The Darkness in Dreams (Enforcer's Legacy, #1)(12)

“Our story picks up around 500 BC,” Marge said, and then explained that Etruscan culture was thriving throughout Italy when the murder occurred, although warriors were not actually created until a century later. The alchemy took that long because the magic was both dangerous and difficult, and there had been significant debate about the characteristics warriors should possess—rather like breeding horses, Lexi pointed out sarcastically—and Marge made a rude sound, looking at Lexi before she continued with the explanation.

The Calata had been interested in protection, which was why warriors were all male. But it didn’t take long to discover other uses. It sounded bizarre and yet Marge spoke with complete sincerity. Since warriors looked human, they could infiltrate into local populations, influence political thought. They could change the outcome of war and often did. By the time Rome was expanding throughout Europe and Africa, Marge concluded, “the warriors were fully involved.”

Lexi studied the purple shadows creeping up the canyon wall, her fingers absently tracing up and down the stem of her wine glass. The glass was back in her hand. She wasn’t sure when she had picked it up. “You said this story had a tragic ending.”

“And it does. After eight centuries of interaction, some warriors took human mates, and human characteristics became dominant. The warriors questioned authority, developed ethics, and were no longer blindly obedient. The Calata’s reaction was predictable. They voted to kill the human lovers.”

“Why?”

“The warriors had rebelled. War was imminent. Some believed the women were the key. Kill them and the Calata could reestablish power. You’d have to understand the immortal mind to understand the logic.”

“There is no logic to understand,” Lexi said quietly.

“No,” Marge agreed, lapsing into silence. “And then a solution was proposed. They called it the Agreement. The warriors would agree to the Calata’s authority and in exchange, their women would be safe. But not just safe. The warriors asked for something so extravagant it almost caused another war.”

A bird screamed in the distance. Marge sipped her wine. Lexi stared at the horizon before looking back in the woman’s direction.

“Warriors considered themselves immortal,” Marge continued. “It was a reasonable request to want their lovers to be immortal too. That was their demand for peace, Lexi. But since such magic was beyond the alchemists’ abilities, they had to find another way.” A long pause. “We’ve had conversations, haven’t we, about reincarnation?”

“At night, over a glass of wine when we were indulging in fantasy.”

“Over a third of the world’s population believes in reincarnation. Plato was the first proponent. His theory of anamnesis suggests that knowledge is not learned, it’s remembered from a past life.”

Lexi turned her head a few degrees to the left. “Let’s not debate Plato right now.”

“We’re not debating. We’re talking about alchemists who realized they could use reincarnation as a way to insure the warriors reunited with their lovers, lifetime after lifetime. When you think about it, you’ll see it was a perfect solution.”

“In a myth, Marge.”

The woman sighed, looked down at the tiny cube of cheese in her hand. Lexi closed her eyes and rubbed hard against the pain above her right eyebrow. Christan had shifted his stance, barely perceptible, but he was watching her and his expression wasn’t friendly. Why she was so attuned to him Lexi didn’t know, didn’t want to know. But there it was. She couldn’t turn the awareness off the way she turned off energies from the earth, and those tattoos were catching the light of the sun. She wasn’t attracted to tattoos and her fascination was bewildering. At some point, she’d noticed Arsen had some ink of his own. So did the man with Marge.

“This is why you’ve been dreaming,” Marge was saying quietly, and Lexi struggled to follow along. “What your night terrors are about, why they’re so upsetting. They are the walls in your subconscious breaking down so that the past lives can filter through.” Marge paused, and when she spoke again her voice was firm. “It’s not like you haven’t thought about it, Lexi. That we haven’t talked about this.”

A statement. No question in the words. Lexi took a deep breath and looked at the horizon because it was the closest she could come to something normal. She struggled for self-control, wanted to close her eyes but refused, because self-control would be lost without something visual to anchor her.

“You realize how insane this sounds.”

“I wouldn’t ask you to believe it without proof. Robbie had to shift in front of me before I would believe him.” Marge held out her right hand. “These are my memory lines.”

Over the previous months, and in her role as therapist, there were things that Marge had asked Lexi to do, and Lexi had done them. This shouldn’t be any different. Just something Marge insisted upon. For her own good. Which was why Lexi tried to ignore the erratic beating of her pulse that was strangling her. But as she studied the woman’s right wrist and forefinger, she could see the amber lines. They were so delicate they looked translucent, curling and exotic. That was the word. Exotic. Like the temporary henna tattoos in the Hindu culture. Mehndi lines, used to celebrate auspicious occasions.

“They’re the traces of memory from each past life that I remember,” Marge said. “You have marks of your own.”