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Authors: Monica Burns

BOOK: Assassin's Heart
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Between her leg hurting like hell and her difficulty breathing, she was ready for a little respite. Not to mention that when it came time to heal others, her own injuries were going to make it even more difficult to help the others. And considering the amount of blood on the floor, she had a feeling her friends weren’t without their share of injuries.
She came up in a crouch with her back to her attacker, her senses blocking everything out around her except the hum of furious determination in her veins and the movements of the man she was fighting. When he was within a foot of her, she spun around on her haunches and dragged her sword deep into the man’s lower leg. The Praetorian crashed to the marble floor with a low cry, and in a flash of movement, she was standing over top of him, the tip of her sword pressing hard against his heart.
“I ask your forgiveness. Do you give it?” The R
ogare Donavi
echoed softly between her and the Praetorian. Despite the anger in his eyes, there was a resigned expression on the man’s face.
“Granted.”
The moment he spoke, her blade pierced the man’s chest and drove its way into his heart. Immediately, her stomach lurched and bile rose in her throat. Deus, even in self-defense it never got easier. Only harder. The sudden sound of Atia’s cry jerked her attention toward the center of the Pantheon. What the hell was the woman still doing here? She glanced around, searching for some sign of Ignacio. Her heart sank as she spotted the
Celeris
collapsed on the floor near the altar.
Christus
, they hadn’t even gotten out of the temple. She followed Atia’s stricken gaze to where the Sicari Lord and the Praetorian Dominus were fighting.
It was easy to see the younger man was winning, his blade a silver flash in the moonlight that streamed down from the building’s oculus. With a wave of his hand, the Dominus hit the Sicari Lord with an invisible blow. The older man doubled over as if someone had jabbed him in the stomach. His sword scraping across the floor, the man struggled to regain his balance. As he came upright, the Praetorian Dominus didn’t give the Sicari Lord the chance to raise his sword.

“This is for casting me aside, heretic.” The Dominus’s words reverberated loudly in the

temple as the hate, anger, and pain touched her mind.

Horror replaced her bewilderment as she watched the younger man viciously swing his sword upward in a diagonal slash across the Sicari Lord’s thigh and abdomen. Stunned, Phaedra saw the Sicari Lord sink to his knees, his hand braced against his leg to stem the flow of blood from his wound. A cruel smile on his face, the Praetorian Dominus lifted his sword up in preparation to finish off his opponent.
“Gabriel,
no
. He didn’t give you up. They took you from us. F
or the love of God
, he’s your father.” Atia’s cry of fear and pain made the man pause, his sword hovering in the air over his father’s head.
About to launch herself forward, the Prim
a Consul’s
words made Phaedra freeze with shock. The Sicari Lord murmured something to the man towering over him before his sword flashed in the moonlight. As his blade plunged upward into Gabriel’s chest, a stark look of surprise swept over the Praetorian Dominus’s face. His gaze locked with the Sicari Lord’s for a brief moment before he fell backward to the floor of the Pantheon.
Anguish twisted Marcus’s face as his weapon left his hand to protrude from his dead son’s body. The Sicari Lord tried to throw himself toward Gabriel in an evident display of bleak sorrow, but it was obvious his strength was gone as his body gave way to fatigue and pain. Tears streaming down her face, Atia raced forward to catch him in her arms as he collapsed.
The older couple’s turbulent emotions held Phaedra hostage as she stared at the small drama playing out before her eyes. Behind her, Lysander’s cry of anguish cut through her as a warning fluttered through her head. She whirled around just in time to see Nicostratus’s sword swinging her direction. Instinctively, she raised her weapon to block the man’s blade. As her sword clanged with the Patriarch’s sword, experience told her to tuck and roll to avoid the man’s next stroke, which would be lethal.
Suddenly, the air rushed out of her lungs in a whoosh as Lysander’s body slammed into hers, knocking her aside as he took the sword meant for her. The force of his action sent her sprawling across the floor, and she looked up just in time to see Nicostratus pull his blade out of Lysander with a low cry.
Her heart took a sickening lurch as she saw Lysander tumble forward to roll onto his back.
Care Deus
, what had he done? Blood flowed heavily from the wound in his side, and she started to scramble her way to him.
“Stay where you are, Phaedra.” The harsh command made her pause as he forced himself up into a sitting position with one elbow.

“What were you thinking, son?” the Patriarch exclaimed as he quickly backed away from Lysander in what seemed to be actual horror.

“I am
Sicari
. I have
never
been your son.”

Lysander’s words were harsh with pain and disgust as he violently jerked his head in Nicostratus’s direction. The Praetorian immediately stumbled backward and doubled over with a grunt of pain. While his father was struggling to recover from the invisible blow, Lysander tried to push himself up to his feet. De
us
, the man was insane to think he could fight. She started forward, and in that instant, she saw Cleo racing forward, her sword flying toward the Patriarch’s neck.
As if prepared for the blow, the man easily blocked the attack with his sword then turned to plant his foot squarely in Cleo’s stomach. Her friend went flying backward across the Pantheon’s marble floor. Backing away from them, Nicostratus’s harsh command to retreat echoed through the Pantheon. The two Praetorians still alive broke and ran as Nicostratus stared down at Lysander for another brief moment then fled the building. Cleo and Ares started to follow them.
“Let them go. Secure the Tyet
of Isis
,” Lysander rasped before collapsing back to the cold marble beneath him. She reached him just before his head hit the hard surface. Fear jumbled her thoughts as she frantically slit his shirt open with her sword to examine his wound. Tears filled her eyes as she worked.

“You dumb
bacciagalupe
. That was a stupid stunt to pull. I could have easily ducked his sword.”

“How many times do I have to tell you … you’re not as good … a fighter as I am?” His eyes were closed, but there was a faint smile on his lips.
“Shut up and give me your hands.”
“No
Curavi
. See to the Sicari Lord first. Then come back for me.” There was something in the whisper that terrified her.
“Goddamn it, I won’t let you get away with this a second time, Lysander Condellaire. Now give me your hands.”
“Phaedra.” Ares’s sharp cry made her turn her head. “Marcus needs you,
now
. I don’t know how much longer he can hold out.”
No
. The other man could wait. Lysander came first.
“Give me your hands now,” she said harshly.
“He is the Sicari Lord, Phaedra. It’s your duty to heal him first.”

“
No
, I won’t lose you.
I won’t.”

She knew the highest-ranking officer was to be healed first, but she wasn’t about to let Lysander die. She didn’t care what the rules were. She didn’t care what anyone ordered her to do. Determined to keep him safe, she grabbed his hands and tried to calm her thoughts. He broke free of her grasp to caress her cheek.

“I’ll be fine, it’s little more than a scratch.”

“Don’t lie to me.”

“All right, it’s a cut, but it can easily be sewn up.” He sent her a stern look. “Go to Tev-Marcus. I’ll be right here. I’m not going anywhere.”

“Please, Lysander. Don’t make me do this. I can’t.”

“You don’t have a choice, me
a amor
. Honor and duty first.” The endearment pulled a sharp breath from her as his fingers curled around her neck and he pulled her head down to kiss her. “As Le
gatus
, I order you to go.”

Shaking her head in protest, she felt Cleo’s hand on her shoulder. “The sooner you heal the Sicari Lord, the sooner you can get back over here. Go.”

Torn with guilt at leaving his side, Phaedra scrambled her way across the bloody floor to reach Marcus’s side. Anguish had drained the color from Atia’s face, and the Sicari Lord’s head rested in her lap as her fingers lightly stroked his forehead. Quickly Phaedra examined the wound in the man’s leg. She met her brother’s gaze and grimaced.
The only explanation for the dark blood spurting out of the Sicari Lord’s wound was that the arterial vein had been nicked. With every beat of his heart, he lost blood. He had maybe two minutes to live if she didn’t heal him. The Prim
a Consul
brushed her fingertips across his cheek, and the man’s eyes fluttered open to meet Phaedra’s gaze. It was Tevy she saw looking up at her.
“Maximus?” The question was a soft rasp.
“He’s alive.” B
arely
. Riddled with fear, she knew the sooner she healed the man, the sooner she could help Lysander. She offered her hands to him. “With your permission, I must touch you to heal you.”
“He’s dying.” The Sicari Lord’s words made her grow cold. “Heal him. I am no longer important.”
“He won’t let me touch him until you’re out of danger,” she said through clenched teeth. “Now stop wasting my time and
his
, and accept the
Curavi
.”

“He always was a stubborn man,” Tevy murmured. “You have my … permission.”

The moment he spoke, she grabbed his hands and fought to focus on her patient. The warmth flowing through her hands made her skin tingle. Despite her concentration, her heart ached to return to Lysander. Pain sliced through her leg as the Sicari Lord’s wound appeared on hers. The danger of healing an arterial wound wasn’t lost on her. Her healing was tied to Tevy’s wound healing. If she didn’t concentrate on visualizing Tevy’s wound closing, she could wind up dying along with the Sicari Lord.
Black blood spurted from her leg, and a wave of nausea spread its way through her. Desperately, she pushed the pain away. Focus. She needed to focus on getting Tevy out of danger then she could go to Maximus. Nausea streaked through her again, and this time she had to release the Sicari Lord’s hands. Weak from her own blood loss, she glanced down and saw Tevy’s wound beginning to disappear from her leg, although the cut above her knee remained dark and ugly.

“He needs you,
now
,” Tevy rasped.

She nodded as nausea crashed through her again. The intensity of it signaled she’d reached the end of her healing abilities.
Care Deus
, Lysander. She tried to stand but was too weak. A strong hand lifted her up onto her feet, and Ares half carried her to Lysander’s side. Tears streaming down her face, she collapsed on the floor next to him. The warmth of his love flooded her mind, and it made her sob harder as she reached for him.
“Give me your hands,” she choked out.
“It’s too late, c
arissima
.” He weakly avoided her grasp and offered her a small smile as she stared down at him. “I have no regrets.”
“Don’t do this, Lysander. Give me your hands. Let me heal you.”
“We both know you don’t have anything left to give, me
a amor
.”
His eyes closed, and she grabbed his hand. So cold.
Care Deus
, not again. She couldn’t lose him again. Across from her, Cleo looked at her with a grim expression on her face as her eyes watered. Behind her, Ares touched her shoulder. She shook off the touch with a vicious twist of her body.
Desperate for a way to save him, she frantically glanced around for some type of inspiration. Something that would keep him with her. His hand was growing icy now, and her stomach churned as grief assailed her. Eyes watery, she caught a sparkle of color near Lysander’s leg. Her head jerked up and she looked around the temple. In the dim light, she saw the altar they had passed when entering the temple. She looked at Cleo.
“Is your shirt clean?”

“What?”

“Is your shirt cle
an?”

“No,” Cleo shook her head. “But my camisole is.”

“Wet it in the baptismal fount
now
!” When Cleo hesitated, she leaned over Lysander. ”
Do it. Hurry.”

“What the hell are you doing?” Ares’s voice echoed over her shoulder.

“I’m saving his life.”

“
Il Christi omnipotentia
, you don’t know that you can. You’re already as weak as a newborn.”

“Not now, Ares.”

She shrugged off her brother’s hand and waited for Cleo to return. It took Cleo almost thirty seconds to return with the material dripping with water, but it seemed an eternity. She grabbed the wispy thin material to scrub her hand and then Lysander’s. His eye fluttered open to look at her. The horror in his gaze said he’d read her mind. His breathing labored, he tried to speak.
“No.”
“You don’t have a choice. Now say the words. My life for your life.”
He flinched. “No.”
“Damn it, say the words. My life for your life.”
She waited for his response to drift through her head. When he refused, she reached for the dagger in his boot. With a swift stroke, she made a deep cut in her palm.
“My heart for your heart,” she murmured as she ignored Ares’s and Cleo’s gasps. When she grabbed his hand, he tried to resist, but he had no strength. The dagger sliced through Lysander’s palm. As his palm ran red with blood, she stared down into his green-eyed gaze.
“Say the words,” she said hoarsely.
“No. I can’t let you do this,
mea amor
.”
His voice was stronger in her head, but she could tell how weak he was by the obvious effort it took to concentrate.

“Goddamn it, say the words,” she rasped. “My blood for your blood. Say it, damn you.”

“Don’t do this, Phaedra. You need to let me go,
dolce cuore
.”
His words whispered in her head as invisible fingers touched her cheek.

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