Oliver could hear the dry click of Amelia’s throat as she swallowed. “I think you already know the answer to that.”
He dipped his head, and took a long, unbothered swallow of wine. “I do, yes. It’s a bold strategy, two separate forces, South and North, working in complementary fashion.”
Oliver’s pulse skipped. He had seen no sign of Romanus in the waking world since the camp was ambushed weeks ago. But that had been a full-scale attack, the portal large and overflowing with drakes. What if Romanus had opened smaller portals? If only he himself, or some trusted spy, had slipped through and was tracking their precise movements?
“We won’t be discussing any of that with you, which you well know,” Oliver said, with a put-on flippant air. “And if this is purely a social meeting, then I’ll warn you that my cousin is far less charming company than I am.”
Amelia shot him a dark look.
“Why does it trouble you so much that I wished to meet your cousin?” Romanus asked.
Oliver sipped his wine—it was lovely, even if it wasn’t physically real—and stared him down over the rim of his goblet.
“Is it jealousy?” Romanus asked. “You want to keep me all to yourself?”
Oliver choked on his next swallow and set the goblet on the table so he could cover his mouth.
Amelia scooted to the edge of her chair, posture strung bowstring-tight, and anger creased her features for the first time since their arrival. “Oliver’s not jealous of anything,” Amelia said. “He’s a king’s consort. Erik drapes him in furs and gems and is handsome besides.” She gave Romanus a derisive up-and-down look that said she thought him the opposite.
Oliver managed to get some of his breath back and swatted at her arm. “Amelia,” he warned, and then started coughing again.
“Whatever plans you believe you hold for Oliver,” Amelia continued, heedless, “he’s not a plaything for you to toy with.”
“I agree,” Romanus said, and Amelia, already gathering breath for another rejoinder, went still. “An emperor does not toy. He takes.”
Amelia’s mouth worked in confused, silent fury.
Oliver dragged in another breath and said, “My cousin is very spirited. She was the disgrace of the ballroom as a girl.”
Romanus set his goblet aside.
“She doesn’t—”
A hard shove landed against Oliver’s chest, an invisible force that pushed the air from his lungs and sent him tumbling backward in his chair.
The solarium spun around him, and then was gone. His eyes snapped open, and he was met by the sight of tent canvas overhead, ghostly blue-white in the hour just before dawn. Beside him, the warm mass that was Erik shifted and snored.
Amelia, and the emperor, were alone together.
~*~
The chair hit the mosaic floor with a bang like a sword on a shield. Oliver was gone. Simply…gone. Not in a puff of smoke, not in a gradual fade-away. The moment the chair connected with the floor, he disappeared as though he’d never been there.
Oh Gods. She gripped the arms of her own chair, palms slick with sweat, and tried to keep her heart inside her chest as she turned back to the emperor. He was sprawled back in his chair, knees spread, elbows resting on the chair arms, head tilted to the side. He watched her as though she was a fascination, an exotic creature inside a cage. There was nothing lascivious in his gaze, and, to be frank, that would have been less disconcerting than the way he seemed to size her up as he would a cow headed for slaughter.
“Where did he go?” She tried to sound demanding, but could hear the shrill note in her voice. “Where did you send him? If he’s hurt…”
“He’s quite well. I didn’t send him anywhere; he’s merely been banished from this plane back to his rightful one. At this moment, he’s doubtless waking up beside hishandsome king.”
She hadn’t known for certain until he’d just confirmed it that he’d been the one to dispel Oliver from the meeting. Why? What did he want with her?
Her mind conjured a half-dozen images of prisoner torture: racks, and hammers, and nails, and boiling oil.
“Be calm,” Romanus said, which made her less calm.
“Can you read my mind?” she blurted, before anything like logic could guide her toward a safer topic.
The corners of his pale lips quirked upward in the faintest of smiles. She had no idea how old he was, if he was truly immortal, as legend claimed, but his face was smooth and unlined. Even his attempted grin didn’t offer any smile lines or dimples; no sign of a life spent finding anything humorous.
