13. THIRTEEN
thirteen
Istride off, dodging around dancing couples with my sights set on the stairwell across the tavern. Dante catches up to me, a hand closing around mine mid-stride.
“What’s the hurry?” he pries. “Plenty of moonlight left, and the company appears…lively.”
“I’m going to bed,” I say, shrugging him off.
Dante takes my hand again. “Don’t you ever take a break and loosen that constipated look on your face?
” He’s looking at me earnestly, tugging me toward the music.
“Join me. Just one dance for the occassion—five minutes. A little public entanglement will only strengthen our ruse while passing through.”
“Dante, from the bottom of my heart: I’d rather eat soap. And besides, we did plenty of convincing back there.”
A part of me still reels at my own brashness, kissing him like that. What had come over me?
With a stubborn, pleading pout, Dante steps backward into the lively gathering, his fingers still clenched around mine. “I’m truly worried you don’t understand the concept of fun, darling.”
“We clearly have vastly different definitions,” I say, but my words are swallowed up by the volume of delighted voices and laughter in the tavern, with dozens of couples celebrating Spring’s arrival. “We should be focusing on survival, not a fucking galliard.”
“You slayers are so grim. If our days are numbered, all the more reason to indulge in what simple amusements we stumble across, hm?” Dante counters.
My protests are weakened by the warm smiles of the other revelers. Everyone is pink-cheeked and brimming with good-natured spirits, beaming like they’ve been waiting for us to join them.
Shit, I think. This is happening.
The cool glass beads of the necklace Chiara had given me suddenly seem to grate against my skin.
What would she think if she were here, watching me willingly submit to dancing with the very lethal target of my assignment?
I can picture Chiara’s sharp brows pulling together, the confused gasp of—”Ari, are you entirely mad? ”
I shove the rose Dante had given me into my cloak pocket. I’m not insane, I’m simply placating him. And five minutes can bring little harm, I suppose.
The Calendimaggio music has shifted, violins playing a sparkling, glassy melody.
It’s warm and inviting, but I’m mortified.
Dante strides into the midst of the others dancing with feline grace, pulling me along with him.
He must clock my look of horror as he guides me into position, because the corner of his mouth lifts back into a smirk.
“I’m not convinced you’re not just doing this to torment me,” I say, my voice threadier than the growl I intend.
His teeth flash. “A happy overlap.”
As we take the first steps, Dante inhales deeply, scanning the people around us and loosing a long, measured sigh.
I arch a brow at him. “It must be like walking into a room full of free wine.”
He chuckles, eyes bright. “It is, actually.”
“You don’t seem to be very ashamed of being a vampire for someone so desperate to reverse the condition.” I lower my voice, glancing at the revelers in stride beside us.
“I can’t be cured if I starve to death,” Dante counters smoothly. “When I’m human, I’ll start fresh. The picture of innocence—cross my heart.”
“Hm.”
A few people turn their heads when we glide past, the way almost everyone does when they first see him—like they’re all wondering what it would be like to be loved by him, to be him. Does he even notice it anymore?
He certainly takes advantage of it when it suits him; my attention drifts to the rose in my pocket.
“I forbid you from hunting the flower seller,” I say just loud enough for him to hear.
His jaw drops. “You forbid me from doing something I wasn’t planning to do?
” A snort follows. “While I’d love nothing more than to see you try to stop me, I’m merely supporting a small business in much need of patronage.
The man is an artist with a trowel, and I would never deprive the world of him. Is that so hard to believe?”
“I saw you. Everyone with eyes saw, even if they didn’t understand it. You were doing that…that thing.”
Dante cocks his head with infuriatingly intrigued amusement. “The thing? Enlighten me.”
“Charming him! Why hunt like a woodland beast when you can have them waltz right into your bed, hm? I’m not an idiot.”
“Even you can’t begrudge me a little window shopping. Just because you pass on the holiday roast in the butcher’s window doesn’t mean you can’t appreciate its form.”
Still trying to match his quick, gliding steps, I remove my hand from his shoulder to put my finger an inch from his face.
“If you harm an innocent person—even just to feed—our deal is off. I will kill you like the creature you are.” My lips thin, and I can hardly believe my own words as they spill out.
“I would have you feed on me again before I’d allow anyone else to be drawn into your web. ”
His mouth opens in pleasant surprise. I hate the sudden ravenous glint in his eyes—especially how it makes my breath catch, the way he looks like he might bite into me like an apple.
“Who knew you were so generous,” he purrs, eyeing my neck like he might test my resolve right then and there.
“Did you miss the part about me killing you?”
But Dante just grins, grabbing my hand and lifting it over my head to twirl me in a quick, elegant movement.
The other villagers in their colorful garb strike into step with the music. I don’t even know the name of this dance—I’ve only watched at a distance, the way you watch a play being performed.
I feel like the clumsiest person in the entire country as I glance around, awkwardly trying to mirror Dante the way the other women do toward their partners, placing our palms against each other’s.
I’m always half a beat behind where I should be.
Twice, I misstep while I’m looking away and step on his toes.
“Ow,” he says under his breath. “I see I’ve finally found something that terrifies you. Dancing.”
“I’m interested in more useful pursuits than drunkards spinning about,” I sneer—though I do my best to temper my disdain in light of the revelers directly near us.
I catch Dante roll his eyes like he’s praying for patience before ducking to grasp my waist, lifting me in an arc to his other side in sync with the others.
My stomach somersaults as weightlessness washes over me.
The dance floor is briefly a dazzling flash of colorful skirts flaring like the wings of exotic birds.
Back on my feet, the battling violins lean into a more lively tempo, and I sense the dance shifting.
I follow the lead of the others, allowing Dante to hold me closer, clasping one of my hands while the other steers me by my waist. I’m almost grateful when I feel him taking the lead, guiding me where to go.
“The footwork isn’t dissimilar to scrimia,” Dante says above my ear. “Do you know what that—”
“I obviously know the basics of swordplay,” I hiss back. “I’m not an idiot.”
He clucks his tongue, but chuckles. “So it might be easier if you imagine this as a fight. Merely stalking your prey, step by step.”
I study his face with narrowed eyes. “Is that what you’re doing?”
A crooked grin comes over his face. He ducks closer, his breath warm against the shell of my ear. “I doubt you want to know the things that have crossed my mind.”
The dance order shifts abruptly, and the sea of dancers split us apart—and just like that, Dante is gone, and I’m in the arms of another man as partners rotate across the floor.
As my new partner kindly guides me into step, I peer over his shoulder to see that Dante has not taken the hand of the other women swirling on the floor already.
He’s spotted the matronly barmaid from the front of the house clearing a table full of empty bowls—the one that had been throwing doe-eyes at his back all night.
I can’t make out the words from this distance, but I see him insist she set the tray down and sweep her into his arms in one fluid movement. She’s pink-cheeked at once, delighted at the attention of the other patrons who cheer for their beloved host.
Against my will, a smile pulls at my lips. She has no way of knowing he’s the very blood-addicted creature she’s tried to deter with her garlands and herbs—much less that he’s actually twice her age. In her eyes, she’s just been swept up by the handsome visitor who’s supporting her inn.
Does Dante know he’s probably made her night, perhaps her entire year, as he dips her sensually like she’s decades younger?
The tables nearest them holler, smiling and goading.
It’s hard not to be swept up in the illusion of goodwill.
Was he always this magnetically charismatic, even before seduction became a voracious weapon?
I’m almost jealous. What must it have been like to grow up like that—perfect hair, contagious smile, able to charm anyone he crossed paths with?
Or irritate the shit out of them, I think with a stifled scoff.
I consider Dante’s advice, trying to feel in my body what he so clearly feels in this melody. I begin to recall the steps, nearly matching the timing now.
By the time we rotate partners again, and I’m back in Dante’s arms, I feel each footfall keenly now.
I’ll never admit it, but he’s right—the footwork is more digestible if I pretend I’m trying to stay one move ahead of my target.
I’m simply parrying with an opponent, my stances shifting moment to moment the way I’ve done countless times.
My confidence earns me a grain of fluidity, and a beat of pride washes through me when I’m able to match Dante’s stride.
We fall into a harmonious sync, moving as one.
I feel…beautiful. Feminine in a way I’ve never viewed myself before.