“The night I tasted your blood and realized you were a man I could learn to trust. I was angry because I didn’t want to like you or believe in you.” She stepped out of my reach, a teasing smile on her lips. “I thought we could try again, and do what I often wish I’d done that night in the olive grove.”
“What was that exactly?”
“We don’t have an olive tree. But I do recall a few fig trees this way. If you’d like to follow me and find out.”
I jumped to my feet. “I love figs.”
She laughed. “You’re going to love them more in a few minutes.”
I swept her up into my arms, and she squealed.
“Point me in the right direction.”
“That way.”
I tromped farther away from the brook and the house. Lela laughed then set her head on my shoulder.
“I love you, darling.” I pressed a kiss to her temple. “And how your devious mind works.”
“Just like yours, you mean.”
“Exactly. Now let’s go find a fig tree and some privacy, and I’ll show you just how devious I can be.”
She laughed again, and I swore to myself that I would do everything in my power to give her joy, to hear that sound, for as long as I could. If anyone deserved happiness, it was my beautiful Lela. They tried to snuff her out, to dim her brightness. But that was impossible. She’d burned her way out of the darkness and found her light again, and I never wanted it to go out.
EPILOGUE
Far away near the southern border of Thrace a gathering of gladiators sat around a fire, eating their meal and drinking ale. These were free men who fought in the pits for blood and coin. This particular troupe traveled between arenas fighting in the outer provinces of the empire.
An ugly Thracian named Thrax said, “That is what I heard.”
“It can’t be true,” said his comrade, a bear of a Pannonian named Sethirius with a tankard of ale in his beefy fist. “Alaric, the Visigoth king, said this himself?”
“He was the one who was there. He fought his way out of Rome with the help of other Romans. But it was the woman—”
“She was Roman?” asked Maksim, a Macedonian and the only dragon among them.
“No. She was a slave. Or had been,” said Thrax. “A slave with witch’s magic.”
The female gladiator had been sharpening her blade, ignoring the chatter of the men as she normally did. But the mention of a witch and magic pricked her attention.
“And she used blood to kill a black dragon?” asked Maksim.
“No,” said Thrax in a mysterious, deep voice. “She summoned his blood. Sang to it like some sort of siren, and pulled it right through his scales. It rained down to the sea, and so did the dead beast.”
“A bloodsinger,” said Sethirius. “That’s what they’re called.”
“What?” The warrior woman walked over and stood next to Thrax within their circle. “Where did this happen?” she demanded urgently. “When?”
All of the men around the campfire turned their attention to her. They were a mixed pack of barbarians from different parts of the world, united only in the blood they spilled together on the arena floor. But the female warrior was their unspoken leader. She had saved them more than once from slavers and another time from Roman soldiers using her own kind of magic. She was a witch herself, and they revered her for it.
“Not a month ago,” Thrax answered. “Alaric, the Visigoth king, spreads the tale that this bloodsinger is joining his army against the Romans.”
“And where is thisAlaricnow?”
“They say he is gathering in the wildlands of Dalmatia,” he replied.
She tightened her grip around the hilt of her weapon she’d been sharpening. “Pack your things. We’re leaving tonight.”
