Shatter the Earth (Cassandra Palmer 10)

I was a highwayman, dying in a puddle of blood, because milady had had a pistol in her purse; I was a grandfather, walking out into the winter’s night, because there were children in the house and there wasn’t food enough for all; I was a gambler, tossing the dice one last time, for a pot that would make or break me; I was an old woman, slipping a young girl a sachet of powders, to rid herself of the pregnancy that no one could know about; I was a slave, diving underwater for pearls, and bursting through the surf clutching one the size of my thumb, the reward for which would free me—

“Lady! Lady!” Rhea was shaking me now, but it didn’t matter. The last few cases were finally switching on, but it wasn’t just light that spilled out of them, it was horrors.

I was a corpse, stirring at the sound of a necromancer’s call, thrashing against the shroud that imprisoned me; I was a demon, wailing and pounding on the prismatic jewel that had somehow trapped me: I was a god, staring down at a field of fleeing humans, and crushing them under my sole like ants. And laughing, laughing all the while, because what did they matter? What did any of them matter?

Whole worlds opened up before me, in an endless line, like two mirrors facing each other, reflecting infinity. And then I was that infinity, passing beyond the human realm and into something else, something other. I was anywhere and everywhere, seeing through a thousand eyes, a million, all of them.

I heard Rhea release me and run up the stairs for help; I heard boots pounding down again, a moment later; felt strong arms lifting me. But I couldn’t see them. I couldn’t see anything.

My eyes were full of stars.

Chapter Twenty-Three

“Is your life always like this?”

I blinked my way back to consciousness in confusion, since I didn’t remember losing it. But I guessed I must have. Weak daylight was filtering through the sheers in what looked like Rhea’s room rather than mine. It was spring in Britain, if an early and unenthusiastic one, but the thin light was enough to show me Gertie, sitting at my bedside on the chair from the vanity, sipping tea and looking composed.

Which was more than I was.

I groaned and put a hand to my head, where it felt like I had the mother of all hangovers. And the grandmother and great-grandmother as well, I thought, trying to take stock. Which was a little difficult with bleary eyes, stomach cramps and nausea. God, so much nausea!

Which was probably why, when I tried to move, it felt like the bed moved with me.I lay there for a moment, trying to remember if they had waterbeds in this era, and deciding that probably not. Considering everything, I supposed I should have felt lucky that my head hadn’t detonated all over Gertie’s basement, but I didn’t. No, lucky was not how I would describe my mood.

“Would you like some breakfast?” Gertie added cheerily, and I hurked and thought about throwing up some more.

“I’ll take that as a no,” she said, and drank tea.

After a while, the room stopped spinning, my stomach settled down a bit, and the tea started to sound good. I must have indicated that somehow, because Gertie walked over to the vanity, which was now serving as a tea caddy, and poured me a cup. I sat up, feeling terrifyingly weak and helpless, like a newborn kitten. I even paused halfway through the motion, to see if my body had any more surprises, but it

seemed to have settled down—for now.

I took the tea, leaned back against the headboard, and drank it.

The Brits were right; it was oddly soothing. Especially when I didn’t try to think about anything in particular. I didn’t try to think at all. After a while, the warm, milky tea and the silence had me feeling a bit better.

Gertie seemed to realize that, too, because she finished her tea and sat her cup back in its saucer with a snick. I didn’t know how she managed to convey so much with so little, but it was perfectly clear that she was now ready to hear my explanation. Which would have been great if I’d had one.

“Your acolyte and I had an interesting talk,” she informed me, when I just sat there.

“Oh?”

“Yes, oh.” She looked at me sternly. “Is there a reason that your heir cannot shift?”

“What?” I said, caught off guard, because that wasn’t the question I was expecting.

And, apparently, that wasn’t the answer that Gertie was.

“You are at war,” she told me flatly. “Not just your world, or your era, but you, personally. Almost every time I see you, you are in the middle of a crisis—”

“That’s not true,” I protested. The last month had been pretty calm, if you didn’t count the last few days. But that comment had apparently not required an answer, because she was still talking.

“—hauling demon lords around the time line, trying to restore the soul of your lover—”

“That was one time.”

“—or fighting ancient gods—”

“I provided more of an assist there.”