Chapter 2
Kane and the crypt disappear, replaced by the endless tunnel of the ley line.
It’s been two thousand years since I stepped onto a ley line by myself, and I feel a strange mixture of excitement and uncertainty.
I take a few tentative steps forward, trailing my fingers over the soft, giving walls of the passage, marveling at this place. Beneath the growing throb of my skin is a deeper ache. My heart clenches in sweetness and pain.
There’s an old marriage ritual all Sarmatian couples performed on the day of their wedding—one that Memnon and I performed as well.
It’s simple enough: the brides fled as far as they could from their future husbands, and the grooms gave chase.
Only once they were captured could the wedding truly begin.
The tents and horses are gone, the clothes and people are gone, but the memory remains.
Memnon can marry me…after he finds me.
“Ley line,” I call out, my throat catching, just a little. It’s been a long time since I did this. Here’s to hoping it still works. “I offer you a secret in exchange for passage to ancient Sarmatia.”
My surroundings shiver just a little, enough to make me think the magic that fuels these roads is listening.
I draw in a breath. “I am long-dead Roxilana, Queen of Sarmatians, resurrected to fulfill a spell I cast long ago.”
The words feel funny leaving my tongue. Too pompous and dramatic. And yet, they are nonetheless true.
For several inhalations, nothing happens, and I begin to wonder what other offering I can possibly give the ley line next.
But just as my mind begins to race, the walls ripple and shift. I take a tentative step forward, then another, then fall right through the floor.
I grunt as I hit the ground, my body crushing stiff, dead stalks of grass. As I get my hands beneath me, they press into a patch of partially melted snow. More of it wets my jeans. A harsh wind whistles as it blows across my skin, and I shiver violently.
Crone’s cane, I forgot how damn cold this place was. The kind of cold that sinks into your bones, and only fire, drink, and a warm body can ever adequately chase out. I have none of those things. I don’t even have a proper coat.
Fool. Fool. Fool.
I shiver again as the wind cuts through my long-sleeved shirt as though it were not even there.
Pressing a hand to my chest, I incant in Sarmatian, “Cast the cold from my form. Hidden fires, keep me warm.”
My magic rushes out of me, the pale orange plumes of it curling around my body, and the spell takes root, banishing the chill.
Another wave of my power rolls over my form, this time without an accompanying incantation, and my snow-soaked jeans heat and the moisture evaporates from them.
Only once I’m dry and warm do I lift my gaze to my surroundings.
I bite back a sob when I realize the ley line didn’t just drop me in what was once Sarmatia; it placed me at the top of a familiar kurgan.
I knew this man-made mountain quite well in my last life. I climbed this hill, the grave site of some long-dead warlord, many times in the ancient past, and I carried my grief up it with me.
Out of habit, my eyes search for the Sarmatian settlement that should be off in the distance, but it’s gone, swallowed up by time. Now only a few odd buildings speckle the distant landscape.
Everything else is flat, dormant grassland.
Gingerly, I make my way down the kurgan, my heart aching as my gaze sweeps over the steppe. The sky is gray, the grass is dead, the ground is spotted with snow. For all intents and purposes, it is a bleak landscape, but the sight of it all is so, so beloved.
My eyes, however, seek out one particular patch of land. I cannot be sure precisely where it is, time has changed so much, but intuition drags me toward a smaller kurgan. In the shadow of it lies a patch of grass, one that was once very dear to me.
I kneel and place my hand on the earth. In another life, I buried the remains of my child here.
It’s hard to fathom—the pain is old and faded, especially in light of everything else Roxilana ended up losing, but I still pay my respects to this dashed hope.
After a minute, I stand and leave the ancient grave behind, the grass crunching under my feet. My eyes keep scanning the horizon, looking in vain for people on horseback.
Est amage, where are you? Memnon calls down our bond.
I draw in a deep breath, smelling the crisp autumn air rolling in from far away.
Home, I say, my heart constricting.
Liar, he says fondly. I can hear the smile in his voice. You have not returned to our house, and your room at the coven is empty.
Have you been looking for me? I say with mock surprise. Stalking is a crime, you know.
He guffaws. That is the least of what I’ve done.
I remember Kane’s words: You and I both know the man is evil.
To Memnon I say, I’m not lying, but I’m not going to elaborate either. If you want to marry me, you’re going to have to hunt me down first.
It takes Memnon a second to catch on, but I feel that moment of surprise, followed swiftly by a complicated emotion, one that is both euphoric and heartfelt. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he was moved by the gesture. Moved and excited.
Better run fast then, little witch, he says softly. I’m coming for you.
I do.
This time I have no horse, but that same sense of urgency rides me just as it did then, especially as I look out at the flat, unforgiving landscape and realize there’s nowhere to conceal myself.
“Hide me from sight,” I say in Sarmatian.
My magic unfurls out of me, twisting around my body and masking my presence.
I run until my lungs burn and my muscles feel heavy, my breath misting out in front of my face.
I have no idea how much time has lapsed between when I arrived and now, and my surroundings hardly give me a clue either.
The vast expanse of grassland gives the impression that I’m simply moving in place, the scenery unchanging.
Neither running nor cloaking yourself will help you now, little witch, Memnon says, cutting through the silence of my surroundings.
His voice drips with obvious relish—relish and the sort of confidence that has the back of my neck pricking.
Out of curiosity I glance over my shoulder. Only then do I notice the thread of indigo magic snaking away from me. With my eyes, I follow that line of magic back to its source. In the distance, Memnon strides across the plain, more of that indigo power curling around him.
I stumble to a stop at the sight.
Drop the enchantment, my love.
My skin still pricks at the endearment. The wind stirs my hair as I debate running some more.
But I’m tired and my skin and bones throb from the growing press of my unbreakable oath.
I lift a hand, then drag it down the wispy enchantment cloaking me. My power briefly shimmers as the spell parts, then disintegrates.
There you are.
I cannot see Memnon’s expression, but I can feel his pleasure.
The line of his power twists around my midsection, like a snake coiling around a kill. Once it encircles me, it gives a tug, drawing me forward. I stumble a step, then another and another.
I reach a hand to the blue magic wound around my torso, stroking it softly. Under the press of my fingers, the smoky tendrils of Memnon’s magic unhook themselves around my waist and begin to climb up my hand and then my wrist until the entire spell disintegrates.
My gaze flicks to the sorcerer in the distance, the corner of my mouth curving up.
I am tired and aching…but I’m also a difficult bloody broad when I want to be.
I turn and flee.
Far behind me, I hear a laugh—presumably as Memnon gives chase.
It’s harder without a horse, isn’t it? I taunt, ignoring my exhaustion and the growing tightness in my chest.
I think I’ll manage, Memnon responds.
I can hear his heavy footfalls gaining on me. Still, it’s a shock when his arms eventually wrap around my waist.
I let out a surprised yelp when he lifts me off my feet, one that morphs into a laugh as he spins me around.
“Two thousand years,” he says, his mouth close to my ear as he slows us down, “and you still have not figured out how to get away from me.”
Memnon sets me back on my feet, and I turn in his arms to look at him. Immediately my breath catches. His black, shoulder-length hair offsets his bronze skin, and it seems to pull out all the shades of his smoky amber eyes.
His lips curl into a sinful smile, one made all the wickeder by the deep scar on his face, a scar that I could draw from memory.
The ropey skin runs in a jagged line from the edge of his left eye to his ear, then it slashes downward, cresting over his defined cheekbone before tapering off at his jawline.
My eyes dip lower, and I can just make out the panther tattoo peeking from the neckline of—
I suck in a sharp breath when my eyes move to the tuxedo I’m crushed against. The tuxedo he must’ve chased me down in.
Memnon came to me dressed for the wedding. My stomach flips at that.
I’m sure this little stunt must’ve sullied it.
“If you think for a moment that I care about that, little witch,” he says softly, tucking a wayward strand of my hair behind my ear while clearly eavesdropping on my thoughts, “then you’ll need to reevaluate.”
My gaze travels back up to his face. Memnon has always taken my breath away, but right now, with his dark, wavy hair lightly oiled and his tux pressed, he’s an irresistible combo of feral and civilized.
“You surprised me,” he admits, those lush lips curving. “I did not think you cared much for our past. But this is romantic. Nostalgic.” That final word hangs heavy. His eyes are equally heavy—with love, with memory and perhaps a bit of sadness too.
His gaze sweeps over the expanse of grassland before returning to me. “My mother would be pleased by how long you held off being captured for your wedding.”
It wasn’t that long. Then again, perhaps he’s referring to the larger delay I placed on the wedding when I first put it off.
I smile softly at what I remember of Tamara, his mother.
Once more his eyes move from mine to the land beyond us.
“It looks the same,” he says, his expression impassive as he takes in what was once Sarmatia.
“Is this the first time you’re seeing the steppe?” I don’t mean to pose the question in Sarmatian, but our surroundings have me slipping back into that old, familiar tongue.
“Mmm,” he says, his eyes darkening.
The silence hangs thick, the past rising between us. There are so many ghosts it resurrects.
Not ghosts, est amage. Wedding guests.
I gaze at him, the one person who is flesh and blood, my pulse rushing between my ears.
Memnon glances down, catching me staring.
He leans in, then pauses a hair’s breadth from my mouth, letting the moment linger.
Just when I think he’s going to close the last of the distance between us and kiss me in earnest, he scoops me off my feet again.
“Whoa,” I say as he wraps my legs around his hips, holding me much the same way he did the night of Samhain. I twine my arms around his neck, staring into his smoky bourbon eyes.
“It’s not really a proper bride capture unless I actually capture you,” he says.
My feminism must be out to lunch because I just go along with it, my fingers playing idly with the strands of his hair as he carries me back to the ley line.
When we reach that small, innocuous kurgan, Memnon sets me down. His eyes grow heavy once more as they take in the grass-covered earth where long ago we buried our child.
He kneels, pressing a hand to the icy soil. After a moment, Memnon removes a ring from his finger, kisses it, then presses it into the soft ground, a plume of his magic exiting his hand to bury the object farther still.
I feel odd witnessing this, as though I’m an interloper, though I have memories of this grave to match his.
Without a word, the sorcerer picks me back up and carries me the rest of the way to the ley line.
At the threshold of the portal, Memnon pauses. “Let’s leave our guests here, hmm?” he says, raising his eyebrows.
I search his features, then nod, ready to put the solemnity of this place behind us.
With that, Memnon sets me down, then tugs me onto the ley line.
When we exit it less than a minute later, I expect to see the pine woods of northern California.
Instead we step into a dark, cloistered room.
“Bitawapis,” Memnon says in Sarmatian.
Illuminate.
An orb of Memnon’s indigo magic rises into the air, casting soft blue light on the circular marble room we stand in.
“Where are we?” I ask, leaving Memnon’s side to peer up at the domed ceiling.
He crosses the space to the only door out, a ribbon of his magic winding about its handle. “Empress,” he says as the door groans open, “you tell me.”
Beyond him, the sounds of traffic and distant conversations carry on the wind.
I drag my attention from the architecture and head to the door. My breath sucks in as I step out into the evening air. I can feel the weight of Memnon’s eyes on me as I take in the skyline.
“Rome,” I breathe.
Two thousand years, and I am finally back.