cry.
“Oh Aiko.” A voice from behind me. I turn, and Jasmine and Malcolm are emerging from the trees. Jasmine’s headphones have been mangled. Malcolm hobbles, a deep gash in one leg. Jasmine pulls ahead of him, goes to Aiko, wraps her in an embrace. And shit. Aiko really is a first-grade teacher. Jasmine really is just a teenager. And if I’m what passes for a professional, I can only imagine how much of a toll this takes on an amateur, enthusiastic or otherwise.
Felicity can say what she likes about the Weekenders, but these guys have my vote of confidence any day of the week.
I look over at Malcolm. He shrugs. There’s no trauma on his face. Stoic, maybe a little nonplussed by Aiko and Jasmine. He has to have been military or something. Balls of steel.
As he approaches, something catches his eye. He peers and looks behind a smashed bookcase. He blanches. And if there’s something that makes a man as hardened as Malcolm turn pale, why do I have the sudden urge to look?
But look I do.
Oh Jesus.
My guts heave. I choke down bile.
A bloody mess of skin and bone. A mangled red silhouette, limbs horribly distorted. Metal mashed into the mess of bone.
The Russian woman. The one who electrocuted me. The one Winston stepped on.
“Jesus,” I say again. I close my eyes but the image remains. I close them harder.
“Arthur.”
Winston calls my name and I look up.
“Arthur, look what they did to me, man.”
Winston is struggling up out of the trees. I stare at him. All of him. Twenty-five feet or more, towering and tottering. His face is inscribed in bark, knots for eyes, a twisted crack in the wood for a mouth. Leaves burst in an ugly mop above the half-hewn face. His legs are ivy-strewn trunks and his arms are branches. One foot is blackened and charred, leaking sap, leaving sticky glistening footprints tinged with red.
“What they do to me, Arthur, man?”
“They turned you into a tree, Winston,” is about as much as I can manage. But I think he had that bit figured out.
He shakes his head. A few twigs tumble around him.
“It’s time magic.”
Winston and I look over. It’s Aiko, rubbing tears from her cheeks with the back of a fist. She swallows, re-establishes control. “Same as with the T-Rex. Turn back the clock. The books, the shelving—all wood. So they go back to being trees. There’ll be other stuff too. Statues back to rocks, that sort of thing.”
“No…” a new voice cuts in, then dissolves into coughing. We all spin, looking. Malcolm yanks out his improbable-looking pistol again.
“No such thing as time magic.”
“Clyde!” I run to him, skid down on my knees. Another cough wracks his body.
“Yeah,” I hear Winston rumble. “Don’t worry about me. I’m fine. No psychological trauma suffered here.”
“Shit,” I say to Clyde, eloquent as ever. “I was worried about you.”
“No need,” Clyde says. He reaches up a trembling fist and taps the mask. “Flash memory, I think. Very durable.”
I laugh. Clyde doesn’t. I’m not sure if it’s not a joke, or if it’s just not as funny as he thought it was going to be.
“Time. Magic,” Aiko says again, emphasizing each word.
Clyde shakes his head but doesn’t sit up.
I don’t blame him. My head’s spinning and I was conscious the whole time. Time magic. Magic that looks like time magic. Chernobyl. Bomb threats. Stolen meteors. It’s like someone cut lines out of a newspaper and scattered them in front of us.
Admittedly it’d probably have to be the Fortean Times . But still…
Chernobyl is the connection. It has to be. But Chernobyl is broken, a mistake. But if that’s a false lead, why did two Russians just turn the British Museum Reading Room into a nature reserve to get their hands on our documents about it?
I look down at Clyde. “I just don’t understand how the bomb is involved,” I say.
Clyde starts shaking his head again.
Jasmine looks over at me. “Oh my God, did you just say
“Oh Aiko.” A voice from behind me. I turn, and Jasmine and Malcolm are emerging from the trees. Jasmine’s headphones have been mangled. Malcolm hobbles, a deep gash in one leg. Jasmine pulls ahead of him, goes to Aiko, wraps her in an embrace. And shit. Aiko really is a first-grade teacher. Jasmine really is just a teenager. And if I’m what passes for a professional, I can only imagine how much of a toll this takes on an amateur, enthusiastic or otherwise.
Felicity can say what she likes about the Weekenders, but these guys have my vote of confidence any day of the week.
I look over at Malcolm. He shrugs. There’s no trauma on his face. Stoic, maybe a little nonplussed by Aiko and Jasmine. He has to have been military or something. Balls of steel.
As he approaches, something catches his eye. He peers and looks behind a smashed bookcase. He blanches. And if there’s something that makes a man as hardened as Malcolm turn pale, why do I have the sudden urge to look?
But look I do.
Oh Jesus.
My guts heave. I choke down bile.
A bloody mess of skin and bone. A mangled red silhouette, limbs horribly distorted. Metal mashed into the mess of bone.
The Russian woman. The one who electrocuted me. The one Winston stepped on.
“Jesus,” I say again. I close my eyes but the image remains. I close them harder.
“Arthur.”
Winston calls my name and I look up.
“Arthur, look what they did to me, man.”
Winston is struggling up out of the trees. I stare at him. All of him. Twenty-five feet or more, towering and tottering. His face is inscribed in bark, knots for eyes, a twisted crack in the wood for a mouth. Leaves burst in an ugly mop above the half-hewn face. His legs are ivy-strewn trunks and his arms are branches. One foot is blackened and charred, leaking sap, leaving sticky glistening footprints tinged with red.
“What they do to me, Arthur, man?”
“They turned you into a tree, Winston,” is about as much as I can manage. But I think he had that bit figured out.
He shakes his head. A few twigs tumble around him.
“It’s time magic.”
Winston and I look over. It’s Aiko, rubbing tears from her cheeks with the back of a fist. She swallows, re-establishes control. “Same as with the T-Rex. Turn back the clock. The books, the shelving—all wood. So they go back to being trees. There’ll be other stuff too. Statues back to rocks, that sort of thing.”
“No…” a new voice cuts in, then dissolves into coughing. We all spin, looking. Malcolm yanks out his improbable-looking pistol again.
“No such thing as time magic.”
“Clyde!” I run to him, skid down on my knees. Another cough wracks his body.
“Yeah,” I hear Winston rumble. “Don’t worry about me. I’m fine. No psychological trauma suffered here.”
“Shit,” I say to Clyde, eloquent as ever. “I was worried about you.”
“No need,” Clyde says. He reaches up a trembling fist and taps the mask. “Flash memory, I think. Very durable.”
I laugh. Clyde doesn’t. I’m not sure if it’s not a joke, or if it’s just not as funny as he thought it was going to be.
“Time. Magic,” Aiko says again, emphasizing each word.
Clyde shakes his head but doesn’t sit up.
I don’t blame him. My head’s spinning and I was conscious the whole time. Time magic. Magic that looks like time magic. Chernobyl. Bomb threats. Stolen meteors. It’s like someone cut lines out of a newspaper and scattered them in front of us.
Admittedly it’d probably have to be the Fortean Times . But still…
Chernobyl is the connection. It has to be. But Chernobyl is broken, a mistake. But if that’s a false lead, why did two Russians just turn the British Museum Reading Room into a nature reserve to get their hands on our documents about it?
I look down at Clyde. “I just don’t understand how the bomb is involved,” I say.
Clyde starts shaking his head again.
Jasmine looks over at me. “Oh my God, did you just say
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