Love Is in the Air (69 page)

Just as their legs gave out, they came upon a clearing in the wood very similar to this one. The ring of fire dared them to enter. Normally they would have shied away from the flames, run, and hidden themselves, because their fear of fire was so great. But in the glade so long ago, it was overcome that fear or die.

So they jumped within the circle and when the clans came with crude spears brandished, they were saved. Not just saved but revered. Brutus was made leader and brought many a clan within their fold.

It had all been so long ago, hundreds of lives, yet she could remember the sweat sheening across Brutus’ chest, just as it was now.

Did she remember? The question was clearly rhetorical.

Brutus guided her to the edge of the ring and reached out his hand.

“Together?”

Syra smiled. This is how they had fought their fear. Together.

She took his hand and squeezed as they leapt up and over the knee-high flame. The blast of heat a sure reminder of the first time.

But unlike then, she found a small table set with some of Greece’s finest delicacies and a large yak skin as a bed.

“I could not find a mastodon,” he commented, a smile upon his lips.

“I imagine not,” Syra replied, as he pulled his hand from hers.

He offered her a small plate with steamed squid—one of her favorites. But her eyes narrowed. This had taken a bit of planning, especially on the run from Antony’s troops.

“What is this for?”

He grinned at her. “So, you do not remember?”

Syra gazed about her. Each item, even the small, low table, represented a life they had lived, each precious and sacred. But clearly, Brutus still had a surprise left.

“It is our anniversary.”

Her mind raced. This was fall. “Our Awakening was upon the Ides.”

“Not this anniversary, Syra. Our first.”

It could not be. “We did not have calendars, Brutus. We did not even know how to tan hides, even!”

“So true.” Then he looked up at the sky. “But we had the stars, and we felt the seasons within our bones.”

When he looked down at her once again, his face was filled with wonder. “This is the night. I have marked it in my heart forever.”

She took the plate from him and set it back down onto the table. “Then perhaps we should forgo dinner and commemorate that night.”

They needed no more words, very similar to their first time. He wrapped his strong arms around her as she kissed the hollow of his neck. Lifting her, Brutus carried her over to the rug and laid her gently upon it.

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.

Indian Moon

Love Isn’t As Far Away As You Think

CHAPTER 1

Quinton Spear cursed his luck. He had to have been born under a bad moon. That’s the only reason he could have ended up with this gig. To punctuate his foul mood, his knee flared each time the four-wheel drive hit a pothole in the long-neglected country road.

One would think a community made rich off of its natural resources would show a little more civic pride. But, no, with all the logging trucks driving this stretch of road and the showers, even his four-by-four struggled to gain purchase.

“God, isn’t this beautiful?” Ralph Parker marveled from the passenger seat. “Look at that green.”

Quinton did not want to look, but his eyes wandered to the sloping hillside anyway. His geeky assistant was partially right. The Cascades were striking year round.

The mountainside was blanketed so thickly by evergreens that they could not make out the forest floor. The color was such a deep green that human language had not yet found a word to describe the forest’s shade. Their view of the endless sea of trees was obstructed only by a mist that clung to the hillside like a lover wooing his intended.

But beautiful? Quinton no longer applied that word to his work. If their survey went according to plan, those slopes would be clear-cut within months. Let Ralph say how gorgeous the countryside was then.