Frozen,Gaius watched him approach. His teeth ground, his jaw clenched withrage, but he couldn’t move, he couldn’t flee. He ought tomurder this monster. But he couldn’t.
Theshriveled old man heaved up against the wall and stared back at him.Laughing, he pointed a crooked finger. “Salve,Gaius Albinus, salve! I found you. Given enoughtime, I knew I would find you. And my dear son, all I have is time.”
“Iam not your son,” Gaius said reflexively, as he had done a hundredtimes before, uselessly. He glanced around the street; he didn’t wantanyone to witness this.
“Yes,you are. I made you. You are my son.”
Theold man, Kumarbis, looked desiccated, as if he had been wandering ina desert, baked by the sun. Which was impossible for one like him. Thismeant he had not been eating, going weeks between feeding on blood,instead of days. He was starved; he was weak. How was he still existing?
Somethingdug hooks into Gaius; a connection between them that he’d never be ableto deny, however much he wanted to. A feeling: compassion; gratitude.A tangle emanating from this creature, binding them together. Gaius hadtried to escape these lines of power, fed through blood and woven withterrible magic, created when Kumarbis had transformed him.
“No!I disavow you. I broke from you!” “You are my son—”
“Youare a mockery, you are not my father!” Gaius’s father had died decadesago, never knowing what had become of his son, who’d vanished into theservice of Rome.
Theold man stepped forward, reaching an angular hand, and grinning,skull-like. “You owe me . . . hospitality. The tribute due to a masterfrom his progeny. You owe me . . . sustenance.” Horribly, he licked hispeeling lips.
“You’vefended for yourself for millennia before you ruined me. I will give younothing.”
Perversely,the old man chuckled, the sound of cracking papyrus. “I knew you werea strong man. Able to resist our bond? Very strong. I knew it. I choseyou well.”
“Leave here. Leave. I never want to see you again.”
“Never?Never? Do you know what that means? You areonly just beginning to realize what that means. We will always be here,we will always be bound.”
“Comein, get off the street.” Gaius grabbed the old man’s tunic—he refusedto touch that leathered skin—and pulled him into the courtyard,slamming the door behind. The ancient fabric of the tunic tore underthe pressure, as if it rotted in place.
Kumarbisslumped against the wall and grinned again at Gaius as if he’d won aprize. “You have servants.”
“They’remine, not yours.”
“You are mine.”
“Iam not.” He sounded like a mewling child.
Whathe ought to do was drink the old man dry. Suck whatever used-up bloodwas left in him, destroying him and taking all his power. But he wouldhave to touch the monster for that. And . . . that pull. That bond. Itmade the very idea of harming the man repulsive. He couldn’t evenbear the thought of stabbing him through the heart with a length ofwood, putting him out of his misery. It was the terrible magic of hiscurse that he could not bring himself to kill the one being in theuniverse that he most wanted to.
“Idon’t have time for this,” Gaius said, turning back to his tools, themission. He should just buy a slave for the old man to drain and bedone with him.
Kumarbispressed himself against the stone. “What are you doing here, Gaius?”
“Showingmy strength. Proving a point.”
Wincing,craning his neck forward, the old man studied what Gaius had prepared,the writing he had begun. “This magic . . . have I seen anything likeit?”
Gaiusspared a moment to glare. “I wouldn’t know.”
“Explainthis to me.” He seemed genuinely confused, his brow furrowed, a handplucking at the hem of his garment. “You’re working a spell . . . aspell made of fire?”
“No!I owe you nothing!” He stomped forward, raised his hand to the oldman—and could not strike. Fist trembling, he snarled.
Aknock came at the door. Both Gaius and Kumarbis froze, looking ateach other as if to ask, Were you expecting someone? Thisnight was cursed with interruptions. Gaius went to the door and crackedit open.
“What?”
“MayI enter? Am I interrupting anything important?” He seemed like a youngman, but Gaius had learned not to trust appearances of age. Bright eyesset in finely wrought features, the confident stance of a patrician,this man would be at home in the Forum at Rome. The kind of man whoalways had a curl at the corner of his lip, as if all he gazed onamused him. His tunic and wrap were expensive, trimmed with gold thread.
“Whoare you?” Gaius demanded, and seemingly of its own will the door openedand the stranger stepped inside.
Atthe same time, Kumarbis dropped to his knees, which cracked on theflagstones.
“Hello,there,” the stranger said amiably to him.
“You!It was always you!” the old man cried. “Your voice in the dark, drawingme forward. I tried! Don’t you know I tried to build your army? Itried!”
Thestranger’s mouth cracked into a grin, and he turned to Gaius. “Is thisman bothering you?”
Somesort of balance tipped in that moment. Gaius felt it in the pricklingof skin on the back of his neck. In the way this stranger drew the eye,held the attention, though there seemed to be nothing noteworthy abouthim.
“Please!Why have you forsaken me?” Kumarbis had prostrated himself and wasweeping. It was . . . almost sad.
Thestranger said, “I found a stronger man. Or, you did. Thank you forthat.” He looked Gaius up and down, as if surveying livestock.
“Forthousands of years I’ve—”
“And? Do you expect pity from me?”
“Perhaps. . . perhaps . . . mercy?”
Thestranger laughed. “Oh, no, old man. No. Not from me.”
“But—”
“Getout. Go.” The stranger took Kumarbis by the arm, hauled him to hisfeet. He had no care for brittle bones or bent back. Why should he,when the old man didn’t seem inclined to break? Only to weep.
Hepushed the old man out and gently closed the door. Almost, Gaiusworried. Where would Kumarbis go? Would he find shelter by daybreak?Would he find sustenance? But no, Kumbarbis had survived this long,he didn’t need help. He didn’t need pity.
Thestranger turned back to Gaius. “There. Where were we?”
Gaius stood,amazed. “Who are you?”
“Callme Lucien,” the man said,
