Taste a Thousand Deaths (Marionettes of Myth #3)

Chapter Twenty-Four

The doors to Cassius' office still hadn't been replaced. Aemilius entered, focused only on the man who sat in his throne, slouched with his knees pulled up, as if he were no more than a sulking child. But as soon as Aemilius entered, apprehensive eyes swerved to him. Cassius didn't move, not even when Aemilius came to a stop at the other end of the desk and set down a winter coat that still smelled of ash and snow, protected in sealed plastic, and he set down a black, ubiquitous briefcase. His fingers had smeared his own blood to the handle.

"Cell phone, three-hundred cc of her blood, and a lock of hair." Aemilius' voice was devoid of any such life he might usually possess. "Renatus transferred the car into position via shadow to avoid any foreign scents that might have contaminated the vehicle cabin."

"Aemilius—" But Cassius couldn't continue. His lips attached as if sewn together, and even as he tried to speak, he couldn't. He was not a man who ever knew not what to say.

Aemilius let his eyes fall to the ring, but it was no longer around his neck. The ring and its chain chain sat on the desk. The only time Cassius ever removed the ring was to clean the worn gold of its tarnish, tenderly, with fingers that might handle a newborn, knowing that with every day that passed, the hand-carved designs faded.

Yet, now, it was as if he had removed it because it became too heavy. An anchor around his neck.

Aemilius inhaled, the fresh scar in his stomach stretching beneath his bloody shirt, and he tasted the flavors of anxiety and impatience and every shade of fear. "They'll take a few hours to recover, I surmise, but I suspect they'll mobilize by daybreak. The mission was a success in one way. Jason is no longer an issue in regards to—"

Cassius finally threw down his feet and stood. "Aemilius, speak to me." There was no need to argue whether or not Aemilius had been speaking to him. Both of them knew what 'speaking' meant, and what Aemilius was doing was no more than idle noise. "What do you want from me?" Cassius asked. "What is it? What can I give you?"

It was begging.

This was begging. Desperate and urgent. This was Cassius down on his knees, a gesture that Aemilius had never seen him offer anyone other than Arsinoe, privately and intimately.

Cassius was not a man who knew how to fall to his knees.

And what could Aemilius do? To deny his offer was to tell him this was it, this was the last Aemilius would do for him.

But to accept his offer was to lie, to pretend Cassius could give him anything that would change what was done.

There was no escape in this.

Aemilius lifted his chin, his fingers numb at his sides. "Remember what I told you, Cassius. I am not your enemy. I will never be." He turned away.

The shadows quivered. Aemilius twisted, expecting Cassius to be level with him.

He wasn't.

Aemilius dropped his eyes to Cassius, on his knees, gathering Aemilius' bloody hands into his, dark hair spilling across his shoulders as he squeezed.

Aemilius had brought Cassius to his knees.

He had brought the king, the emperor, down onto the floor.

"Aemilius," he murmured, and he spoke in Latin, a language both guttural and lilting, rising and falling like a cardinal diving between frozen branches of white trees. "Please, if I lose you, I will have lost everything. I cannot fight any war without your feet beside mine, balancing mine. This is a ruined world, but I do not see it when you're here, and I'm a ruined man, but I know how to stand with you."