“Are you so afraid of me that you find it necessary to attack a woman?” The quiet taunt brought her immediate relief as a low snarl echoed through the air from the other side of the temple.
“Tonight we end this once and for all, you whoreson.” Gabriel’s response sent a wave of sorrow blasting through her, and she wasn’t sure whether it came from across the nave or from the Sicari Lord himself. The moment the Sicari Lord stepped forward, Lysander stretched out his hand to stop the man.
“Tevy—Marcus …”
“It will be like old times, my friend,” the Sicari Lord said with a slight curve of his lips.
It was still hard to think of the man as Marcus when her memories of ancient Rome told her different. The man she’d known as Tevy so long ago bowed slightly in her direction before he turned his head in Atia’s direction. The intense look of sorrow and resignation darkening his expression equaled the pain on the Prim
a Consul’s
face as he nodded in her direction.
“
Mea gladius non voluntas concidi, mea kara.”
Phaedra jerked slightly in surprise.
My sword will not fail, my beloved
. The words surprised her as much as they did Ares and Cleo, but there wasn’t time to make any observations as the Sicari Lord moved toward the center of the temple. Out of the darkness she saw Gabriel striding forward, his cloak streaming out from behind him due to his fast pace. Marcus raced toward the Praetorian Dominus, drawing his sword out from under his cloak. With blinding speed, the two men leaped into the air, their swords crashing together like a steel thunderclap inside the nave.
As the two men battled in the center of the temple, shadows on the opposite wall shifted and moved forward to stand at the edge of the circle of moonlight that spilled out from the oculus above. She pulled in a sharp breath of horror at the sight, and the reactions of everyone around her filled her ears as their emotions slammed into her like a runaway train.
“
Merda.”
“Fi
glio di puttana.”
“
Stronzo.”
“Oh, we are so fucked.” Cleo’s voice, along with Lysander’s, Ares’s, and Ignacio’s, rang out in a simultaneous sound of pessimism.
“
Il Christi omnipotentia,
” Ignacio muttered. “Am I counting right? There’s at least twelve of them.”
“Thirteen if you count that testa
di cazzo
, Nicostratus.
Christus
, this is
not
good. How in the hell do we keep the Tyet
of Isis
out of their hands?” Cleo looked at Lysander, who immediately handed off the artifact to Atia.
“Ares, you and Ignacio get the Prim
a Consul
out of here as quickly as you can.”
“I’m—” Atia broke off her response and nodded beneath Lysander’s glare. “You’re right. The Tyet
of Isis
mustn’t fall into Praetorian hands. But Ares stays. Ignacio will return once he sees me safely out of the temple.”
Lysander didn’t argue with her. Instead, he eyed the Praetorians walking steadily toward them, and she was certain he’d singled Nicostratus out of the group. Cleo grimaced and turned her head to look at the Prim
a Consul.
“I love you, Mother. Ignacio, I …take care of her.” She jerked her head back to watch the enemy heading toward them and drew her sword. “Watch the floor. The blood I’m going to spill will make this marble pretty slick.”
The observation made Ares smile slightly. “I second that optimistic point of view.”
“Ti amo con tutta l’anima.”
Lysander gently touched Phaedra’s thoughts with the vow of adoration. He didn’t just love her with all his heart. He loved her with every fiber of his being, and he intended to do whatever it took to keep her safe tonight. He watched her draw her sword out of the scabbard on her back and reached out to her with his mind. The telepathic connection between them was surprising in its strength as she opened her mind to him. Her love for him filled his mind, and he sucked in a quick breath at the strength of her love and her belief in him. He wouldn’t fail her.
“Bis
vivit qui bene moritur,
” Lysander growled as he drew his sword. He
lives twice who
dies well.
The Sicari motto had never seemed more appropriate.
Seconds later, the Praetorians were on them. Steel crashed against steel, and when two Praetorians targeted Lysander, it forced him to go on the defensive. In a quick move, he ducked beneath a sword slicing through the air in the direction of his chest. Spinning lightly around on his feet, he dragged his own blade across the first Praetorian’s chest and continued to swing his body around in a tight circle until his sword sliced open the second Praetorian’s stomach.
It was a mortal wound and he knew it. With a thrust of his hand, his ability sent the first Praetorian flying backward to land hard on the marble floor. A loud crack told him the man had hit his head and wouldn’t be rising any time soon. Before he could turn to the man near his feet, two more Praetorians leaped in his direction.
Saving his mental reserves for his inevitable encounter with Nicostratus, he cleared his mind to focus and deliberately threw himself between the two approaching fighters. His sword raised above his head, he feinted to the left and then the right. The Praetorians responded with counter swings and just before his sword connected with theirs, he sent his weapon sliding across the floor then quickly tucked himself into a tight ball and rolled past the enemy fighters. As he sprang to his feet, his fingers wrapped around the leather grip of his sword as the weapon flew back into his hand.
Unprepared for his move, the Praetorians found it impossible to stop the momentum of their blades, and they sliced into each other almost simultaneously. Their resulting grunts of pain tugged a grim smile to his face. His satisfaction vanished as his gaze darted to where Phaedra was battling two Praetorians of her own. It was obvious they were holding back with her, which meant they were under orders to simply subdue her. He tried to maneuver closer to her but found his way blocked by one of the Praetorians he’d outmaneuvered.
“Sorry, Unmentionable. We’ve got plans for the bitch.”
The Praetorian’s words struck a sharp blow to his gut at the thought of Phaedra in the hands of these
bastardi
. The smile on the man’s face said the other fighter had seen his slight slip in control. He tightened his focus and strengthened the shield covering his thoughts. The Praetorian’s expression suddenly turned gleeful, and Lysander immediately sensed the second
bastardo
charging him from behind. He opened his senses a little more, and just when his attacker’s sword was about to fall, he jumped to one side and swung his blade up and across the Praetorian’s throat in one smooth stroke. Not bothering to watch the
bastardo
fall, he offered a taunting smile at the other fighter.
The dead Praetorian’s partner roared with anger then leaped forward. In a surprise move, Lysander’s opponent jumped high into the air, and his foot slammed into the scarred side of Lysander’s face. Pain erupted inside his head as his head snapped backward, and he reeled to one side in an effort to remain standing. He failed. On his knees, he barely managed to block the sword aiming for his neck, and before he could recover, the Praetorian deftly switched his weapon to the opposite hand.
The moment the other fighter’s blade dug deep into the muscles of his arm, a searing pain eclipsed the throbbing in his head. Fuck. H
ow in the hell was he supposed to fight a
sword-carrying south-paw?
Rolling away from the Praetorian, he stumbled to his feet, fighting to isolate and ignore the pain in his body. His arm limp at his side, he glanced in Phaedra’s direction to see one of her attackers slam an elbow into her head before his sword splayed her leg open just above the knee.
She didn’t cry out, but he heard the scream of pain in her mind. A cold rage pounded its way into his veins and muscles. It energized him, and as his opponent strutted forward with confidence, Lysander filled his thoughts with images of defeat to disguise his real intentions. The man’s arm flew upward with a slight laugh of triumph. The gleeful chuckle died in the Praetorian’s throat the instant Lysander thrust his sword up into the man’s chest. He almost didn’t perform the Order’s rite of R
ogare Donavi
. As if she could read his intentions, he felt the soft whisper of Phaedra’s thoughts drifting through his in protest. He gave in to her plea.
“I ask your forgiveness. Do you give it?” The mechanical note in Lysander’s voice indicated how little he cared whether the man answered yes or no. But he waited for the man’s answer. The Praetorian denied him.
“I hope you … rot in … hell, Unmentionable.”
“Then I’ll see you there,” he said grimly.
He threw his foot up to brace himself on the Praetorian’s thigh as he jerked his blade out of the man’s body. Not waiting to see the man fall, he whirled around to cover the short distance between him and the Praetorian about to strike Phaedra from behind. Adrenaline filled his uninjured arm with brute strength as he impaled the man with his sword. The fighter looked down at his chest, and Lysander didn’t have to see the man’s face to know how surprised the Praetorian was. In slow motion, the man slid off Lysander’s blade and fell to the marble floor. A low laugh echoed out of the darkness as the Praetorian crumpled to the blood-slicked floor. The sound made him wheel about to face the new danger.
“Well done, boy. You continue to impress me.” Nicostratus strolled casually out of the shadows to where Lysander could see him. The moment the Patriarch smiled, Lysander knew his mental shield had slipped and the man could see the hate seething inside him.
“I’m not here to impress you,” he snarled as he glanced in Phaedra’s direction to ensure she didn’t need help with the last Praetorian threatening her.
“Nonetheless, you do. I can’t help but believe there’s more of me flowing through your blood than you’d care to admit.”
A red haze clouded his mind for a moment before he heard a soft whisper of warning in his head. Whatever connected him to Phaedra had allowed her to remind him that Nicostratus wanted him to lose control. If he wanted to defeat the
bastardo
, he needed to remain calm and collected.
Immediately shielding his thoughts, he thrust his hand outward and directed an unseen pulse of energy that sent the Patriarch flying backward. Nicostratus hit the floor with a loud thud. It was a satisfying sound. As he strode forward, his father scrambled to his feet in an agile move. The man leaped forward, and a moment later, their swords crashed into each other. Sparks flew as the steel blades scraped upward and away from each other. Nicostratus was stronger than he looked, and with one arm out of action, it would be harder to defeat the man, even with his telekinetic ability. Any other time he would have had the advantage, but now the playing field was fairly well balanced between the two of them. As his weapon slid off Nicostratus’s blade, he spun around on his heel to whip his body behind the man. In his mind, he visualized the man’s legs buckling beneath a vicious kick to the knees. The Patriarch released a loud oath as he fell forward.
“You surprise me, Nicostratus. That kind of language is hardly becoming of a man in your exalted position within the Collegium.”
With a quick twist of his wrist, Lysander flipped his sword in a downward direction, intent on plunging it into Nicostratus. Mocking laughter echoed in his thoughts as the Patriarch swiftly rolled out of harm’s way and got to his feet.
“There are many things about me that would surprise, my son.”
“I told you before—I’m
not
your son.”
Lunging forward, he parried Nicostratus’s thrust, and the tip of his blade scraped across the Patriarch’s shoulder blade. Another oath flew out of the Praetorian’s mouth, before he countered and swung his sword toward Lysander’s blind side so quickly there wasn’t time to react. Fire bit into his wrist as Nicostratus’s sword sliced the tendons controlling his
grip. His hand incapable of holding a weapon, the sword clattered to the floor. He heard the man’s thoughts echoing through his head.
“But don’t you see, Lysander? You are everything I would expect from my son. My
greatest regret is that I didn’t know of your existence until it was too late.”
Lysander didn’t waste his energy on answering the man, instead he extended his hand to slam an unseen fist into Nicostratus’s jaw. The Praetorian grunted with pain, his head popping backward from the hard blow. As the man recovered, a gleam of something akin to respect glittered in the Patriarch’s eyes, and he shook his head.
“We’re very much alike, Lysander. We know what’s expected of us, and we do what we
must to achieve our goal. The question is … what are we willing to give up when it
comes to attaining our goal?”
The odd question confused Lysander as he stared into a pair of green eyes similar to his own. The
bastardo
was planning something, but when he tried to read the man’s thoughts, Nicostratus’s disciplined mind prevented him from seeing anything. If the
bastardo
thought he was defeated simply because he didn’t have the ability to hold a sword, the son of a bitch was deluded.
In a sudden, unexpected move, Nicostratus leaped forward, and instinct saved Lysander as he ducked beneath the wide arc of the man’s sword. The instant he dodged the deadly blade, the Patriarch opened his thoughts to him. The move had been a diversion to hide his real intent. As the man’s mocking laughter filled his head, Lysander released a shout of agonized fear.
Chapter 27
PHAEDRA somersaulted away from the Praetorian attempting to take her head off. The boot the man had viciously planted on her chest had made it difficult to breath. Merda,
had the
bastardo m
anaged to collapse one of her lungs with that kick?
Her entire body ached. She’d never healed as quickly as those she served, but now would be a good time for that particular quirk to take a hike.
