. She’d filled his prescriptions at the all-night hospital pharmacy: a batch of antibiotics and a big bottle of Vicodin 750s for pain. She’d bought some bandages and surgical tape and some hydrogen peroxide to send back with him. Who knew what dirty rags he’d end up binding his wounds with in 912? Even the antibiotics wouldn’t help him if he didn’t keep them clean.

The question was whether she had to take him back herself. She’d had four hours to think about it. She sure didn’t want to. He could go alone and the machine would come back to the present in two or three weeks. But who knew what could happen to the machine in that time? Losing Leonardo’s machine would be a tragedy.

Then there was the question of exactly what time to return Galen to. If she went back to before he was wounded, would there be two of him in the battle? That couldn’t be good. All the time travel stories or movies agreed that having two of you in one place and time was very bad.

Great. Using sci-fi as your only guide? She really was in unknown territory.

But she couldn’t send him back to a time later than the battle, either. What if the locals thought he had died of his wounds instead of disappearing? When he reappeared they’d think he’d been resurrected or something. She didn’t want to be responsible for starting a new religion. Changing things in ways she couldn’t foresee was the most frightening thing of all.

“Do you want to go from this place?” She switched to Latin.

“Ja. We go now.” He blinked away his sleep, though he was still groggy.

She bent over his forearm and carefully peeled back the adhesive tape that held the needle flat. “Do not move.” She slid the needle out. A drop of blood oozed. She tore off a little bit of gauze from the roll in her bag and pressed it against the needle-stick, then sealed the tape across it again. “Not bad if I do say so,” she muttered in English as she surveyed her work.

Galen clanked his chain. “Unbuckle this, woman,” he ordered.

“Don’t you ever say ‘please’ and ‘thank you’?” she grumbled as she worked the leather straps. She couldn’t manage the sentiment in Latin. When he was free, he rubbed his wrist, though the restraint had not been tight. Maybe he just wanted to rub away his helplessness.

He sat up, carefully this time, his jaw clenching. Boy, she sure hoped he could make it out to the time machine. She let down the side rail of the bed and got him sitting on the edge. The nurses had put blue socks with rubber treads on his feet to keep them warm. He looked over his shoulder. The hospital gown tied loosely in the back but would leave a clear view of back and buttocks. That gown would be no match for a San Francisco March. She turned to the closet.

Behind her, she heard a grunt. “Hwet unnytt hemeth is this?” She turned just time to see him rip the hospital gown from his back with his good hand. “Bring my clothes,” he ordered.

Lucy just stood there, a blush creeping up to her face. Even marred by the bandages on his shoulder and thigh and the red and bluish bruises that were forming in several places, the man’s body was . . . well . . . impressive. Broad chest, heavily muscled, and lightly covered with blond hair. His abs undulated across his belly. His thighs were massive and . . . and he was very well endowed in the reproductive department as well. There were old scars here and there—hip, chest, right arm. He’d been in battles before.

He raised his brows at her and then a self-satisfied little smile crossed his lips.

She shook herself and turned away. Damn that little smile. The phrase that came to mind was “cocksure of himself.” “They cut your shirt. It’s useless,” she said by way of punishment for the smile. She rummaged through the closet. “You have only your breeches.” She put the armload of leather and thongs on the bed beside him. It looked like they’d cut the thongs near the knots, so there was probably enough leather to rewrap them. He’d better be able to dress himself, because she sure wasn’t going to do it. She turned back for his boots and pretended to brush the clots of dried mud from them. They were soft leather that bunched at the ankle and were soaked with blood. She could hear him grunting and breathing hard. But, finally daring to glance over her shoulder, she saw he was standing with his sliced and bloody leathers on trying to tie the laces to the crotch piece at his waist with one hand. At least the important parts were covered.

“I’ll do that.” She set the boots next to him and took the leather thongs. Her knuckles brushed his belly as she tied a bow, and that brought the blush up again. It also brought feelings between her legs that made her hate herself. She looked up to find him glaring at her. “What?”

“Not a manly knot.”

At least that’s what she thought he said. “Then you tie it.” She held up his leather jerkin, but it was stiff with blood and cut in several places. She sighed.

“No need for shirt or tunic,” he said.

“It is cold here.”

“I have been colder.”

He had stepped into a boot and she tugged it up his leg. “San Francisco is very cold.”

“Colder than Danmork or the lands of the Volga River?” He stepped into the other boot.

Well, that put things in perspective. She pulled his boot up ruthlessly. “Now we go.” She hoped he didn’t faint on her. She took his good elbow, and in spite of his bravado, he leaned on her. Since the room was just across from the nurses’ station, she’d have to brave the hospital staff.

“Where do you think you’re going?” the mousy-haired nurse asked, hands on hips. Other nurses and orderlies either behind the counter or down the hall turned to look.

“This place is making him crazy. The doctor said he could go home tomorrow, and I think we’d better head out a little early.”

“You’re the one who’s crazy. He was in shock when he came in. He’s had surgery. He needs to stabilize before he’s discharged.”

“He’s strong as an ox and he was fussing at those restraints,” she pleaded. “Really, he’ll be better off at home. The receptionist has all my information.” She fished in her bag. “Call her if you want. We’re not trying to sneak out without paying.” She could feel Galen holding himself ramrod straight beside her. He’d better not collapse. . . .

“Let me call a doctor.”

“The doctor won’t say anything to change our minds. You can’t hold him. He’ll sign whatever you want.” Could Galen even write his name?

The nurse pursed her lips. She knew Lucy was right. “Okay,” she finally said. “It’s on your head.” She fished out a clipboard and slapped a pen on it. “You’re signing out against medical advice. You know what that means?”

“Yup. You aren’t responsible for anything that happens.” Lucy signed her name on the form with a flourish.

Before she could hand the clipboard to Galen the nurse snatched it back. “He doesn’t speak English and I don’t have forms in Danish, so his signature wouldn’t be legal. You’re the one on the hook for this.” She motioned an orderly to collect a wheelchair.

“Okay.” Lucy handed the clipboard back. Galen didn’t put up a fuss at the wheelchair. In fact, he looked relieved. At least they might make it out to the parking lot.

“Get him to his primary-care doctor today for follow-up,” the nurse called after them.

Lucy waved acknowledgment. Galen was so glad to be leaving he made no protest at the elevator, though he held tightly to the arms of the chair. Out through the thinning crowds of the emergency room. There were no ambulances or cars to dodge. At four in the morning, the place was finally quieting down. Now to get rid of the orderly. “I’ll take it from here,” she said, smiling.

“Can you get him into the car?”

She nodded. “And I’ll bring the chair back to the ER.” Almost before he had saluted and disappeared, Galen pushed himself up to standing. They left the chair where it was and headed across the driveway to the parking structure.

Galen stopped so suddenly she stumbled. “We will get my sword now.”

Oh, good. Not this again. “The . . . the army has your sword.”

“I need my sword to go back to the battle.” His lips were set in a stubborn line.

“It is far. They are many. Therefore—no sword.” She could be as stubborn as he was, even in broken Latin. “Do you want to go to your time, or no?”

He gritted his teeth and glared at her for a long moment, then started across the asphalt.

It seemed a really long way to the parking-structure elevator. Galen’s breathing was getting ragged. The machine had begun to seem like a figment of her imagination. She couldn’t believe the elevator doors would open and there it would be, on the bottom level of a San Francisco hospital parking structure.

But it was. Both she and Galen stood and stared at it, gleaming in the flickering fluorescent light. Lucy swallowed. They’d go back to a time after the battle. Better chance him looking like a miracle than running into himself. And she had to go with him. She couldn’t in good conscience send him back alone. And Brad would kill her if she left the machine back in 912 for very long.

Brad. She tried to imagine Brad mourning the loss of his friend. All she could see in her mind’s eye was his triumph that the machine worked, his obsession with why it hadn’t come back in the next minutes. Boy, that would be driving him crazy. And now he didn’t have either the machine or the book that told how to build it. He’d be kicking himself for experimenting prematurely. He’d chastise Casey for letting her take the book with her. Casey would be on Brad’s ass to figure out how to get the machine back and keep them both out of hot water with whoever was funding their project.

She had sure screwed this up. She’d brought back not a small piece of cloth or some kind of writing that could be dated to prove she’d been back in time, but a Viking, for God’s sake, a real, difficult, actual man who was very obsessed with weapons.

So she had to take him back and pick up that souvenir, then get the machine back to the lab in the present. Or close. She’d missed by four months the last time. She’d contact Brad when she had put things right and Galen was safely back where he belonged.

“Are you ready?” She looked up at Galen.

His blue eyes examined the machine. He nodded silently.

“Then we go.” She knelt beside the power source and started flipping switches. The lunch box began to hum. She motioned Galen to her side. “Hold to me.” She moved to the lever.

He stood behind her and put his good arm around her waist. She felt his warmth pressed against her back, acutely conscious that his torso was bare. “Here we go.” She grabbed the huge diamond with both hands and pulled.

It came off in her hands and bounced to the cement, where it rolled away under the machine. The end of the lever, several prongs bent and broken, shot out a jagged blue streak of power. She gaped and they ducked and rolled to the hard cement. Galen grunted in pain. The blue bolt had barely missed them. Ozone drifted in the air, reminiscent of lighting. Gears, barely moving, ground to a stop. The parking structure was silent except for a faint sizzling sound from the lunch box. For the first time she noticed that it was dented.

“Odin’s eye, what was that?” Galen gasped in what must be Norse. But she got the sense.

Lucy blinked. “Egil hit the . . .” She couldn’t think of a word for lever or lunch box, so she just waved a hand toward them. “. . . with his weapon. The machine is . . . damaged.” Was that the right word?

“But you made it come here.”

“Maybe that’s why I’m four months off, ” she muttered to herself. She got to her hands and knees and collected the diamond. “More damaged now,” she said in Latin to Galen.

“What do we do?”

Lucy looked around. Galen was ashen and shivering. “We ask Brad to fix it.” The sigh that thought elicited felt dusty.

“Who is this Brad?”

“My . . .” What was the word in Latin? “My friend.” Galen examined her face, reserve settling in his blue eyes. “Can he fix it?”

“I do not know.” She made a decision. She had to get him someplace warm, and she was not going back into the hospital where she had spun a host of inconsistent lies. “We will go to my house and . . .” How to say this? “Call out to Brad.” She might have just said “shout to Brad.”

“Is your house far?” Galen must have realized his strength was waning.

“Across the city. We will take a . . .” No Latin word for cab. Or car for that matter. “We will hire a . . . cart.” It was the closest she could come. He nodded and she pulled him to his feet with his good arm. Better hope there was a cab in front of the hospital at this hour.

Galen limped down the strangely paved road, leaning on the girl. He was half-glad the metal wheels had not worked. They might come down in the middle of the battle, with him wounded and without a weapon. He would not have lasted long. And Egil would kill the girl or keep her as a concubine slave. Galen wasn’t sure what would be worse for her.

But to be stuck here . . . wherever here was, was equally bad. He looked up at the stark hall where they had stuck needles in him. It was impossibly tall and made of steel like his sword and glass like the little bottles noblewomen kept their scent in, great sheets of it. One got up and down such huge buildings not with stairs but with boxes that moved by themselves. Rooms were lighted by discs that glowed like the moon. Who built such miracles? Gods? But he had seen no gods there, only men and women who tortured him, and this girl.

They walked down a white paved path. He heard a roar and turned. A metal beast with glowing eyes rushed down on them. He crouched and thrust the girl behind him. She shrieked. But the beast passed without attacking them. As it went, he saw that a man sat inside it, both hands on a wheel. He straightened. It was no beast. “What was that?” he muttered.

The girl brushed herself off, looking disgusted. “It was a cart.”

“That was no cart. It moved by itself without a horse.”

“There is no Latin word for it. We call it a ‘car.’ Now come.”

She grabbed his good arm and pulled him toward a “car,” painted yellow with black letters and Arabic numbers and a lamp on the roof that glowed white. She raised her hand in salute, and the car growled like Fenris, the wolf who ate the world at Ragnarok, and its glowing eyes blinked open. It took all his courage to stand his ground.

“Where to, lady?” the wizened man who sat inside the beast asked.

The girl opened a door behind the man, and said, “Sixteen Thirty-two Filbert, a few blocks off Van Ness.” She motioned Galen to get into the cart. He hesitated. To put himself in the grip of magic seemed . . . foolhardy. “You cannot walk,” she said with a frown. “So enter.” She didn’t wait but sat on the seat and pulled her knees in, then scooted across the bench to make room for him.

He was at her mercy and he hated that. But what choice had he? He did not want to linger in a place where they chained him and stuck him with needles. Gingerly he sat and hauled his legs in. The place smelled like old smoke, body odor, and something greasy. She reached across him and pulled the door shut. “Turn up the heater, would you?” she asked the wizened man.

Immediately the cart moved off, picking up incredible speed. The noise whined up and down the scale. Galen braced himself on the seat ahead as the cart careened around a corner. His heart jumped into his throat. The thing would surely overturn and kill them all. But the woman called Lucy was very calm. She buckled a belt around her waist that kept her in place, then reached over and did the same for him. The man in the seat ahead of them began to whistle. Hot air came from somewhere. Apparently this terrifying experience was an everyday occurrence. Galen watched and became sure the man was controlling the cart with the wheel, for he turned and held it in the direction the cart turned. The cart appeared to be run by some kind of power generated in the vehicle itself rather than relying on a beast or a waterwheel.

Galen calmed enough to look out the window. The streets outside the glass were nearly empty, but occasionally another cart passed, going at equally incredible speeds. The halls were grander than any he had ever seen. Some were of familiar stone. Others were needles of black reflection that touched the sky. None were of wood. They towered everywhere. Colored lights blinked in squiggly designs, some of which looked almost like runes or the Latin alphabet. Some flashed lighted paintings of people real enough to capture their soul. The designs changed before his eyes. It felt like many people were shouting at him, competing for his attention.

This city must hold millions of people. It had very steep hills. The cart did not hesitate but went up and down the hills without appearing even to strain, except for a change in the noise it made. As they came over a hill, he saw the glint of black water some way away. Enclosed like this he couldn’t smell the sea, but there it was. He could make out a gigantic bridge hung from a huge rope looped between towers, to hills on the other side of the water. Lights moved across the span. It looked like a spiderweb, delicate but strong. He had ordered his men to make such bridges, much to their amazement, when the Danir army needed to ford streams. He thought the design his own. But here was just such a bridge, and bigger than he could have imagined.

“Who built this bridge?” he asked the woman.

“I . . . I do not know. We call it ‘Golden Gate.’ It goes over the . . . the mouth of the bay.” The name was not in Latin. She must not know the words for it. Her Latin was awful. It sounded almost like she said “gylden geat” in Englisc. That was a good name for a bridge over the mouth of a bay. She leaned over to see what he could see out his window. Her braid brushed his chest. It made his nipples pucker. And not with cold. She would be a welcome bedmate after he had rested. “That island,” she pointed, “is Alcatraz. It was a prison.”

“There are many wharves.”

“This . . . bay is a large port.” Her Latin wasn’t up to saying more.

The car careened down the hill, jolting his shoulder. He swallowed but managed not to make any sound.

“Next left,” Lucy told the driver. “Three blocks down on the left corner.” The car screeched to a halt. Lucy fumbled in her bag and came up with some dirty and wrinkled green paper she handed over the seat to the driver. “Keep the change.”

Had she paid the driver only with this tattered paper? But he seemed to accept it willingly. “Thanks, lady, you’re a peach,” he said. Thanks. Was that related to the Saxon “thonc to thu”? It was tantalizing. He could recognize some words, no matter how wrong the rhythm was, and yet the language was not Englisc.

She opened her door and slid out, beckoning to him. He fumbled with the cursed belt with his good hand, but it didn’t have a proper buckle.

“Sorry,” she mumbled, and leaned in. The buckle released itself at her touch. He pushed himself out, ignoring the sear of pain in his thigh and shoulder. The night air slapped him after the warmth of the cart. Now he could smell the sea, along with bread baking somewhere and that greasy, oily smell again. The air did not smell clean. The woman ran to the glass doors and he staggered after her. His limbs felt like they weighed a hundredweight. This house was big, taking up what must be the length of four or so halls, but had only five levels. Not like the place where he had been tortured. Still it was taller than any building he knew. Windows poked out in bays over the street. Lucy punched some buttons labeled with Arabic numbers outside some glass, and a buzz sounded. She opened a door in the glass and dashed in.

It was warmer in here. She went to stand near two sets of doors he now recognized. He gritted his teeth and stepped into the claustrophobic box. As it rose, he noticed that the Arabic numbers lighted. They stopped at 5 and the door opened. He followed the girl down a dim hall. She took out a ring with strange keys on it and used it on a door at the end.

The girl turned the key this way and that, but the door did not open.

Suddenly she stepped back, struck by something.

“This might not be my apartment anymore,” she whispered to herself in her own language. She looked up at Galen, and her green eyes were a little frightened. Then she straightened her back. “I’ll have to wake Jake.”

He reached out and grabbed her arm. “Who is this Jake?”

“A friend.”

How many “friends” did she have? Women did not have male friends. Was she a prostitute, to have so many “friends”? She strode down the hall and banged on a door at the other end.

When no one answered, she called softly, “Jake, it’s Lucy. I know you’re awake. Open up.” She stepped back, in clear view of a tiny peephole in the center of the door, and just waited. Galen leaned against the wall for support.

“He is not there.”

“Oh, he’s here.” She folded her arms under her breasts. They swelled into her neckline. She must be a prostitute to dress so.

She was right. There was a clanking behind the door and then the knob turned. The door opened only a crack. A chain crossed the opening. A gnarled face appeared. “Lucy!” The door shut with a snap but opened wide a moment later. “Lucy, girl. Where have you been?” The man limped out and threw his arms around Lucy. Galen didn’t understand the words, but the sentiment was unmistakable. The man was big but wizened, with a full gray beard and bright, hard eyes. He had been a warrior in his time. Galen knew that immediately. “I’ve been so worried about you.” He glared at Galen. “Who’s this?”

“Long story, Jake. Can we come in and tell it?”

Jake peered down the hall in either direction, then motioned them in. Galen limped after the girl. His vision had begun to blur around the edges. He steadied himself against the wall just inside the door. Lucy turned around, saw him, and said, in Latin, “Galen, come. Sit down here.” She guided him to a soft, long bench with a back, and he sank into it, easing his shoulder against the cushion. His wounds throbbed. The house was very strange. Many books on shelves. Was this man so rich? Strange objects hung on the walls. It had thick rugs but no tapestries. The whole place was warm, though he could see no fire pit.

“Got some water, Jake?” Even he recognized the word for waether. That must be universal. The old man scurried away. Lucy sat beside Galen. “Jake will help us. I have known him for a long time. Be calm and rest.” She squeezed his hand. He liked when she did that. He leaned his head back against the cushion. This bench was as soft as any bed he had ever slept on. How long since he had slept in a real bed? When the old man returned with water, Lucy produced several small white tablets of various shapes, offered them to him with the water.

“What are these?”

She replied to his Latin, “For your pain.”

“It will make me sleep,” he accused. A drug. Like the woman in the white room had given him. It was not safe to lose himself to drugged sleep in such a place of peril.

“It is just Vicodin.” Whatever that was. “You will not sleep.” When he started to protest, she held up a hand. “Just take it.” She was exasperated.

She had been only kind up to this point. Except for taking him away from a glorious death on the battlefield and delivering him to the man with the needles. Still, someone had sewn his wounds and bandaged him. That might be the only reason he was alive. He gritted his teeth and took the tablet and the water. “Odin’s eye and Thor’s hammer. You are a trial, woman.”