Page 4 of Firebird (The Fire That Binds #1)

III

MALINA

I followed the lame man into the villa, noting that the doorways and ceilings were overly wide and spacious. I wondered if it was because the general and his fellow Romans often walked around in half-skin.

A shiver trickled icily down my spine remembering the half-skin soldiers clawing, killing, and burning the Celtic clan who’d adopted me. The suffocating sensation of smoke and being penned in by fire had me squeezing my eyes shut for a moment, wishing away that horrific sight of only a few hours ago. And the screams.

It had taken all of one brief battle for this general and his army to cut them all down. They’d moved in by stealth. By the time we realized what was happening and had rallied, it was too late to use my gift to help them. Panic had gripped me hard, and I couldn’t save them. I wondered where poor Enid was now, the woman who’d taken me into her home, who’d treated me like her own.

I swallowed the pang of grief as the man wound around an atrium set in the middle of the house, a fountain trickling into a pretty pool bordered by blue inlaid tiles. The fountain was surrounded by all manner of leafy plants and vines, a dome above it open to the night sky.

I nearly snorted with derision. The wealth these Romans had, and yet, it was never enough. They took and took and took. They always wanted more. More land, more goods, more slaves.

Blinking back the tears of anger, I continued to follow the older man through the huge house, down a winding hallway, the many torches in sconces keeping the house well lit even at this hour of night.

“Are you Greek?” I asked, having noted his accent.

“Thracian,” he said without stopping or looking over his shoulder.

“Did the master steal you from your home as well?” I asked bitterly.

He didn’t answer as he stopped at an open door and turned, his expression hard and unreadable. “This will be your room. There should be a clean tunic in the trunk. Clean up and get dressed. I will return shortly.”

“What is your name?” I asked.

“Ruskus.”

Then he walked away, leaving me staring into the darkened room. Taking a torch from the sconce at the entrance, I entered and shut the door, not sure what to expect. It was rather large and clean, a bed set in the corner, a trunk at the foot. To one side was a changing screen with an embroidered red dragon flying straight up and breathing fire.

I bit my lip at the thought of the red dragon who’d just taken me in the air in his claws. I pressed a palm to my stomach where the tip of one of his claws had pressed and torn through my shirt. Though he hadn’t cut through my skin, there would be a bruise. At least I was whole and unsullied. I should be grateful the red dragon’s sudden—yet gory—slaying of my attacker had saved me from a worse fate.

Sighing, I took in the rest of the room. There was a table next to the bed, a small shelf set above it lined with three books. Books? What slave needs or has time to read? Bound books were rare and expensive. Why on earth would there be any in a slave’s quarters at all?

I wandered closer, expecting some drivel by the famous Roman historians or scholars. But no, these books were all Greek. I could read a little. My bunica had taught me and my sisters, telling us once, “The Greeks use their brains more than their swords. You should know their words.”

When I’d asked why we had to learn Latin as well, she’d replied, “Survival. You must know what your enemy is saying.”

I lifted out one of the books, marveling at the leather binding and the neat script copied inside. It was by one of the famous Greek philosophers on human nature and morality.

“What in the world is this doing here?” I muttered to myself.

The second was of a similar topic. The third was a collection of stories of adventurous heroes. Perhaps I was put in a guest room. The master had literally dropped me on his terrace without warning the household. Maybe Ruskus had nowhere else to put me.

Glancing around the room, I realized that couldn’t be true either. While the room was more spacious and well-furnished than I’d expect for a slave, it wasn’t elegant enough for a Roman guest. Not a patrician anyway. What other kind of guest would a general in the emperor’s army have at his home?

Realizing I had little time to gawk at my new prison, I hurried toward the trunk and pulled out a tunic. It wasn’t of the fine material that Romans wore, but a soft linen, well-made, in a pretty pale green. There was a small washbasin, only big enough to stand in for washing, and a bucket of steaming water set next to it .

Ruskus had worked quickly. I’d barely been outside a few minutes before he’d appeared and shown me to this room. And to be given heated water was unusual.

Confused, but well aware that my time was running out, I hurriedly stripped the soiled and torn clothing that Enid had so carefully made for me and stepped into the stone basin. Using a cloth set there as well, I washed the dirt and blood from my body. The blood of that creature. But also of a friend.

Another memory flashed across my mind, when a Roman in half-skin had brutally clawed out the throat of Aodhan, a Celtic warrior and friend, who’d been trying to protect me. I had thought we might become more than that if the fighting had ever ended. He’d been kind to me when most of the clan was wary. Though they appreciated how I’d managed to manipulate the Romans who’d attacked them twice before, they didn’t understand my gift and stayed clear of me.

But not Aodhan. He’d smiled kindly, spoken softly. He’d brought me and Enid an extra hare when they went hunting, or a shoulder of deer for our larder. I sniffed back the tears but they came anyway, slipping freely as I wiped his blood spatter from my face and neck and the dirt from my body.

I kept glancing above the screen, expecting the master to burst through the door to finish what his soldiers had started back in Gaul. But the door remained blessedly closed while I finished washing.

There was a bottle of scented oil next to the bucket. Though it was impossible to wash my hair properly as I would’ve in the stream near the hut I’d shared with Enid, I did my best to use the oil and warm water to untangle the knots in it. I used the last bit of water to douse my head, the dirty water pooling around my ankles in the basin.

Quickly, I dried with a scrap of toweling, combed out my damp hair, and slipped on the green tunic, which hung loosely around my thin frame. It was made for someone larger, but it was clean and soft, and for the first time since we’d heard the roar of deathriders overhead, I exhaled a breath of calm and sat on the bed.

Ridding myself of the remnants of the battle and scrubbing my skin clean had somehow eased my trembling body, even while I waited to meet him. Again.

A knock came at the door. I jumped to my feet. There was a brief pause, then Ruskus opened the door. “Follow me, girl.”

I walked out behind him. For someone with a limp, he moved rather briskly.

“My name is Malina. Not girl .”

He grunted as if he didn’t much care. Perhaps there was no need to make my acquaintance. The general might be preparing to sell me at the market. A surge of new fear washed through me, pumping my heart faster. I might be sold to a harder master. Or a brothel.

Squeezing my hands into tight fists, I tried to find that calm of the moment before, using my empathic gift to cool my thoughts. I took deep breaths in and out as Ruskus led me through the home.

We walked across a giant entranceway where the floor was inlaid with yet another red dragon, flying upward and blowing a stream of flame. I supposed this must be my master’s family sigil. The mosaic was intricate and colorful and must’ve taken an eternity to create by a talented artisan. Still, it spiked my anger.

Wherever I went in the home, there were constant reminders that I was in the lair of a dragon. A powerful creature who took what he wanted and ruled with fear and violence. But I couldn’t wear that fury on my face when I met my master. I needed to play the obedient slave so that I could discover the best way to escape.

Down yet another corridor on the opposite side of this home of endless hallways and rooms, Ruskus finally came to a stop outside a large arched doorway. He gestured for me to enter so I did. Ruskus stood at attention inside the double-door entry, his hands clasped in front of him .

I walked into a vast room with more arched doorways decorated with ornate columns leading to another terrace, though I was sure this was on the opposite side of the house from where the dragon dropped me. Beyond the veranda, lights dappled the city below. Rome.

“Have you ever been to Rome?”

I startled at the deep voice to my right. He stood mostly in shadow, but the dim light still revealed his bedchamber behind him. My instinct to flee gripped me hard, my pulse racing at what Fortuna had in store for me now.

“There is nowhere to run, Malina.”

I froze at the sound of my name on his lips. My heart skittered even faster. “I wasn’t planning to run.” Not yet.

He arched a brow at my obvious lie. “You may go, Ruskus,” he called across the room.

I turned my head to see the Thracian frown, pausing only briefly before he left the room and closed the doors behind him, leaving me alone with the master.

His gaze was cool and steady on me when I turned back to him. It was obvious Ruskus found it unusual to be dismissed, but that wasn’t the question poised on my lips.

“How do you know my name?”

“I’ve always known it.” He stepped farther out of the shadows, the glow of the oil lamps set upon shelves lining the walls illuminating his face. “Since that day I met you. I heard your older sister speak it.”

Lela. My heart twisted in acute pain. I refused to think of her now, the last moment I saw her. I wanted to stretch out my hand and yank my name from his mouth. He had no right to speak it. And yet, I couldn’t say a word, a new shudder rippling through my body, though I couldn’t exactly pinpoint why.

I wasn’t afraid of him—as I should be. So what was this new emotion shivering down to my bones?

“I have never been to Rome,” I stated coldly, finally answering his question. As if I would ever have reason to come to this ghastly place.

Those golden dragon eyes glowed in the dark, like it wasn’t simply the man who examined me with such fierce scrutiny. His dragon watched me as well. He was dressed—thank the gods—in a silken red tunic that stopped at his knees. And still, I could barely repress the image of him walking tall and proud and naked into his home less than an hour ago.

“I am Julian,” he stated simply.

Why did he tell me his name? It wasn’t as if a slave was permitted to call her master anything but dominus. Perhaps he simply wanted me to know his name in case I got lost in the city or escaped and, gods forbid, was captured and needed to be returned to him.

“Sit,” he commanded coolly, gesturing to a long cushioned bench with an intricate wooden base that was painted gold. There was no point in being defiant—not now—so I did.

He took a seat opposite me on a fancy sort of stool that seemed to have legs made of bronze. It was fine and beautiful but I was afraid it wouldn’t hold his weight. I was wrong.

I’d never seen anything quite like either the sofa or the chair. Celtic furniture, and the kind I’d had as a girl, was made for sturdy use, not decoration. Of course, the Romans had the luxury to build a world of elegance and beauty. It only infuriated me further.

But I sat quite still, kept my expression passive and my hands clasped demurely in my lap. Even sitting, he loomed above me, his height and breadth too large to minimize in any position.

“Why were you living with the Celts?”

“Because the Romans invaded my village and killed my entire clan.”

His gaze intensified. He was not expecting that answer apparently. “Your sisters?”

Swallowing the grief that always swelled when I thought of them, I said simply, “Gone. ”

Pausing for a moment as if turning over this new information, he then asked, “What witchcraft did you use to help the Celts defeat my predecessor thrice before?”

I ground my teeth together, not wanting to tell him. When his indifferent expression hardened, his brow arching with superiority, it nudged me to be smart. To tell him and be done with it.

It wasn’t as if it had been kept a secret that the Celts had been using a witch, as they called me, to help them defend against the Roman attacks. The warriors had spread the word themselves to encourage others to stand up and fight, not cower back into the lowlands and the deep woods.

“I have a gift.” I paused, licking my suddenly dry lips. His gaze caught everything. “I can control the emotions of others.”

Those dragon eyes narrowed. “And what did you do to the soldiers?”

Shrugging, I admitted, “I made them feel helpless, defeated, lonely for home.”

He swore under his breath. “That’s why there were so many desertions in the middle of the night.”

Aodhan and two of his friends had taken me close to the encampment at night, where I’d sent out dark threads of fear and heartsickness to them.

I couldn’t tether to too many at once, but I could connect to a great number through the nighttime hours, the weak-minded ones. It was enough. The plan had worked. Those who didn’t abandon their post in the middle of the night fought with the belief that they would be defeated. It was self-fulfilling.

He stared at me with unnerving directness, but I didn’t squirm or budge under his gaze. I remained still and obedient, my chin lifted.

“Most do not understand that fear is a weapon against one’s enemy in battle. But you do. A Dacian dancer from the Carpathian Mountains. How is that so?”

Clenching my teeth while I tried unsuccessfully to hold my tongue, I finally snapped back, “Simply because I’m not a trained warrior with all the benefits of a Roman education doesn’t mean I can’t understand the basics of warfare.”

His mouth ticked up on one side, and it seemed to have a direct correlation to my heartbeat, sending it speeding faster. He remained still and quiet for a moment, simply drinking me in.

“Enlighten me,” he finally said in that superior, dark voice.

“The deathriders always come first. That is a fear tactic, to weaken the resolve of the enemy of the Romans.”

“The deathriders create a perimeter with fire, to keep the enemy corralled in one place so that they cannot escape.”

I scoffed. “You’re telling me it isn’t the Roman intention to paralyze the enemy with the roar of dragons and the threat of a fiery death by using deathriders first?”

He didn’t answer, simply stared at me with that irritating half smile.

Having little thought to my survival by speaking so directly to my superior, I continued. “Regardless of whether you admit it, I’m well aware what fear can do to assist one opponent and defeat another in battle.”

Still, he said nothing, his golden eyes glowing in the semidarkness of his bedchamber. I became suddenly aware of the large bed looming in the near distance, wondering if I’d have a chance to escape if he tried to drag me to it. I wondered if I could press my magic into him, perhaps put him to sleep.

“Don’t try to use your magic on me,” he warned, his voice rumbling deep.

I started at how easily he’d predicted my thoughts. It wasn’t my place or my right to ask questions, but I couldn’t control myself.

Licking my lips again, I asked, “Why did you kill your own soldier who was attacking me?” A flash of sharp jaws and blood spray flitted across my mind. “Why did you bring me here?”

“Silvanus disobeyed a direct order. ”

“What order was that?”

“The prisoners of war were to be left unspoiled.”

“Why?”

“Because slaves are a profitable commodity. And damaged ones don’t fetch much coin.”

His response gutted me. I felt it like a slap to the face. He wasn’t concerned about my welfare or the fact that his soldier had planned to violate me, likely to the point of death. He was concerned with money. Gain and profit. Of course. He was a Roman.

Swallowing the ire that stirred acid in my stomach, I asked, “What will become of me now?”

“That was exactly what I was trying to determine,” he said. “You need a role in my house.”

“I can cook,” I told him.

“I already have a cook.”

“I can wash clothes and linens,” I offered next, my skin prickling with awareness at the way he was intensely staring again.

“My cook, Kara, is my laundress as well.”

“Then what?”

Golden eyes coasted down my frame, a phantom caress I could practically feel where it traced. “You will be my body slave.”

“Your … what?”

A body slave attended to a Roman’s physical needs—dressing and grooming—but they also often followed the dominus. Serving him in whatever needs he had, whenever and wherever he went.

“I have need of a body slave. You will serve as mine.” The tenor of his voice dipped lower, deeper.

“Wouldn’t you prefer a male like Ruskus to serve your… personal needs?”

“Ruskus manages my house and business affairs.” He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, his hands clasped casually between them. His voice was a husky rasp between us, his eyes golden bright. “I prefer you.”

I sat very still, soaking in his words and unwavering attention. I should’ve been terrified at the prospect of attending a Roman general so intimately, but I was afraid that wasn’t why my heart raced wildly with the idea of it. I wasn’t afraid at all. That telltale thrill of adrenaline running through my veins was excitement.

“You will report to me every morning at dawn and every evening. You will assist with my dressing, my bath, and my meals. And though Kara tends to most of the household laundering, you will now take care of mine. You will keep my room and bed linens clean.”

My gaze shot to the monstrosity of a bed behind him, pulse thrumming swiftly in my throat.

“Unless Kara needs your specific help in the kitchen, this will be your domain.” He gestured with one hand to the room.

He paused and examined me with that unsettling, all-knowing gaze, as if he expected me to protest. At the moment, I had nothing to say. He wasn’t selling me off or beating me for being the witch who helped the Celts, but keeping me here. Very close to him.

After what felt like an eternal breathless moment, he stood. I jumped to my feet as well, readying to defend myself. His mouth quirked in that amused manner again.

“Go. Get some rest. I start early in the mornings.”

I was probably supposed to bow or curtsy or something, but all I wanted to do was get away.

“Good night… dominus,” I muttered, then hurried for the door.

“I’ll show you back to your room,” he said behind me.

“No,” I practically shouted, needing to get away from him. “I’m fine. I can find my way back.”

Then I was gone, rushing down the dimly lit corridor, wishing he hadn’t dismissed Ruskus so the old man could direct me. I took a left, remembering Ruskus had taken a right at this turn. Or was it the last one? I came to the end of the corridor and had the option to go left or right, but I couldn’t remember, panting now in the quiet hallway.

“It’s right,” rumbled Julian directly behind me.

I gasped and jerked my head over my shoulder, mesmerized by his eyes glowing like a predator’s in the dark.

“Follow me, Malina.”

He stepped around and in front of me, seeming to ensure he didn’t touch me. I blew out a breath, fixating on the sound of his deep voice saying my name. I shouldn’t like it. I shouldn’t want to hear it again. Something was wrong with me.

I followed him through the maze that was his palatial home, taking in his expansive size and knowing I’d have to escape this place by stealth and with a good head start when I did. After winding back around the atrium and trickling fountain and down yet another corridor, we finally ended up at a familiar doorway.

An oil lamp now burned inside my bedchamber. I sighed with relief, thinking the gruff Ruskus wasn’t so bad.

Julian turned to me at the door. Ducking my head to avoid his piercing gaze, I swept past him. But he caught me by the arm and firmly but gently turned me to face him.

I flinched when his hand came up toward my face. He slowed his movement, but rather than touch me, he tugged the leather thong around my neck. The backs of his fingers grazed my collarbone as he pulled the coin from beneath my tunic and then held it.

“The aureus,” he whispered, seemingly to himself.

I couldn’t look at him, my breaths coming quicker at what he was seeing, what he now knew. That long ago, a foolish girl was fascinated with a centurion who gave her a coin for good luck.

“Lady Fortuna smiles on you, Malina.”

Instant rage burned inside my chest as I met his gaze. “How can you possibly say that?” I swallowed the lump forming in my throat, blinking back the stinging of tears. I often cried when I was angry, and I was currently fuming. “My family is dead by the hands of your people. My adopted clansmen are dead or enslaved, and now I’m to be the body slave to a general of the Roman army. Lady Fortuna hates me,” I seethed.

I didn’t even care if he decided to punish me for my insolence. I might’ve even welcomed a good beating after all that I’d lost today. How could my life possibly get any worse?

But he didn’t react with anger or a hard hand. He stared at the coin he held carefully in his long fingers, then finally let it go, setting it on the outside of my tunic. He met my gaze, completely unfazed by my fury.

“You would have died tonight,” he stated indifferently, “had I not intervened. And now you are safe here in my home.”

Huffing out a breath, I asked, “Am I safe?”

Golden eyes trailed over my face—cheeks, brow, lips—then he stared down with unwavering confidence. Dominance. “Good night, Malina.”

He turned and disappeared down the darkened hall. I shut the door—there was no lock to bolt it—then blew out the oil lamp and climbed into bed. Surprised at the comfortable pillow and the soft blanket, I tried to calm my whirling thoughts and erratically beating heart.

My hand found the aureus, clutching it tight as I had so many nights before, hoping and wishing. Somehow, my sad little heart never stopped doing both of those things, no matter how much trouble entered my life. I sniffed, slipping into a dream.

No, a memory …

“What if you’re wrong about my gift, and it never comes?”

“Patience, little Mina. I have seen it. You are an empath. Time will tell the truth of it.”

She brushed my hair as I sat cross-legged on the floor of her hut in front of the fire .

“It doesn’t matter. What good is knowing people’s emotions? I can tell you that without any gift. Papo is grouchy every minute of the day. There, see? I’m an empath.”

Bunica chuckled in that low, husky way of hers, still brushing my hair with infinite patience.

“Your grandfather isn’t grouchy all the time.”

“Pfft. When is he not?”

“When he’s in bed with me.”

“Ew, gross, Bunica! Don’t say things like that.” I shivered at the thought of my grandparents rolling around in bed together.

She laughed again. When silence settled between us, her soothing strokes with the brush lulling me into a sleepy state, she spoke gently but firmly.

“Emotions are powerful, Mina. Listen to me. One day you will not only be able to read them, but you will be able to control them. Change them. That will be your true power. You can bring hope to the hopeless, joy to those in sorrow, and calm to those in peril.”

She stopped brushing and urged me to turn around. I twisted to face her, still sitting, and looked up into the warm brown eyes of my grandmother, knowing she liked to see me eye to eye when she had something important to say, something that was touched with her gift of sight.

“One day, your gift will turn the tide of war. It will help vanquish the enemy. It will strike fear into the hearts of fierce, dangerous men.” She touched her wrinkled fingers under my chin, holding my gaze. “You, my darling Mina, will hold the world in your thrall.” She cupped my cheek, her eyes glassy in the firelight, distant with premonition. “You, and your sisters, will save us all.”

But Bunica was wrong. I couldn’t save anyone. Not even myself.