24. TWENTY-TWENTY-FOUR
twenty-four
My lantern illuminates a slow, downward sloping terrain—packed with gnarled beech trees and dense undergrowth. Even as the sweet smell of wild herbs catches on my every breath, I can’t help but feel as though we’re descending into the belly of some great beast.
This forest is untamed, ancient. There’s no path laid before us, forcing us to stable our horse with a farmer on the outskirts of Verona and complete our journey on foot.
This is it—the final stretch toward Callistia’s grove, toward the cure Dante has so desperately sought.
The terrain is full of rises and pitches that demand careful footing.
The towering beeches and oaks that surround us cast long, dancing shadows in the lantern light—fragmenting its glow to easily conceal slick patches of moss and errant rocks that might cause a misstep.
As I step over a fallen log, I feel a beat of gratitude that at least I don’t have to worry about elaborate skirts encumbering me tonight.
This deep into the wilderness, away from prying eyes, I can finally forsake the expensive gowns and don my armor from the Order. And fuck, I missed wearing trousers.
After days of corsets and ribbons, wearing my Corvus armor feels like coming home.
It’s lightweight, built for agility and stealth.
I walk a little straighter with my wax-treated leather breastplate secured over my black tunic and matching arm bracers—each embossed with the Corvus emblem.
My hips bear the additional weight of the weapons strapped along the slotted belt that cinches around my waist. While I leave my remaining store of holy water packed in the satchel slung over my shoulder, I keep a silver blade sheathed on each side, and two stakes at home in their slots.
How strange to finally look like myself, when I’ve never felt more transfigured in my life.
For the better part of an hour, Dante and I travel in near silence, crickets and cicadas surrounding us with their grating symphony.
A few fireflies are drawn to the lantern’s light, occasionally blinking into existence like living sparks.
A full moon and stars wink in and out of sight between the latticed branches overhead.
It’s a night beautiful enough to inspire poetry, if I were so inclined for such a frivolous art form.
But right now, I miss the sun. I miss the toasty glow of it kissing my cheeks, the way it banishes shadows with vibrant colors.
It’s been nearly a week since I’d last enjoyed a full day of it, but I can hardly complain to Dante.
A few days in darkness is nothing compared to enduring a full century of it.
I steal a sidelong glance at him, catching how the low angle of the lantern casts dancing tones of gold and amber over the regal contours of his face.
A storm has darkened his gaze to something steely, focused on each step forward—until he catches me staring.
His eyebrows raise, and there’s a faint lift to the corner of his mouth when he refocuses ahead.
The pretense of being lovestruck newlyweds has finally run its course. Ironic, as the affection between us is no longer feigned. There’s shy fond glances, little brushes of hands or arms as we walk side by side through the forest, each touch not unwelcome.
What is this now, anyway?
There’s nothing conventional about what happened between us, about our very natures—a slayer and her supposed prey. Perhaps it was just a single night of passion… But I can’t deny something has shifted in how Dante looks at me. It’s like a wall has melted away, just for me.
We come across a rugged, rocky patch with a crystalline stream winding a cheerful path through the landscape, forcing us to cross damp, flat stones. Dante holds out a hand for me at the other side, steadying me as I make the final step. I laugh a little at the squeeze of his fingers around mine.
“All this time, you did have a gentleman in you,” I remark, shooting him a vicious smirk as I pass. “Imagine that. You just bury him under layers of foul remarks and indecency.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
Dante strides ahead, briefly vanishing from sight as he holds a low-hanging branch out of my path.
He does not, however, warn me about the steep pitch hiding behind a rolling tree root.
My boot catches on nothing but air on my next step, and I promptly stumble off a sharp drop with an undignified shriek.
With a sudden jolt, I’m met with the unyielding strength of a man’s arms around me. Dante’s caught me—one arm beneath my knees and the other clutching me around the shoulders—looking far too pleased with himself.
“I do love getting those little noises out of you,” he remarks.
I scowl, willing that gallant grin to fade off his face. “I could’ve shattered the lantern!”
Thankfully, the gilded glass has been spared, and I keep it raised at chest level protectively. I squirm to hop back onto my feet, only to have Dante’s arms cinch around me. He adjusts his grip so the hand under my knees can stray to cup my ass, squeezing.
I almost drop the lantern again. A single touch, a searing look, and I’m hurdled right back to yesterday. The decadent, sinful things we’d done to each other in that rented room… I suppose I can’t entirely blame him right now.
“Can you behave?” I chuckle. A glow rises to my cheeks as I fight an exasperated grin, the arm slung around his neck relaxing.
Dante takes his time like I’ve probed on deep philosophy, pouting in mock consideration. “I could, but this is much more fun.”
With a final squeeze to punctuate this, he sets me down. I give him a shove with my hips as I press on, sharing a soft snort of laughter as his long strides catch up to match mine.
My smile lingers with a seed of warmth in my chest as we march onward, side by side.
Whatever this is between us… It’s nice, for now.
There’s no point trying to fetter out its meaning, but maybe when he’s human again…
We’ll have a chance at a future, at least. If that’s what he wants, of course—I still can’t read him enough to be certain.
I’m not even sure if a future with Dante is what I want.
But the image of being in the sun with him, hand in hand, is a pleasant one to be sure.
Even still, it would have to be in secret from the Order when I returned. I was meant to be a warrior, not a lover.
If I return, a small voice purrs in the back of my mind.
I shove such traitorious notions aside. Of course I will—even despite everything.
Even though they took your family from you?
My poisonous thoughts falter as I catch sight of jagged shapes sprawled across the clearing ahead.
I pull to a sharp halt, putting an arm up to stop Dante, too.
Faint moonlight illuminates the wreckage of a wagon caravan—wooden frames splintered and overturned, tumbled crates of cargo strewn across the damp ground.
Thieves. I’m certain of it.
We tense, listening for any lingering assailants, but are met only by the quiet stirring of the small creatures in branches above. Relaxing my grip on my dagger, we forge into the wreckage for a closer look.
I spot blood dampening the ground and splattered along the side of the overturned wagon. There are three bodies sprawled out, all male. While one I surmise to be a merchant, the others’ faces are concealed with plain bauta masks—the trademark of a lowlife desperate for anonymity, as I suspected.
Dante tips one’s head to the side with his boot, revealing a deep slash across the throat. I melt in relief that it’s not fang marks staring up at us. Dante’s siblings are not upon us again.
“Looks like someone’s eviscerated these rogues,” he says, letting the head thump back to the ground. “Nicely done. Perhaps we ought to thank them.”
I set the lantern down on a boulder nearby and crouch, pressing my palm to the side of the corpse’s neck.
“They’re barely cold. No rot set in,” I murmur. “Couldn’t be dead more than a few hours.”
Leaning back on my heels, I scan the clearing with a frown.
One of the wagon wheels still intact is drenched in mud.
There’s evidence of systematic, planned destruction—sliced canvas coverings, crates ripped open.
Of the remaining goods scattered across the earth, most are worthless baubles: a few bolts of linen, cases of wine.
Anything of true value has been absconded with long ago.
I stand, carefully picking my way through the disturbed ground, where scattered bootprints outline the traces of a fight.
“I think there was a power struggle. The wounds on them are consistent with the merchant,” I say, jutting my chin at a single pair of footprints trailing west. “There was a third assailant. He must’ve gotten greedy or won a disagreement between them, killing the others and making off with the most valuables. ”
“Ah, the kiss of Judas,” Dante tuts.
I give the merchant one more lingering glance, brow furrowed. A pity, but his death here was still a mercy compared to the vile fate of being claimed by a vampire—drained as a meal or abducted for long, tortured servitude.
With no lingering threat to us, I gesture for Dante to pull out the map. “Are we still going the right way?”
“You tell me, master tracker. Can’t you just lick a rock and tell us if we’re headed north?”
THUMP, THUMP, THUMP.
A muffled, frantic pounding draws us apart. The overturned wagon—something is underneath it.
“Please! That vile merchant kidnapped me,” a sharp, feminine voice cut the air. “I don’t want to die down here!”
My heart jumps to a gallop. A survivor.
I run to the wagon and crouch, peering into the dark slit where it cuts into the soft earth. I can vaguely make out a large crate underneath. More frantic pounding of fists against wood confirms it—someone is encased in that crate, the weight of the flipped wagon pressing upon it.
“Hang on, we’ll help you,” I call back. I try to reach into the small gap. My fingertips barely graze the latch securing it shut. It’s too far.