Zayan dropped his head back and let his hands rest on his thighs, palms up. He lay on a mound of silk cushions, surrounded by courtesans waiting to attend him.
The spoils of war…
This had once been his life, two thousand years ago, when he had been a mortal man. To return from battle and be treated like a god. To feast on the most delectable treats—plump grapes, luscious figs, roast meats. And the orgies. Women to feed him succulent food, pour his wine, and pleasure him with their tongues and their scented bodies.
He closed his eyes.
Blood. In his mind, sightless eyes stared at him from pale faces surrounded by a halo of blood. He had seen thousands of blank, lifeless eyes. He had joined in the games his men played with skulls, artfully kicking them back and forth.
He had never thought he would see blind, unseeing eyes on the people he loved.
Do you remember their faces?
A woman’s voice. It came from the haze of red that now filled the room, and gave him the peace and serenity that other men sought from opiates.
This had been the voice that had sung to him as he had surveyed his battlefield and saw his army mowed down as though smote by the gods. Lush and alluring, it had called to him. It had promised him everything he needed to be victorious, and its price had not seemed like a price at the time….
His soul. Immortality. To become undead.
Do you remember the sound of their laughter? Do you even remember their smells as you held them close?
No. He fought every day to remember, but the faces of his children drifted farther away.
Embrace me and I can return them to you. Embrace me and I can give you what you truly need.
A woman waggled her bare bottom in his face. She had a thick ivory wand pushed up inside, and long, luxurious peacock feathers flowed from its base like an exotic tail. Another approached and presented her derriere to his view. She had two candles in her bottom, tied with a white satin ribbon. Another series of ribbons were wound around that one and affixed her candles to her thighs and her waist. The wicks were lit and the molten wax dripped. Some droplets hit her stockings and she squealed. The last courtesan whispered, “I have nothing inside, Master. Won’t you fill me?”
The woman with the peacock’s tail was toying with her own swollen clit, lazily teasing and playing, obviously highly aroused. But her strokes quickly became more deliberate.
“Patience,” he barked. “No climax yet.”
“I wish to be stuffed with your magnificent cock,” simpered the courtesan who had begged to be filled.
“No, slave. Candles for you.”
He grabbed one thick one and slathered it with molten oil. At his command, the other girls gently eased it into the moaning tart’s quim.
“Light her candle from yours, my sweet.”
And they amused him by trying to transfer the light from one of the two wicks to the long one on the thick white candle, without using their hands. They cheered their success, their faces flushed and strained from prolonging their arousal.
But he would not free them.
He needed them like this.
The red power fed on this heightened sexual need, and it gave him blissful freedom from the agony that now racked his body, the shrieking pain that ripped through his head. Opium hadn’t worked for him, but feeding this mystical power did.
“Pleasure me,” he commanded the bevy of women. Panting, they kneeled before him. The red mist swirled around him. But before the first prostitute could touch him, her irises turned red. Red fluid poured from her eye and she screamed in horror.
She clawed at her face. The others tried to pull her arms away. Zayan jolted up, grasped her wrists, and dragged her to him. He sent a rush of healing magic through her, but she still screamed and thrashed.
She slumped in his arms. Spittle bubbled at the corner of her mouth.
The red fluid no longer poured from her eyes, and it slowly vanished as though it had never existed.
By the gods, what had happened? He was supposed to take the power into him tonight. It had been promised. For two thousand years he had waited to take the full magnitude of the power the red mist could bestow.
Thank you, a voice mocked him from somewhere inside his mind, and blissfully, the pounding, searing pain lightened in his head.
He felt a sigh rush through his body. When the mist came, it seemed to possess him. It spoke inside him in the way he was able to do with mortals. Her soul is too scarred to satisfy me long.
The power had never taken a soul before, but it did not surprise him. He took the blood, and through him the red power consumed the victim’s life and soul.
But he felt an odd tightening of his heart as he laid the limp girl gently to the floor. The other courtesans were whimpering, and a crowd was beginning to surround them—other patrons and whores must have heard or sensed the disturbance and were coming to see.
“She just collapsed.”
A woman sobbed.
“Was she sick?”
Sebastien, obviously now freed from his bonds, pushed his way through the crowd, his face stricken. He was wild, sensual, but softhearted; he had almost torn one abusive customer limb from limb. Pain touched his silvery green reflective eyes—eyes that fiercely snapped up. “What in blazes happened to her? Did you kill her?”
“He didn’t touch her!” one of the courtesans cried.
“She just collapsed.”
She had been a favorite of Sebastien’s and he lifted her in his arms.
No one spoke of the red fluid.
“Take her to one of the bedchambers,” he demanded. Servants rushed to do his bidding, but Sebastien was the one to carry her away.
Zayan straightened. Why this ache around his heart?
Remorse, Zayan, whispered the voice. If you help me, I can give you what you desire most. You cannot have my power—I cannot give that to you. You did not understand. But I will give you your children and your soul. I will return them both to you as though two thousand years never passed. I can give you heaven on earth. I can give you both peace and love, and you remember, I know, how sweet they were. But you must serve me. The priceis your service—for a few more years, until you find the ultimate prize.
Of course she could not give him the power—he’d been betrayed again by a woman. I have served you, damn it, when I vowed to serve no one, he roared in his head. For that, return my children to me.
He had been the most feared Roman general. He had carved a brutal swath through the Gauls. He had been legendary—struck a hundred times by killing blows, only to rise again. Then his emperor, his closest friend, and his wife had all betrayed him. He had vowed never to serve again—but for the chance at immortality he had broken that vow.
In answer, pain sliced through his skull. Excruciating. He sank to his knees, pain slashing at his body. By the gods, he would drive a stake in his own heart to be free of this.
But he never would be.
He knew it meant the answer was no. The red power would not give him his children back unless he continued to serve. To see his children again, to give them another chance at life, he would have to be a slave.
Mayfair, London
May 1807
She was quite certain she was dying.
To