Loren fled.
His feet worked mindlessly, carrying him swiftly through the maze of alleys and alcoves, streets and pavements. It was a primitive need, to put distance between you and that which hurts you.
Go home.
Pompeii was Loren’s home. But as he moved, lungs tight, awareness dawned that Felix was right. Pompeii didn’t want Loren, either. He had spent so many years clinging to the city that all he’d done was bruise it. Everything he had ever loved bore the indents of his nails.
With that realisation came another: He couldn’t stay. It blazed through him in a grand sweep that no distance was vast enough to ease the wound Felix tore. The last rational part of his brain, long neglected, begged him to realise his senses were addled, he was acting on impulse, he was breaking a contract, he was throwing away a future.
He would deal with the consequences later. Right now, he needed to leave the city. He needed to let Pompeii breathe, away from the crush of his hand.
When Loren reached the gate again, he said nothing to Aurelia, who gave him a knowing look far beyond her years. At least she held her tongue. He hoisted himself onto a horse just as Livia concluded her business with the merchant and returned. She stopped short at his change of heart.
‘Nice weather for a ride,’ Loren said, even as his ribs threatened to crack from the pressure of holding himself together.
Warm fingers squeezed his numb hand. ‘Egypt is even nicer. A fresh start.’
He stared ahead at the road winding out, unable to meet her eyes. What a truly miserable oracle Loren had turned out to be. Waste of a gift. For the first time in his life, he had no idea what the future held. Nor did he want to know.
Time to take notes from Felix’s strategy. Live in the moment, and that’s it.
Loren pulled his hair forward and began to braid.
Chapter XXIII
FELIX
The finality of what Felix had done didn’t crash down on him in the alley. Nor when he watched from the shadows as the horses rode out. Not even when he stepped into the street and stared at the road until his eyes burned from the sun.
It sank in when he turned, nerves raw, to find Darius leaning against a column, arms folded, sword still sheathed because there would be no fight. He wore the smug expression of an eavesdropper who just learned he won.
‘If your intention was to leave an impression,’ Darius said, ‘I imagine he won’t forget you anytime soon.’
‘Good,’ said Felix evenly. ‘Means he won’t return.’
‘Our agreement was that you could see your friends off. Make sure my master upheld his end of the bargain. If you’re satisfied, he’ll want you back now.’ Darius’s hand came to rest on the pommel of his gladius.
No, there wouldn’t be a fight. Felix had made himself valuable. Too much hinged on his life now. Darius couldn’t kill him so long as Servius intended to make use of the helmet. But that didn’t mean Felix had to stop ruining Darius’s day.
He sneered, slipped past Darius and sprinted into the thick oftraffic, dragging out his final moments of freedom before he became Servius’s tool for good.
Running felt good. Felt normal in a week of anything but. Felix wove between carts and stalls, slid between conversations, let himself melt into the buzz of a restless city. He dodged rubble, leaped over piles of bricks, ignored the shout of a shopkeeper when Felix disrupted his pile of swept plaster. He ran until his senses cleared, until he hopped onto the kerb and looked back and no longer saw Darius’s flushed purple fury chasing behind.
Any normality running brought was tainted with one simple fact: he had nowhere to go.
More than once he caught himself slipping into history, triggered by passing something he recognised, but these weren’t frayed threads from boyhood. These memories were ropes, binding him to the city in knots he’d never unpick. Nonna’s bakery, closed for repairs. The street leading to Livia’s shop. The crossing stones where Felix had dragged . . .
He bit his tongue, tasted the salty wash of blood.Don’t dwell.That was another of his rules. But he found it increasingly impossible to stay in the moment when the only future he’d ever wanted rode far from Pompeii.
Halfway up the Via Stabiana, he halted his trajectory towards the Vesuvius gate at the far end. Running to it would prove a waste of energy, and attempting escape would break his deal with Servius – the consequences of which would harm more than just Felix.
Static amplified, shaking the inside of his skull – the city’s hum intensifying. He changed course, veering left, and followed the alleys to the only place he had left.
Elias was lounging like a cat on the brothel stoop. When Felix slowed his jog, Elias stretched languidly. Lazy eyes half-lidded, he acted impervious to the commotion gripping the rest of the city, though his shoulders carried an uncharacteristic slump.
‘Welcome home, Fox,’ Elias said. ‘In all honesty, I didn’t expect to see you again. Thought you and Loren left town yesterday.’
The name prodded a bruise. ‘We did. Now I’m back.’
