by Monica Burns
“Tevy. Is it really you?” Lysander said with an air of disbelief.
“I always said I would come back stronger than you, if simply to save you from yourself. It seems I was right.” The Sicari Lord released a soft laugh. “Although it took you longer to realize the truth than I did. You always were stubborn.”
“I should have recognized you the night I fought the Praetorian Dominus,” Lysander exclaimed as he gave the Sicari Lord a boisterous brotherly hug. “By the Gods, Tevy, it’s good to see you, old friend.
“And you, my friend, but it might be less confusing for everyone if you call me Marcus.”
“Confusing is an understatement,” Lysander said in a wry voice.
“It’s good to see you as well, Domina.” The Sicari Lord she recognized as Tevy turned to her and bowed slightly. At a loss for a proper response, she nodded her head at him, and he laughed again. “It is a bit unsettling, isn’t it? I almost envy those who don’t remember their past existences. There are distinct advantages to not remembering the failures of the past.”
His voice had taken on a serious note, and she stepped forward to touch his arm. “Regrets are for the past. The present is what’s important now.”
“Agreed.” He nodded his head.
“Will someone please tell me what the fuck is going on here?” As always, Cleo’s colorful language was a shock to those who didn’t know her, and the Sicari Lord eyed her carefully.
“That will take far more time than we have to spare, carissima.” The term of endearment made Cleo narrow her eyes at the Sicari Lord, while behind him, Atia and Ignacio both jumped with what she could have sworn was fear. The man didn’t seem to notice and turned his head to Lysander. “I believe you know where the artifact is.”
The man didn’t even question Lysander’s knowledge, he simply believed. With a nod, Lysander headed toward one of the darkened niches. Instinctively, Phaedra knew it had once housed a statue of Vesta, the goddess Maximus had always prayed to. The sensation of Cassiopeia’s memories fluttering to life inside her was unnerving, just like Tevy … Marcus … had said. Not to mention confusing.
As Lysander and his friend from the ancient past quickly crossed the temple’s marble floor, she followed them. When they reached the niche, Lysander squatted over a central spot in front of what was now a tomb. The beam of his flashlight moved slowly across the marble flooring in an obvious search pattern. A second later, the light stopped moving, and with a gesture toward Marcus, Lysander silently directed the Sicari Lord to hold the light.
She immediately sensed the escalation of tension in the temple as Cassiopeia’s dagger flashed in the moonlight. Her own heart skipped a beat as Lysander looked up at her. The hesitation in his gaze made her nod at him with a smile of encouragement. She saw his throat bob with emotion before he turned his attention back to the marble tile in front of him.
As the group’s varying degrees of excitement and nervous energy assaulted her senses, she blocked the vibrating emotions in a natural effort to protect herself. With careful precision, Lysander tapped the tip of the blade along one of the spidery brown lines spilling across the white marble. He tested first one line and then another. The soft tapping noise continued until the dagger’s tip dipped below the surface.
Atia drew in a sharp breath, and Marcus sent her a look that made Phaedra think there was more between the two than anyone else realized. Phaedra’s gaze shifted back to Lysander. As she watched, he wiggled the tip of the weapon under the marble, and she could see a piece of cracked tile slowly pushing upward under the pressure. A moment later, the tile popped out of the marble floor like a single puzzle piece.
Hidden among the copious number of brown spidery lines winding their way across the white marble floor, the cracked tile had remained virtually undetectable for centuries. Carefully, he set the tile aside and leaned forward. One hand braced on the floor, Lysander slowly reached into the small hole until his entire arm disappeared from view. He grunted as he strained for something that seemed to be just out of his grasp.
With another sound of exertion, his entire shoulder dropped toward the hole in the floor as he reached for whatever was hidden beneath the tile. A whisper of excitement drifted through her head, and she recognized his thoughts caressing her.
“It’s here, carissima . We found it. We found the Tyet of Isis .”
“No, caro . You found it. You did it.”
With a triumphant grin, Lysander pulled the artifact free of the floor and held it up in the air with a low cry of excitement. In his hand was a small box, about the size of a jeweler’s necklace box. The tangible sensation of someone forcing her to reach out for the artifact made her gasp, while the avaricious need sweeping through her chilled the back of her neck. The jubilation she’d felt in Lysander evaporated as he was on his feet and at her side in a split second.
“They’re here,” he said in a terse tone.
The invisible touch on her hand slowly trailed its way up her arm to slide across her shoulder to the side of her neck. The terror slogging its way through her veins churned her stomach, and a vicious tremor rocked her body. Beside her, Lysander growled as his gaze met hers. He couldn’t see Gabriel touching her, but he could read her fear, and she sensed the darkness in him fighting to take control of him.
“Don’t, carino. They want you to lose control. It will make you vulnerable.”
She wasn’t sure how she knew this, but she sensed the level of frustration rise in Gabriel the moment she spoke. The Praetorian Dominus immediately squeezed her neck in a brutal grip, and her fingers grabbed at her throat in an attempt to stop the unseen hand from choking her. As she gasped for air, the Sicari Lord turned to study the wide expanse of the darkened nave.
“Are you so afraid of me that you find it necessary to attack a woman?” The quiet taunt brought her immediate relief as a low snarl echoed through the air from the other side of the temple.
“Tonight we end this once and for all, you whoreson.” Gabriel’s response sent a wave of sorrow blasting through her, and she wasn’t sure whether it came from across the nave or from the Sicari Lord himself. The moment the Sicari Lord stepped forward, Lysander stretched out his hand to stop the man.
“Tevy—Marcus …”
“It will be like old times, my friend,” the Sicari Lord said with a slight curve of his lips.
It was still hard to think of the man as Marcus when her memories of ancient Rome told her different. The man she’d known as Tevy so long ago bowed slightly in her direction before he turned his head in Atia’s direction. The intense look of sorrow and resignation darkening his expression equaled the pain on the Prima Consul’s face as he nodded in her direction.
“Mea gladius non voluntas concidi, mea kara.”
Phaedra jerked slightly in surprise. My sword will not fail, my beloved. The words surprised her as much as they did Ares and Cleo, but there wasn’t time to make any observations as the Sicari Lord moved toward the center of the temple. Out of the darkness she saw Gabriel striding forward, his cloak streaming out from behind him due to his fast pace. Marcus raced toward the Praetorian Dominus, drawing his sword out from under his cloak. With blinding speed, the two men leaped into the air, their swords crashing together like a steel thunderclap inside the nave.
As the two men battled in the center of the temple, shadows on the opposite wall shifted and moved forward to stand at the edge of the circle of moonlight that spilled out from the oculus above. She pulled in a sharp breath of horror at the sight, and the reactions of everyone around her filled her ears as their emotions slammed into her like a runaway train.
“Merda.”
“Figlio di puttana.”
“Stronzo.”
“Oh, we are so fucked.” Cleo’s voice, along with Lysander’s, Ares’s, and Ignacio’s, rang out in a simultaneous sound of pessimism.
“Il Christi omnipotentia,” Ignacio muttered. “Am I counting right? There’s at least twelve of them.”
> “Thirteen if you count that testa di cazzo, Nicostratus. Christus, this is not good. How in the hell do we keep the Tyet of Isis out of their hands?” Cleo looked at Lysander, who immediately handed off the artifact to Atia.
“Ares, you and Ignacio get the Prima Consul out of here as quickly as you can.”
“I’m—” Atia broke off her response and nodded beneath Lysander’s glare. “You’re right. The Tyet of Isis mustn’t fall into Praetorian hands. But Ares stays. Ignacio will return once he sees me safely out of the temple.”
Lysander didn’t argue with her. Instead, he eyed the Praetorians walking steadily toward them, and she was certain he’d singled Nicostratus out of the group. Cleo grimaced and turned her head to look at the Prima Consul.
“I love you, Mother. Ignacio, I …take care of her.” She jerked her head back to watch the enemy heading toward them and drew her sword. “Watch the floor. The blood I’m going to spill will make this marble pretty slick.”
The observation made Ares smile slightly. “I second that optimistic point of view.”
“Ti amo con tutta l’anima.”
Lysander gently touched Phaedra’s thoughts with the vow of adoration. He didn’t just love her with all his heart. He loved her with every fiber of his being, and he intended to do whatever it took to keep her safe tonight. He watched her draw her sword out of the scabbard on her back and reached out to her with his mind. The telepathic connection between them was surprising in its strength as she opened her mind to him. Her love for him filled his mind, and he sucked in a quick breath at the strength of her love and her belief in him. He wouldn’t fail her.
“Bis vivit qui bene moritur,” Lysander growled as he drew his sword. He lives twice who dies well. The Sicari motto had never seemed more appropriate.
Seconds later, the Praetorians were on them. Steel crashed against steel, and when two Praetorians targeted Lysander, it forced him to go on the defensive. In a quick move, he ducked beneath a sword slicing through the air in the direction of his chest. Spinning lightly around on his feet, he dragged his own blade across the first Praetorian’s chest and continued to swing his body around in a tight circle until his sword sliced open the second Praetorian’s stomach.
It was a mortal wound and he knew it. With a thrust of his hand, his ability sent the first Praetorian flying backward to land hard on the marble floor. A loud crack told him the man had hit his head and wouldn’t be rising any time soon. Before he could turn to the man near his feet, two more Praetorians leaped in his direction.
Saving his mental reserves for his inevitable encounter with Nicostratus, he cleared his mind to focus and deliberately threw himself between the two approaching fighters. His sword raised above his head, he feinted to the left and then the right. The Praetorians responded with counter swings and just before his sword connected with theirs, he sent his weapon sliding across the floor then quickly tucked himself into a tight ball and rolled past the enemy fighters. As he sprang to his feet, his fingers wrapped around the leather grip of his sword as the weapon flew back into his hand.
Unprepared for his move, the Praetorians found it impossible to stop the momentum of their blades, and they sliced into each other almost simultaneously. Their resulting grunts of pain tugged a grim smile to his face. His satisfaction vanished as his gaze darted to where Phaedra was battling two Praetorians of her own. It was obvious they were holding back with her, which meant they were under orders to simply subdue her. He tried to maneuver closer to her but found his way blocked by one of the Praetorians he’d outmaneuvered.
“Sorry, Unmentionable. We’ve got plans for the bitch.”
The Praetorian’s words struck a sharp blow to his gut at the thought of Phaedra in the hands of these bastardi. The smile on the man’s face said the other fighter had seen his slight slip in control. He tightened his focus and strengthened the shield covering his thoughts. The Praetorian’s expression suddenly turned gleeful, and Lysander immediately sensed the second bastardo charging him from behind. He opened his senses a little more, and just when his attacker’s sword was about to fall, he jumped to one side and swung his blade up and across the Praetorian’s throat in one smooth stroke. Not bothering to watch the bastardo fall, he offered a taunting smile at the other fighter.
The dead Praetorian’s partner roared with anger then leaped forward. In a surprise move, Lysander’s opponent jumped high into the air, and his foot slammed into the scarred side of Lysander’s face. Pain erupted inside his head as his head snapped backward, and he reeled to one side in an effort to remain standing. He failed. On his knees, he barely managed to block the sword aiming for his neck, and before he could recover, the Praetorian deftly switched his weapon to the opposite hand.
The moment the other fighter’s blade dug deep into the muscles of his arm, a searing pain eclipsed the throbbing in his head. Fuck. How in the hell was he supposed to fight a sword-carrying south-paw? Rolling away from the Praetorian, he stumbled to his feet, fighting to isolate and ignore the pain in his body. His arm limp at his side, he glanced in Phaedra’s direction to see one of her attackers slam an elbow into her head before his sword splayed her leg open just above the knee.
She didn’t cry out, but he heard the scream of pain in her mind. A cold rage pounded its way into his veins and muscles. It energized him, and as his opponent strutted forward with confidence, Lysander filled his thoughts with images of defeat to disguise his real intentions. The man’s arm flew upward with a slight laugh of triumph. The gleeful chuckle died in the Praetorian’s throat the instant Lysander thrust his sword up into the man’s chest. He almost didn’t perform the Order’s rite of Rogare Donavi. As if she could read his intentions, he felt the soft whisper of Phaedra’s thoughts drifting through his in protest. He gave in to her plea.
“I ask your forgiveness. Do you give it?” The mechanical note in Lysander’s voice indicated how little he cared whether the man answered yes or no. But he waited for the man’s answer. The Praetorian denied him.
“I hope you … rot in … hell, Unmentionable.”
“Then I’ll see you there,” he said grimly.
He threw his foot up to brace himself on the Praetorian’s thigh as he jerked his blade out of the man’s body. Not waiting to see the man fall, he whirled around to cover the short distance between him and the Praetorian about to strike Phaedra from behind. Adrenaline filled his uninjured arm with brute strength as he impaled the man with his sword. The fighter looked down at his chest, and Lysander didn’t have to see the man’s face to know how surprised the Praetorian was. In slow motion, the man slid off Lysander’s blade and fell to the marble floor. A low laugh echoed out of the darkness as the Praetorian crumpled to the blood-slicked floor. The sound made him wheel about to face the new danger.
“Well done, boy. You continue to impress me.” Nicostratus strolled casually out of the shadows to where Lysander could see him. The moment the Patriarch smiled, Lysander knew his mental shield had slipped and the man could see the hate seething inside him.
“I’m not here to impress you,” he snarled as he glanced in Phaedra’s direction to ensure she didn’t need help with the last Praetorian threatening her.
“Nonetheless, you do. I can’t help but believe there’s more of me flowing through your blood than you’d care to admit.”
A red haze clouded his mind for a moment before he heard a soft whisper of warning in his head. Whatever connected him to Phaedra had allowed her to remind him that Nicostratus wanted him to lose control. If he wanted to defeat the bastardo, he needed to remain calm and collected.
Immediately shielding his thoughts, he thrust his hand outward and directed an unseen pulse of energy that sent the Patriarch flying backward. Nicostratus hit the floor with a loud thud. It was a satisfying sound. As he strode forward, his father scrambled to his feet in an agile move. The man leaped forward, and a moment later, their swords crashed into each other. Sparks flew as the steel blades scraped upward and away
from each other. Nicostratus was stronger than he looked, and with one arm out of action, it would be harder to defeat the man, even with his telekinetic ability. Any other time he would have had the advantage, but now the playing field was fairly well balanced between the two of them. As his weapon slid off Nicostratus’s blade, he spun around on his heel to whip his body behind the man. In his mind, he visualized the man’s legs buckling beneath a vicious kick to the knees. The Patriarch released a loud oath as he fell forward.