Page 6 of Heart's Flame

He could hear Marcellus breathing behind him, but the Null kept quiet. Lowering his other hand to the ground, Vian concentrated on the exterior of the arrowhead in his hand and tried to create a clear picture of Dem in his mind. It was harder than it should have been. His memories of Dem were shaky and transparent, skittering out of reach the moment he attempted to lock onto one of them.

With a low growl, Vian opened his eyes, only to suck in a sharp breath at finding Marcellus there, kneeling in front of him.

“Maybe I can help?”

“Magic doesn’t really work that way.”

Marcellus chewed his lip for a moment. “Vian, let me try to help you.”

Vian narrowed his eyes. “And how do you propose to do that exactly? Nulls are immune to magic.”

“We’re immune to the effects of your magic.” Marcellus took a breath and nodded, as if deciding on something. “We can, however, boost the magic of a mage.”

“What?” Vian’s voice was a hard, low growl.

“Let me show you.” Marcellus reached for Vian’s fisted hand. The brush of his fingers against Vian’s felt like rain after a drought, making Vian pull in a shaky breath. Looking up to meet his eyes, Marcellus laid his palm against Vian's, the arrowhead held between them and squeezed Vian’s hand. “I know you have questions. I promise I’m not being evasive on purpose, but it really will be better for you to hear it all at once when we get to your father and Dem.”

Vian nodded. He wasn’t normally this agreeable, but there was something about having Marcellus’s hand in his that kept him holding his tongue. He wanted those answers, whatever they were. Closing his eyes and digging the fingers of his other hand into the earth, he focused on the arrowhead, on pulling up an image of Dem, and the feeling of Marcellus’s skin against his own. The image in his mind flickered, but then a rush ofpowersped up his arm, filling him to bursting with honey-colored warmth. Dem’s image snapped into focus, clear and concise in a way no memory could be on its own.

The power rushed through him and down into the ground, zipping along faster than Vian had ever felt it, and then a new image of Dem filled his mind. This one looked a few years older, with a few streaks of gray weaving through the long goatee of neatly braided dark brown hair dangling from his chin. His head was still bald, skin still the color of the acorns he used to send Vian out to gather. Deep green eyes looked directly into his as Dem smiled.

“We’re waiting for you.”

Vian opened his eyes—the route to Dem and the others firmly cemented in his mind—and met Marcellus’s. “Holy shit.”

4

Marcellus fell a step behind Vian on the path, admiring the broad stretch of his shoulders beneath the slate blue of his cloak. The first time he’d seen Vian was on the battlefield in the first fight between the mages and the Nulls. He’d been blood splattered and relentless, but not cruel as he dealt swift death to all that crossed swords with him. Marcellus had respected him instantly. It filled him with eternal regret that he hadn’t listened to Vian after that battle. Perhaps he might have spared them some of the heartache of loss and hardship so many had endured because of the war.

At the time, he couldn’t bring himself to parlay with his enemy, no matter how respectable, but he was also afraid of what Vian was to him. Afraid of the way being in the man’s proximity made him feel. That fear had lessened and eventually evaporated as he’d recovered from the wounds Vian inflicted on him in the final battle and his own death—a fabrication crafted by Vian’s father—was announced. He hadn’t immediately been grateful to his saviors, but he’d come to find not only were they on his side, they were good people.

Watching Vian now, it was hard to reconcile the man he’d fought that night so many months ago. The Vian he’d met at the beginning of the war had been earnest that there was another way to end their conflict without more bloodshed. The Vian he’d fought nearly to the death had been as tempered and sharp as the steel of his blade and twice as cold. Someone had stolen Vian from himself between their first meeting and their final duel, and Marcellus had truly believed they’d both die there on that field without the shared soul between them ever truly becoming entwined.

Vian glanced back over his shoulder. “You could walk beside me.” He was leading the horse by the reins, as this path was too uneven and rutted to ride safely, especially if they rode together.

Not wanting to dwell on the thought of being pressed that close to Vian, he quickened his step. Vian’s dark hair was shaved close to the sides of his head, leaving a wide patch down the middle that he’d pulled back with a leather strap. His beard and mustache were equally dark, but not as dark as his eyes whose black irises blended almost seamlessly with his pupil, save a tiny thread of gold looping around the left one. Marcellus tried not to focus too much on the scars on the right side.

“Happy?” he asked, falling into place at Vian’s side. They were of near equal size and height—over six feet and stockily muscled. Although, Marcellus thought he was the leaner of the two.

“Overjoyed,” Vian returned, glancing his way before again focusing on the path ahead. The arrowhead Dem had left on the table was now added to a leather thong around Vian’s neck. There was only one other small stone woven into its strands. It was a shade of blue he was unfamiliar with. Something he was familiar with caught his eye, the sword on Vian’s belt with its dark hilt and blood red stone was the very same that had almost cut him in two.

He didn’t want to dwell on that, either.

“How far until we reach them?” he asked, stepping around a large divot. This path led into the hills his people and many others native to Ferron had called home for centuries. In the months since the war and after he’d healed, he and Zeph had combed these hills and the northern coastline looking for allies and for any who escaped death or capture. They hadn’t found as many as he’d hoped.

“Should be just over the next rise,” Vian answered before coming to a stop. He turned to Marcellus, brow furrowed over his dark eyes. “I know you said it would be better for my father to explain it—” He stopped, eyes dropping to Marcellus’s lips. Vian stepped closer, moving into Marcellus’s space. “But it’s like ants on my skin. I have to know. Are we…”

Marcellus didn’t give ground, instead he let their chests brush as he slowly lifted his hands to cup Vian’s face. Their gazes held. “You’re myflamma de corde, Vian. My heart’s flame, and I am yours.”

“But we’ve sealed no bond! Imournedyour death. We’d never even spoken, other than on the battlefield, but losing you left an emptiness in me that wasn’t filled until I saw you—flesh and blood again—with my own eyes.”

Marcellus took a slow breath. “We had spoken before.” He dropped his hands. “You came to me after the first battle in the war and asked me to work with you. I refused.”

Vian’s eyes went wide as he took a step back. “I have no memory of that.”

“I was too angry to truly listen then, but Dem and Zeph have since told me that you were working secretly with them. Your mother must have found out and had your memory tampered with because when we faced each other the last time...you weren’t the same person who’d snuck into my tent and asked me for help.”

With his eyes downcast, Vian shook his head. “I’ve suspected for a while that someone had messed with my mind. I only recently realized the likely source of the spell.”

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