Three steps inside, she heard someone enter behind her. Startled, she turned to see a burly, pot-bellied man. He was unremarkable and looked like any of a dozen men she regularly passed on the street here in Italy. But on closer inspection, she realized she'd seen this particular man on the grounds earlier, speaking to Bastian. He was some sort of foreman. Moving furtively to the desk, he greedily snatched up the very shard she'd come for herself and then slung himself into Bastian's chair.
“Bastard,” he muttered. Sitting back with a satisfied air, he surveyed the domain he obviously coveted. “Lording your great talent over everyone. No matter. I'll be sitting in this chair soon enough.” He hid the shard inside his coat and held it there under one arm as he stood to go.
How dare he try to steal it? Ignoring the fact that she was equally guilty of that intent, Silvia crouched behind the desk and quickly rendered herself visible. “Put it back or die, human!” she murmured in her best imitation of a ghostly spirit. The foreman whipped around so fast that he tripped on the carpet and fell to his knees.
“Who's there?” Wide-eyed, he searched for the source of the voice, but she was hidden and had already gone invisible again. Looking terrified, he tossed the shard back to the desk and ran.
Once she heard his footsteps moving off through the Forum grounds, she rendered herself visible, for she could not carry the shard while in wraith form. Deftly, she pocketed it. Since it was dangerous to linger in her visible form, she unlatched the back flap of the tent and departed through it without detection.
Slipping from the tent, she found harbor in a nearby bosk of olive trees. She'd been here in Rome over two hundred years earlier when these trees had been young. When they'd brought in their first crop of olives. Their flesh was gnarled now, their cores had rotted away, and their branches were twisted and half dead. It made her feel old to look upon them.
Rubbing her hands together, prayer-like, she recited an ancient spell and then blew lightly between her palms. Heat stirred and smoke coiled. Then fire rose, cupped between her palms. It was an ancient fire of hearth and home, born of the goddess Vesta. She tossed it into the air before herself and watched it burst into a vertical wall of flame. A firegate. This spontaneous flame enabled transport between worlds, by means of a gate that only she and eleven other beings in the worlds had the power to create. The Vestals. Quickly, she stepped through it and by doing so disappeared from EarthWorld. With her departure, the fire was immediately extinguished as if it had never been.
And in the next instant, Silvia found herself transported from EarthWorld . . . to ElseWorld.
Back to the one place that terrified her more than any other in either world.
The lair of Pontifex Maximus.
4
S
ilvia bypassed the snaking line of visitors who sought an audience with Pontifex Maximus V in his gaudy throne room. To each side of this queue were clusters of women who waited as well for a different purpose. They were the Lares, the familiars of the Vestal Virginsânow Pontifex's sexual vassals. So that none would break free from the group or be molested by his guests, they were guarded at intervals by armored soldiers of the ElseWorld Council.
Although Silvia would have preferred to escape notice here, it was impossible. Ephemerals became visible, solid entities the moment they entered this world. Fortunately, showing her true form to another ElseWorld creature would not have the effect of rendering her mortal as it would if she were to show herself to a human on the other side of the gate.
The Lares hissed at her as she passed on the central walkway that divided the nave, casting bitter accusations.
“Traditore. Schiuma
.”
Traitor. Scum.
Their feminine barbs struck her like the stings of venomous insects. Their insults filled the great hall and then rose to bounce off stone walls, arches, and the gilding of the domed ceiling, directing everyone's attention to Silvia's arrival. The Lares who hurled these slanders at her had once been her allies. But they hated her now, and with good reason, for she was a disciple of their enemy. Or so they believed. And it would be dangerous to inform them of the true state of things. Stiffening her backbone, she gazed neither right nor left as she strode toward him whom she despised above all others. Pontifex.
He sat at the end of the carpeted walkway, draped ostentatiously in the skin of a lion. Behind him was a massive wall, covered with nine small doors that were oddly shaped and of varying sizes. After one surreptitious glance, she studiously avoided looking their way again, for it was too painful.
Having noticed her, Pontifex waved away his current visitor, and eyed her up and down as she approached. “Your old friends don't seem too fond of you,” he offered snidely and by way of greeting.
His enormous throne was hideous, its high back covered with skulls he'd had gilded and incorporated into its design. Each was the head of a former rival he'd defeated over hundreds of years. A steady slaying and ingesting of them had allowed him to live far beyond the normal life expectancy of a mortal ElseWorld creature. A fresh head hung upon his throne now, blood congealed at its jaggedly sliced throat. Several young Lares sat on the carpet to either side of him. Manacles on their ankles, they looked terrified.
Before Silvia responded to Pontifex, she paused and perused the bountiful display of food set on the pedestal at the end of the carpet to one side of the walkway. She took care in making a selection, just to keep him waiting. And because she was still famished. And because she dreaded this confrontation. Though she feigned confidence, her hand shook as she plucked out a golden pear. He terrified her as much as he did everyone. The only difference between her and them was that she didn't let him know it.
Munching, she gestured to the bloody skull. “I see you've made a new friend yourself, and I doubt he's a fan of yours, either. Murder victims rarely are.”
She stood twenty feet away from his throne, unable to move closer without invitation. And a bridge. For between his throne and the throng that awaited his pleasure, there was a fifteen-foot-wide moat filled with an acidic substance from which rose a putrid, chemical smell. Those who displeased him often found themselves tossed into its turbulent waters.
Pontifex reached up and petted the gristled, bloody cheekbone of his recent skeletal acquisition. “A former
augur ex quadrupedibus
. He was quite the hunter.”
He stroked his other palm over the lion skin that was draped over his head and body. “This was his finest kill. It becomes me, don't you agree?” The lion he wore had been a magnificent beast, it was plain to see. But now its jaws were artificially propped open and held wide in a frightful, soundless roar, and its eyes were glass. Pontifex wore its head like a ghastly hood so that his own head was held within its mouth. Its jaws framed his face so that he appeared to be the lion's dinner. If only it were so.
“Are we to spend our time together stroking your ego?” Silvia raised her brows and leaned forward a bit, as if only just noticing the woman on all fours who knelt before him with her head bobbing over his lap. “Oh, I suppose not, for I see it's already being stroked.”
Shocked gasps rippled over the crowd around her. No one else but she dared speak to him in such a manner. In a strange way, she knew he enjoyed sparring with her. He would have squashed her by now otherwise.
“Where's the other one?” Pontifex asked Silvia, watching her now with slitted eyes. “The Companion.”
Silvia tensed. So he wanted to play with her tonight. “In EarthWorld. Doing her duty.”
He tapped a long, yellowed fingernail on his chin. “Yes, it's the Calling there, isn't it? Day and night are largely reversed between our world and the next. The moon is high on the other side of the gate. Lord Satyr is no doubt fucking her?”
Silvia ground her teeth. “If he is, it's likely with better results than Occia is achieving here.” Hoping to divert his attention from the question of why Michaela suddenly no longer required replenishment at Vesta's fire, she craned her neck toward the woman who still serviced him.
“Greetings, Occia,” she cooed. Diverted, Pontifex smirked down at the woman, stroking her hair, for he enjoyed seeing her humiliated.
“I see you've been dabbling in taxidermy again,” Silvia went on, referring to the lion. Once a Vestal as well, the woman was skilled in the horrific arts of preparing, stuffing, and mounting the skins of animals to a lifelike effect. “Please, don't get up on my account. I can see that you're busy.”
Occia didn't dare take her mouth from Pontifex's prick to spew her usual venomous retort. But she must have faltered in her service, for he winced and gripped her hair, pulling it taut between his fingers. “Careful,” he warned in a dangerous tone.
Occia nodded wordlessly and continued her suckling. She had worshipped him for hundreds of years, since they'd all been girls brought to Vesta's temple. Although he was incapable of love, Pontifex enjoyed toying with her, and she ate it upâate him up. Silvia had seen him invite guests to lift the back of Occia's skirts and fornicate with her while he transacted business with them. On a whim, he might ask the woman to suckle one of his guards or even a dangerous beast. Occia craved humiliation and pain and sex at his hands, and she was jealous of any other creature Pontifex looked upon with favor. She was the only one of the Vestals who'd ever serviced him . . . voluntarily.
“What have you brought me, Virgin?” he demanded of Silvia.
“I've come to Replenish myself at Vesta's altar.”
“First things first. What do you offer in return?” Eager to depart this depressing place, Silvia took the shard from her pocket and hurled it toward him. It sailed high, but fell short, landing on the back of the woman who knelt at his feet.
“Wh-what?” Occia abruptly bowed up from his lap, startled. When she turned in profile to see what had struck her, her lips glistened wet in the candlelight. The shard clattered to the ground and she picked it up.
Slap!
Pontifex backhanded her. “Give that to me.”
Whimpering, she scrabbled over the marble floor, crablike, and brought it to him. He took the shard and examined it. Then he looked at Silvia, clearly disappointed. “It's not one of the stones.”
She shrugged. “No, but it's a step closer. Be happy with it.”
“You dare give me orders!” Standing, he tapped his ornate walking stick on the polished, platinum-veined floor, sending sparks of white fire in every direction and causing his audience to cringe.
Although he was elaborately dressed, her peripheral vision informed her that his naked phallus stood high, ruddy, and grotesque from his crotch for all to see. As usual.
She gestured to it and made a
tsking
sound, her voice dripping with false commiseration. “No cure yet? Pity.”
Most of his considerable powers had been stolen from his rivals over the years. A decade ago, he'd become enamored with the size of Priapus's cock and had made the colossal mistake of murdering the demigod and absorbing his essence. And now, like Priapus himself, his phallus had grown freakishly large. But there had been an unforeseen side effect. Pontifex's cock now stood eternally erect, with little hope of ejaculation. It required almost constant suckling or he sickened. These days, she rarely saw him without a mouth or some sort of orifice attached to his organ.
“Watch your tongue, Virgin,” he warned. “Or put it to better use as Occia does.”
He sank back onto his throne and turned the shard over and over in his fingers. “Where did you find this? And what the hells is it?”
Crunch.
She finished off her pear and tossed its core into the moat, where it fizzed into oblivion. “I found it in the
Forum Romano
. On the eldest Satyr lord's desk. It bears the word
Amata
as you see. There can be no doubt it's from Vesta's temple.”
This presumed betrayal of the goddess on her part brought more insults her way from the Lares. “Silence!” Pontifex thundered. Immediately, the disparaging remarks subsided.
As he studied the shard, her gaze flicked surreptitiously upward, her heart weeping at the sight of those nine doors. For beyond them, secreted deep in the wall itself, were unseen cages. Some were only a dozen inches across and others as big as three feet or so. None were large enough to house a woman. But all were big enough to jail an Ephemeral spirit.
The doors were designed in quirky, haphazard shapes, like cells in some crazy, outsized honeycomb. If she weren't careful, two more would be built there, and she and Michaela could wind up in residence against their wills, along with dear Licinia, Floronia, and so many others. She grieved most especially over the incarceration of sweet, simple Aemilia, who'd always tried so hard to please. Aemilia would never understand why she was being mistreated in this way and likely believed it was because she'd actually done something wrong.
“Has Satyr found your stone?” Pontifex asked her eagerly.
Her eyes dropped to his, hating him. “Only this shard so far. But tonight I showed him the way to the House and Temple. He'll begin digging soon.”
“Soon?” Pontifex's expression soured and she felt the crowd's wariness. “How long will it take?”
She shrugged. “A month or more, I imagine.”
“Too long!” he roared, striking his fist on the arm of his throne.
At his bellow, the young Lares on either side of the throne cowered. She wanted to go to them and gather them in her arms and console them. But if she did so, he would only harm them in order to hurt her. The best way to protect them was to ignore them. The day would come when she would free them all. But that day was not today.
Occia was sitting at his feet as well, gazing hungrily at his distended cock. Angry at her for not offering comfort to the Lares, when she so easily could have, Silvia sniped at her. “How can you just sit by?”
Occia blinked. “Because I love him. Something you wouldn't understand,
Virgin
.”
Pontifex dipped his fingers in a small basin of oil he kept nearby and began stroking himself with one fist, making smacking sounds. “It grows painful,” he snarled, as if it were Occia's fault.
Fellatio could be strenuous, and even Occia had her limits, it seemed. She snapped her fingers toward one of the Lares and indicated Pontifex's lap. But Pontifex held the new candidate away and instead leaned toward Silvia, the light of the devil in his eyes.
“Why don't you put that hot, clever mouth of yours to better use . . .
niece?
” He smiled, his voice suddenly gone silky and mesmerizing. It was a voice he'd stolen from a Siren he'd murdered. The sound of it had lured many into his unspeakable web. A bridge materialized across the moat and he curled his fingers, beckoning her to take the short walk across it to his throne. “Come, Silvia. Sit upon your uncle's lap.”
Silvia's skin crawled at the very idea. And at the reminder of their blood tie. She covered her ears against the magic in his voice, but it was no use. Words of refusal formed in her mouth, but she could not make them fall from her lips while his voice filled her head. He could still render her willing as he had others before her. The thought chilled her.
Occia's brown eyes narrowed and she shot her a look of loathing as she spoke to Pontifex. “You can't want
her
. She's flawed!” She gestured toward the scar marring Silvia's otherwise smooth cheek. “Let me try again,” she pleaded eagerly. “I have obtained a new potion from one of the apothecaries, who specializes in the Arts of Aphrodisia.” Pontifex knocked her away, sending her to the very brink of the moat. The ends of her long brown hair fell into its waters and were singed away.