"Probably. Although, apparently not enough of one. He's nuts about you, Clare. And if you tell him I told you that, I will kill you dead."

The taxi pulled up in front of the tall gla.s.s condominium tower where Milo lived. Al paid the driver and the girls walked into the lobby. Al had her computer bag slung across her body and was carrying the rosewood cigar box containing one of the great treasures of British history tucked under one arm.

"Hey," Clare asked suddenly. "Why didn't we just drive the Bentley here?"

"Oh, yeah." Al grimaced. "I kind of drove into a lamppost once I was far enough away from the docks."

"On purpose?" Clare gaped at her.

"Yup. I figured the police would find it and then maybe they'd try to find Morholt. Even if they don't, the dent in his sw.a.n.ky fender will probably send Stu into an apoplectic fit. And that idea appeals to me enormously."

"Why didn't you go to the police after you got away?"

Al laughed. "Mostly because I didn't think they'd believe my story. And even if they did they probably wouldn't have let me hang on to this." She patted the rosewood box with the torc inside. "I figured it might not be the greatest thing if you got back from your latest shimmer and found yourself locked in a police evidence vault somewhere. Would've been a waste of all Milo's hacking and my wicked cool super-spy skills."

Right. Clare probably wouldn't have thought of that herself. "d.a.m.n." She shook her head ruefully as they stepped inside the elevator. "It's really hard keeping up with you sometimes."

"What are you talking about?" Al punched the b.u.t.ton for the thirteenth floor.

Clare shrugged. "I mean, sometimes I just feel really dumb next to you. And Milo."

Al blinked at her silently for a moment. "Clare, no offence, but that's the stupidest thing you've ever said."

"What?"

"Do have any idea what you just did? You saved Connal's life and you did it in a particularly ingenious way."

"Yeah, but-"

"For as long as I've known you, you've never given yourself enough credit," Al sighed. "You're one of the smartest people I know. You're also one of the bravest. So you're a little reckless. And you can't do math. And you're easily distracted. And maybe you should study a little harder in English cla.s.s. Oh-and your sense of direction really truly does suck, but-"

"Okay! Okay." Clare held up a hand. "I get it. I'm not a complete moron."

"Nope. Not a complete moron. And I'll say it again: you just saved a guy's life."

"A guy who's been dead for centuries. Does that count as ironic? I'm never sure."

"I think it does. But still-think about it. He's dead now, yeah. But not then. And who knows how many years he lived after you and the princess hauled his b.u.t.t outta that swamp, and how many of the Iceni and his own tribe he actually saved in turn? At least he didn't die for nothing as a victim of Boudicca's madness. At least he was still there to take care of Comorra. Who, by the way, you also saved."

Clare frowned, thinking about that as the elevator doors slid open-and Milo almost tackled her to the ground.

"YOU'RE ALL RIGHT," Milo murmured into her hair as Clare stood there, not daring to breathe for fear he might let go.

Al was right. Milo cared about her. Really cared about her. Smart, funny, s.e.xy Milo.

"I've been going crazy with worry. You're all right ..."

"Yup. I'm good," Al said with cheery sarcasm as she stepped around Milo and Clare and headed off down the hall. "Don't worry about me, cuz. Came through unscathed. No problemo. Miss Junior World Grand Theft Auto, here. I'm kind of a genius ..."

Milo loosened his death grip hug-a little-and turned to look after Al. "What's she on about?"

"Nothing," Clare smiled and reached up to where Milo had the shadow of a bruise on his forehead. He must have hit his head when Morholt knocked him out. "I'm glad you're okay, too."

"Oh, yeah." He dropped his gaze, his expression rueful. "Sorry about letting that creep get the drop on me ..."

"Hey, Milo. It's okay. He had a gun. I don't want you being a hero and getting hurt, you know."

"Oh." He frowned. "You don't?"

"Well ... not badly hurt. No." Clare may have liked the idea that Milo wanted to be a hero for her, but she wasn't about to tell him that. She didn't want him doing anything stupid for her sake.

"Are you really okay?" He tilted her face up so he could look into her eyes. "He didn't lay a hand on you, did he?"

For a second Clare thought he was talking about Connal instead of Morholt. But that was silly. Still, she couldn't get over what Al had said about Clare having ... feelings for Connal. She didn't. At least, she didn't think she did.

Right. You always kiss guys you don't care about ...

Milo's face was so close to hers she could have kissed him in that moment. His blue eyes behind those black-framed gla.s.ses were filled with concern. "I'll kill him if he hurt you," Milo said softly. He sounded as if he meant it. It sounded like something Connal might have said.

"I'm okay," she said. "Really. You don't need to kill anybody for me just yet."

Milo relaxed his grip on her and smiled. "Okay." Suddenly he seemed to realize that he'd been kind of man-handling Clare. He let go of her and took off his gla.s.ses to polish the lenses with the edge of his T-shirt-thereby conveniently avoiding further eye contact-but it was too late. Clare could tell he'd been worried about her. It gave her a warm feeling deep in her chest.

"Come on," he said, a semblance of his usual, easy grin sliding back into place, "I think I figured something out while you were gone."

Inside Milo's apartment the furnishings were spa.r.s.e: a huge desk, a leather couch, and some chairs. There were also some lovingly detailed scale models of s.p.a.ceships hanging from the ceiling-the Millennium Falcon and the original-series Enterprise were ones that Clare recognized-several computers, and an entire wall devoted to maps, including a large, full-colour map of Britain stuck with a handful of coloured push-pins.

"I've been racking my brain trying to figure out what the connection was between the shimmer triggers."

"That's easy," Clare said sourly. "It's me and my super-shimmery DNA."

Al and Milo gave her identical looks that would have been comical if Clare had actually been joking. She filled them in on what Connal had told her about Boudicca and the blood magic.

Milo whistled low when she finished. "That's heavy."

"That's crazy," said Al. "They think you're, like, some kind of tribal totemic demi-G.o.ddess or something."

"Yup." Clare sighed. "When, as far as I can make out, it's just the fact that Boudicca put the whammy on me in the first place that gives me any magic at all."

"Wow. Isn't that kind of like the time-loop paradox in that Heinlein story, Milo?" Al mused.

"I don't even wanna know what you're talking about," Clare said.

"It's sci-fi. About a guy who time-travels in loops and keeps running into himself-"

Clare held up a hand. "Stop. Seriously-I can't even think about this stuff for extended periods. I start to feel like a puppy that chases its own tail for so long it gets dizzy and throws up." She turned back to Milo. "Anyway. Now you know. So how does this new info play into your theory?"

"Perfectly, actually," he said, chewing thoughtfully on his lower lip. "Like I said-I was trying to see the connections. I mean, we know-definitively now-that they're all connected to you, but why those particular objects, right? The torc and the brooch ... that's easy. They're symbolic ornaments. Worn, in part, for protection. And, as you said before, they're personal. But the shield?"

"Right. It really doesn't seem to fit the same profile."

Milo held up one finger, his blue eyes sparking with excitement. "Well, in a way, it does. I think it's a symbol, too-a sort of grave marker. But more than that."

"I don't follow you."

"What does a shield do?" he asked.

"It protects things," Clare answered. "People. Keeps them safe. Um ... hidden, maybe? Am I getting warmer?"

"Bang on, in fact." Milo's grin widened. "Is Boudicca still safe and hidden?"

"You mean, in her grave?" Clare shrugged. "I guess-Oh, I see where you're going with this. The shield's magic keeps her hidden."

"Yup. That's my theory anyway. I figure this blood magic stuff acts kind of like the Romulan Cloaking Device on Star Trek."

Clare raised an eyebrow.

Milo grinned. "Or something like that. And, at the same time, the shield itself tells us exactly where the grave is located. It's like a voodoo doll-a miniaturized version of the thing you've cast a spell on. It's representative. Work magic on the one, and it affects the other sort of by remote control."

"So it hides the grave while pointing out where the grave is."

"Or, at least, what it looks like. Yeah."

Al wasn't convinced. "Mind explaining how you came up with this-might I point out, weirdly contradictory-theory?"

"Something had been nagging me about this so-called shield. The round shapes on it ... their placement ... When we got talking about it earlier, I looked it up on the museum website. And I kept thinking it reminded me of something. I finally figured out what that is."

Al and Clare waited.

"Tumuli."

"Geshundheit," Clare said.

Al snorted, but then something sparked in her gaze. "Wait," she said, staring keenly at Milo. "You're talking about barrows." She glanced at Clare and shrugged. "Hey. I watch the History Channel, too."

Milo spread his hands wide and bowed his head like a stage magician. "I speaketh as the Maker of Maps. Dunno why it didn't click right away-it's not as if I spend days looking at the d.a.m.n things for a living or anything!"

"Aaaand ... you've lost me, eggheads," Clare sighed.

Al walked over to the wall full of maps. "Barrows are heaps of earth-the technical term is 'tumuli'-that are manmade constructs. Most of those barrows are grave chambers. Burial mounds. They're all over Britain." She circled a finger over an area of the map.

"Really, how do you know all this stuff?" Clare asked.

"Like I said. History Channel. Also? There's this thing? Called 'the internet'? You should really look into it. I think it's gonna be a big hit."

Clare rolled her eyes. "Right. I'll shut up now. Carry on."

Milo took pity on her and picked up the explanation. "Like Al said, these ancient tomb barrows are scattered all over Britain-the plains around Stonehenge are lousy with 'em-hundreds of the things, in all kinds of configurations and cl.u.s.ter groupings. A lot of them have been excavated or destroyed by development, but the majority just sit there untouched. I think Boudicca is buried under the one-well, a grouping of three to be precise-that conforms exactly to the dimensions of the Battersea Shield."

Now it was Clare's turn to be skeptical. "Let's say you're right. Let's say the shield is some kind of Iron Age treasure map. How the h.e.l.l are we going to find the exact configuration where X marks the spot? You say there are hundreds of these things. And we don't even know where to look."

"Not necessarily," Al chimed in. "I mean, we know where to start ... right, Mi?"

"Right. Let's make the reasonable a.s.sumption that Boudicca would have been buried on or near her own stomping grounds."

"Reasonable," Clare agreed. "But we are probably talking a pretty hefty chunk of real estate, here, right?"

Al shrugged one shoulder. "Well ... according to my research, the Iceni territory corresponded roughly to what is now modern-day Norfolk. So that's kinda biggish, yeah."

"That's my point." Clare shook her head. "The Roman Freaking Legions couldn't find her tomb. And I'm pretty sure they gave it the old college try."

Milo nodded. "From ground level the barrows all look pretty much the same. Just b.u.mps of land. They would have had no way of knowing which one was hers."

"But you do?"

"Well, yeah." He turned and pointed at the wall. "See, the Romans didn't have aerial photography."

Clare blinked and saw the maps again as if for the first time. "Oh ..."

"Check this out!"

Milo threw himself into the chair in front of one of the computer terminals with what Clare thought was adorably boyish gusto. She found herself doing a compare-and-contrast between him and Connal. The Druid prince was undeniably magnetic. But Milo was ... kind of awesome.

Clare and Al moved to stand behind his chair.

"All I needed was to figure out the shield's dimensions-"

"How on earth did you do that when it's at the museum," Clare asked, "probably under more security than ever?"

Milo grinned, pulled up a search engine, and started mouse-clicking away at light speed. The girls watched as he called up the online pictures of the Battersea Shield from the British Museum's website. His fingers danced over keyboard and mouse and a high-quality enlargement photo of the shield popped up on the high-def screen.

"Cool," Al said. "I'm betting you converted that graphic into a 3D wireframe model the same way you do for an aerial topography shot, right?"

Milo clicked and tapped and scrolled. "Bingo."

"They don't call you Wunderkind for nothing." Al grinned.

"No ma'am, they do not." Milo leaned closer to the screen. "Now ... I can take this vector graphic and use the Heritage Society Land Monument archives to find a close topographical match. Size, shape, relative placement of the tumuli-the works ..."

Clare watched in rapt fascination as Milo worked. Image after image sprang up on the screen and Milo's long, tapered fingers made them dance as if to unheard music. It was like watching a concert pianist play. It was also, Clare thought, weirdly s.e.xy. She had to restrain herself from reaching out and tracing the contours of Milo's shoulder blades through his T-shirt as they slid back and forth.

"Bull's eye."

Clare and Al crowded in on either side of Milo and stared at the results.

"Ordnance Survey Map reference number TL586453." Milo leaned back in his swivel chair, crossing his arms over his chest and looking extremely pleased with himself.

"Bartlow Hills ..." Al breathed the name as if it were a magical incantation.