Page 19 of Take Me Under

“Let me tell it to you anyway. Come sit.”

Suppressing a sigh, I return to my chair beside his bed. My mother sits on the opposite side with a wary expression.

“Carlo, maybe just tell the short version. You don’t want to overdo it.”

He pays her no mind and turns his attention to me.

“Cleopatra was a cunning and masterful leader,” he begins. “From the moment Mark Antony met her, he was smitten to the point of obsession. Cleopatra knew this and used it to her advantage. She needed Antony’s protection to expand her power, and he needed her riches to fund his armies in the East. She threw extravagant parties for the Romans and flaunted herwealth. She drank and flirted with Antony, who was determined to surpass her extravagance by throwing parties of his own.”

“But his parties were never as good as Cleopatra’s,” I continue with a small smile, having heard the story so often that I know it by heart. “Eventually, they fell in love, and Antony impregnated Cleopatra, only to leave her and return to Rome to marry another woman. While he was there, Cleopatra gave birth to twins.”

“That’s correct! Alexander Helios and Cleopatra Selene,” my father adds with eyes brighter than I’ve seen them in weeks. “They are the key to all of this, Serena.”

My brows push together in confusion. In all the times I’ve heard my father speak of Cleopatra and Mark Antony, he’s never once focused on their children.

“They are the key to all of what, Papa?”

My father gives me a knowing smile, then looks down at his book and pulls out a folded piece of paper. He unfolds it to reveal a sizable rubbing of old Roman cursive that I’ve never seen before.

“Six months ago, I came across a stone tablet and took this rubbing of it,” my father explains. “It’s the proof that Mark Antony and Cleopatra’s ashes are in Rome, Serena—not in Egypt. But some have gone to great lengths to keep this information hidden. They will kill to protect the secret and?—”

My father’s words cut off as he’s overcome with another coughing fit. My mother hurries to grab a tissue from the dresser and hands it to him. He holds it to his mouth as his body convulses and spasms. To my horror, when he pulls the tissue away, it’s stained red with blood.

“Papa, let me get you a drink. You’ve been talking too much. You need to—” He grips my hand with such force, I’m taken by surprise. I didn’t think he had that much strength left in him.

“Trust your intuition, Serena. X marks the spot—I’m sure of it. But it’s dangerous and you’ll have to be careful. Be smarterthan me. Promise to see my work through to the end. You must find Cleopatra and Mark Antony.”

For the briefest moment, I consider my glassblowing workshop and my passion to create. The art calls to me, even now, as I stare into my father’s glassy, yellowing eyes. They’re so full of desperation. I have little choice but to give this dying man—my hero for as long as I can remember—my solemn vow.

My dreams no longer matter.

I will do anything for my father, even if it means giving up the thing I love the most.

“I promise, Papa. I will find them.”

I slowly emergedfrom the darkness of sleep, my face scrunched as if I’d been crying. The weight of grief pressed upon me like a lead blanket, while my mind swirled with remnants of the haunting dream. The flashback of my father’s final days was as clear as when it originally happened.

I inhaled a shaky breath and opened my eyes, feeling emotionally wrung out. My head throbbed mercilessly, a relentless ache pulsing behind my temples. I blinked, struggling to focus on my surroundings.

Disoriented from the dream that felt too close to reality, it took me a minute to remember where I was. The scent on the soft pillows—his scent—was all I needed to bring me back to the present day.

As if materializing from the shadows themselves, Anton’s silhouette became visible in the dark room. He leaned down, turning on the bedside lamp. I allowed my eyes to adjust to the light, and met his observant and assessing onyx gaze. He stared with an intensity that sent shivers cascading down my spine.

“How are you feeling?” His voice was low and gravelly, cutting through the silence like warm whiskey, its timbre sending a burning awareness through my veins.

Ignoring the uptick in my heart rate, I frowned and considered how I felt. Flashes from my dream came forth, and grief washed over me once again. I could almost smell the antiseptic from my mother’s meticulous cleaning in the air. The sound of my father’s voice still echoed in my mind. The rain whipping against the house, the chill of fear I’d felt in my bones… Reliving it was all too much to bear.

I struggled to find my voice, unsure how to articulate the storm of emotions raging within me. I didn’t want to talk about my dream or how it made me feel—at least not at that moment. Not when my head felt like it might explode.

“I...I don't know,” I managed to whisper, my words barely audible in the quiet of the room. I adjusted the blankets around me, noticing how he tracked my every move as I folded back the sheet and shifted to a sitting position. The small action made the piercing pain in my skull that much worse. I winced and brought a hand to the back of my head.

“Are you alright?”

“My head is pounding.”

“There’s ibuprofen on the nightstand. Let me get you some fresh water and?—”

“No, it’s okay,” I said. “It’s not that kind of headache. It’s the bobby pins in my hair. They’ve been there since Monday afternoon.”

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