Love Is in the Air (65 page)

Horat nodded and retreated from the doorway. Syra turned to the huddled woman. “Leave Rome, Lylith. Leave before
I
become jealous.”

Without another word, Syra caught up with Horat. “Brutus sent you?”

“Nay, he is still ignorant of his destiny, but the Order has been watching Lylith. When they realized her scheme, they sent me.”

“Then we must truly hurry to the Curia.”

Horat tried to comply, but the streets were thick with bystanders—each trying to catch a glimpse of the great general. But the crowd was sorely disappointed. Centurions were posted every few feet to keep the mob under control as they chanted for Caesar.

Horat urged her to the edge of the crowd where they might slip past unnoticed, but a guard stopped them.

“None but senators may enter.”

Horat bowed his head. “I am Brutus’ servant. He has sent for me.”

“None.”

Syra’s hand lashed out so fast that Horat did not even see her strike until the centurion fell to the ground unconscious.

“Quickly, get him to the alleyway,” Syra instructed.

While Horat helped, he was obviously confused. “But there are a dozen other guards between here and the Forum.”

“We need only his armor. There is an ancient passage between the Temple of Saturn and the Curia.”

“I have never heard of such a tunnel. Are you certain?” the servant asked.

“It had best be. I ordered it constructed.”

* * *

Brutus entered the small cubicle and pulled the curtain shut. He had thought to leave the Curia, but Antony was to arrive any moment with the latest word from Caesar. As much as he wanted to flee the conflict, Brutus was obliged to see this intrigue through. But with all eyes upon him, he felt the need for a bit of privacy. Was that not what these alcoves had been built for?

Closing his eyes, Brutus tried to free his heart from its turmoil. There was so much he regretted and so much he still had to atone for. Could history not slow its pace to a canter? Was it much to ask that the Ides passed without incident?

Alerted by the scraping of wood against marble, Brutus rose and backed away from the wall. The secret panel was opening. But that was impossible. No one else knew of its existence. The figure who emerged was even more impossible. The body was camouflaged in a centurion’s armor, but those eyes he could never mistake.

“Syra?”

“Brutus?”

For a moment he thought he was mistaken, but the woman removed her helmet, and her rich, red hair tumbled past her shoulders. She unlatched the breastplate and set it beside her. Syra searched his eyes and seemed to find them wanting.

“Do you remember?” Syra asked in her husky voice.

Her eyes sparkled green, and her lips were the deepest red. He found it hard to speak when he looked upon her. The effect made him stutter his answer. “I have wronged you.”

A look passed over Syra’s face, but Brutus could not fathom its meaning. She approached even closer. The smell of her skin was strong in his nostrils.

“You have done far more to me than that.”

Syra came up to him. So close that Brutus could feel the warmth of her body through her dress. The bare skin of his chest burned in response. If they were not in the Curia, Brutus might have lost control and reached out to stroke her long mane, but he kept his hands down. Her eyes searched his for an answer, but he did not know her question. What did the Northerner want?

“For it all, I am sorry.”

Her face was so close to Brutus that he detected a ghost of a smile pass over Syra’s lips. “Sorry? Oh, you will be. You have not known such regret as you will soon.”

Brutus stood fast as the Northerner leaned into him. At the points where her body pressed against his, Brutus felt a heat he never had before. His loins stirred, but the senator fought his desire. Now was not such a time. He must keep his wits about him.

Syra’s behavior was most strange, but Brutus could not make her stop. The Fates had granted him his wish, and despite the circumstances, the senator would not abandon this chance to make things right again.

“What do you feel for me?” Syra asked, her lips but a few inches from his own. Her breath brushed his cheek, making his pulse pound in his ear so loudly that he barely heard her words.

How could he answer? His throat was thick with desire, and his body ached to touch her. How could he voice words he had never spoken to any other woman? “You know already.”

“I must hear it from you,” Syra demanded, her eyes still searching his own. She dragged a fingernail down his outstretched arm, but the action did not hurt. Instead, it sent waves of gooseflesh across his skin. “Am I your slave, then?”

“Nay,” Brutus nearly groaned. “You were free from the moment I laid eyes upon you on the auction block.”

Syra’s other hand now lay upon his bare chest. Her palm burned against his naked skin. A finger dragged in lazy circles around his nipple. It hardened in response, much like the rest of his body did. Soon, he would not be able to hide his arousal. Her hips were pressed against him. What a sight this would make if someone walked in. Brutus tried to keep that in mind as she raised herself up on tiptoes.

“Do you love me?” Syra asked, as her lips nearly touched his ear.

Brutus leaned toward her, hoping to feel them against his skin, but she pulled back a fraction of an inch—keeping them separate, but close enough for energy to spark between them.

“Do you?” the Northerner demanded.

With blood pounding in his veins, Brutus realized he could refuse Syra nothing. “Yes,” he moaned, “I love you.”

But still, she would not meet his lips. Instead, she looked into his eyes. “For eternity?”

Their lips were nearly against one another. Every breath she took became his own. “For eternity.”

When her lips met his own it was as if the world collapsed unto itself and exploded all around Brutus. The kiss was all consuming. He might as well have been caught in a lightning storm. Rome was nothing but a white blur while his body was held prisoner in the most seductive of traps.

Syra’s lips were hot against his own. Her body arched into his, feeding the fire into his whole being. Her lips parted slightly, just enough to let her tongue explore his lips. Then ever so gently, she used her teeth to nip at the corner of his mouth. There was no pain, only scores of fire down his skin. Her hand explored his neck, until her fingernails scratched at his neckline. Then with precise skill, she tugged at his hair. Just enough to cause bolts of energy down his neck. The sensation did not abate until it had coursed out his feet.

As much as the Northerner was affecting his body, it felt as if their passion was altering his mind. He had been a tightly held bud his whole life, and now with her moist lips upon his own, the petals were slowly opening, releasing desire and knowledge in equal measure. Brutus cared not for the reason—he only wished it to continue to infinity.

Breaking off the kiss, Syra whispered in his ear, “Do not fight it.”

“Never.” Oh, how little she knew of his passion. It was a raging river, and Brutus was prepared to ride each and every rapid with elation. He found her lips again as images opened in his mind like a flower’s first bloom.

There was no surprise when Brutus realized that he had known Syra before. Her hair might be brown or her eyes blue, but the woman whose lips now kissed him hungrily was the same.

He let the sensation wash over him as his arousal hardened against the woman known as Syra. There was no hiding his desire now, nor did he wish to. The full truth was still beyond his sight, but Brutus knew this woman was his own.

Syra had been his Fated since the dawn of time. Freed from the shame and guilt back at the celebration, Brutus explored Syra’s back. She groaned as his hands cupped her buttocks and pulled her to him. This was not the first time he had heard her make that sound, and he wished to hear it over and over again.

The more memories that poured into his mind, the greater his desire to know everything about this new body of hers. Each Awakening only drove his passion to dizzying new heights. While Syra had been the aggressor at the beginning of their kiss, Brutus now guided their course. As his hands became surer, and the passion they had shared for ages flowed through them, Brutus could feel her yield to him. Her body leaned into his in sweet surrender, causing
him
to groan in pleasure. No matter that Syra was a warrior who could break an enemy in half, she was still a woman who could make him feel the man.

* * *

Syra felt Brutus’ hand slide up her side and find the outline of her chest. He cupped her breast and gave the flesh the tenderest squeeze. Syra moaned for a moment, then caught his hand and moved it away.

“Not here,” she whispered.

Brutus kissed her neck in that tender spot just beneath her earlobe. As much as she wished to surrender to his passion, this was not the time or the place for such amorous intents. Again, she pushed him away.

“The Crux is at hand.”

It was obvious that Brutus cared not for intrigue. His desire was hard against her, and his hands still sought purchase to pull her closer. This time with more force, she pushed him back a step.

“Your Guardian is here. He will explain.”

Brutus growled his disapproval but kept his distance as Syra opened the door to the tunnel. The brooding frown evaporated from Brutus’ face when he saw his old friend. She stepped out of the way as Brutus and Horat clasped arms in welcome. Leaning against the wall, Syra tried not to reveal how weak she was. She had used the Crux as an excuse to distract her lover. The truth would have concerned him too greatly.

Never before had an Awakening tasked her so. Not only was her body sluggish, her mind was not yet her own. Her skull was filled with glistening fragments from a hundred different lives, yet none would gel into a coherent whole. Normally within minutes their history would bloom in her mind. All the anxiety of leaving a single life behind and embracing a hundred would be swept away within a few breaths. Not this time. As much as she knew the name Zi, she could not yet call herself that.

Syra could feel these other lives in her very marrow. Her skin had been black, brown, yellow, tattooed, and dyed in the blood of enemies, yet she still felt her home was northern Scotland rather than the ancient valley of Nirro.

Legs shaking, Syra lowered herself onto the small stool across from the statue of Venus. How could she help Brutus, if she could barely stand? The hellish ride from the Tiber had tapped out the last of her strength far worse than the trek across Spain in the slave cart.

A hand found hers. Even though Brutus was deep in conversation with Horat, he still sought her out. She gave a firm squeeze back, not wishing him to worry over her. He had far more complicated issues to wrestle with.

“The Ides are at hand, Brutus,” Horat said

“Aye. Caesar has taken Suprinna to heart, for he will not leave his estate.”

“You must coax him out.”

“Nay. They will kill him.”

Syra could see the surprise on Horat’s face when he spoke next.

“Yes. Caesar must die.”

* * *

Brutus felt as if someone had kicked him in the chest. “Kill him?”

The Roman had assumed that when he Awakened, this course could be avoided. That Julius could be saved. Was that not the Order’s responsibility—to bring civilization to the burgeoning human population? How did cold-blooded murder promote their objective?

Horat seemed surprised at Brutus’ question. “Why, yes. That is when the conspirators have decided—”

“No. I mean, why must he die?”

“Brutus, I know you have feelings for—”

As much affection as Brutus felt for Horat, he was not to be pampered or manipulated. “Why?”

The older man took a deep breath. “He stifles Rome. He is ill. He divides the nation when it needs to be united.”

“And who would do this uniting? Antony?”

“Nay. Octavius.”

Brutus was truly surprised. “Caesar’s young nephew?”

“He is not so young now. He crests his seventeenth birthday soon.”

“You mean for a child to lead Rome?”

Horat was not dissuaded by Brutus’ tone. “You were not much older when you took on the mantle of The Fated.”

Brutus’ jaw tensed. That was a far different thing. This was a different time. Not just brute strength was needed. Diplomacy that was far beyond an adolescent was required.

“Nay, but the child is too green for such a task.”

“The Order has long been in Rome. His tutor is of the Order. His schooling is far beyond his years. He will be ready.”

Who was he to challenge the greatest minds the world could gather? How many of Horat’s words were true? Was his heart interfering with his Fate? Perhaps, but Brutus could not shake the sense of wrongness here.

“Why not allow him to strike at Parthia? Death may await him there. Then we shall not worry about a king.”

Horat shook his head. “You misunderstand us. We mean to make Octavius not only a king but an emperor.”

Shocked, Brutus struggled to question such a notion. “Then why kill Caesar?”

“The Senate can never unify under him. Rome needs a strong hand, but one that is not constantly being bitten by the legislature.”

Brutus felt the walls of the small cubicle press down upon him. He had thought himself free of this burden twice now, and both times the responsibility of the assassination had come back to rest upon his doorstep. Brutus was restless and needed time and space to think, but he had neither. Another concern rose in his mind.

“If that is the case, than why did the Order alert Caesar?”

“The Order did no such thing.”

“Yes, it was Suprinna. He clearly warned Caesar of the dangers today.”

Horat’s eyes dilated slightly. “Suprinna is not of the Order.”

Now Brutus was the one to feel caution. He relayed all that Suprinna had said to him over the past few months. “Could he have the sight?”

“Or the Dark truly exists,” Horat suggested.

Brutus could not help but curse under his breath. It had been long since the suspicion of a rival Order had been raised. A band of educated men who meant to keep civilization hobbled to its past. Some said the Dark wished to keep the populace uneducated and easy to manipulate. The scholars had yet to find any firm proof of their existence, but there were moments much like this that made them suspect.