Assassin's Heart

by Monica Burns

  She waited for his response to drift through her head. When he refused, she reached for the dagger in his boot. With a swift stroke, she made a deep cut in her palm.

  “My heart for your heart,” she murmured as she ignored Ares’s and Cleo’s gasps. When she grabbed his hand, he tried to resist, but he had no strength. The dagger sliced through Lysander’s palm. As his palm ran red with blood, she stared down into his green-eyed gaze.

  “Say the words,” she said hoarsely.

  “No. I can’t let you do this, mea amor .” His voice was stronger in her head, but she could tell how weak he was by the obvious effort it took to concentrate.

  “Goddamn it, say the words,” she rasped. “My blood for your blood. Say it, damn you.”

  “Don’t do this, Phaedra. You need to let me go, dolce cuore .” His words whispered in her head as invisible fingers touched her cheek.

  “Do you trust me, Lysander?” His gaze focused on hers, glazing over slightly, and in the back of her head she heard him whisper yes. It was enough for her, and she pressed her bleeding palm into his, their blood mixing together. “Then if you won’t say it, I will. My blood for your blood. Our blood and hearts are one.”

  Her heart beat frantically as she could feel him slipping away from her. In response, she squeezed her hand tighter around his. Eyes closed, she prayed with all her heart that performing the blood bond would give him what he needed. The only thing she had left in her was her ability to heal herself. But if he received enough of her blood, perhaps it would be enough. With every beat of her heart, she willed him to fight—to stay with her.

  Weak and exhausted, the first pain when it came startled her into opening her eyes. She sucked in a sharp breath, which only exacerbated the pain in her side. Glancing downward, she saw blood spreading across her stomach. Behind her, Ares uttered a soft curse.

  “Il Christi omnipotentia, it’s his kidneys. Phae, you need to let go. Now.”

  “No.” She barely recognized the sound of her voice. It was weak and hoarse. She focused her gaze toward Lysander. Was it possible his color was returning? Lightheaded, she swayed against the dizzy spell that swept over her.

  The nausea returned, and she blinked as Lysander’s features blurred. Confused, she fought to keep her hand curled around his as first one wave of dizziness after another rolled over her. As if from a distance, she heard people calling out her name, but she couldn’t answer. Then she heard Lysander whispering in her thoughts. When she tried to touch his thoughts with her own, a sudden whoosh echoed in her ears and it made her feel like she was flying backward.

  Moments later, the sensation ended as suddenly as it began. It was as if someone had jerked her to an abrupt halt, and the first thing she noticed was her body felt as though it were on fire. A dull roar echoed in her ears, and when she opened her eyes, she recognized the Piazza Saepta Julia. But not the Piazza Saepta Julia of today. Il Christi omnipotentia, she was in ancient Rome. Care Deus, she was in Cassiopeia’s body at her execution. Flames licked against her feet until she could see blisters forming on her skin. The pain was agonizing, and terror streaked through her as she realized she was going to die a horrible death.

  “Cass, mea amor , I’m here. Focus on my thoughts, carissima .” Relief swelled inside her. He was here. He’d find a way to save her. The heat from the flames abated, and while the pain was terrible, she could tolerate it. The only explanation she could think of for the relief was that he was somehow shielding her with his ability.

  “Maximus.”

  “That’s it, carissima . Look at me, mea kara .”

  His thoughts showed her where to look, and she turned her gaze toward the podium, where she saw him stagger to his feet. The sight of the horrible wound on his face made her strain at the rope binding her to the stake.

  “Mea Deus , what have they done to you?”

  “I’ll survive.”

  There was a tormented bitterness in the thought that made her realize he couldn’t reach her. Fear rose in her again as she saw the distance between them, and the angry crowd that kept him from her. He would survive, but she wouldn’t. She coughed from the wisps of smoke filling the air around her. He was strong, but not strong enough to keep the flames off her for long.

  “Dulcis Vesta.”

  “Do you trust me, Cass?” His calm presence in her head soothed her.

  “Yes,” she said as she met his gaze over top of the mob. And she did. She trusted him to do whatever it took to keep her safe. “I love you, Maximus.”

  “And I you, mea amor . Close your eyes, Cass. The pain will be gone in a moment.”

  She did as he ordered, tears streaming down her cheeks. There was a sharp prick of pain in her chest and then it was over. The pain was gone. Somewhere in the deep recesses of her mind, she heard Maximus—or was it Lysander?—shouting out her name. He called to her, but she couldn’t answer.

  Chapter 28

  MAXIMUS sank to his knees as he saw Cass sag against the stake, his dagger protruding from her heart. Flames rose skyward, and over the cries of the mob, he heard the sound of a wild animal screaming in agony. The cries were his. A rough hand caught him by the arm, but he shrugged it off with a violent twist of his body.

  “She’s gone, Maximus. She’s no longer in pain.”

  Tevy’s voice was a distant roar in his ear as he sobbed uncontrollably. Not even his heart being ripped out of his chest could be this painful. He’d killed her. Her and their unborn child. The agony of it made him rip at his cloak like a madman. Her blood was on his hands, and he would never forgive himself for deserting her.

  “For the love of Vesta, Maximus. Look at what you saved her from.” His friend viciously forced his head up and made him look at the flames shooting upward. The sight of Cass’s body engulfed in the bonfire pulled the air out of his lungs until he didn’t think he would ever breathe again.

  “You did what you had to do. You saved her from enduring that terrible death.” Tevy’s hand bit into his shoulder, his friend’s voice harsh with emotion. “She wouldn’t want you to stay here. One of Octavian’s men got the bastard to safety. He’ll have this mob after you the minute he realizes what you did. They’ll want your head, too.”

  “It doesn’t matter what they do to me now,” he rasped. “She’s gone. Everything I held dear is gone.”

  “No,” his friend exclaimed with urgency. “Demetri may be alive. Posca is a resourceful man, and he’d give his life for your son.”

  “Leave me be, Tevy.” He jerked away from his friend’s grip and sagged forward. Tevy was right. The moment the crowd realized he’d saved his wife from pain, they’d have his head. He welcomed it, because there was nothing anyone could do to him now that would match the agony he was in at this precise moment in time. His beautiful, loving, sweet wife was gone. Murdered by his own hand.

  “Forgive me, Maximus.” Tevy’s voice was gruff, and in his grief, Maximus didn’t consider what his friend’s words meant until a heavy blow hit the back of his head. The last things he saw were yellow flames consuming his beloved’s body and the dagger that killed her.

  LYSANDER jerked upright with a startled cry. He blinked as he looked around the room. It was morning. Still disoriented, he realized he was holding on to the cold metal rail of a hospital bed. Phaedra. His gaze jerked toward the bed. Desperate to reassure himself that

  she was real and not a figment of his imagination, he captured her hand.

  The warmth of her fingers against his eased the pain and horror inside. Slowly, the dream ebbed away. It was the past. Maximus and Cassiopeia were long dead. He grimaced. That wasn’t exactly true. Even though he was a believer now, he still had trouble grasping the fact that he had once lived as Maximus in ancient Rome with Phaedra as his wife Cassiopeia.

  He stared down at her. She looked like she was sleeping. When they’d brought her to the Order’s private medical facility here in Genova, he’d been certain she’d wake up in a matter of hours. But it had been a m
onth since that night in the Pantheon with no change in her condition. The doctors still couldn’t explain why she was in a coma, and as each day passed, they seemed less optimistic about her recovery.

  He spent his nights sleeping in a foldout chair beside her bed, showered in her private bath, and sat holding her hand, reading to her, talking to her in hopes she’d come to. Unlike the doctors, he refused to give in to the pessimism the rest of the medical staff had begun to exhibit. Phaedra was strong. She’d fought too hard for the two of them to be together. He couldn’t believe she’d give up now.

  The steady beep of the heart monitor filled the room, while he could hear the earlymorning sounds of the hospital stirring to life beyond the room’s closed door. For just a brief moment, he released her hand to lower the railing. Elbows resting on the mattress, he raised her hand to press his mouth to the scar in her palm.

  The blood bond between them had worked as she’d obviously hoped. Her ability of selfhealing had transferred to him, helping him come back from death’s door. In the process, she’d gone where he’d been—the edge of death’s door—only she hadn’t come back. His body convulsed with grief before he dragged in a deep breath.

  “Please, inamorato, I can’t bear to live without you as I did in ancient Rome.”

  The warm fingers enclosed in his hand flexed suddenly, and his heart skipped a beat. He jerked up his head, hoping he’d see her looking at him, but her eyes remained closed. Christus, what artifact was worth losing the woman he loved twice in two lifetimes? The door whispered open behind him, and he turned his head to see Ares, followed by Emma, come into the room. He turned back to Phaedra.

  “Ares and Emma are here, mea amor.”

  He prayed for her fingers to stir against his again, but they didn’t. A strong hand came to rest on his shoulder, and he looked up to see Ares’s resigned expression.

  “Anything?”

  The question made him shake his head as he turned back to Phaedra. There hadn’t been

  anything new to report since she’d arrived here in Genova. Occasionally, her fingers would move like they had a minute ago. Then there were the times when someone spoke to her and a slight grimace would twist her features. He hadn’t even been able to read her mind and help guide her back to the land of the living versus the twilight she occupied. Every time his thoughts reached out to her, he encountered a barrier between them. Something that kept him out.

  “The doctor told me they want to put a feeding tube in.” Ares’s words sucked the air out of Lysander’s chest, and the hopelessness roaring through him made him want to rip something apart.

  “What did you tell him?”

  “I told him to ask you. The blood bond gives you the right to make that decision.”

  “No,” he said fiercely as anguish slugged its way through him like a hammer pounding every inch of his body. “We didn’t blood bond. I refused to say the words. I failed her.”

  The heart monitor in the room beeped erratically as he spoke, and Phaedra’s fingers jerked in his hand. He was on his feet in an instant, leaning over her, his mouth pressing against her forehead and then her cheek.

  “I know you can hear me, carissima. Come back to me. I need you, dolce cuore.”

  She went still again, and the beep of the monitor slowed to its usual steady pace. His heart sank, just like it did every time she stirred. He dropped back down into the chair. It was agonizing to see her this way. He needed to hear her voice … see the warmth in her smile when she looked at him … feel her touch on the scars that covered his body and his heart. Needed to hold her … love her. Desperate to ignore the pain inside him, he turned his head toward Ares.

  “Are Atia and Tevy … Marcus … deciphering the contents of the Tyet of Isis?”

  “Not yet. It’s going to take some time. The parchment is fragile, and it’s falling apart. It could be months before they’re able to piece it together. They left yesterday with the artifact. They’re taking it to the White Cloud estate for safekeeping and examination.” Ares crossed the floor to sit in one of the chairs the hospital provided visitors. “Neither one of them think the Genova stronghold can withstand a full-out Praetorian assault because it’s so isolated and close to Rome. Nicostratus isn’t going to let the Tyet of Isis go so easily, now that he knows we have it.”

  Lysander flinched at the sound of his Praetorian father’s name. Maybe he’d been wrong to keep Ares and Cleo from going after the bastardo. No. Nicostratus was his responsibility and no one else’s. The Patriarch was unfinished business that would have to wait for the time being. Soon the man’s life would be forfeited for all the pain he’d caused. Not only for Phaedra’s loss of her parents or for what his mother had suffered, but for Atia and

  Marcus for the loss of their son, and Ares as well. Even Gabriel had paid a price for being kidnapped as a child.

  “I’ll deal with Nicostratus soon enough,” he bit out. “What about Marcus? Has he recovered fully?”

  “Yes.” Ares had a grim look on his face as he tilted his head in a slight nod. “If Atia hadn’t disobeyed your order and returned to the temple with Ignacio in tow, I’ve no doubt Gabriel would have killed him.”

  “Women, they never listen,” he whispered.

  Phaedra had saved his life because she hadn’t listened to him. In return, she’d offered up her life for his. He automatically reached out with his mind to try and breach the mental barrier between them. It was like hitting a steel wall that didn’t give an inch. Christus , why couldn’t he reach her? The possibility that she might never respond filled him with a bleak despair. It was the same sensation he’d experienced the night Nicostratus had told him that he was half-Praetorian.

  “Maybe when we don’t listen it’s because our instincts tell us to do otherwise.” Emma’s gentle chide made him look at her, and she offered him a sympathetic smile. “She saved your life because she loves you, and because she believes the two of you are Maximus and Cassiopeia.”

  For a second time the heart monitor accelerated rapidly, and Phaedra’s fingers flexed in his hand as her features contorted into a grimace he could have sworn was frustration. He squeezed her fingers and scooted his seat so he was closer to where her dark hair spilled across her pillow. Hair he brushed for her every morning after her sponge bath.

  “Does she do that often?” There was an odd note in Emma’s voice, and he sent her a puzzled look.

  “Just once in a while. But it’s the second time in the last hour, which is a little unusual. Although the doctors say it can happen fairly frequently.”

  “When she does move, do you remember what you were saying or doing when it happened?”

  “No.” He frowned for a moment as he met his friend’s gaze across the bed. “Why?”

  “Well, it looked to me she heard every word you said and was trying to respond.” Emma leaned forward to stroke her sister-in-law’s forehead and brush back several stray hairs.

  “Maybe, but I’m not so sure anymore,” he said with a sense of defeat.

  The room went silent again, and he didn’t bother to look at either Emma or Ares to see

  their reaction. The only thing keeping him from accepting the diagnosis of the doctors was the notion of living without her. That thought was even more agonizing than the prospect of sitting here thinking she might never wake up.

  “Have you had any more dreams lately?” Emma’s quiet question made him jump.

  “Nothing significant.” He clenched his jaw. What he’d dreamt a short while ago had been a nightmare. Fuck, his whole existence right now was a nightmare. “Why?”

  “No reason.” Emma shrugged. “Atia asked if you’d mentioned any. She said something about a prophecy she’d shared with you and Phae.”

  “I did what was expected of me. I found the Tyet of Isis, and look what it cost me.” He jerked his head in Phaedra’s direction, refusing to hide his anger or bitterness. Atia’s damn prophecy had taken from him the only thing short of his honor that he car
ed about.

  “Atia doesn’t seem to think you’ve completed the task.”

  “What more does she want me to do?” He glared at Emma, who didn’t flinch as she reached into her purse and pulled out a familiar-looking object.