Infinity: Confessions of a Soul, #3

By P.E. Chretien

The saga continues as the reasons for Sebastian's vengeance revealed.

• Language: English
• Publisher: P.E. Chretien
• Release date: May 9, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393876120

P.E. Chretien

Lives in Burton Texas. With her family and her dogs.

Book preview

Dewen stares at the young woman crouching on the sandy floor, her dirty face marred with streaks of moisture, her brown eyes wide and the whites a crisscross of red veins. She cradles a still child in her arms and mutters incoherent words. Trying to rouse the boy, she pats and rubs his motionless body, her frenzied movements becoming more and more frantic with every second. Sinking to his knees beside Nimaathap, Dewen holds his shaky hands out to take the dead toddler from Eurydice’s chamber servant. But Nimaathap refuses.

Scooting across the earthen floor, Nimaathap kicks up a cloud of dust, making herself barely visible inside the dark hovel and backing herself into a corner. She lifts the boy closer to her breast and brushes her dripping nipple over his lips. Milk fills his mouth but leaks from the corners, falling to the floor and making a small puddle in the sand. Nimaathap raises the boy’s chubby hand, kissing each stiff blue finger, and begins to sing a lullaby. She tightens her grip and rocks her baby as though he is alive.

Dewen studies her vacant expression and realizes Nimaathap’s sadness has pushed reality from her mind. She now lingers in a place between life and death, just out of Anubis’s reach—the protector of the dead—and too close to Apep’s—the malevolent god of chaos—to understand that now nothing can bring her child back.  

Dewen stands and walks out of the mud-brick hut, leaving Nimaathap for a moment as he tries to think of the kindest way to remove the corpse before the child’s unknown illness spreads. An illness none of the healers can name. He watches as a crowd of slaves gather several yards away from Nimaathap’s shack, apparently wary of disease. They huddle around a central figure hidden from his view.

The desert wind blows bits and pieces of the group’s conversation over Dewen’s ears, and he takes in the exchange from a distance. Some blame the child’s death on the decreased food rations, while others say the grain is tainted with black spots. Dewen considers both causes but notes neither has affected anyone else. The boy had been well enough yesterday. He had eaten the same food as the other slaves, then gone to sleep, but he did not wake in the morning. Why?

Dewen hangs his head, gazing at the sand beneath his sandals, uncertain what to say to the crowd. With no explanation as to why the child died suddenly, the slaves might blame unseen forces. Anything to condemn their master, Eurydice. But Dewen knows the woman he loves has no more power over her own life than do the slaves that toil in the quarry.

He steps toward the mass, aware the burial rituals need to be performed quickly, a tradition born out of necessity. Preparing to ask how to coax Nimaathap into giving up her only child, he closes the distance, continuing to listen.

But the allegations of lack of food and tainted wheat turn to charges that the Roman general’s presence angers God. The one true God. A religion gaining in popularity. The mass of harsh-looking men and women hush as Dewen approaches, suspicious of him. While his pure Egyptian lineage makes him a slave to the Greek pharaoh, it also affords him a class status above the Hebrews. And his relationship with Eurydice doesn’t help.

An elderly woman shoves her way to the front of the crowd, her frazzled gray hair and wrinkled skin a testament to her years in the quarry. Her eyes are clouded and her fingers crippled at each joint, so it is her tongue, known to be sharper than any blade, that worries Dewen.

This is God’s wrath for our obedience to the pagans. We will all suffer, she howls, and the mob agrees. Two men stand by her side, one clutching a shroud of natural linen. She pushes them forward, and they rush past Dewen into Nimaathap’s hut.

Ear-piercing screams of anguish follow moments later. It causes him to flinch when the royal servant begs for them to leave her child alone. One of the men exits the hut with a bundle cradled in his arms, a small hand hanging out from beneath the fabric.

Nimaathap chases after him, pulling on the boy’s arm, but the other man quickly restrains her as the child is taken away. She pounds her fist on the man’s hands until he drops her into the hot sand. Dewen steps closer, wanting to comfort her, but she pushes him forward as if he should chase after the men and retrieve the boy. She points and screams at him. Stop them! He is your son! Don’t let them take our child!

The news shocks Dewen, and he collapses to his knees, never suspecting Nimaathap’s bastard child had been his. But concern for Eurydice’s reaction to this information outweighs the sadness he should feel for the toddler. He stands and walks away.

***

The passage of time in the desert can be seen in the dunes as they progress across the landscape, advancing mere inches a day, but like time itself, the dunes are unstoppable.

The days drag by for Dewen. He stands high above the shifting sands at the threshold to the stone building, pondering whether Nimaathap’s melancholy has, like a disease, become contagious. Or if his wistfulness for Eurydice has become fatal, the curse of a slow demise.

He turns away from the bright sun, pushing the sheer netting aside, and strides through the threshold, finding the general’s interpreter, Cornelius, reading a scroll. Tasked with keeping the quarry running, Cornelius had stayed in Egypt even after the new master had returned home. Now orders come directly from Rome, and the knowledge that the great army will enforce the quotas from the Senate makes everyone stay in line.

But the adviser also keeps Dewen from Eurydice. From the day Cornelius set foot into the house, he hasn’t allowed any slaves into her private areas.

Something Dewen resents.

Left with only his memories of her soft alabaster skin, the lush curves of her body, and the scent of almonds and citrus, he lingers between life and death.

Breathing, yet not caring to.

Each night he transports himself back to the pool of cool water, believing their love remains true and they will someday be together in a place where slaves and masters don’t exist. But even his fear of the Great Roman Empire isn’t enough to quell his growing resentment for the general. He took her from me!

Continuing his duties, he tries to clear his mind of the mounting anger at losing his one true love, and a plan to run away with Eurydice formulates in his mind. She has no love for the Roman. Only me. She will come with me. I have no doubt.

Dewen moves silently to the desk, checking the pitcher of wine and basket of figs. Cornelius doesn’t speak a word but continues his reading, acting as if he hasn’t noticed the lowly servant. Seeing that both pitcher and basket are full, Dewen turns to leave.

But Cornelius stops him with a question. Do you know the language of the camel handler? He rolls the parchment up and lays it with others.

Yes. Dewen faces the master’s advisor, showing Cornelius the respect due someone of his class.

Good! He pours wine into a goblet and chuckles. I hate the smell of those beasts. Tell him we leave for the port before the next moon. He raises the cup to his lips, but he stares at Dewen, searching.

Sir, how many animals will you require? Dewen asks.

Enough to bring the general and his troops back here. Cornelius places the goblet down but continues his appraisal of Dewen. The words are slow to sink in, but when they do, anger flushes up Dewen’s spine like lightning. He’s returning for Eurydice. He’s coming to take her away from me.

The general returns? Dewen asks plainly, in spite of his rage.

Yes. Cornelius drops his eyes to the scroll, apparently satisfied with Dewen’s indifference to the master’s return.

Should I travel with the caravan to greet him? Dewen offers, hopeful his deception remains hidden behind his apathetic manner.

No. I will see to that myself. Cornelius rises from his chair, moving closer to Dewen. Your skills with the slaves are needed. However, he gives Dewen a piercing glare, I have commanded the royal guards of my wish to have no servants but yourself in the house. And that you are not to be alone with Eurydice.

Dewen bows at the waist. As you wish.

***

The last camel disappears from sight just as the sun falls behind a mountain. Dewen swings to face the Egyptian Royal Guards that protect the main house and Eurydice. He smiles at both, patting one on the shoulder, and the pair relax their stance.

The two had been stationed at the outpost many years ago and have become sympathetic to Dewen’s plight. All three have Egyptian blood coursing through their veins, unlike the quarry slaves. The Greek pharaoh, Ptolemy XIII, has no fondness for the rightful heirs of the land and treats the Egyptians little better than the humans he buys and sells. But Egyptian, Greek, and Hebrew alike all despise the Romans.

My enemy’s enemy is my friend. The quote repeats in Dewen’s mind over and over. He waves the guards past the gauze netting covering the main entry, and they stroll into the great hall. Nimaathap lays a tray of dates and bread next to a pitcher of beer on the table. She bows to Dewen, and he waves her from the room. He inhales deeply as the power Cornelius stripped from him returns, causing his chest to expand. He strides to the table and pours beer into three bronze goblets. He walks to the far side of the room and kneels at the feet of a statue of Isis. The guards do the same as they lower their heads and lift their cups.

Dewen leads the prayer. We ask you, our mother, to protect us from the Romans. He rises and moves to a seating area where they eat and drink until the sky fills with stars. They speak frankly of a future when the invaders are slaughtered and the real Egyptians return to the throne. And of how to prepare for revolt. When the beer and bread are finished, the guards return to their quarters, ignoring Cornelius’s order. Leaving Dewen alone.

He douses the torch flames in the living space and strides down the hall to the bathing chamber, hopeful he will find his true love. He enters just as Eurydice drops her white linen robe to the dusty floor. Stepping in behind her, he quietly unties the sash holding his shendyt, allowing it to fall to his feet. He wraps his arms around her waist, walking her backward.

Dewen? she whispers, You can’t be in here. If the guards find you...

The guards have no loyalty to Cornelius. We all spit on the ground he walks. His words echo off the chamber walls, testifying to his confidence as he caresses her nipple with the rough pad of his index finger.

But if anyone were to speak— she moans at his touch. He spins her in his arms to face him, gazing into her eyes as the lamplight reflects off their dark color, making them dance with energy. But she pushes against his muscular shoulders and snaps her head back as though something occurs to her. We can’t. I’m—

But he stops her from saying any more when he covers her lips with his, forcing his tongue inside her mouth until she acquiesces to his advances in a frenzied rush. He slides his hands down her side and scoops her up, carrying her into the water.

Easing down, he sits on the submerged step, and she straddles his hips with a new and unfamiliar command to her actions. She takes hold of his erection, positioning it at her entrance, and thrusts her hips down. Her sudden dominance unhinges his masculinity, and he pushes her off. Fisting her hair in his hand, he presses her chest over the rounded edge of the pool. Grabbing her hips, he thrusts inside of her tight sex with harsh strokes meant to reassert his supremacy.

The commingled sounds of lust echo off the choppy water as they both clamor for their feral peak. She cries out, bucking, and he grunts, clawing at her smooth flesh as he releases his seed. Wrapping an arm around her waist, he tugs her into his lap as he lowers himself back on the step. He cradles her close to his chest.

After their rapid breathing lulls, he speaks with a confident air, as though his command will be met with resounding agreement. I want you to add mandrake to the Roman’s wine. Enough to kill him in his sleep. Then we can be together.

Her head pops up at his statement, shaking violently. No! I will not.

Then I want you to gather some clothing. We will leave tonight. He cups her face in his hands, squeezing tightly to stop the negative gesture, adding, We will follow the Nile south.

I can’t! she exclaims. Pulling out of his hold, she scrambles up the stone treads and out of the water. We can’t do this anymore. She backs away from him.

Do you prefer the Roman over me? He stands, growling.

I am his wife! She snatches her robe from the floor. I didn’t get to choose, but I will regard the bonds of our marriage. She clutches the fabric to her chest, her entire body vibrating. This must never happen again, she sobs and retreats toward the door. I will not tell of your plot, she whispers, But you must leave tonight. I will say you fell ill and I sent you away. Now go, and never return, or I can’t ensure your safety. She turns her back on him and sprints down the hall.

The slamming of the wooden door to the Roman’s chambers causes a ripple on the water. Shock at his love’s reaction quickly turns to anger. How can she pick him over me? What would cause her to change so abruptly?

Dewen leaves the bathing chamber, but whispered words come from the shadows. She prays to Heket. The goddess that protects women during childbirth. Do you know what that means? That stops him in his tracks. He turns to stare at the silhouette emerging from the darkness.

Nimaathap strolls toward him with a wisp of a smile growing on her gaunt face. The madness she had succumbed to the day her child died lingers, growing more intense as time passes. She now sings to a wad of rags at night and hordes food but eats none herself.

How can he believe the words of a woman so lost to her sadness? He can’t. Thinking back on the days the Roman has been gone, a realization dawns like the sun rising from the sands of the desert, beautiful at first sight but deadly in time. It was less than one moon after the general went back to Rome that Cornelius tightened his restrictions, forbidding all slaves in the house at all. Except me.

The truth steals his breath, but Nimaathap speaks up, taunting him, She stole our child’s soul and gave it to the Roman.

Nimaathap’s claim that Eurydice prays to Heket enrages Dewen. He shoves the delusional woman out of his way and marches toward Eurydice’s bedchamber.

As he enters the empty room, memories of nights spent with Eurydice’s warm body next to his flood his mind. The torch light dances over a mural of Isis, and he drops to his knees, shouting at the deity. Why would she give the Roman a child? But he gets no answer from the mother of all.

He rises and begins to pace as disturbing thoughts enter his mind. I want to feel her last breath beneath my fingertips. To see her eyes grow wide in death.

He pulls at his own hair to stop the maddening idea from taking hold of him. But a pain like none he has ever experienced erupts in his chest.

He digs through Eurydice’s herbs, seeking the one that will ease the ache. The one that will open his mind to the truths she hides. Belladonna! It will help me see into her soul. He makes a tea and sips as he stares into the flame of the oil lamp. Inside the white-hot flicker, he sees Eurydice, and she speaks to him. The child is yours. A son.

***

Dewen creeps into Eurydice’s bathing chamber under the faint light of dawn, aware that he has only one sun and one moon before the Roman returns. He eases down to the dusty floor, crouching in the far corner of the room and concealing himself in the shadows, unwilling to even trust the royal guard with his plan. They might side with their new master. Anything to avoid crucifixion.

He leans against the stone and pulls his knees to his chest, clutching a ragged strip of linen from Eurydice’s wedding dress, the fabric proof that the marriage had not been blessed by the gods. Isis would not have allowed me to tear it to pieces. If she approved of the union, she would have struck me down with her magic.

***

The soft clap of leather on stone wakes Dewen from his dream of his son. He opens his eyes and watches as Eurydice enters, kicking her sandals from her feet. She drops her clothing to the floor and steps into the pool, sinking down until only her head bobs above the surface.

Dewen watches her from the hidden corner as he marshals the courage to rise and tell her of his vision. To show her the strip of fabric that proves her destiny lies with him.

But many voices float on the air. Their words are unintelligible, but the tone is angry. Eurydice scurries from the water and grabs her robe, slipping it over her wet arms as Nimaathap runs in spouting insanity. What I tell you is true! The Roman uses her body to carry Am-heh into this world to devour us all!

Dewen jumps to his feet and blocks the mob clamoring to enter. The child is mine! he shouts.

But the old woman steps forward. No. Cornelius came to me. Asking for Silphium.

Dewen’s happiness turns to utter rage as he whips to face Eurydice. You poisoned my son?

There was no child. But he made me drink anyway. Eurydice backs away from Dewen, shaking her head.

But I saw him in my vision. He was inside of you. Dewen points at her belly.

Never. I made sure we—

Dewen grabs her by the wrists and binds them with the strip of linen.

***

Sebastian Vega wakes in the darkness of his hotel room with sweat dripping from his chin as he recalls the rage he felt. She was mine. I should have killed the Roman myself. The idea of murdering Gabriel Collins enters his mind. He chuckles at the notion, knowing he would be the first person the police accused.

Tossing the sheets to the side, he drops his feet to the floor. He rubs his eyes with the heel of his palm, trying to rid himself of the picture of Collins’s face, white from lack of oxygen, as he strangles him.

Pushing the delightful image to the side, he grabs his cell from the bedside table to check the time. But several texts from Mercedes, letting him know that she hasn’t left town as instructed and that she wants to speak to him now, blow up his phone. His anger at her disobedience is replaced by the recollection that Connor Sterling has been speaking to Gabriel. And Sterling knew all about the connection between Sebastian and Tiffany Cohan. Did he tell Gabriel? If he did, Collins would have flown to New Orleans and kicked down my door. I still have time.

He scrolls through his phone numbers, stopping at Cajun Transport. He hits dial and waits for Claude Le Fleur to answer.

What you know, good Sabatty? the jovial Cajun asks.

I need to fly to Houston for a few hours, then come right back.

Why you wanna ride in a rig chopper? Offshore works are dirty going both ways. Why not take a commercial flight? One wit cushy seats? And pretty girls serving you booze?

I need to fly under the radar. So to speak.

Checking up on that wife? Claude laughs.

Well, a sterling opportunity has presented itself. Vega chuckles. And it would be utterly criminal to pass.

CHAPTER TWO

Gabriel digs in the front pocket of his blue jeans, pulling out a wad of keys. He thumbs through the mass, hunting for the one he hasn’t used much lately.

The one to his front door.

Sliding the steel into the slot without a snag, he turns it with ease. The honed clank of a well-maintained deadbolt retreating almost goes unheard against the backdrop of toads and cicadas welcoming dusk.

He palms the heavy bronze knob, but it feels odd in his hand, the scale and weight far more substantial than the antique hollow brass plate of the knob on Jerry’s bungalow. Gabriel realizes he longs for the feel of the crappy hardware more than he can imagine.

Cocking his head to the side, he gazes through the lead glass, half expecting the pack of unruly Italian greyhounds he has grown fond of to barge into the entry, barking, howling, and yipping a dog version of Welcome home. Nothing! There’s no one inside.

With a weary exhale, he pushes the door back, getting hit in the face with a blast of warm, stale air that he didn’t anticipate. Feeling drained both mentally and physically, he blinks away the dryness burning his eyes as he shuffles inside his massive home.

The intense worry that he has lost Constance forever zaps all of his energy, leaving him exhausted. Two steps past the threshold, he halts to catch his breath, but he notes the utter gloominess of his lifeless house. Can I live here? Without her? Hell no. I can barely breathe.

But a high-pitched beeping startles him, and he jerks his head to stare at the source. The red light on the alarm panel pulses, signaling he has thirty seconds to disarm the device, and he sidesteps to the left, punching in a code. The automated female voice of his security system speaks, and he growls at her cheerful inflection.

Welcome home, Mr. Collins. It is six eighteen on Sunday, November— Gabriel presses the mute button and slams the heavy mahogany door behind him. The window to either side vibrates, and the bang echoes through his unoccupied house with a hollow tone. One he associates with being alone. I only come here when I’m not dating someone. What does that say about me?

The soles of his shoes squeak with his first steps across the entry, and he glances down, noting he’s still wearing his topsiders. I forgot to change my shoes. I’m fucking brain-dead. He drops his sailing duffel in the middle of the foyer, still dazed by the events of the weekend. He sucks in a deep breath to clear his mind of just how awful awful can be, but the scent of Pine-Sol and Clorox assaults his nose, reminding him his housekeeper has been by recently.

To do what? I’m never here. He scratches his temple, staring into the empty expanse, answering himself. Scrub the five-and-a-half unused bathrooms? He shakes his head, questioning the wisdom in buying this house. My accountant said I needed a write-off. And Cynthia, his personal assistant, had picked it out. She should live here. Not me.

He stuffs the keys to his Porsche in his pocket and shuffles past both unfurnished formals and into the family room. Flopping down on one of the two recliners, he closes his eyes, hopeful sleep will steal his consciousness and allow him to forget. Forget about how the past keeps cropping up to undermine his and Constance’s happiness.

But the unfamiliar silence of his own home makes him edgy. He begins staring at the coffered ceiling high above him, wondering where Constance might be hiding. And how she got wherever she went. She just disappeared. Hell, Jerry doesn’t even know where she is.

Constance had not answered her phone or any of the text messages he sent after she told Gabriel she needed time to think about their relationship. A sharp pain develops in his chest as though a spike pierces his heart at the idea that she might be leaving him for good. Would she just walk away without talking to me? Jerry said to give her time to cool off. But I’m worried if I give her too much time, she’ll think I’ve given up on her. I just need to tell her about my dream. Then maybe she’ll let go of the idea that I’ll leave her for someone else.

Lacking an immediate course of action that would draw Constance out of hiding, Gabriel turns on the TV. He surfs through the channels until he discovers one droning on about the advantages of having a microwave egg scrambler as extreme fatigue claims him, dragging him back into his dark past, back into his memories of Egypt.

The Roman general’s troop stands on the other side of the room, huddled together with Cornelius. The men whisper and occasionally look in Gaius’s direction but do not dare to come near their shattered leader. Though many wars have hardened Gaius, he finds himself broken and mute by the murder of one Egyptian. His second wife, Eurydice.

The urge to hunt down the group of slaves responsible for her death battles against the need to cry like a woman. But he does neither. He just stares at the flame from the oil lamp as it casts shadows against the wall. Stock-still. Frozen.

The flame’s movements are hypnotic, and he can almost see Eurydice in the white-hot center. He squints his eyes to get a better look of the girl whose caring nature and kind heart won him over, despite the vow he’d made to his Roman wife, Sempronia, that he would never have feelings for Eurydice.

The girl Gaius was forced to marry for the sole reason of satisfying Rome’s hunger for copper.

The beautiful woman that bore the brunt of Gaius’s bitterness for being separated from Sempronia.

The tender soul he called nothing more than a prostitute on their wedding night. Words he would forever regret saying, for all eternity.

But even after his cruel words, Eurydice forgave him and saved his life.

How long he gazes at the light he can’t recall, but a commotion outside snaps him from his grief-stricken trance, and he focuses his stare on Cornelius.

Sir, Cornelius says, as he hurries to Gaius’ side. Some of the quarry slaves have been found. Six of them were hiding in a cave.

Gaius lurches up from the simple wooden stool with such speed that it topples, landing on its side. He charges for the door, looking down the massive steps to the desert floor below. A group of five men and one woman are on their knees in a straight line, their hands tied behind their backs, their heads hung low. All, even the woman, have been stripped of their clothing.

Is Eurydice’s slave among them? Gaius shouts as he descends the limestone treads and storms toward the prisoners.

He knew little of the man that had been Eurydice’s guardian, her parent and protector of sorts throughout her childhood. Gaius had never laid eyes on the Egyptian slave. There had been no reason to. Now the desire to question the man and gain the truth occupies his every thought. His need to find the people who brutally murdered his wife rages inside him with a ferocity he can’t contain, causing him to push Cornelius to the side and sprint past his interpreter.

The blazing sun above blinds Gaius for a moment. But he doesn’t stop his march forward. Where is the guardian? None of them look up. Gaius’s face burns hot, but not from the midday sun beating down, searing his exposed skin. It burns with rage. A blinding fury that throbs behind his eyes, matching the accelerated beat of his heart.

He stops in front of Nimaathap, his wife’s bather, and glares down at her nude body, noting how quickly her shoulders have started to turn red. Gaius knows of the madness that consumed Nimaathap after the death of her child, and he extends an offer to end her suffering quickly. She can join her son in the afterlife. No longer endure the anguish of their separation. Justification for the punishment he plans on handing out for the slaughter of his beloved.

I will grant you a mercifully quick death if you speak. The rest will beg for Orcus to feed on their flesh before I’m through with them! the general bellows, and Cornelius translates. Both wait, but she doesn’t answer. I want the slave she trusted. He leans down, shouting in her ear, and his adviser repeats his request. The name of the Egyptian the pharaoh said would protect her.

But Nimaathap only hobbles on her knees as though the heat of the sand has become too intense. Gaius pulls his spear from his side, pointing at her neck. The smell of blood will help the vultures find you long before you perish. He presses the sharp tip into her flesh without piercing the skin, but Cornelius says nothing not bothering to translate the threat. She hitches a breath, and he pauses, awaiting her answer. But she remains mute. They will peck the eyes out of the living, for they are tender and soft. He growls and flicks his wrist, slicing a shallow cut that makes her cry out. A man ten years older than Eurydice lifts his chin, and before he can say a word, Gaius knows whose soul lives behind the unfamiliar face.

Sebastian! Gabriel screams, waking himself from his dream. The knowledge that his vile business partner has been in one of Constance’s past lives sets off alarm bells in his mind. The picture of the man’s eyes sends a violent shudder through his spine, and he scrambles from the recliner. Jumping to his feet, he lurches toward the foyer. Racing for the door as he digs in his pocket for his keys at the same time, he realizes he has no inkling of how to search for Constance. Where do I even start?

But the nonslip bottoms of his boat shoes catch on the squeaky-clean floor, pitching him forward. With one hand in the pocket of his blue jeans, he’s unable to brace himself for the fall, and he tumbles. His chin hits the terra-cotta first. The force causes his head to bounce back up while his left hand comes down at an awkward angle. The snap of a bone registers in his ears before the sharp pain pulses through his fist.

The taste of salt and metal fills his mouth, and he sucks in a breath, only to choke on the thick liquid. He rolls to the side, gagging, and cradles his pinky, now sticking out at an odd angle. Something warm flows from the corner of his mouth, and he wipes the back of his hand against his face, finding it covered in blood. Shit! I bet I’ll need stitches. But I have to find Constance first.

He digs his cell from his other pocket and glares at the broken screen. He places his thumb on the fingerprint reader but with no success. With one shaky hand, he punches in the passcode, and it comes to life. He scrolls through his contacts and selects Dixon J. The phone rings several times before JD answers, but Gabriel gives him no time to speak.

It was Sebastian! Blood sprays from Gabriel’s mouth with each word as the wound begins to pulse and swell, slurring his speech. I knew it all along. You have to find her. Track her cell. Something. Just find her.

Whoa, Doc! What’s going on? James chuckles. Are you drunk?

Sebastian started the uprising. He’s the reason Constance died. Gabriel speaks rapidly, not bothering to breathe.

Constance died? When? JD shouts, loud enough to hurt Gabriel’s ears, and he pulls the phone back a few inches. He sucks in a quick inhale and growls as though his friend should understand.

In Egypt. Sebastian got the mob to stone her to death.

Stop! JD bites out. Back up. Is this one of those past life things?

Yes, but—

Fucking Collins! James barks. "I want to wring your neck. I thought you meant now, in the present. Don’t do that to me again."

Just find her.

***

Gabriel walks through the glass doors of Collins and Vega, the law firm that he’d started from nothing and built into a global agency. An organization he had once been proud of. But now the name C&V has become synonymous with mass murder, infidelity, and extortion. Rumors of extreme excess and the power to bend the laws abound in the tabloids. And Gabriel’s previous source of pride now torments him with the memories of the day three people died on the snow-white granite floor. Just walking through here makes my heart race. Will it ever get better? Or will the building keep the awful memories alive?

The picture of Constance lying in a pool of her own blood materializes in his mind whenever he approaches the reception desk. The image makes bile coat the back of his tongue and burns his throat with the bitter taste of guilt. A sense that he could have prevented the three deaths taunts his soul, but his logic rebukes the assertion, and a silent war wages inside of him the second he steps into the austere lobby, causing him to grimace.

He clenches his teeth and swallows hard as he glances at the new secretary, giving her a forced smile to hide his visceral reaction, aware she might take his frown the wrong way.

Sucking in a steadying breath, Gabriel continues his track toward the elevators, but notes only a handful of people dressed in sharp suits and silk dresses milling around talking to each other. The lateness of his arrival dawns, causing him to speed up. Shit, I’m running seriously behind schedule. Damn Vicodin. Didn’t even hear my alarm.

He peeks over his shoulder, reading the giant digital clock as its crimson letters blink the change to 9:56 a.m. But somehow that triggers more thoughts of Constance. The questions that lurk in the back of his mind come racing to the forefront with the force of a raging bull. Is she relieved to get away from me? To no longer have all of the appalling memories from our past lives together cropping up?

The elevator bell dings, the doors slide back, and Gabriel steps inside. He swipes his security badge over the scanner, and the button for the restricted seventh floor illuminates. He presses the cool blue number with his right hand, wanting to avoid jostling his injured left any more than necessary. The doors close, and he gazes into the mirror-like finish of the metal, snorting and exhaling at the sight of himself. Holy shit! I look awful. No wonder everybody stayed at arm’s length. I look like I’ve been in a bar fight.

The tip of his chin has turned a gross shade of blue-black, with a halo of light green-yellow circling the bruise. His bottom lip appears painful to his own eyes and protrudes as if someone punched him. But the five stitches on the inside, where his teeth sliced a gash, hurt more than the tetanus shot. Not by much though.

He lifts his dominant hand to rub the egg-sized knot on his right shoulder, where he’d received the booster, but the brace the ER doctor had put on him last night stops him. Shaking his head, he glares at the black gadget that prevents him from moving his fingers. Boxing fracture! They should have called it a klutzy fracture instead.

As the elevator rises, he considers how to sneak past Cynthia without her freaking out. Damn. She acts like my moth—older sister. Aware that no matter how hard he might try to avoid his PA, he can’t hide in his private bathroom all day, so he decides to simply stroll right past her desk as though nothing is amiss.

The car bounces to a stop, sending a spike of pain through his lip, and he groans as the door opens. Inhaling deeply, he squares his shoulders and strides down the long hall, heading straight for his office. But a prickling sensation moves down his spine, and his throat tightens when he sees Sebastian’s office door open.

Is he back from New Orleans? Constance! I need to protect her!

The urge to rage down the hall and wrap his fingers around Vega’s neck causes Gabriel’s one good hand to shake. But the knowledge that JD tracked Constance’s cell to the Galvez on the Galveston seawall and that JD is now checked into a room across the hall from hers quells Gabriel’s homicidal tendencies. JD said she had not even left her room yet. So she’s fine for now. But what about later?

The thought that Sebastian might be the angry soul Constance fears so completely that she blacked out all of the details before the shooting makes Gabriel’s stomach turn.

But one of the facilities guys steps out of Vega’s office, pushing a cart with an old ice maker and a red toolbox. Gabriel’s shoulders droop with relief at the sight, and he resumes his track toward his office.

Cynthia stares at her computer screen, not looking up as Gabriel rushes past her desk. He shoulders his way into his office and moves straight for his chair. The spike of fear that had seized him when he thought Sebastian might have already returned from Louisiana prompts him to act. He yanks the cell from his pocket and searches for Domino’s number. I need the buyout papers for Vega. I want him out of my company. Yesterday.

The phone connects and rings twice before Leslie Steinberg answers.

Gabriel, I was just thinking of you. The older attorney sounds jovial and kindhearted, but Gabriel knows if he were on the other side of the equation, Domino would not seem so friendly. Attila the Hun? Or Stalin? Maybe Genghis Khan.

Good thoughts or bad?