Page 6 of Bedeviled

“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.

CHAPTER 3

The city is nearly unrecognizable from the one in my memory, save for a few obvious monuments that have endured entire eras of human history. In fact, had I not seen photos and videos of modern Rome, I might not have recognized it.

Memnon steps up beside me, and the two of us stare at the cars rushing along the street ahead of us.

“Why did you bring me here?”