Chapter #2
Were I not in shock, I would have hurried to distract him from the strange happening, but I am frozen—keen on the short message. The painfully familiar scrawl makes my knees nearly give out from beneath me. My eyes race over the words once—twice.
When Enzo tries to step closer for a better look, I hold the note close and give him a distant look. “I’m truly sorry—I’m afraid I have plans tonight.”
Moonlight glints off the canal’s surface.
I watch every shadow along the water-stained stones.
The buildings, paint peeling across every surface, blot out the city at large.
But I can still hear the dull roar of the St. Mark’s Day celebration in the distance.
The noise is my only tether to the splendor of the more enticing side of Venice.
This corner of the city is one I only frequent when pursuing a lead on a possible vampire attack—a labyrinthian section of homes and businesses with little streetlight to illuminate.
Riskier to travel alone at night, unless you knew precisely where you were going.
The gondola creaks as I step off of it. There are few other boats nearby—this street was well-chosen.
The perfect, intimate meeting place selected by Dante—or, more likely, a trap set by Alessandro.
I’m armed to defend against that possibility.
If I have been lured here, it isn’t as though I’ll be any safer cowering at the shop.
But my stupid, hopeful heart wants to believe it is Dante. One line from his short message is all but burned into my eyes. The way he addressed me—my ruinously beautiful little slayer. Every time I think of it, I’m back in bed with him, and he is curiously insistent that I am a beauty to behold.
As I make my way down the packed earth street, I keep my cloak pulled tight with one hand—the other is resting on the hilt of the blade sheathed at my side.
Lower-class courtesans are lined by the water near a bridge, some bearing small lanterns to better illuminate their low-cut gowns.
Their laughter and beckoning voices turn my head just as one woman pulls down her neckline to expose her breasts entirely to a passing gondola.
It’s a sight I’ve rather gotten used to, living here where courtesans can rise to ranks of privilege some noblewomen only dream of.
The boat doesn’t change course, but the wine-drunk men aboard sing back slurred verses of poetry and toss flowers across the water.
Leave it to Venice to make even a damn bridge a den of debauchery.
It lives up to its reputation as the continent’s most hedonistic and luxurious city every hour.
One of the courtesans catches my eye as I pass them, and she grins with a wave of her layered skirt—inviting, unafraid.
The corner of my lips tug up, and I offer a nod as I press on.
I have no quarrel with these women. Dangerous as their profession might be, they’re better than half the uptight fucks that compose the noble class.
I keep glancing over my shoulder, heart pounding as I imagine eyes watching me from the darkened arches that branch off to alleyways and long, winding paths between buildings.
This is the place.
Two doors past the mask-maker’s shop, like the scrawled note instructed.
The gaping eyes of the bauta masks painted onto the stucco wall seem to follow me as I pass and pull to a halt just inside the arched alley that faces the water.
Minutes stretch, and my hand becomes sweaty on the hilt of my dagger.
I become painfully aware of every sense—the smell of decay and perfume thick in the air, water lapping against stone, the distant tolling bells for the procession at the city’s center.
A soft gust of wind makes me freeze. I look across the narrow strip of canal and see my reflection briefly distort in the shop’s window on the other side. A couple of nearby lanterns gutter and nearly go out entirely, throwing shadows around.
From the corner of my eye, I see one such shadow peel out of the darkness behind me—and there is no reflection in the window.
Leech.
Whirling, I drop my hand to my belt and unsheath my blade. I ram my weight into my attacker. He grunts, staggering back and catching himself on the wall he’d pulled away from. The raised hood of his cloak masks his face in darkness.
When I dive again, blade raised, the man catches my wrist with fluid, stonelike strength and holds fast. My view of the canal spins away as he pins my back against his front and wraps his arms around me in an iron grip.
My head rests in the crook of his arm. I try desperately to pummel him—but shit, I’m entirely out of practice—
“If I’d known you were craving a fight, darling, I’d have come armed.”
I stiffen against the firm body at my back, painfully aware of how familiar I am with it.
That voice in my ear nearly undoes me. With a gasping cry, I whirl to face him, and his grip relents.
His hood has fully fallen, revealing bright eyes, tousled blond hair—and that unbearably beautiful, infuriating smile.
“Still passionate about your sharp objects, I see,” Dante says with a click of his tongue.
My blade clatters to the ground as I throw my arms around him. He squeezes me back ferociously, his teasing giving way to a shudder. A sob chokes out of me—he’s here, he’s real. I bury my cheek against his chest, relishing the solid feel of him as I fight for a full breath.
We pull back for half a breath only to surge back together—this time his lips catching mine. We kiss like we could be swallowed into each other, making up for months apart. Any worries I had about Dante forgetting me become utterly distant. Every ferocious, starved caress says it all.
When we finally come apart, I search his face more closely and look him up and down.
He’s wearing a weathered cloak, but I catch a peek of refinement hidden beneath—a dark red fitted doublet.
No doubt this is a tactical choice that gives him the ability to travel most anywhere without turning heads.
I cup his face with one hand, and he turns to kiss my palm, eyes shuttering. “I don’t have long,” he says somberly.
I clench my jaw. “Are you safe?” I whisper, but his urgency tells me all I need to know.
His expression floods with tenderness as he eyes my concerned face. “Oh, you know me—I’m hard to beat down.”
He certainly appears healthy, and he’s as strong as I’ve ever seen him.
Regular feedings, then. But there are shadows under his eyes, and I can’t bring myself to ask what sort of penance he’s facing.
If Alessandro starved Nico an entire year for merely running away, what punishment might he deem suitable for a spawn who refused to kill a slayer?
Tucking my hair behind my ear, Dante hitches his fingers under my jaw. “So, you’re in Venice. Any particular reason you decided to put down roots here, of all places?”
His lopsided, knowing smile makes my heart flutter.
“Oh, I just always heard the sights were breathtaking. Thought I might visit the basilica while I’m here.” Matching his coy look, I raise my eyebrows at him. “Your messenger was friendly. How did you find me?”
“In recent months, a trusted source informed me of a gorgeous, raven-haired woman lurking along the grand canal all hours of the night. Such unusual nocturnal habits.” He leans closer, voice dropping to a taunting whisper as his thumb grazes my chin. “One almost tiny enough to be missed.”
I smack his shoulder, but the thought is truly unsettling. I’d been followed—by who? Thralls? One of his other siblings?
Dante’s teasing smile drops, gaze burrowing into me. “You realize this is the most dangerous place in the world for you to be right now?”
A sting burns through the warmth blossoming from his protective urgency. Had he been hoping I would give up and leave? Didn’t he have any hope left for salvation?
“I have unfinished business here.” I run my hands up his chest to his shoulders and squeeze, desperate to ensure he’s not an illusion.
Months. He’s known where I’ve been for months. Much as I wished he’d sought me out the very second he’d known, I can read the tension still carefully tempered on his face. He must’ve had a reason. Even now, meeting here together is a risk if either of us are being monitored.
“I wasn’t sure I’d ever…” I swallow hard. “After all this time, why now?”
His smile returns—a soft, excited thing I commit to memory. “Don’t you know? It’s a special occasion.”
The familiar mischief sparkling in his eyes is my oxygen. I quirk a brow. “Don’t tell me you give a shit about St. Mark’s Day?”
He chuckles. “God no. This is an occasion far grander.” Reaching into his cloak, he produces a single red rose—every thorn plucked clean away, like the one from the tavern so long ago.
As I delicately take the stem, I meet the warmth in Dante’s gaze and suddenly remember a lavish ivory gown and the sight of him at the end of the aisle, half-silhouetted by stained glass.
Back when I hadn’t the slightest idea how this man would upend my world in every terrifying and glorious way possible.
He leans his forehead against mine and whispers, “Happy anniversary, stellina.”