She was almost glad to have this new mystery to occupy her mind. All too soon, Death would come knocking, summoning her away to gruesome tasks. She shuddered.
He gathered her close inside his coat, as if sensing her weariness of such tasks. Her fingers wandered over his pocket and he pointedly plucked them away. But not until she'd sensed what it was that he had. It was indeed a firestone! Whose she didn't know, for her contact had been too brief. Bastian must have come across it during the course of the excavations.
Damnation!
Without a host, she wouldn't be able to take it from him. It might be solid to her touch while she also touched his flesh. But once she let go of him, it would fall right through her Ephemeral form to hit the pavement.
“I saw the decanter in your study,” she provoked. “It stank of spirits. Who else drank from it if not you?”
“I
did
drink from it. All the Satyr must take spirits upon the approach of Moonful to initiate the Calling. But mine's a special brew, designed only for me because I cannot drink as the others do.” Woozily, he straightened away from her, then put a hand to his forehead. His brow knit as a moment of clarity filled his eyes. “Hells, I do believe you're right. I
am
intox . . . intoxi . . . drunk.”
She rolled her eyes. “Well, how you became so is a fascinating tale, I'm certain, butâ”
His fingers cupped the back of her head and he leaned into her again. She went up on tiptoe, pushing against his chest, using words as a barrier. “You look ridiculous, you know. Speaking to thin air; your arms encircling nothing.”
Those big hands linked under her bottom, lifting her against him. And when he adjusted their fit, her legs parted naturally for him. “You don't feel like nothing.” He smirked. She sucked in a sharp breath, her heart pounding. This close, the effects of the impending Moonful on his body were all too evident. She'd never been held in this way by a man in all the centuries of her existence. Although her heart knew it to be wrong, her body wanted him. Lips touched hers.
“Michaela.” She whispered the name against his mouth, a talisman to ward off her desire to melt against him. Angling her chin, she stared over his shoulder toward the piazza, searching the crowd for her friend. “She's here somewhere, Bastian . . . Lord Satyr. What if she sees us like this? You holding me in this . . . this inappropriate way.” The prospect of discovery had her wriggling and trying to dislodge his hand, suddenly more desperate than ever to be free of his hold.
“I'd be glad to hold you far more inappropriately if you would but show yourself. I draw the line at mating a female I cannot see.”
Suddenly, he didn't sound quite so inebriated. What was going on here? Catching him unawares, she managed to find her feet and duck away from him, but he caught the back of her shift. “Not s'fast. Need you,” he informed her as he reeled her back in. “Gods, what's this hideous sack you're wearing?” His hands patted over itâover herâand she batted at his hands.
“A shift,” she said. “And what do you mean you
need
me?” Was he in danger? She'd felt a gathering sense of trouble over the past few minutes. Something was going to happen, and soon. She glanced around them. The piazza was bustling with early evening trafficâmostly harlots, pimps, and gamblers out to begin their work with the coming of night. They looked to be a fiendish lot of ne'er-do-wellsâevery face cunning, hopeless, or cruel.
A horrible thought struck her. What if
Bastian
was among those destined to die tonight? Maybe it was no accident that she'd been drawn to him like this? Feeling a need to corral him and shield him from any harm that might approach, she turned her back to him and put her hands on his thighs behind her. His arms came around her and she felt the raw animal brawn of his body at her back, cloaked under a veneer of gentlemanly tailoring. She tried to imagine taking him as hostâher essence filling such a masculine body in his stead. What might it be like to move about the world with such strength as he possessed? To have crowds part for you. To have women feast their eyes upon you and men respect you. Simply because you had such a powerful physical presence.
A need to exert some control over him had her clutching the arms he'd drawn around her as she suspiciously analyzed the crowd. The sausage vendor, the trio of prostitutes, the ragpicker. Did one of them have mayhem in mind for him?
“Come, I'll locate a carriage for hire and send you home to Esquiline,” she said, tugging at him to follow her. “Your family is already there, and Michaela will look for you there if she doesn't find you here.”
“How do you know so much about me?” he demanded as she led him, his words a bit slurred. “When I know nothing about you.”
Stealthily, she slipped her hand into his pocket. He caught it before it reached its goal. “That's mine,” he snarled gently. Not so drunk, after all.
“Just let me see it,” she wheedled. “Pleaseâ”
“Oh, please, no . . .”
Silvia's head jerked back, cracking against his chest. The disembodied plea lightninged down her spine, wiping all expression from her face and freezing her blood. It seemed the near-dead were awakening. Her eyes darted wildly around the piazza, seeing nothing amiss. Swiveling, she clutched the lapels of Bastian's coat and hissed, “Did you hear that?”
His eyes searched hers, already looking far more lucid than he had when she'd first come across him, for his drunkenness seemed to come and go. “Hear what?”
“N-nothing.” She let go of him, but he took her upper arm in one hand. Since he could not see her, he obviously realized he must continue to maintain a hold on her or she would escape.
It had been a terrified cry she'd heard from someone, somewhere, who was under attack. A first recognition that danger was near. All too soon it would turn into a realization that Death was imminent. And inescapable. At the moment, Silvia could detect nothing more of the situation. Although the cry had been distant, it had established that Bastian was not involved in the trouble she'd sensed brewing. That was something.
Still, it meant she could be called away at any moment. And she couldn't leave him here like this. Many others were lifting a glass or two here in Monti. He could be robbed or injured. Or murdered.
“Matters have changed and it seems I can't escort you home, after all,” she informed him. “But you're an easy mark in your condition.”
Red slashed over her captor's cheekbones. “I'm well able to take care of myself.” At that moment, he stumbled over the uneven pavestones, then ran his free hand through his cropped dark hair, looking frustrated that she was right. “Ninety hells.”
“Let's get some food in your stomach. That will help.” She took his hand and led him toward one of the vendors selling food from a street cart at the bottom of the Spanish steps, then watched as he flipped a coin to the vendor. Although she could not detect the delicious smells emanating from the cart, her memory served her all too well, and she salivated as bread was grilled, cheese melted, and meat sauce poured.
“Hurry, can't you?” she begged the vendor, gazing raptly at his wares. “Before I am called away.” But of course he could not hear. Yet, for some reason, Bastian could. A puzzle she would ponder at length in the hours to come.
“Called away where?” asked Bastian. “And by whom?”
“What, signor?” asked the vendor.
“Shhh, Bastian. Stop speaking to me. He'll think you mad,” she scolded.
“Who else sees spirits but a madman?”
She didn't reply, not wanting to encourage him, but the sandwich seller eyed him warily, likely imagining him to be out of his wits. “Fog is theeck tonight,
sì
?” he remarked, as he handed over the food.
Bastian glanced around as if only then noticing that fog had rolled in. “Quite,” he said succinctly, and put a handsome tip in the man's hand, one guaranteed to quell any misgivings he might have.
Taking the victuals, he began eating mechanically, as if he considered them an antidote to his intoxication rather than a source of enjoyment. The fog stole over him, and she watched it curl around his booted ankles, weave between his thighs . . . and caress the rather thick bulge high between them. She snatched her gaze away, hoping he could not see her distinctly enough to wonder at her pink cheeks.
He tore off part of his sandwich and held it out to her. Without thinking, she reached out for it. Then she shook her head. It was tempting, but hardly worth giving up her immortality! “I can't eat while I'm likeâ”
“Stop! I beg you!”
Gasping, she jerked around, her elbow knocking bread, cheese, and meat from his hand. Then she stared down at the ruined bounty without really seeing it. “Damnation,” she gritted under her breath. “I hate when it's murder.”
“Murder?” he echoed, sounding somewhat more in control than he had moments earlier. The food had gone a long way toward sobering him. “What the devil are you involved in?” He reached toward her. All the while he'd been eating, he'd still kept one hand on her, but now she'd gotten herself free.
Backing away, she stared at him, memorizing his features as he kept pace, stalking her. Her foolish heart ached to stay with him. “Find Michaela. Go home,” she ordered desperately.
“Dammit all to hellsâ” he began, but his words were drowned out by a new shriek that only Silvia could hear.
“Nooo!”
Torn from an unknown female's throat, the terrified cry fled through the streets as the victim herself could not. Silvia's head whipped toward the sound. It had come from an alley, only ten minutes away.
A hand brushed the back of her shift. Bastian. “Stay. Let meâ”
But she didn't look back at him. Didn't wait to hear more. It was past time to go. Leaping away, she darted down one of the crazy, zigzag alleys in the maze that was Rome, leaving him behind. She'd done all she could for him. It was time to help another.
If she arrived too late, she would miss her chance. There was only a small window of time in the death cycle during which an Ephemeral could take a host. So she flew onward, through one alley after another, toward certain danger. Rounding the corner of a pawnshop that was locked tight for the night, she stumbled upon a murder in progress. A violent one, as she'd expected.
The victim was a woman, as she'd anticipated. Young, maybe twenty or so, with dark hair. But Silvia's eyes were all for her attacker, the horrific creature that was intent on wringing the life out of her. He stood seven feet tall; his body intimately pressed against hers and his long bony fingers wrapped around her vulnerable throat.
“Let her go!” Silvia commanded.
The villain's head whipped in her direction. His black eyes searched for her, but failed to find her since she was currently invisible. He was predominantly Ogre, perhaps with a hint of fey, but she couldn't tell in the twilight of the street. If the latter were the case, he'd been born of rape. No fey would ever willingly bed an Ogre, for they were the dullards of the adjacent World, and known to be cruel and selfish lovers. Even worse, they usually dined on their partner's innards when they tired of bedding them.
Over his shoulder, his victim lifted a beseeching hand toward the sound of her voice. Her eyes were wide, the color of bruised violets.
Gods, no! It was Michaela!
Silvia's heart stopped in her chest, then raced on in wild, tumultuous terror. She sprinted through the fog toward the entwined couple. As if she could change destiny. As if she could save her dearest friend from Death. She, an Ephemeral currently without a host.
Michaela stood no chance against this monster. Neither did she, but her best hope lay in surprise. She rushed toward them, intending to take her true form at the last minute and slam her body into the backs of the Ogre's knees, then make off with Michaela.
But when she was still ten feet away from them, she came up against an immovable, iron wall. An invisible one. She bounced off of it and crumpled on the pavement. Leaping up again, she shrugged, not feeling any broken bones. She thrust her arms out ahead of her, pushing at the air with both palms, and felt the bespelled forcewall the attacker had erected around himself and his victim.
“I said let her go,” Silvia gritted.
The Ogre's fingers loosened on Michaela, just enough to allow her a few gulping breaths. “You offering to take her place?”
“And if I am?” Silvia circled the perimeter of the forcewall, patting it down as she desperately tried to locate a chink in it. “Will you take me instead of her? I can promise you that I'd make a far tastier meal.”
Greedy black eyes glinted and his nostrils flared. “Let me see you first; then I'll decide.”
Michaela's eyes widened fearfully and she shook her head. Growling, he slapped her.
Don't kill her, don't kill her,
Silvia pleaded silently. Michaela could not die. Could
not
. She pounded both fists on the forcewall. “Now, you know I can't do that, Ogre. Not until we strike a deal. You'd only take me captive as well.” Showing herself to an ElseWorld creature would have no effect on her immortality were they on the other side of the gate. But here in this world, it was dangerous. He could lay claim to ownership of her. And stupid as they were, Ogres moved fast. He could be at her side in seconds.