27. TWENTY-SEVEN
twenty-seven
Any efforts to dry off during our hike back to civilization are thoroughly wasted as another spring storm rolls in on the last mile, drenching us anew.
With dawn nearly upon us and the stars paling behind the sheet of dark clouds, Dante and I dive into the first shelter we can find in the outskirts of Verona—a narrow passage that leads beneath the city.
We make quick work of the chain-bound iron gate that bars it from civilian entry and bolt down the stone stairs.
It’s surreal to exchange breathless laughter with Dante as we make useless efforts to shield ourselves from the downpour, still aching and aglow from our last fuck.
How can either of us laugh? We’ve failed.
We’re both grieving an impossible weight, and yet the trek back has been alleviated in a way I never expected.
The ache of uncertainty seems to yield under the simple fact that neither of us are shouldering it alone. At least, not yet.
There’s a sharp temperature drop as we descend—cool, damp air making my drenched clothes cling to me like sheets of ice. The final stairs are cracked and crumbling, unsteady under our boots.
The passage opens up into a wide tunnel where our movements now echo, the sound catching strangely.
A murmur of moving water catches my ear, not more than a few feet in front of us.
I can make out rough stone walls and low, arched ceilings, but not much else.
There’s not a single torch in sight, and utter darkness eats away at the shallow light spilling in from the street two stories above.
I kneel, pulling out my lantern from its snug position in my satchel along with a flint and steel striker.
It takes several tries—and a cocktail of muttered profanity and prayers—before my damp hands coax sparks from the striker.
The oil catches, and a humble flame ignites behind the amber glass, casting a warm circle of illumination.
I hold it out, taking a few steps inward for a better look.
Dante trails closely behind me, pushing back the damp locks plastered to his forehead.
A diverted underground stream runs uniformly along the passage floor, lapping along the stone like a never-ending whisper.
Even in the weak light, I can see the stone walls are glistening with moisture, the smell of dust and limestone thick on every breath.
A pile of yellowed human skulls are stacked at the base of an arch, some half-buried in dirt.
I trail my gaze higher, finding that graves have been carved along the walls, along with forgotten Roman murals, faded beyond recognition.
While some of the bodies are wrapped in linens, other skeletal remains look hastily buried—almost crammed into the inlet.
Plague victims, no doubt. A few skeletal jaws reveal a stone or brick forced between their teeth—another deep-rooted, but baseless superstition held by many that this would prevent their deceased from succumbing to vampirism.
I catch Dante’s lips curl slightly when he spots this, too, but he schools his expression masterfully by the time I face him fully. In another life, he could have easily been one of these unmarked remains victimized by a mysterious illness.
“Looks like this place hasn’t been touched in decades,” I say, my words coming out in short, icy bursts. “Should be quiet, at least.”
“It’s a far cry from the hot baths at Bagno Vignoni, but it’ll do.
” Dante wrinkles his nose as he scans the chamber, but relief floods his gaze nonetheless.
Not a ray of sunlight in sight. “With any luck, it will open up at the river in a few miles. Perhaps we can claim sanctuary at that cathedral we passed yesterday and get a proper bed tonight.”
I snort, shooting him a wry look. While vampires can technically enter holy ground, the blessed objects and ample supply of holy water generally makes it a gauntlet of hazards.
“I know you’re just trying to get a rise out of me,” I counter.
“No, really—think of how fun it might be. They could welcome in a nun and monk of the Carmelite order. Bone-weary on a pilgrimage and our poor habits taken by vicious highwaymen…” Dante’s smirk is utterly goading. “We’ve already established your acting prowess.”
“I’m not doing that,” I laugh indignantly. “And as though anyone would believe you to be devout even for a moment.”
“You’re right. Damn this jawline. They’d never buy it.”
“I’d kill for a warm bedroll and fire, though,” I admit, another shiver wracking me. “I’m exhausted. I may sleep for two days straight at our next refuge.”
I rummage for my cloak, only to find it’s been soaked-through near the top of my bag.
Useless. While I’m still digging for something else to quell the cold, Dante finds a salvaged doublet near the bottom of his own things and drapes it over my shoulders.
It dwarfs me—which is perfect, given my present state.
I’ll take every inch of dry fabric I can.
“I’m not sure I’ll ever get used to this,” I say, studying his intensely focused expression as his hands squeeze along my shoulders and arms, adjusting the fabric on me.
“What?”
“You. Being…sweet.”
Dante’s expression flattens—but I swear there’s something sheepish under that mock-offense. If it wasn’t so dark in here, I might’ve caught him blushing. “Look, if you want to freeze to death, just say the word.”
His hands are still resting on my upper arms. I lower my gaze, taking him in—cold-kissed and drenched.
His navy doublet hangs open, and the white tunic beneath clings to his skin, half-translucent and revealing the exquisitely carved lines of the body beneath.
Water drips from his tousled locks, now darkened to a deep golden-brown.
He’s so pretty, I could cry.
“Don’t do that,” Dante groans.
“Do what?”
“Look at me like that through those Aphrodite lashes. How am I supposed to behave?”
I let my body tip closer to his, the gentle murmur of the water filling my ears. “I just think this drowned sewer rat look rather suits you, that’s all.”
He arches an eyebrow. “And that’s your idea of a compliment?”
“Very much so. If I weren’t so worn to the bone…” I trail off, chewing my lip and giving him a wolfish little smile.
Dante gives a deep chuckle, glancing away. “I’ve made a beast of you.” His eyes crinkle at the corners as his smirk turns conspiratorial, and his voice lowers further. “I’ll bet you dreamed about sucking me off since the moment we met, didn’t you?”
I give a soft scoff of laughter. His crude phrasing is going to be the death of me. “One of us clearly did.”
There’s a flash of light in the corner of my eye, and I pull away from him. The sun has risen. A thick shaft of pale amber light spills down the stairway we’d come through, creating a long square of illumination along the rough stone floor.
“Just in time,” I murmur.
Though it’s a dozen feet away, Dante still takes a step back deeper into the safety of the darkness. “Describe it to me,” he says.
I glance back at him, catching the weight behind his stare. Setting the lantern at our feet, I clutch his doublet around me and walk back to the stairway. I peer upward, letting the sprinkle of rain from above pepper my cheeks and eyelashes.
The sky is reduced to a rectangular slit between the walls, the upward angle dizzying me for a moment.
Moody grey stormclouds are now emblazoned with streaks of pink and orange.
The falling droplets are lit from behind like streaks of gold descending from heaven.
It’s the kind of natural, rare beauty that instills peace in a heart.
A peace that nearly unravels me, for how foreign it feels.
“It’s beautiful. A painting couldn’t do it justice.” I call over.
Sunlight pushing through the rain is a radiant caress. I shut my eyes, releasing a shuddering sigh. I hadn’t realized how much I missed it.
“It’s warm, like liquid honey on my skin—pushing out the cold. It feels like a kiss.”
I don’t think I’ll ever forget the look on his face when I glance back in his direction. Dante’s drenched in shadow, a world apart from my little square of sunlight—but watching me like he’s memorizing every droplet on my skin.
We continue on side by side, the lantern’s wavering light guiding our trudge onward parallel to the diverted stream.
“When I was poring over wagons of tomes on Callistia, I did come across a few fascinating leads on a warlock toward the south,” Dante remarks, his voice jumping along the arched tunnel.
“Though, his methods seem to be unpleasant. More garlic than you’d expect, for one thing.
But, I suppose it’s as good a place to start as any. ”
The weariness in his voice makes me ache. I can only imagine the hollow feeling of failure I carry is amplified tenfold for him. Decades of searching and planning—only to leave Callistia’s grove as cursed as he entered. There’s a heaviness that creeps in, despite his best efforts to tether it down.
“I’ll need to make arrangements to return to Corvus at the earliest opportunity,” I say, frowning as I work though the tactics.
“As it is, I’ll be facing weeks of questioning for my unorthodox methods.
On my fucking first mission, no less. Sparse letters, declining aid, a vanished vampire…
I’ll be lucky if they let me off of scullery duties for a year. ”
I furrow my brow, working through the lie I’ll have to deliver. If not for the fang scars still healing over on my neck, I could have claimed D’Agonisto had simply been an abusive spouse, and I’d sent him to the grave out of necessity.
But no—I can hardly see a way around it.
I must report that the depraved leech we had suspected all along did try to drain me on our honeymoon, and I barely escaped with my life.
And in doing so, I let him get away. I wince just thinking of delivering such a failure.
I’ll never get another solo assignment as long as I live.
But… Did I want one?