Bastian (8 page)

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Authors: Elizabeth Amber

BOOK: Bastian
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“Answer me!” He gave her a shake, his voice going hard. Suddenly he'd gone fierce and frightening again.
“Why do you suspect that I'm the one who took your—whatever it is?”
His lips tightened. “When I leave each night, I make sure this tent and the perimeter of the Forum grounds are webbed with unseen spells. Spells that turn human trespassers away without their knowing why. But there are some creatures they cannot repel. Aren't there, Luc?”
“That would be ElseWorld creatures,” his brother affirmed. “Such as Imps.”
“I didn't—” Silvia began.
Suddenly, Bastian's hands were everywhere, running over her back, ribs, belly, the outsides of her thighs, the insides. “Stop it!” she shrieked, wriggling to escape him. Rico was apparently ticklish.
Coming up with nothing displeased her interrogator. He planted his hands on either side of her atop the desk and pressed his body threateningly close, leaning over her until she fell backward onto the surface of his desk to avoid him.
“Have you sold it?” he asked with a quiet ferocity that chilled her.
“No!” Fisting both hands, she wedged her elbows between them, but he proved impossible to shove off. Yet when her knuckles accidentally brushed against his throat, something changed in his face. Abruptly, he reared back from her as if he'd been burned. She stared at him in wary surprise.
Lucien half-rose from his seat, looking alarmed. “Bastian?”
But the eldest Satyr motioned his brother off and continued staring at her. Some deep emotion passed over his expression, like a fast-moving thundercloud in a changing, stormy sky.
Oh no! Had she—? Silvia glanced at her hands, relieved to see that both were still fisted. She was always careful not to touch others open-palmed, for she still carried Vesta's fire, no matter whom she assumed as host.
But if her palms hadn't grazed him, why was he acting so oddly?
Stunned, Bastian stared down into the Impish boy's face.
He had just seen color again! For only the third time in his life. And all three occurrences coming within two days of one another. Again this time, along with the color, he'd experienced that same rush of lust. Damnation, the urge to go looking for the first willing female he encountered surged strong in him. What the hell was happening? He rounded his desk and flung himself into his chair, giving his body time to recover. And allowing himself a moment to consider the matter.
The Imp's fist had brushed his throat. When flesh had met flesh, that's when the color had flared. It had not been vivid this time. Rather, it was as if a black and white scene had been washed with pastel shades by some invisible, unearthly paintbrush.
As soon as he had let the boy go, the color had subsided. Although he craved more of it, he found it suspect. Why, after twenty-nine years of life, was this happening to him? And how? What could the Presence he'd felt yesterday morning, the childish wraith of yesterday afternoon, and this Imp possibly have in common?
“Your name,” he demanded sharply. “What's your name, Imp?”
“Rico.”
He crossed his arms. “Your
real
name.”
The boy looked nervous, bolstering his suspicions that some trickery was afoot. His eyes never leaving his captive, he spoke to his brother. “Imps are notorious liars and thieves, are they not, Luc?”
“That's my understanding,” came the reply. The boy sent him a sour glance that for some reason made Bastian want to laugh. Schooling his features to sternness, he said, “Shall I take you to the
polizia
and see what they can pry out of you?” His brother rose, disturbing the dog and making as if to take the Imp into custody.
“Wait!” Rico backed away, then quickly asked Bastian, “How did you discover that I was outside the tent just now?”
Bastian sat back in his father's chair, hearing the discreet, familiar creak of expensive leather under him. “I know the scent of Imp when I smell it.”
“Then, answer me this. Did you smell ‘Imp' this morning in your tent, after the theft occurred?”
“The boy makes a good point,” Lucien noted.
The brat
did
make a good point, for he hadn't detected such a scent. “Yet, you were eavesdropping just now,” he accused with gentle menace. “Why come here today, if not to steal?”
Rico shrugged. “Heard you found some Virgins, so I came running to see what's what.” He grinned in a boyish leer that was strangely innocent. The minute the words tumbled out, he pressed fingers to his lips in surprise, as if dismayed he'd spoken them. Visibly shaking off his discomfort, he added, “And I've come to
trade
you information, not steal it.”
“What could you possibly know that would interest me?”
“Got some information about the Virgins, is what.”
Bastian snorted in gentlemanly disbelief.
The boy commenced ticking facts off on his fingers, “One: Aeneas brought the eternal fire to Vesta's temple from Troy. Two: It burned there for nine hundred years. Three: Twelve Vestals kept it going. Four: In ancient times, magistrates—like that love-starved minister who just left, for instance—sacrificed to Vesta before taking office. Five . . . I can keep going. Any questions?”
Twelve
Vestals, the boy had said. Not six as the philosophers mentioned. The other information he could have learned from books or teaching. But even Bastian himself hadn't suspected there were twelve, until last night's vision.
“How is it that you spew ancient history like an encyclopedia?” Bastian asked, his interest now thoroughly captured.
Rico spread his hands. “Don't know. Just do. Hire me to work for you, and I'll tell you more of what I know.” Cocky now that he'd impressed them, he sauntered around the room, cursorily examining the vast collection of books and artifacts. Having come awake, his dog trailed him.
Bastian and Lucien exchanged glances. “Looking for more plunder?” Bastian enquired.
The boy lifted and dropped his shoulders carelessly. His eyes lit on the small white box of expensive chocolates on one of the shelves. Michaela had a fondness for them, and Bastian had bought them for her. Rico bent and sniffed. His stomach growled and he put a hand to it, looking a trifle embarrassed. His eyes shot toward Bastian. “For your wife?”
“None of your business.”
“Ladylove, then? If you're looking for gifts, I know a bit of cly faking. Can filch you some fine handkerchiefs over in the market. Just say the word—”
Before the Imp could finish, his dog leaped up. In an instant, it snatched the box from the shelf and was now intent on ripping it apart to reach the chocolates within.
“Sal!” Rico scolded. When he tried to retrieve the torn box, the dog took it in his teeth and bounded off, running in circles around the tent.
Whap!
His tail smacked a terracotta urn, knocking it against an adjacent one in just the wrong way. It cracked, partially shattering into pieces.
With a muffled oath, Bastian took a long step in the dog's direction. It bounded around his feet growling, unwilling to give up its sweet treasure. “Ninety hells! Get that mutt out of here! Luc!”
Again, his brother summoned the dog. The half-eaten chocolates were immediately dropped and forgotten as Sal went to him. This time, however, he wasn't sent into slumber, but only sat there at Lucien's feet, watchful.
Rico picked up the mangled confectioner's box, looking unsure what to do with it. “His name is Salvatore.”
“Savior?” murmured Bastian, surveying his cracked urn. “Hardly seems fitting under the circumstances.”
Sidling over to the desk, Rico set the box on it and then stood there, digging one toe of his sandal to trace a pattern in the carpet. “I call him Sal. He's a good rat catcher.” He glanced around as if looking for rodents. “Might be useful to have a dog around here. You interested? Only one lira.”
Bending over the urn, Bastian gingerly inspected the destruction. “One lira for that flea-ridden mongrel?”
The boy glanced at the dog, who was scratching.
“Fermi quello!”
he scolded softly. Then to Bastian, he persisted. “He wouldn't have fleas if he had a good home. Maybe—”
“I don't have time for a dog. I'm here from five in the morning until ten at night.”
“He could keep you company here,” Rico persuaded. “He'd make a good guard dog. He could watch over your shards for you. Some of this pottery looks valuable.”
Bastian held up a fractured piece of the urn. “Some of it was,” he said sardonically.
“He could even keep that minister away,” Rico went on.
“In that case, you might want to consider it, brother. Politicians are an annoying lot,” Lucien agreed, tongue in cheek. “Since he has taken over his post, Tuchi seems to be constantly underfoot. Every time you turn around, he is here, and for no reason.”
“Oh, he has a reason,” Rico announced. Two sets of silver gazes swung in his direction. He pressed his fingertips to the seam of his mouth as he had the previous time, as if hoping to stop his own runaway mouth. But words burst from him nevertheless. “The minister likes men. In his bed.”
“What?” Bastian blustered in astonishment.
Lucien cocked his head, consideringly.
“
An
omosessuale?”
“He had a knot the size of a fist in his pants. Don't tell me neither of you noticed?” Rico insisted.
Bastian rubbed a hand over his face, unsure whether to laugh or groan. “What the hells am I going to do with you?”
“Give me a job?” suggested Rico.
“Homeless, are you?” Bastian said, eyeing him speculatively. “And looking for honest work?”
The boy straightened. “Yes!” he said, appearing hardly able to believe his fortune might be taking a lucrative turn.
“Very well. We'll try you at the dig and see how long you last.”
Silvia followed Bastian out of the tent. In view of her recently reduced height, it was hardly surprising that her eyes naturally dropped to his muscled backside. As he walked, his hips rolled in a devilishly sexy way that drew the eye. Remembering him as he'd been the morning before, laboring over Michaela in his bed, she blushed.
Stop it!
she told herself. She was as bad as the minister!
She quickly found herself taken to his foreman, whom she recognized as the sneak thief from the tent the previous night. Interesting.
“What the devil is this?” the foreman demanded when she was presented to him.
“Our newest employee,” Bastian informed him. “Feed him and his mutt, then put him to work. And don't let him out of your sight.”
Then to her, he said, “Do what Ilari says. We work from six to two, then we break for lunch and siesta until four. Then more work until dinner at seven thirty.”
Then he turned to go.
Knowing he'd be suspicious if she didn't ask, she called after him. “What's the pay?”
He tossed a figure back at her. She had no idea if his offer was fair or not, but she nodded. Then he turned back and held out his hand as if to shake.
Startled, she ignored it and put hers in her pocket, pretending not to understand what he wanted. But from his satisfied expression, it seemed she'd confirmed something for him by her reluctance.
“Steal so much as one shard of pottery and I'll see you put in jail,” he said by way of good-bye. With that, he turned on his heel and disappeared into his tent.
Behind her, she heard Ilari muttering something about not being a wet-nurse. She had a feeling they weren't destined to be fast friends. A feeling that quickly gathered momentum when he assigned her the lowest scut work there was to be had.
Within a few hours, she was exhausted. When they broke for lunch, Sal gobbled up his second meal of the day as though he hadn't eaten in a month, then proceeded to nap the afternoon away in a nearby bosk, occasionally rousing himself to trail Bastian when he left his tent to supervise the dig. She, on the other hand, spent her day moving bits of rubble from one pile to another. It was mind- and body-numbing labor, and she made her feelings known to the foreman with an ongoing list of grievances regarding the dirt and cold. The fact that she was irritating him wasn't all her fault. In the first few days, the host still wielded considerable control over the body. It would fade soon, but for now it was difficult to stop Rico from having his say.

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