Free Return to Me by Morgan O'Neill

hauled up the sail, she saw Magnus pull out a bag of coins. With a jolt, she realized her knapsack was still attached to her horse, gone forever. What had they lost? What would the Romans find? Her extra ammo — useless to them. What else? She wracked her brain, trying to recall every item she’d stowed away the last time they packed.
    Gigi finished with the sail, tying it off when it was fully open. Using the sail lines, she adjusted the angle of the lower boom to match their heading. The sail caught the wind and snapped full. They were under way.
    Shit! The stun gun — and one of the chargers!
Gigi glanced at Magnus and their skipper, who were smiling and talking.
    Jaw clenched, she checked her shoulder, glad to feel the straps of her flute case and gun holster. She had the double magazine in her .45, which meant only fifteen rounds of ammo remained.
Shit, shit, shit!
There would be no practicing, and there must be no missed shots. More than ever, each one would have to count.
    She turned her mind to the man she’d gunned down. He wasn’t her first kill; after Honorius double-crossed the Visigoths and attacked their camp five years ago, she’d taken the lives of two Roman soldiers. She’d done it defending Alaric and Verica’s kids, a noble reason if there ever was one. Still, three killings by her own hand …
    She shook her head. She didn’t have the time or luxury of wallowing in doubt or guilt. The fate of Athaulf’s children was all that mattered now.
    As for the Roman soldier she’d just shot, she hoped he wasn’t supposed to have kids after this day. If so, she might have just turned history on its head in spite of their best efforts.
    With a sigh, Gigi looked out at the sea, realizing all she could do was let it go, just let it go.

Chapter 6
    The Castle, Barcelona, Spain
    Sorrow hung heavy, like a shroud. The
castellum
was quiet and dark with foreboding, the joy of Christmas forgotten. People tiptoed and spoke in whispers, if they spoke at all.
    Placidia placed her hand on her infant son’s chest, feeling his heart, its beat erratic and much too fast. He was very ill, his skin hot, his eyes unseeing and clouded with pain.
    Just yesterday, Theo had been cooing and smiling, a healthy babe, but at dawn he had awakened fussy. By mid-day, he was listless, fevered, and sweating. The physician tried ice water baths and an array of medicines to cool him, but nothing worked. By evening, the seizures began — terrible, wracking fits, which no potion or prayer had been able to stop.
    Now, deepest night enveloped them, and her little Theo had grown quiet, his chest rapidly rising and falling as he struggled for breath. It was starting to dawn on Placidia no one knew what they were doing, or how to help her babe.
    “Oh, Jesus, no!” she heard someone cry out, and then realized it was her own strangled voice.
    Athaulf bade Placidia sit by his side. Together, they held their child. Their tears dripped down and bathed his tiny face. Could nothing more be done? She looked at the physician, who shook his head, and then saw Bishop Sigesar standing by the door. Why had he been called … ?
    Instantly, she knew they had only moments left. Placidia put her hand on her son’s chest once again, praying for a miracle, but his heart fluttered and stopped, and he went still.
    Oh, God, no! Please do not take him from us! Lord, please!
    She felt Athaulf sag against her, heard him clear his throat as he struggled with his own grief. She gazed at Theo in disbelief. This could not be happening. It was a nightmare.
    Awaken!
she ordered herself.
    As if from a distance, she was aware of the bishop’s approach, then of Athaulf saying, “Leave us. I will call for your return when we are ready.”
    The physician bent and whispered something to Athaulf, who nodded.
    Placidia studied Theo’s face, so peaceful now. She fought her grief and cradled him, guarding the desperate hope he would yet stir, but knowing he would soon be taken