“Come,” Shane repeated.
Roman stepped into a foyer and immediately saw that there were two armed soldiers stationed at the front door. Their gazes were cold and pointed, their faces like statues. Roman averted his eyes and moved down the hallway, Shane on his heels.
The floor felt unlevel in places. There were also large cracks in the walls, racing down the wallpaper like veins, as if this house had suffered a terrible storm. But it wasn’t until Roman stepped into the wide kitchen and saw the table, the rafters overhead strung with herbs and copper pots, and the twin doors with cracked glass, that he felt pain well in his chest.
He had been here before. He was certain of it.
And yet all he could do was stare at the two typewriters, resting side by side on the table. They were nearly identical, their keys gleaming in the sunlight.
“I take it one of these typewriters looks familiar to you?”
Roman glanced to his left. A tall, broad-shouldered man was standing at the end of the table, his long blond hair brushing the collar of his pristine tan uniform. Strange how Roman hadn’t noticed him until he spoke and, now that he had, how Roman couldn’t seem to look away.
The stranger appeared to be older, although it was difficult to measure his age. There indeed seemed to be something timeless about him—his presence held weight in the room, but there was no silver in his hair, or wrinkles at the corners of his eyes. His face was angular, sharply cut, and his eyes were a vivid blue.
Roman had never seen this man before, but he couldn’t deny there was a sense of familiarity about him. Just like the house and the typewriters, as if Roman had walked this place in his dreams. But perhaps that was only because this stranger was looking at Roman as if he knew him, and the acknowledgment was uncomfortable, like running his fingers over a woolen scarf before touching a light switch. Static and metal, and a jolt to his bones.
He had never thought he would stand face-to-face with a god. The divines were defeated. Sleeping, buried powers. They were never supposed to rise and walk among mortals again, and Roman inwardly winced as threads of his memory began to return to him. A sigh, a whisper.
A shiver.
Dacre smiled, as if he could read Roman’s thoughts.
The god extended his elegant hand, indicating the typewriters again.
Roman blinked, remembering the question. “Yes, sir. They feel familiar to me.”
“Which one is yours, then?”
Roman stepped closer to the table. He studied the typewriters, but sight alone was not enough for him to fully know. Both seemed to hold gravity for him, and it was perplexing.
“You can touch them,” Dacre said gently. “I find that helps with remembering after healing.”
Roman stretched out his hand, fingers trembling. A blush nipped his cheeks. He was ashamed that he appeared so weak and fragile before the god. He couldn’t even remember his own name, but then he touched the space bar of the typewriter waiting to his left, and the frantic beat of his pulse calmed.
This one, he thought. This one was mine.
A flash of light teased his peripheral vision. This time he knew it was only his mind, a memory falling back into place. He remembered sitting at a desk in his bedroom, writing on this typewriter. He would work by lamplight, late into the night, books and cups of cold coffee scattered around him. Sometimes his father would knock on his door and tell him to go to sleep, Roman! The words will still be there in the morning.
Roman let his fingertips slide away from the space bar, his name echoing through him. He glanced to the typewriter waiting on his right, curious. He traced its keys, waiting for another memory to stir.
There was no light, no images to grasp. At first, there seemed to be nothing at all but a cool, deep quiet. Ripples expanding outward on the surface of a dark lake. But then Roman felt the tug. It came from deep within him, an invisible cord hidden between his ribs, and he could not see but he felt.
The emotions stirred his blood.
He could smell a faint hint of lavender. A rush of warm skin against his own. Pleasure and worry and bone-aching desire and fear all snarled together.
He had to grit his teeth, struggling to hold everything in. But his heart was pounding and hungry when his hand slipped away.
“Which one is yours, correspondent?” Dacre asked again, but his voice had shifted. It was not as friendly as before; Roman could hear the hint of an edge within the words. This must be a test. There was a right and wrong answer, and Roman hesitated, torn between the typewriter that had reminded him of his name and the one that reminded him that he was alive.
“This one,” he said, pointing to the typewriter on the left. The one steeped in his past. “I believe it is mine.”