Page 24 of Curse the Flame

Sir trots into the camp before I can stop him.

Since I highly doubt that the horse set the fire, that means there’s gotta be someone else close by. Someone who plans on using that bedroll and probably just moved further into the trees to take a pee or something.

What if they’re not a dog person?

Crap. I have to get Sir.

I hurry downhill, moving as quietly as I can. Which is not very quietly since the grass keeps rustling around my legs and flowers are popping open beneath every step like they’re announcing my arrival.

Hello, stranger. Here comes Willow.

Please don’t murder her…

I’m about halfway to the camp when a man steps out from behind one of the trees.

I stop short. So does he.

For a second, we simply stare at each other.

He’s young. Maybe around my age, though it’s hard to tell with the hard set to his mouth and the short beard covering his jaw. His dark hair is cut close to his head. A red cloak hangs over one shoulder, secured across a bronze breastplate, and a short skirt made of leather strips falls over his thighs. Dark leather sandals lace almost to his knees, and I see a sword hanging at his waist, glinting in the firelight.

I blink.

Um. I thought I got tossed into some version of Ancient Greece. But that guy? Correct me if I’m wrong—I’m an English teacher, not history—but that looks like every stereotypical Roman soldier I’ve ever seen.

I don’t think it’s a costume. This isn’t some re-enactor spending his weekend pretending the collapse of the empire hasn’t happened yet. The armor is scratched and dirty. The sword looks used. Even the way he stands—feet apart, shoulders straight, one hand immediately settling near his weapon—doesn’t come across like an actor waiting for applause.

I lift both hands and gulp. “Hi.”

His gaze moves over me, lips curving slightly as he takes in my yellow shirt. My short denim shorts. My ruined slippers and the ring of daisies around my feet. In his next breath, his expression changes from confusion to sudden interest.

Uh-oh. That’s worse. Right? That’s so much worse.

He says something in a language I don’t recognize.

I shake my head. “I’m sorry. I only speak English. Well, that and enough Spanish to get by in New York, but I’m guessing that’s not gonna help either of us.”

He answers in the same language as before. This time, I think I recognize some of it.

Huh. It sounds like Latin. Well, yeah, Will. Of course it sounds like Latin.

He’s a freaking Roman soldier, isn’t he?

Okay. Think. You’ve got this⁠—

Sorry, but no. I don’t.

I took French in high school, and I barely remember any of that. Latin might be useful for recognizing roots on standardized tests, but it doesn’t help when an actual Roman soldier is staring at me like I arrived in a gift basket, wrapped in a bow.

I’m really wishing that it wasn’t summer back home, and that I went to bed in a muumuu. The way he’s watching me… yeah. Uh-uh. I really, really don’t like that.

He stops talking, waiting expectantly.

I shake my head, harder this time. “No. I… I don’t understand.”

He takes a few steps closer to me.

I let out an eep and hurriedly step back.