Chapter Thirty
Three hours later, I was finished with my insurance meeting and was in my apartment with the guys. They waited in my art studio, checking out my paintings, while I grabbed some fresh clothes from my dressing room.
When I came down, they were standing before the paintings of the warriors. I started to smile, remembering how fascinated Rune had been with my nemesis. But then I saw that he was in front of that very painting again, his expression odd. Braxen stood in front of the gladiator, and Merrick was staring at the medieval knight. Something about the way they looked at the images sent a shiver down my spine. If there hadn't been a fourth painting—that crusader—I would have thought something crazy. Something about the subjects in my paintings being . . . but no, that was impossible. I couldn't see the past.
Braxen noticed me first. “Lomasi,” his deep voice rolled over me as he pointed at the gladiator. “Who is this man?”
I went to stand beside him and looked from him to the painting. Brax looked nothing like the man in the painting. Well, beyond his physique, although the gladiator was even larger than Brax. Still, there was something about the warrior that reminded me of Braxen. Something beyond his body. Something in his expression.
“I don't know,” I said. “The only painting I've been able to figure out is that one.” I waved at the one in front of Merrick. “His name is Sir John Chandon. At least, I'm ninety percent sure it is. I pieced together the clues—how he's dressed, his armor, his horse, and that flag. It's the Oriflamme.”
“You painted it,” Braxen said. “How can you not know what you painted?”
Meanwhile, Merrick shuddered and jerked back.
“Merrick?” I went over to him.
“The Oriflamme,” Merrick whispered. “It was larger than that. Large enough for an entire army to see.”
“Merrick?” Rune grabbed his arm.
Braxen moved up beside me, his stare locked on Merrick. “You know that flag?”
“Bright red.” Merrick didn't seem to hear us. “Red as the blood that would flow until the flag went down. I have to get the King. Take the King, and the flag will go down with him.”
“Holy shit,” I whispered. “It can't be.”
“Merrick!” Rune shook Merrick.
Braxen slowly turned back to the gladiator. “I can hear them.”
“What the fuck is going on?” Rune growled.
“They cry for death,” Braxen said. “And they cheer when I give it to them. Even though I'm their enemy.”
“Oh, Gods,” I whispered as shivers ran over my body.
“Impossible,” Rune growled, his stare going from Braxen to Merrick. But then his head swung back toward my nemesis. “The silence. That terrible silence.”
“Rune?” I called to him.
Rune went to his painting as Merrick went back to his. Yes, his. Theirs. The paintings were of their lives. I couldn't deny it anymore. I had painted a scene from their old lives. One for each of them. These were the men they once were. The men who had done enough good in their lives to have rated the notice of the King of the Underworld himself. Or maybe it was their bad deeds that had gotten noticed.
No. My guys were good. They'd been chosen for their honor and bravery. These violent scenes screamed of death and war, but good men fought too. They fought to defend themselves and the people they loved. Their country. Their kings. Sometimes their own survival. I looked at the gladiator. My gladiator. Then I remembered my fantasy.
“Oh, fuck,” my voice had gotten softer and softer. Now, it was barely a breath.
Braxen still heard me. He hadn't heard Rune, but he heard me. He turned to face me and his expression sliced through me. It was so lost.
“Brax?” I hurried to him and took his face in my hands. “Are you all right?”
“Yes,” he said. “Thank you, Lomasi. You've given me a great gift.”
“I have?”
“You've shown us who we were,” Merrick said as he joined us. “I remember now. Not everything, but enough to still the questions.”
“What questions?”
“Of who we were.” Rune looked over at us, his face bleak for a second. But then he blinked and let out a soft exhale. “It's hard to live a new life knowing you had an old one.”
“And not knowing anything about the old one,” Merrick added. “But you gave me a glimpse. And a name.”
“My old name doesn't matter,” Braxen said. “I know that I fought valiantly for my people, so valiantly that my enemy enslaved me just so they could watch me kill again and again.”
“Brax, I'm so sorry,” I said.
“Don't be.” He leaned down and kissed me. “From what I saw, it wasn't a terrible life. I was treated well, even given . . .” He cleared his throat. “Company occasionally.”
I blinked. “They brought you whores?”
He grinned. “No. Women of means paid to be with me.”
“Holy fuck,” Merrick said. “Really?”
“Really.”
“What do you remember, Merrick?” I asked.
“I was an adviser to a prince.”
I nodded. “The Black Prince of England. Edward.”
“He was my friend, but he was also a bit of an ass.”
I snorted a laugh.
“I remember trying to make peace with the French, but he always screwed it up.” Merrick shook his head.
“Peace,” Rune murmured.
“Rune?” I went to him and rubbed his back. “Come away from the painting, love.”
“No, it's all right. I . . . I don't remember my name, but I see a family. I had love. A home full of it. That is why I stood there.” He waved his hand at the painting. “This wasn't a war. It was an attack on my home. I fought until there was no one else standing. Until there was only silence.”
“Then you saved your family,” I said.
Rune grinned at me. “It seems that I have always done whatever it takes to save those I love.” He pulled me into his arms. “Sweetheart, you are amazing.”
“I don't understand how I've done this,” I said. “I've never painted prophetic scenes before.”
“These aren't prophecies. They are glimpses into the past lives of your mates.”
“These three are,” Braxen, his voice gone grim, waved at their paintings. “And yes, maybe it was the mating magic drawing us together that gave Lora access to our past. But if that's true, then who the fuck is that?”
I eased from Rune's arms to follow Braxen's pointed finger to the final painting in the group. The crusader.
“Maybe he's a regular subject, pulled from my imagination,” I said even as a shiver ran down my spine.
Again, I remembered my fantasy, a fantasy that now seemed like a prophecy, but this time, I focused on the crusader. The scornful look on his face.
Rune took my hand and drew me over to the painting of the crusader. He scowled as he studied every inch of it.
“He looks almost holy,” Merrick said.
“Maybe because he's wearing a giant cross,” Braxen drawled.
“No, it's something else about him,” Merrick said. “The way Lora painted him. The way the sunlight spotlights him. His stance. He . . .”
“He believes he's right,” Rune said. “He looks like one of the Host.”
“Oh, my Gods!” I exclaimed. “You're right. He looks like a man who does bad things in the name of something good.”
“This is Michael,” Braxen said.
We fell silent, all of us staring at the crusader. It made sense. I had painted the men I'd love and the man I'd hate—their enemy.
“Now we know who we were and who he was,” Rune said. “We must use this to our advantage.”
“How?” Merrick asked.
“I don't know yet, but we're taking this painting with us.”
“We're taking them all.” Braxen grabbed his portrait. Then he cleared his throat. “I mean, if that's all right with you, Lora.”
“Of course, it is. They're your paintings now. If you want them. Although, yours isn't finished, Rune.”
“But now, I can help you fill in the details,” Rune said gently.
A wave of something soft came over me. Love, certainly, but also relief. I finally knew who these warriors were. And Rune would help me finish a painting that had been haunting me. For an artist, that is the ultimate relief. Beyond that relief though, was joy. Bliss. A feeling of forever shared. These paintings were so much more than a glimpse into their past lives. They were a sign that I was meant to be with them. Hermes would accept it. He had to. Even Gods bowed to Destiny.