19. Drusilla
CHAPTER NINETEEN
DRUSILLA
T he sounds of the scuffle inside the underground tabernae follow them until they reach the last dozen steps. Exhilaration sings through Dru’s veins as Marcus tugs her through the door and yanks it shut behind him, breathing hard.
A part of her expects him to be angry with her for putting herself in danger. Even Ovi would chide her for not being more careful, for letting her emotions dictate her actions.
Yet, as they run down the dark alley, her hand still grasped in his, laughter, of all things, spills out of his lips in the quiet night.
He pivots swiftly down another alleyway and stops against the wall to catch his breath.
The momentum and her hand gripped in his pull her toward him, and she finds her body flush against his.
His arms wrap loosely around her, his chest heaving.
She releases her own laugh, feeling lighter than she has in a long time.
Lighter, even, than the wine made her feel.
It takes her a moment to realize he hasn’t pushed her away yet.
Glancing up at him, words evade her. All she wanted for the longest time was to be this close to him, for him to hold her in his arms. And now that she’s here, she has no idea what to do with herself. If she should do anything.
The last remnants of the wine has other plans.
Dru shifts her hips into him, giving more control over her body than her mind. The wide, euphoric smile drops from his lips, and he grips the fabric of her dress. Want muddles her thoughts and fills her core.
She reaches up to brush her fingers along the bruise already forming on his jaw. His hand flexes against her at the gesture, the tips of his fingers pressing into the small of her back. She focuses on the purpling skin when she speaks again.
“You didn’t have to do that, you know?”
His bright, penetrating gaze searches hers when she meets it. “Do what?”
“Defend me. I can take care of myself.”
“I know,” he agrees, voice soft. “It’s one of your best qualities. But there’s nothing wrong with admitting you need help sometimes. You can’t take on the whole world, Drusilla.”
Her gaze slides to his lips and back, placing her entire body flush against his. “What makes you think I need your help.”
He glances at her lips in return, and her heart leaps in her chest, body aching. “You’ve never needed my help. But it’s freely given. Always.”
Her next breath trembles out between her lips at his small confession.
She flattens her palm against his injured jaw and tilts her head up.
His arms tighten around her, one hand splayed on her exposed upper back and the other curled into the fabric of her dress at her hip.
Warmth pools in her stomach and spills lower, aching to the point it’s almost painful.
A breath away, she pauses. Why is Marcus allowing this to happen?
Does he want her as much as she wants him?
Even as he pulls her closer and her eyes flutter closed, she can’t help wondering what’s changed.
Their short breaths mingle in the cool night, scattering her thoughts, their lips nearly touching …
“Praetor Marcus,” someone barks, and Dru’s eyes fly open. She stops moving—stops breathing. The heat of embarrassment races up her neck to her cheeks. “I never thought I’d see the day when you finally gave in to temptation. And with a Phaedran whore, no less.”
Marcus lets out a long, unsteady breath against her lips, his fingers flexing on her hip even as his eyes remain shut. Slowly shifting the hand on her back up to her neck, he gently slips his fingers into her hair. Despite the embarrassment she feels, she arches into him at his soft touch.
He whispers against her lips, “Forgive me.”
Without giving her a chance to respond, he turns her head so her cheek presses against the top of his chest, facing her away from the men.
“And you know how to ruin a good time,” he barks back at them.
The men laugh, not understanding the brush-off. Dru’s heart falls inside her chest.
“I’m sure we’d all like to have a good time with that one,” another one of them says. “Looks sturdy.”
Her stomach turns at the implication. Marcus’s grip on her flexes.
“I’ve already paid this one for her services; she’s of no use to you.” His words sting like a dagger to her heart. “Go enjoy yourselves.”
“Not without you,” the first man says. “It’s not every day one finds the king’s praetor out sampling the foreign goods. And I plan to take advantage of your rank.”
The other men shout in agreement.
If she wasn’t pressed against his chest, she wouldn’t have heard his low growl. “Then at least allow me one more moment of ecstasy, gentlemen. I did pay for it, after all.”
He turns his back to them then, hiding Dru completely with his body. The other soldiers laugh and whoop before walking away. Marcus looks over his shoulder, then takes a step back and releases her from his grasp. She fights off a shiver.
“I have to go with them. They won’t leave me alone until they’re drunk enough to forget I exist.”
She wants to rage against him, to force him to explain why he has to go out of his way for men he outranks. To press her lips against his now that the soldiers are gone, forgetting everything and everyone else.
But she can’t get the words to come out.
She swallows, refusing to meet his gaze, to look at him at all. “I understand.”
His hands clench into loose fists. “I’m sorry. For the things I said, for…”
He trails off, leaving so many words left unsaid—silent words threatening to rip her apart. Anger and rejection heat inside her blood. Marcus has proven time and time again to be her one weakness. And she’s grown weary of it.
“I’m sure you’ll find someone else to warm your bed tonight, Praetor Marcus.” She nods in the direction of the empty alleyway, where the other men’s drunken voices carry over to them. “They seem determined to make it so.”
“Dru.” He says her name as if doing so physically wounds him, the word choking him. She doesn’t meet his gaze to confirm or deny his pain.
Instead, she turns away, heading in the direction of what she believes to be the beach, feigning confidence. “I’ll come find you before the first trial.”
He doesn’t call after her, doesn’t move to follow her.
And once she turns the next corner, out of sight, she bursts into a run.
Her caligae sandals slap the ground, marking her steps loudly, She knows it’s childish, running away from her problems. But she doesn’t care—not tonight. All she can think to do is run.
Racing through the empty streets of Notevole, she allows the tears she held back to spring to her eyes, carving down her cheeks in hot tendrils.
For the ache building in her chest to consume her.
She should’ve never allowed Marcus to get under her skin like he did.
He never wanted her that way, so why would it be any different now?
She has no idea where she’s headed, only that she has to get away. Emotions swell inside her the way the ocean waves crash against the shore.
It doesn’t take long for the air to grow thicker and the sound of the sea to breach the silence. I must be close to the beach. The path to the palace should be clear from there.
She can’t wait to take off this ridiculous dress, crawl into her bed, and prepare for the first trial tomorrow. Marcus became a distraction of her own making, and it’s time she put it to rest and focus on why she’s here in the first place.
She stops at a short cliff, the moonlight brightening the footholds to the water’s edge. Climbing down them, she takes her time on the toeholds, slipping only once but catching herself easily.
Once her feet hit the sand, she stops. The strange humming sound she heard a couple nights ago pounds relentlessly against her ears. It grabs ahold of her and pulls her in its direction, guiding her past the graveyard of seashells and dried seaweed from a couple nights before.
A few more steps, and she finds herself in front of the same blackened cave, unable to resist its call. She stands closer than before, nearly inside the dark mouth.
Before she can question what drew her here again, she falls forward onto her hands and knees?—
Intense firelight surges around her.
The veil of darkness gone in an instant, she throws her arms over her eyes to stop the light from blinding her. Heat soaks into her skin, her throat, her chest, suffocating her as if she stepped into the heart of a forge.
Once she grows used to the harsh glow and the heat lessens, her arms go limp.
Before her, lithe, curved women dance around a raging bonfire—thirteen of them, if she’s counting right.
The Tredici. Their shadows blur and Dru rubs at her eyes; it does nothing to clear them.
The low humming presses on her ears, blurring everything.
It’s not my vision; it’s the sound they’re making.
Lips sealed tight, their throats appear to vibrate, emitting the same low pitch Dru heard the night she tossed the torn pieces of the Faithless order into the Multum Sea.
It tames the raging flames before them and rattles the earth beneath her.
This is nothing compared to their parlor tricks at the festival, of course, but somehow it feels more significant.
Before long, a shadow approaches her, bending down on one knee. The high priestess. Beyond her, the others continue their dance, refusing to break from their ritual.
Wordlessly, the woman offers her hand, which Dru takes without a thought, entranced beyond her control once again. The flames spiral up into the air as she approaches them, the sparks wholly contained within the confines of their magic.
Once the other women notice her, they leave the inferno and flock to her side. Thirteen sets of hands gently brush her dress, her exposed skin, her hair, buzzing around her like a swarm of bees. But it comforts her rather than alarms her. Like she belongs among them.
The high priestess whispers in her ear. “What does your heart seek?”
“I seek nothing,” she finds her mouth saying.
“Perhaps,” she coos. “Or perhaps it is something—or someone—that seeks your heart.”
Dru squeezes her eyes shut, thinking only of Marcus, of his hands on her, his lips unbearably close to touching hers.
When she opens them again, she’s poised directly in front of the fire. Heat drenches the air around her, making it difficult to breathe again.
“Spegnere,” the woman orders.
At her command, the fire retreats. No cinders or charred wood have been left in its wake—nothing but an obsidian grate remains. And beneath that grate…
Dru falls to her knees again to peer inside.
A yellow eye stares up at her from the abyss.
Smoke huffs out from its nostrils, a low growl building in its throat.
Smoke pricks at her nose and invades her chest. She gasps—she knows this creature.
Steeped in the lore of Anziano, this ancient beast can fly and breathe fire, with talons that can cut through the obsidian it forges, and a tail that can crush stone—the same creatures whose likeness stands guard inside the temple.
“Viverna,” Dru whispers.
The humming stops and the women cry out in perfect harmony?—
As liquid fire reignites from its snout.
Dru instinctually throws her hands out to protect her face, scrambling back on the sand.
She doesn’t put enough distance between herself and the dragon before the flames engulf her hands and licks up her forearms. She screams, the deep pain of her burning flesh nearly rendering her unconscious.
The searing agony goes numb just as quickly, her skin bubbling like boiling water. Oh stellae, the smell.
Two pairs of hands catch her before she can hit the ground.
“Heal her now so we can take her to the praetor,” the first woman orders. “He’ll know what to do.”
All Dru manages is a whimper, caught deep in her throat.
The high priestess smiles down at her. “All will be well.”
Then Dru’s world goes black.