Fated: Torn Apart by History, Bound for Eternity (41 page)

He undid her toga, letting the linen fall away, exposing her fair skin to the stars above. Brutus hovered over her, coursing his hands over her form, yet not quite touching her. She could feel the heat of skin, which made her only yearn more for his caress. But it appeared he would not be satisfied with a night of average passion.

Brutus strove to drive her to distraction.

Her nipples hardened as he played, yet did not play, with them. Her body cried out to rise up to him and force his touch, but she willed herself still. Instead she savored every moment he teased her. Every moment he promised to touch, then withdrew in the last moment.

As Brutus played coy, this night was nothing like that first time. It had been hot and fast, neither of them knowing the world of ultimate pleasure lay in the waiting.

But then there was waiting, and then there was sweet agony. She was so moist it dampened the rug beneath her. Her breath caught in her throat, not sure whether to rush out or be held in.

“
Take me,” she moaned.

Brutus positioned himself over her. “Do not worry, Syra. I shall.”

* * *

The fire was dying out as the moon dipped beneath the tree line. Creatures stirred in the brush, heralding the coming of dawn, yet Brutus did not try to sleep.

Their lovemaking had lasted long into the night until they both collapsed back onto the rug, exhausted yet exhilarated. Not long after, Syra had fallen asleep in the crook of his arm.

He studied her tranquil face. The lines of worry that normally etched it were smoothed out as her breath came at a slow, steady pace. Brutus wanted to remember every contour into his mind. No matter that every life brought a new color of skin or texture of hair, a light shown from her that transcended race. He would know her in any form she wore.

How many times had he nearly balked, wanting to wake her and beg her to memorize each passing moment, for each was their last? But he knew her mood would sour and that she would fight him with verve, derailing his plan.

Brutus knew that he must die. The Fates had made sure of that. But Syra? She could live on. No, she must live on.

He worried for their strange Awakening in this life. So late that they nearly missed the Crux. Had they grown lax? Did they not cherish their love and the gift that brought them together anew?

This was why he had created this precious night. To bring them so close together that the march of time could not tear them asunder.

* * *

Syra gritted her teeth in frustration as she swung the broadsword over her head. She never should have let Brutus distract her with soft words and a ring of fire. She should have pressed for a more aggressive attack.

Across the battlefield, Antony’s troops were buoyed by their larger number and fought hard to push their advantage. The brash Roman had already called in his reserves, pressing for a quick victory. She took another swipe at a centurion who bore down upon her.

Where were their reinforcements? They could not allow Antony to gain too strong an upper hand. Risking a glance back, Syra tried to determine why the troops they had held back were not engaged in battle. But to the south, not only were the fresh soldiers not rallying to their defense, they were not there at all. Only a lone figure stood upon the knoll.

Horat.

Concern crossed her face. Had the man somehow betrayed them?

Spinning around and cutting a Roman off at the knees, Syra looked at Brutus, who fought a few paces behind her. Their eyes met, and she realized it was not Horat who betrayed them, but Brutus himself. Realization made her stumble forward, nearly succumbing to a blow from the side.

Quickly dispatching the aggressor, Syra’s gaze sought out Brutus again. Why had he done such a thing? Her question earlier of his desire to lose the battle had been rhetorical. Never had she imagined it to be his true goal.

The night before. That had not been a simple anniversary. It had been a parting gift.

Brutus smiled—a very strange thing to do upon the heated battleground. Then he spread his arms wide, leaving himself open to attack.

“
No!” Syra screamed as she rushed up the hill.

He took a wound to the belly, but refused to raise his own sword. Brutus took another body blow by the time Syra could rise to his defense. She nearly cut the unfortunate soldier in half to get to her Fated. He slumped to the ground, his tunic already saturated in blood. Not caring about the risk to herself, she sank to her knees, trying to stanch the flow.

“
Why?” she begged as she tore off a strip of his toga for a tourniquet.

“
We must talk, Syra.”

“
We shall, once we are off this cursed island.” She refused to give into his flawed scheme. The man had no sense when it came to his own life.

Brutus pushed her hands away from his flailed stomach. “Too many have died to keep me alive. Let it end.”

Syra’s throat felt constricted beyond words as she pushed his weak hands away and worked on the wound. “Then let it end! We shall leave—”

Brutus’ words were laced with pain—his breath now came at a price. “Brutus will be known as many things, Syra. A coward is not one of them.”

“
What do you care what they call Brutus?” Syra spat out the Roman name as if it were a spoiled piece of meat.

His hand found hers even though his eyes were now glazed, staring out blankly into the noonday sun. “You are unburdened now. Take this life. Go to the Cave—”

Brutus’ sentence was cut short as a ragged cough seized his body.

“
Never. Horat knows the all. I can take—”

“
North, then. Go home, Syra.”

She could feel his hand go slack in hers. Desperate to stop the bleeding, she dropped his palm and put more pressure on his stomach.

“
You will come with me, Brutus.”

His words were slurred. “Promise me.”

“
Only if you come with me.”

Brutus’ head fell back, and his lips moved as if they had molasses on them. “Promise me you will live, or I will not go peacefully.”

Syra could see the pain that swept across his face with each inhalation. He was clinging to a life that was clearly over. Her own belly ached in response. Damn him. Why must he always be the noble one?

“
I promise.”

Somehow he found the strength to grip her hand again. “Swear it.”

Syra leaned over her dying lover and whispered in his ear, “I swear it.”

Another cough shook his body. Syra could feel the agony in her own bones. Tears ran down her face and splashed upon his skin, but she cared not. Now his breath came in interrupted pained gasps. His lips moved, but hardly any air escaped. It did not need to, for she knew the words he spoke.

“
I love you more than the sun loves the day.”

She answered, “I love you more than the moon loves the night.”

Brutus’ last words were loud enough for her to hear.

“
For eternity.”

“
For eternity,” Syra said as she kissed his lips, but they were already motionless.

A torrent of emotion welled from deep inside as she wailed over his body.

“
No!” She shouted to the sky. To the Fates. To any god who would listen. “No!”

Syra pushed herself up to her feet and spun toward the battle. The fighting was too far to be any good to her. Damn her promise. How could he expect her live with such pain? What would be the point? She would only rise each morning and curse herself.

They had stayed to the south of a stand of trees to protect them from the volley of Antony’s archers. She needed no such protection now. Eyes swimming with moisture, she charged around the trees. At the least, Antony’s archers were well trained. The first arrow found her in the gut.

Pain arched through her, but she held her ground. She needed to be certain that this was the end. She would rejoin Brutus as soon as the second arrow struck true into the chest.

Before she could stumble back, another hit her arm. Using her left hand, she brought the arrows off at the skin and lurched back to Brutus’ body. Her head swam with anguish, but she kept her feet moving.

Falling, Syra landed next to her love. Crawling with her one good arm, she curled up against his still chest, as she had the night before. Her ragged breaths spilled blood across his skin, but she cared not. The sooner she died, the sooner they could be reunited.

With her last breath, Syra called to him, “For eternity.”

* * *

Horat forced himself to watch Syra fall against Brutus’ body.

Like Guardians for ages past, Horat made himself witness the sordid scene until it played out. How he wished to rush across the battlefield and scoop both of their bodies into his arms. How he wished Brutus had never given him the order to disperse the reserve troops.

For generations yet to come, he had done as requested, but it ate at his heart. He had loved Brutus as the child he had never been blessed with.

Closing his eyes as Antony’s army swarmed the bodies, Horat could stand no more and turned away. There was nothing left now but to return to the Cave and share all that he had gathered.

Released from his Guardianship, Horat was now free to find a woman and bear his own children. A son, grandson, or even a great-grandson, must be ready to assist the Fated. The Order’s task was never done.

Horat mouthed the words he had seen Syra utter.

For eternity.

###

Afterword

I love to look at the “bad guys” of history and see if maybe they weren’t so “bad” after all. If you don’t believe me, you can check out my super-controversial historical thriller
30 Pieces of Silver
, where I take an extremely controversial look at Judas’ role in the crucifixion.

For
Fated
though I was immediately drawn to Brutus. He has been so maligned throughout history as Caesar’s assassin—a man who betrayed his leader and good friend.

As I began to spin the tale of lovers destined to find one another through the great stretches of history, I could not get Brutus out of my head. And then once I began the months of research into ancient Rome, I became more and more certain that Brutus was the story I wanted to tell.

Many people ask me about my inspiration for Syra. I knew that I wanted a stark counterpoint to Brutus. Red-haired and fair-skinned, she was the perfect yin to Brutus’ yang. Fiery and impulsive, I knew she could bring out the qualities I wanted in my imagining of Brutus.

I am also asked why I ended the book the way that I did.

To me, there was no question of the end scene. The lives of the Fated are not milk and honey. They live by the sword, and they die by the sword. Theirs are lives that can only be described as bittersweet.

To understand the series moving forward (there is a cycle of three novels set in a variety of ancient times, then another cycle of three books in modern times) you have to feel the pathos and swim in it if you are to really “get” the next books and their growth throughout.

Again, I hope you enjoyed
Fated
, because I can hardly wait to continue their tale!

The sequel to
Fated
, titled
Bound
, will be out in the summer of 2012. But do not despair! I have several other books out that might tide you over until then.

The first is
HeartsBlood
, a paranormal romance thriller. While the story is set in the present day, the hero is steeped in medieval flavor.

And just like
Fated
, all is not what it appears to be.

A woman of science.

A man of magic.

Hunted for their HeartsBlood.