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time, it took her by surprise. She had started out as an uninitiated observer, and had not imagined
the level of decadence that accompanied dinner on Mornot. Tonight, she made her debut as part of
the evening’s festivities, and her stomach had been in a knot since sunrise.
Exile was not what she thought it would be. Being sent away from Tyr-LaRoche for attempting to kill
Kira, her half sister, had in some ways been a blessing in disguise. She no longer sought ways to
entertain herself or stoke her inner fires. This land was a practical advertisement for hedonistic
delights of all kinds. In short, it was certainly not boring.
And King Dominic was…well, he was unlike any man she had ever met. Smart, suave, silent. He
didn’t have the outer rage of Mace or the inner turmoil of Damon. Instead, there was something else
in his eyes: a dark intensity. He hadn’t spoken to her yet, but she had spoken about him at length. The
other women had been more than forthcoming with information about the dark king.
He was in his late forties, but he didn’t look a day over thirty. His dark hair grazed across his forehead
in wisps that were meant to have fingers running through them. His deep, brown eyes held a certain
level of concentration, one that suggested he did not put on the banquets for his own entertainment
but for the entertainment of those who visited his land. However, his lovemaking was legendary,
though Karina had not yet seen him take a lover into his lap during the nightly dinners. With a body
like his, it was no wonder. Strong, wide shoulders, trim waist, muscular thighs…he was good enough
to eat. Too bad he was not on the menu.
She, on the other hand, was.
“Are you prepared for tonight?” Ashla ran her long fingers through her silky blonde hair as she looked
at Karina.
“As ready as one can be for such a thing.”
“I think you will enjoy yourself. You have seen so much already. More than most of us. And some
seem to think Dominic has his eyes on you.”
The thought sent a silent thrill through her body. “I doubt that.”
“He’s been testing you these weeks. To see if you would balk at his forms of entertainment. To see if
you are all that you seem to think you are.” The other woman eyed her cynically, as if she did not
understand the appeal someone like Karina might have for a man like Dominic. Well, Karina
understood it. It was the thrill of something new. In the few weeks she had been here, no other
woman had joined them.
Right now, Dominic had twenty-four women in his harem of entertainers. Ashla claimed to have been
here the longest. However, she had told Karina that the women who were here were only part of the
new batch of lovers the king kept on hand. He liked to change them out every few years, sending the
former group to other planets after their time here ended.
Most were here due to some sort of debt owed to Mornot. Others were here strictly as slaves won in
war. Still others were like herself, exiled from their homes and sent here in lieu of allowing them to
run free throughout the galaxy. All were stunningly beautiful. They were young with long, flowing hair
every color imaginable. They wore silks that hid very little of their curvy bodies. And each one had the
look of hunger in her eyes, which indicated that she had grown quite used to the life of sex and leisure
afforded them while they were here.
Karina stared at her reflection in the mirror. The maids had already been in to arrange her hair and
cover her face with make up. The woman who stared back at her only slightly resembled the one who
had almost killed Kira. This woman was different, and she did have the same kind of hunger the
others had, the longing for sensual delights, the need to be needed, desired.
“You are not one of us,” Ashla warned.
“Not yet. But after tonight, I will be.”
Constantine stood in the shadow of the great basilica, the structure that stood over the building he
had created almost two thousand years prior. So much had changed since his fated time as
emperor of Rome. History had gotten so many things wrong. He had learned early during his time
as a nightwalker that he was not the man meant to save Rome. He never intended to do anything
more than unite the land he loved, the land who had taken so much from him and given so little in
return.
The ancient lantern glowed beneath the crescent moon, casting an eerie light over the grass. In
minutes, he would be shuffled away by security guards because his intention was none other than
to break into the great monument. He clenched his fists until the blood seemed to pulse in his
palms. He had to end this now. Tonight.
The scroll he had hidden away so long ago, he was certain, remained buried beneath the former
structure. Early monks had used the slim hallway between the two as a secret tunnel. Constantine
had watched and waited, each time shrinking away from desecrating the holy temple. His loyalty to
the Christian God was long gone. His loyalty to anything other than Rome fled within his first
hundred years as an exile. Tonight, his loyalty to everything save himself was nonexistent. He had
learned from the dark lord who made him what he was that none could be trusted, least of all
gods and humans.
He crept quietly to the side of the temple. There were ancient ways of breaking into the old
structure. Tonight, he would use all the magic he could muster, counting on the superstition he
had long since abandoned to guide him through the darkness and allow him to slip by the guards.
The words were rusty as they fell from his lips, but their meaning was the same as it had been in
the days of battle against other Roman forces.
Hide me from my enemies. Shield me with the light of the moon. In this sign, defeat all others.
The guards slept as he moved past them. Walking on light feet, he moved to the altar, a place he
had avoided for fear of what may lay beyond this strange death in life he had experienced for so
long. How would it feel to die? He wondered as he gazed at the relics of faith before him. He had
often thought himself invincible to the cold hand of death. As irony would have it, on his deathbed,
as he accepted his fate and gave in to the powers of the masses, he rose from the ashes just as
the Phoenix or the Messiah. But he was no god. He was nothing more than a man trapped in the
body of a demon.
Shoving his hands into his pockets, attempting to alleviate the chill that forever fled through his
veins, he turned from the altar and moved into the darkness behind the Christ figure. He knew the
way to unlock the long forgotten stairway leading to the tunnel, which would take him to the
foundation of his holy creation.
As his footfalls echoed in the darkness and the damp air crept into his lungs, he once more
wished for death. If all that he knew to be true was in fact true, finding the scroll would be the first
step to relinquishing death’s grip on his heart. Then, he would seek out the ring that had been lost
to two thousand years of history. He had watched the night his son had charged it with the power
of the moon. Only a true witch could harness the kind of power his son, Constantine II, had been
capable of utilizing.
Constantine held onto hope. The ring would be found, and his curse would be lifted. Witch or no.
He would die soon, and his body would turn to ash. Finally, he would be free.
