Kiss Across Chains (Kiss Across Time Series)

by Tracy Cooper-Posey

  Brody fought it off with a shake of his head and by grinding the heels of his hands into his eye sockets. “It’s barely past two a.m. I just got here. I won’t waste this night by sleeping it away,” he growled, reaching for her.

  “Your body will shut down on you whether you want it or not,” Taylor warned him as his lips trailed between her breasts. “You’re sleep deprived and your biorhythms are naturally low right now.”

  “Shut up and kiss me,” he demanded.

  But exhaustion was a force Brody could not ignore, bargain with or work around. Barely fifteen minutes later, he yawned mightily, his lips brushing over her hip bone, then lifted his head and swore softly.

  Taylor drew him up to lie alongside her on the divan. “Just rest for a few minutes,” she suggested. “Even a catnap of five minutes might refresh you enough to keep going for a few more hours.”

  Brody rolled onto his side and tucked her up against him. “This feels…” he murmured, his voice thick with sleep.

  “Strange,” she finished, agreeing with him. “It’s usually me who gets to fall asleep in your arms.”

  “I don’t even know if I snore,” he whispered.

  Taylor muffled her laughter because the heavy exhale that he gave told her he had fallen asleep already. He had been fighting it off too long and as soon as he relaxed it took him.

  She turned under his heavy arm so she could see his face. His eyes were closed, the thick black lashes resting against the pale flesh of his high cheekbones. He was a beautiful man, and when he was completely relaxed like this, it showed far more easily than when his wariness and guard was raised as it was so frequently when strangers were around.

  Taylor only realized she had drifted into sleep herself when soft sounds and movement on the other side of the room alerted her to intruders. She jerked awake as Kale hurried across the room, carrying a lamp. Kale’s face was impassive as always, but barely three paces behind her were Brody’s caped and hooded guards.

  Taylor shook Brody awake, cold fear washing through her. She had only just drifted off herself, so Brody had been asleep a few minutes only. It could barely be three in the morning.

  The guards had returned too early.

  Taylor shook Brody harder. “Braenden. Wake up now,” she called in the ancient Greek they used in this time. She shook him a third time, then slid out from under his heavy arm and grabbed the white cloth she had used as a sarong earlier in the evening, and wrapped it around her, hiding her nakedness.

  Brody stirred groggily.

  “Mistress—“ Kale began, speaking softly.

  “Up! Get up, you lazy bastard,” one of the guards demanded. He lifted his foot and kicked at Brody.

  His foot didn’t make contact.

  Brody seemed to roll out of the way and rise to his feet in a move that Taylor would have sworn was only possible for a vampire to make, with their enhanced strength and responses. But in a cat-quick reaction, Brody barreled his way between the front pair of guards, sending them staggering.

  The guards reacted almost as fast. They circled Brody in a defensive pincer, enclosing him in a tight circle of bodies. He slammed up against the other side of the circle and instantly, they closed in on him, raining fists and the pommel of theirs swords on his back, arms and shoulders, forcing him down to his knees.

  Taylor realized she was trying to go to his aid when Kale gripped her arm, holding her back. Horror washed through her, along with despair, but Veris was not here this time for her to hide her face against and pretend this was not happening. Taylor grit her teeth, remembering that she was truly alone now and the only one who could help Brody.

  She made herself watch each blow and punch. The tears she shed as she watched scalded her cheeks like hot acid, but she didn’t wipe them away.

  When Brody was beaten into submission and docile once more, they attached the chains to his cuffs and slid the collar about his neck and fastened it. A long disguising cape was thrown about his shoulders. No one bothered with a tunic for him. He was left naked and barefoot beneath the rough material of the cape.

  Taylor picked out the head guard by his blind eye. She wiped her face and stepped in front of him. “It isn’t sunrise,” she told him. “You are not abiding by the terms of the agreement I arranged with Oresme.”

  “Terms?” He laughed at her. “What, exactly, did you think you were arranging? You get what you get, lady whore. Consider yourself lucky.”

  Taylor glanced at Brody, at his face which was barely visible under the pulled-over hood. He had warned her this would happen and she fully expected him to send her an I-told-you-so look, or to lift his brow at her. But his head was down, his gaze on the floor. Even his shoulders were slumped, making him look smaller. Shorter.

  Brody had gone. Braenden the slave had returned.

  Anger stirred in Taylor’s chest and belly for what they had done to him and to his spirit. She looked at the guard as he tugged on the chains, preparing to move Brody out.

  “What is your name?” she demanded.

  “What business is that of yours?”

  “The next time I arrange a night like this, I’ll make sure to include your name in the list of people who share the purse I give Oresme,” she told him.

  He laughed. “What makes you think there’s ever going to be a next time?” He pushed past her, making her stagger. Kale was instantly at her side, holding her up, helping her find her feet again.

  Taylor looked up, just as the huddled group of caped men disappeared around the corner of the suite entrance.

  Brody was gone.

  * * * * *

  As they got closer to the main cavern, the stench got stronger, and that was what finally overcame Brody’s lethargy. The throbbing in his back and shoulders from the punches and blows from the sword hilts was nothing…but the idea of being forced back into that filth and wretchedness after even a few short hours of touching and tasting Taylor’s delicate sweetness was too much to bear.

  The guards led him directly toward one of the cages, and Brody reared back, blank wordless refusal building in his mind and muscles. It was like a madness swelling inside him, rising to engulf his sanity and shake him apart with despair and fury.

  “Whoa, boy!” he heard Basilides say.

  That was the last coherent thought he had for a while. He hit out at anything and everything around him, fighting with every fiber of his body and soul. He would not let himself be put in the cage. He couldn’t.

  He knew it was a battle he could not win. There were too many guards and he was chained and naked.

  But to give in just because he couldn’t win would strip him of more than just clothes. So he fought until one of them—probably Zeno, who had spent the journey from Matthew’s house bellyaching about his assignment—took his consciousness with a decent blow to the head.

  His vision faded as he sank to the ground and his last coherent sight was of Evaristus, crouched in the dark shadows near the last cage, watching his downfall with a quizzical expression.

  Brody thought there was surprise in Evaristus’ eyes.

  That he might have surprised Evaristus, who seemed to know everything and see everything, was a satisfying idea.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Taylor lifted the lid to disclose the enameled tray and its contents. Metrodora leaned forward to look at the contents. “Oh,” she said uncertainly.

  “I made these myself. They are a family recipe…a great secret passed on from generation to generation,” Taylor told her. She picked up one of the cookies and handing it to Metrodora. “Do not let the appearance of these biscuits fool you. They are the most sinful delights. Try it. Go on.”

  Metrodora took a small, hesitant bite and chewed. Then her eyes widened. “Mmm…” She took a bigger bite, one that demolished most of the cookie. “What…?” she asked, speaking carefully around her mouthful.

  “I told you…it is a secret recipe,” Taylor told her. In fact, the cookies were a rough approximation
of the simple peanut butter cookie recipe that Taylor could recall from every jar of peanut butter she had ever seen Marit devour. Peanuts were plentiful if one could afford them, here, and wheat flour could be bought at a price. After that, it was a matter of substitution and ingenuity. Cooking with a wood stove had been the most challenging part of the task.

  Metrodora eagerly reached for a second cookie. “This is a most generous gift,” she said and bit into it.

  “It does come with a small price attached,” Taylor confessed, pushing the enameled tray closer to Metrodora.

  Metrodora lifted a brow. “More conspiring? You are so adventurous, Ariadne! What now?”

  Taylor joined her fingers together docilely. “Your father is the Emperor’s chief tax collector.”

  “He is,” Metrodora agreed. She cocked her head to one side. “What mischief are you brewing?”

  “Oh, something a bit more potent than mischief,” Taylor assured her. She leaned forward. “There’s a man—a guard—that needs to be taught a lesson…”

  * * * * *

  Brody came floating back to consciousness slowly. It wasn’t like waking from sleep at all. There was pain and confusion and a deep reluctance to stir back to the state that had caused the pain in the first place.

  For a while he let himself drift, unwilling to pick up the traces of the thoughts and memories that gave coherence and meaning to consciousness.

  “Braenden…Brody!” came the soft hiss.

  That caught his attention and pulled him closer to the surface. He tried to fit the names together. Why would someone be using both of them?

  Evaristus. He was the only one who knew both of them here and now, apart from Taylor, and it was not her melodious tones he had heard.

  Brody kept very still and opened his eyes a sliver.

  Bars.

  The cage. They had thrown him into the cage after all.

  He grew immediately aware of the bars underneath him, digging into his arms and thighs and hip. It was an extra discomfort – one that was painful enough for him to ease himself up until he was sitting and then to find a position where the bars didn’t dig into his ass too deeply or uncomfortably.

  Evaristus tapped on the bars to get his attention once more and Brody turned his head to look. That set off a pounding in his skull that made it feel like his eyes would pop out and the bones of his face would slide off without too much more encouragement. He hissed at the throbbing agony and paused, waiting for it to subside, before opening his eyes once more and focusing on Evaristus where he squatted outside the cage.

  “This is familiar,” Brody told him.

  Evaristus pushed rough material through the bars. “If you insist on defying the guards, you will keep finding yourself in these bear cages. It is a fate entirely in your own hands.”

  “That’s a familiar refrain, too,” Brody replied, sliding the fabric under his butt. “You don’t happen to have any food, as well?”

  “Not yet,” Evaristus told him. “Did the lady Ariadne not feed you?”

  “In all ways,” Brody told him. “But I’m hungry again.”

  “Then the blow they gave you didn’t permanently damage your head,” Evaristus judged. “You have a very thick skull.”

  “So I’m told,” Brody replied dryly.

  Evaristus lifted his head and turned it, questing. Brody recognized the movement and the odd cocking of his head. Evaristus had heard something with his extra-range vampire senses.

  “What is it?” Brody asked.

  “Footsteps. Boots. Many of them, coming this way,” Evaristus replied.

  “Boots. That’s something official.” Brody looked toward the entrance to the cavern, where the wide, well lit passage led directly to the street. There were several flights of stairs on the way, and a well-guarded gate at the street entrance. Only guard-escorted members of the public with authentic reasons to be here or people in authority would have got past the guards. Slaves were brought in to the cavern via the Hippodrome entrance, and guards used a private portal on a side street.

  After nearly a full minute had passed, Brody heard the susurration that heralded the arrival of many people, thrumming along the air issuing from the mouth of the big tunnel.

  No one else had heard it yet. Everyone was going about their business in ignorance, but gradually, one by one, heads began to turn as they heard the approaching boots and turned to look toward the main tunnel.

  The guards were cautious. Zeno sent six of them to stand in loose formation around the entrance. They didn’t draw weapons, for the guards on shift at the front gate had passed the approaching strangers through. But the slaves, chariots and equipment in the interconnected caverns represented a huge investment in capital and were high income producers. It wasn’t unheard of for raiders to pirate the caverns of high-producing chariot outfits, steal the slaves and equipment and supply their own caverns. It was worthwhile to be cautious about a large group coming down the tunnel.

  The guards—everyone, in fact—fell back half a step either mentally or physically, when the group emerged from the tunnel and stepped into the cavern proper, for half of the men in the group wore the colors of the Emperor’s own officials, and the guards accompanying them were army soldiers.

  “The Emperor sends his minions here. This looks…interesting,” Evaristus murmured.

  A short man with cropped black hair and thick brows, and the dark olive skin of an island Greek stepped out from behind the guards, as Basilides moved forward with a bow and a subservient smile.

  “I seek the man called Zeno,” the official told Basilides, tapping a scroll against his other palm.

  Basilides failed to hide his relief, while Zeno looked startled, the brow over his one eye lifting. He swallowed and moved forward reluctantly as Basilides bowed low again and stepped backwards at the same time.

  “I am Zeno,” he told the official.

  “I am Tarasios,” the little man replied, looking up at Zeno. “I am honored to work with Cosmos, who has the honor of collecting taxes for our great Emperor.”

  Zeno looked puzzled. “You are welcome here, Tarasios, but I fail to see why you seek me out. My affairs are in order. I have paid my taxes.”

  “The official taxes, yes.” Tarasios unrolled the scroll. “Certain unofficial transactions and income you have been privy to throughout the year have come to our attention. You did not report these items to the Emperor. Nor did you share tribute with him. He is most vexed about this.”

  “Sir?” Zeno queried, looking panicked. His face had drained of color.

  Brody glanced at Evaristus, a rich and warm humor flowing through him. A smile was tugging at his lips. Taylor had pulled this off. Somehow. She had been super-pissed about Zeno cutting short her night with him.

  “Never get on the wrong side of a scheming woman, Evaristus,” he murmured.

  The vampire glanced at him sharply. “This is the doing of your Ariadne?” he whispered.

  “The timing is too coincidental for it to be anything else,” Brody replied.

  Zeno was gripping his hands together. Pleading. “But I do not have fifty bezants!” he cried.

  Tarasios was completely unmoved. “It is a pity you did not think to put the money aside when you first earned it.”

  “But I didn’t—” Zeno began, then stopped as he realized that declaring he had not earned the money would win him no sympathy, either. He shot a helpless glance toward Oresme, who had emerged from the room where the off-duty guards sometimes relaxed before and in between their shifts. Oresme was standing with his arms crossed, absorbing the situation.

  Brody realized that Taylor was sending Oresme a message, too. “Oh, you are one wicked schemer, Maggie Taylor Yates,” he murmured.

  When Oresme didn’t leap to help Zeno, the one-eyed guard realized he was on his own. His shoulders slumped and he turned back to face Tarasios. “I do not have such a sum put aside,” he said flatly. “Is there some arrangement we can come to, instead?” />
  Tarasios let the scroll roll up with a snap of parchment. “Slavery is the usual course in these matters, in order to pay the debt.”

  Zeno winced.

  Tarasios smiled. “But this is a first transgression. I’m sure we can transmute that remedy.”

  Zeno looked hopeful.

  Tarasios glanced at his companions, who all looked dour and disapproving. Tarasios shrugged. “Very well. Public flogging in the market.” He clicked his fingers and the soldiers all surged forward, to grip Zeno by the arms.

  Zeno let out a squeak of protest that sounded high and frightened as the soldiers stripped him of his weapons and armor. He glanced pleadingly at Oresme and Basilides, who stood motionless and silent.

  Tarasios bowed regally toward Basilides as the soldiers marched Zeno out through the main tunnel. He smiled widely and turned and moved down the tunnel himself, his companions falling in behind him.

  Brody let out his breath in a gusty exhalation. “I wish I had my video camera, or even a cellphone so Taylor could see it later. That was priceless.”

  Evaristus frowned. “Those would be things of the future, I would be guessing.”

  Brody nodded. He gripped the bars in front of Evaristus. “She’s going to go after Oresme next,” he said quietly. “She’ll let Basilides stew in the stink of his own fear.”

  Evaristus jerked his chin a fraction toward the pair of them. “Look, it’s already working.”

  Brody glanced over his shoulder. Basilides was carefully not looking at anyone. There was sheen of sweat at his brow and temples and at the base of his throat, just above the neck of his tunic.

  * * * * *

  There was one advantage to travelling about the city with a large contingent of people, Taylor discovered: It tended to halt traffic, both foot traffic and vehicles. It was just what she needed to corner Oresme at the far end of the Regia, the colonnaded stretch of the Mese that runs into the forum of Constantine, where all the processions and festivals tended to go.