For those of you who have been waiting for a preview of the first book in the Last Road to Rome trilogy, I’m posting the first three chapters below. If you’d prefer to read them through a book app, you can download the file via BookFunnel at the link below. Just be warned that it also includes the dedication, so under no circumstances should you peek at that. Skip past it. I was in a snarky mood when I wrote it.
https://dl.bookfunnel.com/9ajanne8kr
Also, my editor has not received the manuscript yet. I’m due to send it to her at the beginning of August, so there may be some minor changes before the final version. Hope you enjoy!
Chapter 1
The roar and chant of thousands of people inside the Roman Colosseum nearly deafened me. I stood on top of an orange car in a floral sundress and sandals, bleeding and frantically brandishing a spear. Dozens of armed and angry legionaries swarmed my way. The famous place appeared to be in perfect condition, instead of the ruins I’d seen in the twenty-first century.
A loud trumpet sounded, startling me, and I nearly dropped my stolen weapon. My gaze shot toward the most prominent seat on the north side of the amphitheater. A man I assumed to be the emperor stood in his luxuriously decorated box on the lowest level of the podium, where he had a prime view of the arena. His stiff posture gave me the distinct impression I’d upset him when I’d hit his soldiers with my car. In my defense, they had been in my way, but what was the punishment for such an offense in this period?
Death, probably death.
Okay, maybe I should go back a few hours and explain how I got myself into this impossible situation. Visiting Rome had always been a dream, and I’d finally made it happen. My solo vacation started great, with trips to ancient sites and delicious food. That had taken my mind off matters back home. I’d even been able to pretend my personal life wasn’t a disaster, telling myself that my problems back in small-town Kansas could wait.
The actual trouble began while I was savoring bites of pasta I’d ordered from a food stall in Mercato Centrale. It should have been a harmless outing and not my last decent meal. Everything I’d eaten since arriving had been mouth-watering, though I’d promised myself I’d get back to my jogging routine soon.
I wasn’t petite. My body type was more like Xena, the Warrior Princess—minus the “warrior” part. I was taller than average for a woman and toned easily, but carbs weren’t kind to me if I didn’t exercise and watch my diet. I hadn’t been doing much of either while on my vacation, except being careful with how much I spent. As I tried to avoid thinking about my various problems, my life was about to take an unexpected turn.
“Excuse me,” a tall woman with long, perfectly styled blonde hair said, her accent evident. “Is this chair taken?”
I’d been lucky to grab a table just as a couple was leaving. I smiled and gestured toward the only empty seat in sight. “Um, no. You can have it. How did you know I speak English?”
By my estimate, she was in her mid-to-late forties, but she had an ageless appearance, with only a hint of lines around her eyes and mouth to give her away. I hoped I looked that good in a couple of decades.
“I overheard you placing your order.” She pointed at the food stall where I’d grabbed my meal. “Your Italian is terrible, so it wasn’t difficult.”
She wasn’t wrong. I’d struggled through my two years of high school Spanish, and my college Latin professor probably passed me so I wouldn’t come back to give him nightmares the next year. All my Italian phrases came from a tourism guidebook, which provoked more laughter from locals than appreciation for my attempts to speak their lingo. If I had one wish, it would be for masterful linguistic abilities. Was that so much to ask?
“I know, typical American who can only speak English,” I said with a grimace as she settled elegantly into the chair across from me.
While many people dressed well enough in the market, this woman’s wardrobe spoke of money and privilege without being flashy. Her makeup was perfect, highlighting high cheekbones and ocean-blue eyes rimmed with dark eyeliner. The only hair out of place came from a breeze, but it returned to its proper position the moment the wind died. The scent of her perfume nearly overwhelmed my senses. It was rich and floral, and probably worth more than my last paycheck. To be fair, that wasn’t saying much, since I was currently working as a freelance accountant when I wasn’t helping my parents on their farm.
She laughed and shook her head. “It’s fine. I enjoy practicing my English at every opportunity. You may call me Valonya, by the way.”
While she had an accent with an Italian note, something else lay beneath. She also spoke every word to me perfectly. I seriously doubted Valonya needed practice.
“I’m Grace,” I said, shaking her hand. Her palm was soft and smooth, as if she’d never performed hard labor. We couldn’t be more different.
She sat back with an enigmatic expression on her face. “What brings you to Rome, Grace?”
“I needed a vacation and always wanted to visit,” I said, shrugging. She didn’t need to know the full story of everything that had gone wrong this past year. The highlights alone would take until sunset.
Valonya cocked her head. “Hmm, you came alone, by the looks of it, and there is no ring on your finger. Trouble with your love life?”
I darted a look around me, comforted by the crowd surrounding us. She was getting personal way too fast. Could she be someone scouting for women to kidnap for a trafficking ring? Maybe checking to see if anyone would miss me?
At twenty-eight, I was probably too old, but many people underestimated my age. Despite all the hours I spent in the sun and a perpetual light tan, I had great skin like my brothers and parents. We were anomalies, too, because we all had various shades of red hair, yet we usually only burned at the beginning of summer before darkening a bit.
“I’m single for the moment.” I paused and took a sip of water. “But I’m close with my family and call them every day.”
She gave me a reassuring smile. “I have made you nervous. My apologies, as that was not my intention. I rarely speak to strangers at all, but something about you stood out.”
I stiffened. “What do you mean?”
“You say you always wanted to visit Rome, but can you tell me why?”
The full reason for that would have her thinking I was crazy, so I’d keep it simple. “This city has always fascinated me, but I had a recent dream that inspired me to finally come here.”
There. That was mostly truthful without revealing too much. I hated lying and tried to avoid it. She didn’t need to know there’d been many unsettling dreams that had driven me to study the land and its past in my spare time, trying to understand the glimpses I saw. My history teacher mother certainly hadn’t minded helping me.
She nodded. “A dream. Hmm, that’s interesting.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, narrowing my eyes. I was a breath away from fleeing with half my lunch sitting uneaten. That was practically a crime in Italy.
Valonya opened her clutch purse and drew out an oval onyx stone that fit in her palm. She held it out to me. “You’re looking for something, even if you don’t know what it is. Always keep this with you, and it will lead you to it.”
That sounded odd…and prophetic.
I hesitated. “Thank you, but—”
“Take it, and I’ll leave you alone.”
“I…” An urgent expression crossed her face, though I couldn’t imagine why taking a simple rock mattered so much. Then again, what could it hurt? It would be one of the few souvenirs I could afford to take back, and it would come with a strange story to tell my friends and family. “Okay.”
She dropped it into my palm. The stone was surprisingly warm, though it didn’t seem life-altering in any way. Still, something about it felt right, like it belonged to me. How…strange.
Valonya stood and came around the table. “Good luck to you, Grace.” She squeezed my shoulder. “Perhaps we’ll meet again sometime.”
Before I could ask what she meant, she left.
I tucked the onyx stone into my purse, took a deep breath to put the woman out of my mind, and dug back into my pasta. By the time I finished and left the market, clouds had formed overhead. They were dark and ominous, threatening rain. A slight chill also filled the air despite it being July. I’d worn a knee-length green floral dress with one-inch shoulder straps that did little to keep me warm.
Thankfully, I’d parked my rental car nearby. Hurrying through the streets on my wedge-heel sandals, I made my way a block over. Rain began to pour shortly before I reached the orange Opel Corsa sedan, which stood out easily with its bright color. It was the cheapest vehicle they had available and fit my tight budget. I wouldn’t have rented it at all, but I’d wanted to explore some of the city on my own, without a tour group or public transportation. Tomorrow, I’d have to return it and go without it for the last three days here.
I practically dove into the driver’s seat, cursing as I slammed the door. My long, cherry-red hair hung in limp strands down my chest, and my dress clung to me. Why didn’t I bring my umbrella to the food court? I’d known there was a chance of rain, which was why I’d put it in the car. Twisting around, I spotted it lying across the backseat, probably judging and laughing at me.
The rain continued to pour as I made my way down the streets, heading across the city toward my hotel. I planned to dry off and change. With luck, the weather would clear by the time I finished, and I could get back to my itinerary for the day.
My windshield wipers worked ruthlessly to keep the glass clear, but I still struggled to make out street signs. My stupid cell phone was acting up and wouldn’t give me directions. After what seemed like hours, I spotted the Colosseum rising through the downpour. I hadn’t meant to get so close to it, but my hotel was on the other side, so at least it was a sign I was going in the right direction.
A large black car pulled out in front of me, and I had to slam on the brakes. Damned idiots. My purse on the passenger seat fell over, and the onyx stone toppled out. After shifting gears, I felt a compulsion to grab it, but I resisted. I needed to focus on the road.
As I followed the street around the Colosseum, someone dashed in front of my car. I jammed my foot on the brake pedal and swerved. The car spun out of control. Ancient, high walls loomed before me. My heart thundered in my chest as I jerked the wheel, trying to avoid hitting the historic site, but then the stone beside me began to glow. It became brighter and brighter until I went blind. I screamed as I thought for sure I’d crash.
A terrifying, weightless sensation came over me, and time seemed to stand still. I couldn’t see or feel anything, and my voice cut off. A whooshing sound began, as if the car and I were being pushed through water. Had I died instantly when I crashed, and this was me traveling to whatever afterlife awaited me? It seemed to last forever, growing louder until I couldn’t concentrate on anything else.
A bright light flashed before my eyes again as I clutched the steering wheel, finally feeling its solid presence again. The car bounced as it hit hard ground, and my vision finally cleared. Two men wearing thick loincloths and holding spears stood a hundred feet from my vehicle. A golden lion with blood coating its shoulder paced a short distance before them. Were they doing a reenactment today?
Wait. Something wasn’t right. How did they get the floor in the arena reconstructed so fast? Except for a small section, it was usually wide open, revealing the old catacombs beneath.
The two men stared at me as I pressed my feet to the clutch and brake, skidding across the sandy ground to come to a complete stop ten feet from them. I dragged in deep breaths, grateful to be alive, but reasonably certain I’d just created an international incident. Would anyone be surprised that it was an American?
Dragging my gaze from the men’s shocked expressions, I looked for the authorities that would surely be coming for me. Instead, I found the Colosseum didn’t appear anything like it had when I’d visited it two days ago. It was filled with marble seats, had awnings overhead to provide shade, statues stood in the fully intact arches, and the spectators all wore tunics or togas typical of the ancient Roman style. Some people on the upper levels hardly wore anything at all, and for some odd reason, that was the only level where I saw women.
None of the fencing meant to restrict tourists was visible. It looked—a tremble ran through me—it looked exactly like it should have nearly two thousand years ago.
But that was impossible.
Shouts rose that I couldn’t understand but recognized as vaguely Latin. Roman soldiers, armed with spears and swords, came running for me. They couldn’t have been actors with those murderous expressions on their faces.
My heart thundered in my chest as I realized this was real—too real. Even the awful stench of rot and body waste coming through the car’s vents was nothing like what I’d experienced in modern Rome. Only a city of one million people that lacked modern plumbing, excluding bath houses, could smell so terrible. All those truths struck in the few seconds it took me to get my bearings.
