Page 116 of Vesuvius

Chapter XXV

FELIX

Felix’s dreams took him home.

In Rome, on the Aventine Hill, stood a temple. This was not unique. Rome had many temples, some small, some grand, and Mercury’s temple was fashioned somewhere between. Grand, but not overt. A good place to raise a motherless boy, whose father was driven by a compulsive, ancient need to stay in motion.

Felix dreamed of his first taste of wine, the proper stuff, not the weak and watery swill the other children got. This was the wine grown-ups sipped after a good heist. Felix didn’t know what they celebrated, and the wine tasted icky besides. Too bitter. Made him sleepy.

He dreamed, and his dreams were pressed by milky poppy sap.

Felix reasoned, beyond all doubt, that if Loren’s face swam before him, surely he must have made it to Elysium. Odd. He couldn’t remember being particularly heroic in life.

‘Thank Isis,’ Loren said. His cheeks were ruddy, cinnamon eyes swollen. Had something made him cry? Felix would fight whatever had. Felix would . . . ‘Sit for me.’

Everything hurt. Nothing hurt. ‘Is my da’ here?’

‘Your father?’ Loren’s brow scrunched. ‘Felix, where are you?’

But of course his da’ wouldn’t be in the blessed realm. Too much priest blood on his hands.

WherewasFelix? Half in this world, half the other. Ghosts tugged the hem of Felix’s tunic, dragging him, asking, begging . . .

He should lead them to their rest. He had a job to do.

If only he weren’t so tired himself.

Felix’s eyes drifted shut.

‘No, no, stay with me, Felix, please.’

He ran barefoot through fields of blooming poppies, carnal and red, while the world bled out behind him.

Hands were on Felix’s skin, and he was going to vomit.

‘Get off,’ he slur-snarled. ‘Get the fuck off.’

The touch retreated, leaving him cold in the dark.

‘Felix,’ Loren said. ‘Please. I know you’re tired, but you must wake.’

Felix’s stomach rolled. Spit and bile dribbled from the corner of his mouth, pooling on the tile. He gagged and shook and choked and shivered. If poppy sap tasted bitter going down, it was worse coming up.

‘You’ll suffocate on your own spit lying like that. I’m going to touch you, but only to move you upright.’ Hands returned, and Felix flinched, but they did as promised, navigating him to sit against a wall before pulling away. Scratchy rope bound his wrists.

Loren knelt before him, the worst thing Felix had seen.

‘You can’t be here,’ he croaked.

‘Nice to see you, too,’ Loren said with a sniff, but his words lacked heat. ‘Tell me I smell or that my hair is ugly again, and I’ll know you’re awake for good.’

Beneath bone-deep weariness came a selfish thrill of relief. Loren had defied impossible odds, survived, all to claim Felix from a room of relics as the city caved around them. He blinked rapidly. His fever left him sticky, coated in thin sweat with stomach acid dripping down his chin.

He wrinkled his nose. ‘Can’t smell anything past my own vomit.’

‘No, keep your eyes open. I’m going to cut you free, all right?’

Loren drew a sword from his belt. Felix recoiled, drawing his elbows back far as he could with his bindings. ‘And take my hands off? Tools of the trade. I need them. Check my pocket for a knife.’

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