Return to Me Read online

  Return to Me

  Morgan O’Neill

  Avon, Massachusetts

  This edition published by

  Crimson Romance

  an imprint of F+W Media, Inc.

  10151 Carver Road, Suite 200

  Blue Ash, Ohio 45242

  www.crimsonromance.com

  Copyright © 2012 by Cary Morgan Frates and Deborah O’Neill Cordes

  ISBN 10: 1-4405-5165-0

  ISBN 13: 978-1-4405-5165-9

  eISBN 10: 1-4405-5145-6

  eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-5145-1

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author’s imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.

  Cover art © 123rf.com, istockphoto.com/Jeff Chiasson

  To my husband and children who forgave me the unswept floors, the less than imaginative meals, and the frazzled stares, understanding I was in pursuit of my dream.

  Cary Morgan Frates

  In loving memory of my father, who never wavered in his belief that I would get published.

  Deborah O’Neill Cordes

  Contents

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  PART ONE

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  PART TWO

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  PART THREE

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Epilogue

  Authors’ Note

  About the Authors

  Also Available

  The moon has set, and the Pleiades;

  It is midnight, and time passes,

  And I sleep alone.

  Sappho, Fragment 94

  Prologue

  A.D. 414, The Royal Palace, Ravenna, Italy

  If he could have his way, Horace would never gaze upon another bird for the rest of his life — unless it was roasted.

  The banquet was over, the guests long gone, but Emperor Honorius still lounged on his cushioned chair, amusing himself with his chickens. The birds strutted and clucked as he stroked their feathers. He selected tidbits from the luscious, half-eaten food, and then called the chickens by name, taking time to feed each one individually.

  Stomach growling, Horace shifted from one foot to the other as he played his flute. His arms and shoulders ached from an endless evening of performing, and his lips trembled with fatigue. He felt on the verge of collapse. His throat was parched, his thirst made worse by ruby wine that sparkled from half-empty goblets less than an arm’s length away. Would that he could slake his thirst with it!

  Horace fought to suppress a yawn. He mustn’t interrupt his music, not even for a moment.

  “My little darlings,” Honorius cooed. “Shall we dance?”

  The emperor got up, holding one of the damnable birds before him, and began to whirl around the room. The other chickens scattered, one taking flight and crashing into Horace.

  Startled, he lost his balance and dropped his flute, then scrambled to retrieve it.

  “You have ruined our royal mood!” Honorius screamed. “We will beat you, pervert Horace, if you ever interrupt our dancing again. Get out! Get out before we have you flogged!”

  Terrified, Horace hurried from the palace while he had the chance. By the gods, he needed to leave this place. Forever.

  He had once traveled to the home of the gods, such a wonderful paradise, filled with unimaginable treasures: flying machines and horseless carts, kind, generous people, who freely gave him coin for his music — and food, so much food. Why hadn’t he been able to get back there? Why had the gateway been closed to him every time he had tried to return to that paradise?

  He headed for the Catholic baptistery, where the magical passageway was located. Ages ago, a temple dedicated to an ancient goddess stood on the same ground. Horace was convinced her power still emanated from the spot.

  Please, Sacred Lady. I beg you to release me from bondage!

  He smiled in hope and anticipation. He would play there again tonight, over and over, until the gateway opened once more and he was free.

  PART ONE

  Chapter 1

  Present Day, Rome, Italy

  It promised to be one heck of a party.

  Gigi Perrin laughed at her reflection, her strawberry blond hair done up in an elaborate chignon. The hair people had gotten that right, but her costume and makeup were too simple and monochrome, all wrong for the styles she’d seen in the real ancient Rome.

  “You look enchanting, my sweet.”

  She turned. Her husband, Magnus, stood in the doorway, wearing a Roman warrior’s costume, with its breastplate abs chiseled in bronze. Impressive. It also didn’t hurt that he was tall and darkly handsome. “Oh … you look delicious!”

  He shrugged, his blue eyes sparkling with mischief. “You haven’t ever seen me dressed as a legatus, have you?”

  She studied his warrior’s skirt, and thought about running her hands beneath the leather strips. “Are you going commando? Can I check?”

  “What is commando?”

  “You know … haven’t you heard about what’s beneath a Scotsman’s kilt?”

  “I still don’t understand.”

  Smiling, hand outstretched, Gigi started toward him.

  He grinned. “If you touch me, you will bring me to my knees like no foe has ever done before.”

  She kissed him, her hand sliding under the leather. Commando.

  Magnus groaned. “We’re going to be late.”

  “You lift your skirt. I’ll lift mine. We don’t have to be that late.”

  She pushed him to the wall, his armor hard against her chest, her arms encircling his neck.

  He lifted her onto his hips, pulled aside her thong, and entered her with a thrust. “Never has … a warrior met such a … challenging … demanding … ”

  He got quiet as he pumped and Gigi moaned. Her body seethed with heat, tingling, tightening on him, until the need to prolong the moment fell away. “Magnus, I’m coming!”

  Her body exploded with pleasure and she was only vaguely aware of his answering cry, “O, ye gods!”

  She collapsed against his bronze armor, weak with satisfaction, her body soft on hard metal, yet underneath she knew his chest also heaved with the aftermath of their spectacular quickie. “We’re so bad. At least you didn’t mess up my hair.”

  “You are ever the perfect sheath to my sword,” Magnus said.

  She grinned as he let her down, watching him as he straightened his skirt.

  “I gather you liked my … commando,” he said with a smile.

  She laughed. “Yes, but you’re going to wear boxers for the party. And it was definitely better than a kilt. I prefer leather to plaid any day.”

  • • •

  The night sky blazed with the lights
from Rome’s Coliseum, decorated in celebration of the newly completed epic film, Nero. Hand in hand, Gigi and Magnus stood in the shadows of an arch, waiting for her cue. Her husband was in his full glory portraying a Roman general, his legatus costume complete with a rich crimson cloak and a helmet decorated with long, black ostrich plumes. Wow.

  Only the film’s stars were dressed more flamboyantly, including the second lead, who stood nearby. Women had swooned over him since the first day of filming. Outfitted as a gladiator, his bare chest bronzed, waxed and oiled, he smiled and winked at Gigi, flashing his absurdly white teeth.

  Magnus leaned in and whispered, “Are you hot for him, my sweet?”

  Gigi grinned. “I prefer my real Roman,” she whispered back.

  The lead actor, decked out in a toga of purple silk and a golden laurel leaf crown, stopped by, shook Magnus’s hand, and gave Gigi a quick peck on the cheek. He was the nicest guy, but her thoughts veered to a darker past, because he looked so much like Emperor Honorius. She reminded herself it didn’t matter; that bastard was long dead, and she and Magnus were safe from his evil.

  A waiter came by with a tray of glasses. Champagne. She grabbed two, gave one to her husband, clinked glasses with him, and downed hers in one gulp. He laughed and sipped his own.

  Gigi would miss working on the film, not only because of the excitement of being part of a major Hollywood production, but also because the cast and crew had become quite close, like an extended family. Although she’d done most of her work in a sound studio, she had been invited to Italy to watch the final weeks of location filming. It had been emotionally difficult, with endless rounds of group hugging and many tearful moments, but now everybody was ready to celebrate, certain that Nero would be next summer’s blockbuster. Dressed in wonderful period costumes, they filled the Coliseum for the gala wrap party.

  Was there ever a more gorgeous setting? Nobody cared that it hadn’t been built until after Emperor Nero had died. The movie’s director, Parker Q. Knowles, felt it was the only location worthy of the festivities, and he was right. It had taken a lot of influence to get permission to hold the party here, but Parker was used to getting his way.

  A round of applause brought Gigi back. The hair and makeup people were leaving the stage, smiling and holding little blue boxes. Suddenly, the orchestra started playing the film’s overture, “Ode to Rome,” and Parker called into the microphone, “Geneviève Perrin, musical score!”

  Gigi squeezed her husband’s hand, gave him her glass, and hurried onstage, grinning and waving. Another roar of applause filled the air. She was proud to have been asked to do the score, prouder still she’d used the tune she had originally written 1,600 years earlier, along with the exotic songs she’d learned from Roman and Visigoth musicians.

  Gift time! Gigi felt a surge of anticipation, because the others had gotten really nice presents. Would it be emerald earrings to match her eyes? A diamond tennis bracelet?

  Smiling broadly, Parker put his arm around her shoulder and pulled her close, just a little too chummy. She glanced at Magnus and noted his strained smile. Good thing he hadn’t brought his sword, but he needn’t worry anyway; Parker’s looks were too Hollywood for Gigi’s tastes — coifed blond hair and tanned to within an inch of his life.

  “Darling Gigi, we all just love her to death, don’t we?” Parker paused for the acclaim, and Gigi’s cheeks flushed with heat. “Not only did she write a beautiful score for us, but her flute playing is the very best in the world. Right, right?”

  He held out a tiny silver bag tied with a crimson ribbon, and Gigi wondered why she hadn’t also gotten a little blue box.

  “Open it, open it!” he bellowed good naturedly.

  She pulled the ribbon, took a breath, and peeked inside, then gasped. The world spun and silver stars danced before her eyes.

  The goddess Victoria glimmered, splendidly rendered in garnet and gold.

  Gigi stumbled and collapsed in a dizzying whirl.

  • • •

  Magnus rushed to his wife, knelt, and cradled her. “Gigi, what is it?”

  She murmured, but he couldn’t hear a thing because the place was in an uproar.

  “Oh, shit! Medics!” Parker shouted, flapping his arms. “Call the damn medics!”

  Gigi opened her eyes and Magnus saw grief and confusion. “What is it, my sweet?”

  “The ring. It’s the ring.”

  • • •

  Chilled despite the hotel room’s warmth, Gigi snuggled next to Magnus and stared at the ring. Victoria. The image of the goddess sparkled, her arm raised in challenge.

  Gigi shivered.

  “It is a warning,” Magnus said. “Something has happened. My goddess Victoria summons us.”

  The words filled her with dread. How could the ring have come back to them? The old witch Randegund had stolen it from her in the fifth century A.D., and that fit with how her grandfather came to find it in 1946, everything coming full circle. Gigi had inherited it and then traveled through time, where she’d found Magnus, its original owner. But the ring was here, again. How? It boggled her mind and didn’t seem to fit, a mystery she couldn’t resolve, so she asked Magnus about it.

  He frowned. “I have been thinking about this, too. I believe Victoria broke the bonds of time and sent the ring back to us. We should do a Google search.”

  “About what?”

  “Placidia. Something has happened to her. I can feel it.”

  “Oh, my God.” Gigi rushed off to get her iPad. She’d always meant to look up more about Placidia, but life seemed to get in the way, or … maybe she’d been afraid of this very thing.

  She took the iPad from the desk and typed “Galla Placidia,” then scrolled down and read aloud: “Placidia and Athaulf’s son died … Athaulf, King of the Visigoths, murdered … Sergeric seized the kingship … Sergeric’s first act — ”

  “No!” Gigi gasped.

  Magnus took the iPad. “Merda,” he cursed in Latin.

  Tears filled her eyes. “They all died! None of Athaulf’s kids survived, none of those beautiful kids.”

  Magnus frowned. “This says Sergeric murdered four of the children, but Athaulf had six by his first wife.”

  Gigi felt a strange mix of emotions: hope and fury. “Do you think some survived the murders, or did two die before it happened?”

  “I don’t know.” Magnus’s mouth tightened.

  Gigi knew what he was going to say next, because it was obvious, and the only possible thing to do. Regardless, she didn’t want to face a future turned on its head, in the past.

  He took her in his arms, and she welcomed his strength and resolve.

  “We must go back, Gigi.”

  “I know.” She snuggled against him. “We have to save all of Athaulf’s children, every one we can, even the son he had with Placidia. We should try to save him, too.”

  “If we save any of them, we’d be changing history,” Magnus replied. “Are you willing to risk that? Had the baby survived, he would have inherited both the Visigoth and Roman crowns. Who can say what the other children would have accomplished? And what about all of their descendants, who never existed? Everyone who is alive now would be different. They’d be here and you might not.”

  “But … what if we take them, all of them, away with us. Can we bring them here?”

  Magnus’s eyes narrowed, considering. “You might have something there. They died in the past, so taking them out of there would not alter history, because either way they’re gone. We would have to explain everything to Athaulf and Placidia, absolutely everything. Do you think they’d ever believe such a story?”

  “I don’t know,” Gigi admitted. “But if we’re going back, we have to try.”

  • • •

  Worried, Gigi stood in the living room of th
eir rented villa in Ravenna, and stared at her dad. Marcel Perrin paced, his back rounded in despair, his hair suddenly so much grayer. Her mom, Susan, looked worn and frazzled, so unlike her normally crisp business persona. Gigi’s heart went out to them, and she hated that she was the cause of their anguish. And yet, despite their pain, they’d insisted on taking care of all the legal work. Now, there was nothing left to do but let her manager, Jack, finish up with the media stuff. He sat at the desk and worked on his laptop, Magnus looking over his shoulder.

  Her husband was dressed in his Roman legatus costume, a new Bowie knife sheathed at his waist, and his Visigoth sword by his side. Gigi was ready, too. On the pretext of doing a publicity shoot, she had borrowed a practical traveling costume from the film’s wardrobe mistress. She also had a Bowie knife and her flute in leather casings, slung over her shoulder and hidden beneath her wool palla wrap. On the floor near the door was a pair of leather knapsacks filled with travel necessities: food, water skeins, medicine, Roman coins — and a stun gun.

  At first, Magnus had balked at taking anything modern, because that could change history. However, she’d managed to convince him that a stun gun, being nonlethal, would have no lasting impact. Later, she had decided to hell with history. If it meant saving the children, Magnus or herself, she’d do whatever was necessary. At Jack’s insistence, she’d enrolled in an intensive course of shooting lessons and now had a loaded XD.45 semi-auto handgun, with four boxes of ammo, all tucked in at the bottom of her sack. Magnus didn’t know about the gun, but his bag held two long-range walkie-talkies, their iPod, and two solar powered chargers, definitely not the stuff of antiquity, but things he was willing to take to accomplish their goal.

  They were as ready as they could be.

  Jack cleared his throat. “Here’s the press release that will accompany your YouTube farewell: Geneviève Perrin would like to thank her wonderful fans for their support and love. At this time, she and her husband have decided to start a family, so she is taking a leave of absence from stage and screen. She thanks her fans and the media for respecting her privacy.”