Assassin's Heart

by Monica Burns

  When he came to, he immediately wished he could crawl back into oblivion. He automatically opened his eyes, and the action shot a bolt of lightning deep into the back of his head as his eyelid pried itself off his seared eyeball. It pulled another roar of pain from him. Nicostratus laughed.

  “Now then, my son. We need to talk, as we don’t have much time.”

  “Just end it, you sorry fotte.” The pain it cost him to speak made him slide toward the dark edge of the abyss, and he closed his eyes again.

  “I’m not going to end it, Lysander. I couldn’t kill my own son.” The words ripped through him with the same painful force of the laser the man had used on him. This son of a bitch wasn’t just insane, he was sadistic.

  “Merda di toro.”

  “No, it’s true. I’m as surprised as you are. And I find it interesting that no one told you about your mother and me. We had a … well, let’s say she resisted my charms.”

  Pain made his thoughts sluggish. Resisted. Was the bastardo saying he’d raped his mother? Not possible. The man was taunting him in an effort to break him down. The Praetorian made one more attempt to break the last defensive wall he’d built around the Order’s strategic information. Unable to think straight, an image of Phaedra filled his head, and he clung to the memory of the night before. Nicostratus made an insulting noise.

  “Ah, yes, that reminds me of how I fucked your mother. If I’d known she was ready to breed, I would have taken her with me.”

  “You’re a liar.” Each word sent fire shooting up into his brain, and it took him a moment to realize he was sobbing the words.

  “No, my boy. Take a look.”

  Lysander tried to keep his eyes closed, but fingers pinched his eyelid, forcing open the only eye he had left. He stared at the mark on Nicostratus’s arm. Immersed in agony, he couldn’t focus. Despite his uncertainty as to what he was really looking at, he wanted to throw up. Deep inside him, a vague thought registered the image, but he refused to believe it. He tried to shake his head.

  “What?” he whispered, barely able to speak.

  “Look closer, Lysander. It’s proof I’m your father.”

  “A mark?” He closed his eye, praying for oblivion. Fingers pinched his eyelid again.

  “The eagle. Do you see it?”

  He groaned as he blinked and focused on the mark the man had on his arm. The bastardo had lost it. That mark wasn’t an eagle—it was a bird. His mark was an eagle. His mother had said it belonged to his father.

  “Your’s … bird. Not … eagle.” He barely got the words out as he hovered on the brink of consciousness.

  “Look again, boy.”

  Suddenly, there were two arms with matching eagles in almost identical spots thrust in front of him. They blurred. He was seeing double, that’s all. The helplessness reached his heart, tearing it apart like a rabid animal. He stared, his mind trying to comprehend what he was seeing.

  “No.” He didn’t have the strength to shout, and the Praetorian laughed.

  “But of course it’s true. I knew the minute I probed your mind. How else do you explain your extraordinary ability to resist my repeated probes for information? A true Sicari might show some resistance to me, but they would not be as strong as you.” Nicostratus made a soft sound of amused disapproval.

  “Not true,” he rasped then roared with pain as the Praetorian bastard lightly tapped his skinned cheek again.

  “You would have made a fine Praetorian, my boy. Your ability to defy the pain you’re in is exceptional.”

  The laser hit his skin again from his ear down to his jaw. The pain pulled a pitched scream of agonized terror from him, and he fell backward into a black pool of nothingness—his last thought was of ancient Rome and Phaedra running to meet him. He

  was home again.

  He had no idea how long he’d been out, but when he awoke, everything was silent and dark. Was it nighttime in the Elysium Fields? He tried to sit up. The slight movement sent fire streaking through every cell in his body. He started to cry. The Praetorian had left him here to die. Alone. His own son.

  He grew still with horror. He wasn’t Sicari. He was Praetorian. The obscene thought pulled a cry of denial from him. His mind hovered on the brink of despair. Impossible. It couldn’t be true. But they shared the same birthmark. The whisper of truth curled through his head. He wouldn’t believe it. The bastardo was lying. A teardrop rolled over his skinned cheek, and it pulled a sob of anguish from him.

  “Fotte. Fotte. Fotte.”

  It was a roar of fear and helplessness, as well as a cry of agony. More tears flowed over his bared muscles, until the pain sent him back to that dark place again.

  Voices filtered their way down into the pit, and he shuddered with terror. They’d come back for him. Like a wild animal anticipating more torture, he tugged at his restraints, ignoring the fire that consumed his body. He wouldn’t be able to keep the son of a bitch out of his head this time. He heard running feet, and then he smelled the soft scent of a woman. Marta?

  “Dulcis matris Deus.” Cleo leaned over him, her cool hand brushing across his forehead. Horror widened her eyes as she stared down at him. In the next instant, she spoke into her mike. “Lysander’s alive, but I don’t know for how much longer. He needs the Curavi. Now.”

  He couldn’t hear the response she got, but a sudden image of Phaedra filled his head. She was here. A subtle warmth filled him as her fear and worry for him whispered sweetly across his mind. Deus, he needed her right now. Needed to feel her touch. Her hand in his, her healing— no.

  The sound of feet pounded on the warehouse floor once more, and first Ares then Phaedra came into view. He’d never seen a more beautiful, yet terrifying, sight in his entire life. He couldn’t take part in seeing her lovely face marred by his injuries. Couldn’t let her see the monster inside him. Terror lanced through him as she reached for his hand. Tormented, he tugged at the restraints. If she touched him—tried to heal him, she’d see him for what he was. He couldn’t let that happen. Couldn’t let her perform the Curavi.

  “No. No Curavi.”

  Cleo clamped down on his arm. “Christus, he’s out of his mind with pain.”

  “For the love of God, Cleo. Tighten those restraints.” Panic laced through Phaedra’s

  voice. “I can’t heal him if he’s fighting me. I’ll heal the lesser injuries first. Then we can transport him. When we’re home, I’ll … I’ll do what I can for his other wounds.”

  He saw her swallow hard and recognized her fear. The idea of her taking on his injuries was a nightmare, but he knew without a doubt that when she touched him she’d be able to see all the darkness inside him. He was too weak to keep her locked out of his thoughts if she touched him. She’d see. She’d see everything because the pain was too horrible to prevent her from learning the truth.

  “No,” he roared. ” No Curavi.”

  The strength of his voice echoed loudly in the room, and he heard Ares utter a vicious curse while Cleo grasped his hand in a death grip. Fear and horror darkened Phaedra’s eyes as she bent over him. Her mouth brushed across the ear on his unmarked cheek.

  “Let me do this for you, carino,” she whispered in a sweet, gentle voice. “I’m not afraid.”

  “No. Refuse the Curavi.”

  He tried to shake his head as he forged through the pain and ground out the words forcefully. Couldn’t let her see. Her parents’ murder … hated Praetorians … couldn’t bear her hatred. He felt himself slipping off into oblivion and climbed up the cliff back into the pain. She’d heal him without his permission if he didn’t protest.

  “Listen, you dumb son of a bitch.” Cleo’s voice was harsh. “You let Phaedra heal you or I’m going to rip you a new one. You hear me?”

  “No … dead already.” And he was. He was Praetorian, and if anyone found out … he’d rather die.

  “Give me your hands, Lysander. With your permission, I must touch you to heal your injuries.” There was a frantic de
speration in Phaedra’s voice, but it only made him clench his hands into tight fists.

  “I. Refuse. Curavi.”

  His voice wasn’t loud, but it was strong and determined. He heard someone nearby release a vicious sound. Ares. His Legatus forcefully pushed Cleo aside to grip his arm.

  “Take the goddamn Curavi, you sorry bastardo,” his guild leader ordered in a fierce voice.

  Something wet hit his unscarred cheek, and his gaze shifted from Ares to Phaedra. In the dim light, he could see tears clinging to her lashes. He wouldn’t hurt her. Wouldn’t let her see he was everything she hated. He loved her too much. He couldn’t let her see that or his shame. He released a sob of pain.

  “Is. My. Right. Refuse. Curavi.” Each word was a labor of effort to say.

  “No,” Phaedra exclaimed violently. “I’m not about to let you die, you dumb bacciagalupe. Ares, make him take the Curavi.”

  “No. My. Right.” He hovered on the edge of light and dark.

  “I can’t, Phaedra. If he’d been unconscious, it wouldn’t be a problem, but he’s refused. There’s nothing I can do.” Ares’s voice was fierce with disgusted anger.

  “Please, Lysander. Don’t refuse me.” His cheek grew wet as Phaedra bent over him, her mouth against his ear. Her hand bit into his arm, and he felt a pulse of energy as she pleaded with him. “Don’t try to save me from the pain. Let me save you. I want to do this for you. I don’t want you to die.”

  The heat in her hand grew stronger, and a roar built in his chest. With a wild cry, he bucked against the restraints holding him in place. Restraints that proved he’d been powerless against the Praetorian, but he wasn’t helpless anymore. He had the right to refuse the Curavi. And for her sake, he wasn’t about to let her heal him.

  “Get the fuck away from me. I don’t want your goddamn healer’s touch. I refuse Curavi.” The blast of words made him pay a dear price as a cloak of needles wrapped itself around him, digging into every part of his body. He saw the agony flare in her beautiful brown eyes, and deep inside a voice cried out for her. The only thing that kept him from taking his words back was the darkness welling up inside him. He was Praetorian. There was nothing that could change that. But it was his secret. A truth he couldn’t share with anyone, not even the woman he loved.

  Chapter 2

  DEMETR I. Phaedra awoke with a start. She’d been dreaming again. No, more of a nightmare, because she’d been scared. The fragments of the dream were like dark tendrils she recognized but couldn’t really see. The only thing she remembered clearly was that she’d been in ancient Rome. Lysander had been there as well, but how or why, she couldn’t remember. It wasn’t the first time she’d had this type of dream. But it had never made her feel this disoriented and scared before.

  Even her bed felt wrong. She shot upright. It wasn’t her bed. It was a sleeper chair in Lysander’s hospital room. A quick glance at her watch said she’d been asleep about two hours. That made for a total of about four hours in the last thirty-six. Her ability was always weaker when she didn’t get enough sleep or if she drank too much. And she wasn’t sure her touch would be strong enough to help Lysander if he woke up, let alone if he actually agreed to her performing the Curavi this time.

  Her gaze focused on the still figure in the hospital bed, and the soft sound of the heart monitor filled her ears as if it were a booming church bell. Between his internal injuries, sword wounds, and the side of his face stripped of skin, he was lucky to be alive. Bandages covered most of his face, while she could see the black sutures on his lower lip. A white sheet and blanket covered the rest of his visible injuries.

  An overwhelming need to touch him swept through her, and she left her chair to move toward the bed. She brushed her fingers through his short blond hair. He looked so helpless, something she instinctively knew he’d hate. He shouldn’t be here. He should be completely healed.

  She closed her eyes for a brief moment. Why had he refused the Curavi? What had possessed him to reject her healer’s touch? The only answer she could think of was that he didn’t want her to suffer what he had. He’d been afraid for her. A tear slid down her cheek. Didn’t the man understand she was willing to go to the depths of Tartarus for him?

  The delicate creak of the room’s heavy oak door drew her attention away from Lysander as she saw Ares enter the room. She immediately averted her head, and with a furtive swipe of her hand, she dried her damp cheek. A strong hand clasped her shoulder, forcing her to turn around.

  “I just talked to the doctor. He’s going to be okay,” Ares said. “He can have plastic surgery to eliminate most of the damage.”

  The words eased some of her fear, but not all of it. He’d been through a Praetorian torture session. Something few Sicari had ever survived. The physical trauma was repairable, but the emotional toll it extracted was high. A large number of survivors had deliberately thrown themselves into combat situations where there was no hope of survival. The

  thought of that happening to Lysander terrified her.

  “Hey, you don’t have to stay here,” Ares said gently.

  “No,” she whispered and looked at the wall clock. “There may still be time. It’s not been quite twenty hours since we found him. There’s still a four-hour window. It might be enough.”

  She’d not explained her reasons for coming with Lysander to the Order’s central headquarters in Genova, Italy, but Ares had agreed to her demand without any objection. Her brother probably thought she was hoping to convince Lysander to accept the Curavi once he woke. Doctors could repair his face, but she was the only one who might be able to give him back his sight, and there wasn’t any guarantee she could do that for him. But there was a window of time for healing wounds, and it hardly ever extended past twentyfour hours. The longer the time frame, the less likely the Curavi would work. Ares frowned at her.

  “Phae, you’re the best healer the Order has, but the odds are he’s already past the turning point, and not even you can heal him then.”

  “Maybe, but I need to at least try.” She shook her head at her brother’s exasperated expression.

  “If Lysander rejected the Curavi when he was close to dying, what makes you think he’d accept it now?”

  “I don’t, but if he wakes up in time, I have to try.” She didn’t look at Ares. Instead, she turned away from the bed and went to stand at the sliding glass door.

  Designed with an eye toward a patient’s physical and spiritual needs, the secluded and fortified hospital gave the Order’s patients access to sunshine and fresh air as part of their recovery process. A large garden stretched its way outward from the small patio adjoining Lysander’s room. In the early-morning light, the beauty outside was a stark contrast to the pain and darkness she knew Lysander was experiencing.

  Deus, she hated the bastardi who’d done this to him. For almost two thousand years, the Praetorians had hunted the Sicari. At one time, the Sicari had been a part of the Praetorian Guard. Like their enemy, they’d served as bodyguards to the Caesars of ancient Rome, they’d had wealth, position, and power. But the Guard had split at the time of Constantine I, and those in power had cast out a select group of brothers. They labeled the outcast Sicari. Assassins.

  They called the Sicari heretics, and yet like the vermin they were, the Praetorians hid from the world behind the robes of the Carpenter’s church. Using the banner of righteousness, they’d sought to exterminate the Sicari, inflicting terrible atrocities on her people as well as the innocent. A soft groan drifted through the air to pierce her thoughts.

  She whirled around to see Ares move quickly to the bed, his hands on the bed rail, bending over his friend.

  “Hey, how you feeling, amici?”

  “Like stronzo.” Lysander’s voice was so soft she had to strain to hear him.

  “Yeah, well you could be feeling a lot worse,” Ares joked. From where she was standing at the door, she saw Lysander suddenly grab her brother’s hand.