“I was born in 1430 B.C. Give or take a few decades.”
Cough, cough. Did the guy think he was a vampire? I had one of those once—obsessed with the Twilight series. He’d even insisted everyone call him Edward and wore plastic teeth. Now that I thought about it, it was goddamned funny.
“You do realize how old this would make you?” I said.
“Over three thousand years.”
He had to be testing me. Because Mack seemed far too rational and lucid to believe such a fantasy.
That or he’s psychotic. Something I hadn’t ruled out.
“You wouldn’t mind if I turned on the lights, would you?” I asked. “I’ve never seen a three-thousand-year-old man.”
“You’re mocking me.”
“No.” I shook my head, realizing that I actually was. My emotions were out of control. “I mean, yes. I’m sorry. That wasn’t very professional, but I’m not feeling myself lately.”
“I can relate.”
“So you’re over three thousand years old. Obviously this far exceeds the lifespan of a normal human being, so I assume there’s a reason you’ve managed to defy nature.”
“There is,” he replied, a curtness in his voice. “But I haven’t gotten to that part of the story yet.”
“Okay, then. Please continue.”
“If you don’t believe my age, I assure you that you won’t believe the rest of my story.”
He had a point, and I had the impression this man was very skilled at reading people. Patronizing him in any way wasn’t a wise choice.
“Then convince me,” I said candidly. “I’ve got all the time in the world.”
He laughed. “If only you understood how true that actually is.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
MACK
1395 B.C.
Where the hell are we going? I thought as I sat chained to the wet wooden rowing bench of the small sailing vessel, my stomach so empty I could feel my body turning on itself, consuming my muscle tissue and less important organs to keep me alive.
Waste of time. I was definitely going to die.
No longer able to feel my raw, bleeding hands, I stopped rowing—something that would normally earn my back several lashes from the bastards who held me and fifteen other men captive. Tonight, however, there would be no lashes. Only death.
It was pitch black out, the stars and moon masked by the storm clouds that rained havoc on the rickety boat. A boat that was no longer seaworthy and filling with water.
I glanced over my shoulder, barely able to make out the silhouettes of the four men with buckets, frantically battling the invading saltwater flowing over the edge of the ship.
Yes, a complete waste of time. Didn’t these poor bastards realize that the gods did not wish us to live? We’d been at sea for well over a month, our captors in search of new lands to plunder, I assumed. But those men were greedy fools. The drinking water was gone. The food stores were nonexistent. What little fish we caught wasn’t enough to sustain so many men. But every time I entertained giving up, I remembered what I carried.
I placed my bloody, numb hand over the leather pouch around my neck. Inside was what looked like a plain rock—which was the reason my captors allowed me to keep it. The rock, however, was the key to bringing back my dead twin brother. The one I beheaded upon his request, something I regretted with all my heart.
I closed my eyes and said a silent prayer to the gods. If this is my last night on earth, I beg of you to see that this stone is returned to Mia. Please, it is all I ask.
I never did learn how the stone worked, but I knew that the love of my brother’s life, Mia, was a Seer with powerful gifts. Before my brother died by my hand, she had bound his soul to this earth so he could not leave it, using the rock so that one day they could find each other again. How? I did not know. I only knew that I had taken the stone by accident when I’d been forced to leave Minoa—ironically, Mia’s doing. She did not want me to die at the hands of our people, who rioted over the loss of my brother. So she used her gifts to force my guards—men from a particular bloodline who’d guarded our kings for centuries—to take me away. But within days of leaving, I discovered the rock hidden inside a basket used to carry my valuables. I fought the guards tooth and nail to return to Minoa, but they were under Mia’s commands, unable to do anything but obey her orders to take me far from the island. They were killed by the men who were now my captors.
I laughed like a madman under my breath. You gods must truly despise me, I thought, the rain pelting my raw, sun-chapped face.
The man to my side, a farmer from the mainland, who once had the muscles and strength of an ox but now resembled a skeleton, slid his hand to my shoulder. At first, I expected him to spew yet another ridiculous lecture about hope, but I quickly realized he was simply trying to hold on to anything he could.
Our ship capsized.
The gods truly do hate me. But why?