Chapter 6
Chapter
Six
CALEB
By unspoken agreement, we lifted our suitcases from the cobblestones. Then we ran.
Well, Jesse ran. I did my best to keep up with him.
He moved through the streets like he had a compass lodged in his brain. Which, in a way, he did. Every couple of minutes, he’d stop, nostrils flaring, then take off again, leaving me helpless to do anything but follow.
Because whatever drew him, I couldn’t sense it at all. The only smells that reached me were car exhaust and old stone. As we headed into a tangle of narrow alleys, the sky stopped flirting with rain and went full downpour.
Within minutes, the streets were dark and wet. Apartment dwellers in upper stories pulled shutters closed. Tourists ducked under shop awnings, their bodies wrapped in plastic ponchos that made them look like they’d stumbled into an oversized sandwich baggie.
Ten minutes passed, then fifteen. Jesse ignored the rain and kept moving.
My backpack thumped against my spine. My suitcase swung from my fist. Before I’d grown fur and fangs, the weight would have had me gritting my teeth and rolling my shoulders. But lycanthropy did its thing, and I barely broke a sweat as Jesse led us up one street and down another.
He moved at a pace just below a run, his long legs eating up cobblestones and flat pavers.
His muscles seemed more defined than usual, his shoulders thick mounds under his shirt.
Every dozen or so steps he’d stop, utterly still and completely alert.
Then he’d start off again, his glowing eyes cataloging everything in his path.
Rain dampened the hair at his nape, and energy rolled off him in waves that threatened to make my teeth chatter.
I clamped my jaw shut and stuck to his heels.
I’d stopped being afraid of him somewhere between the Albany steakhouse where we’d had our first date and the bed in his townhouse where he’d made a five course meal out of my ass.
But my wolf understood something my human brain had forgotten: Just because Jesse van der Meer didn’t scare me didn’t mean he wasn’t a scary motherfucker.
And he’d never been scarier than he was now, his beast just under the surface.
Pride pumped hot in my veins. My wolf, which apparently had zero chill, urged me closer, eager to plaster itself to Jesse’s side and never leave.
Jesse stopped abruptly, and I almost smacked into him. Turning his head, he scented the air. His irises were like amber set on fire, and a growl rumbled from his chest.
“This way,” he rasped, his wolf in his throat.
Glancing around, I followed. He moved faster, splashing past shops and apartment buildings.
The scent of bread and melted cheese drifted from a two-story building that hummed with music.
A few street vendors sat behind covered carts bristling with selfie sticks and flowers.
We skirted one, and Jesse almost collided with a man in running tights and a quarter-zip.
“Scusi,” Jesse said, raising his free hand.
The man paused, chest heaving. He looked between us, his dark eyes scanning me. “No problem,” he said, and jogged on.
I watched him go, then turned back to Jesse. “Am I really that American?”
He stared at a weathered orange building across the street.
Rain dripped from its tiled roof. A mix of round and square windows dotted the facade, which looked like it had been expanded the same way I’d played with Legos as a kid—slapping leftover pieces together until I got a vaguely castle-shaped structure with no hope of passing a safety inspection.
“There,” Jesse said.
A family of four clustered near a pair of dark green doors. The adults huddled under an umbrella, their heads bent over a phone. Two teenagers in puffer jackets flanked them, their expressions like convicts awaiting sentencing.
Jesse grabbed my arm and steered me across the street, pausing at a narrow doorway set back from the pavement. He grabbed my suitcase without breaking stride and wedged both of our bags into the alcove as far as they’d go. “Keep your backpack,” he said. “We’ll come back for the rest.”
Unburdened by luggage, we wove past the tourists and rounded the building’s perimeter until we reached a tall iron fence with a padlocked gate. Jesse closed his hand around the lock and squeezed. A second later, the metal gave way with the sound of a tree branch snapping.
“Cool,” I said.
He opened the gate a crack and waved me forward. “I set a ward, but I won’t be able to hold it very long. We need to get inside before someone notices us.”
I darted past him, and we rushed through a courtyard to another set of wooden doors.
The corridor inside was cramped and dimly lit, the walls covered in mosaics that made me catch my breath.
Tiny squares of faded color formed one incredible scene after another.
Saints and angels. Animals frolicking in forests and gardens.
Men and women in white robes. Romans. Whoever had cut the stones had done it at least fifteen hundred years ago.
Their work lived on, their talent close enough to touch.
I reached out a hand, then snatched it back. Was it okay to touch this stuff? It looked like it belonged in a museum.
Jesse was already ten feet ahead of me. Abandoning the mosaics, I hurried after him.
We descended a set of stone steps, and the walls narrowed.
The air grew cooler and damper, the smell of wet clay clinging to my nose and the inside of my throat.
The barrel-vaulted ceilings lowered, and the ground sloped.
Recessed lights splashed puddles of gold illumination over the stone floors.
We descended more stairs. My shoulders brushed the walls.
The corridor twisted left, then right. We turned into another passageway, and the walls became long, flat shelves. They ran floor to ceiling on both sides, the niches carved directly into the rock like bunk beds. But they were all empty.
“Are these catacombs?” I asked in a low voice.
“Yes,” Jesse said without slowing.
“Where are the bodies?”
He glanced at me over his shoulder. “Some were looted. Others were mined for relics until the Church moved them.”
Questions rose, but I filed them away. He’d love answering them later—and he’d go full professor mode while I spent the whole time trying not to get caught staring at his mouth. My favorite way to learn.
He moved faster, his eyes casting a bouncing golden light over the walls. The next set of stairs were narrower, the stones grooved in the center.
Jesse’s growl echoed off the ceiling. He shot forward in a blur of speed. Swallowing a yelp, I lurched after him. He rounded a corner.
And stopped.
Not the tense, tactical pauses he’d done on the way to the catacombs. This was abrupt, like a record needle scratch.
He spun, his shoes scuffing against the stone.
“What’s wrong?” I asked as loudly as I dared.
His brow creased, and a look of disbelief marred his features. “I lost it.”
“The scent?”
He nodded, and his frown deepened as he continued his slow pivot. “It’s just…gone.” He brushed past me and walked a few paces up the corridor. “It was here. Right here.” He tested the air again. Took several more steps and drew a deep breath.
My heart thumped as I drifted closer.
He turned back to me with a mix of anger and confusion in his eyes. “Nothing. It’s like Ulfrik was never here.”
I gripped my backpack straps. “Tell me what you need.”
He looked around, his anger shifting into something steady and determined. “Stay close,” he said. “I want to retrace my steps.”
Over the next twenty minutes, he worked the tunnels in a tight grid pattern that rivaled his sock drawer.
I hovered at his back and tried to be useful by not bumping into anything.
When I’d started to imagine myself as a skeleton on one of the shelves with my backpack still strapped to my shoulders, he halted at last.
“There’s nothing down here,” he said grimly. “Come on.”
Upstairs, the main level opened into a modest entry space with whitewashed walls and glass cases displaying fragments of ancient stone.
A handful of framed photographs showed the tunnels below from different angles, their captions in Italian and English.
The family from outside had joined a line of tourists at the payment counter.
The woman behind the register spotted us and frowned.
“Hey!” She pointed at us, then at a sign on the wall. “Everyone have to pay admission!”
Heads turned, and murmurs lifted as rain-soaked tourists looked us over. Jesse strode to the register and produced a wad of euros. He peeled off several and handed them over.
“Scusi, scusi,” he said. “Mi dispiace.”
The woman muttered something as he returned to me. “Let’s go,” he said under his breath.
We emerged onto the wet street, where traffic had thickened.
Raised voices cut through the rain. Twenty feet away, a heavyset man in a baggy suit stood beside an idling cab, one hand braced against the open rear door.
The gold watch on his wrist was flashy enough to be seen from space.
A woman inside the car leaned away from him, her voice sharp and agitated.
They went back and forth in a language that sounded like it was missing half its vowels.
Russian, maybe. Whatever they argued about, I couldn’t catch a word of it.
Neither, apparently, could Jesse, whose attention had already moved past them.
The woman yanked the door shut. The cab pulled into traffic and sped off.
The man stared after it with his arms hanging at his sides, his sleeve swallowing his watch. After a second, he splashed across the street. His scalp showed through long strands of brown hair he’d combed from one side of his head to the other.
“Caleb.”
I turned. Jesse waited for me, his jaw set and lines of tension around his mouth.
“Sorry,” I said, hurrying to him.
Our bags were exactly where we’d left them. Jesse handed me my suitcase without comment, and we fell back into step.
“What did the woman at the register say?” I asked as we headed away from the catacombs.
Jesse kept walking, his eyes on the street ahead. “She called me the Italian word for dickhead.”
“Seriously?”
“Esatto.” He gave me a wry look. “Correct.”
A short laugh burst from me. His mouth curved slightly before his expression settled into the troubled look he’d worn in the tunnels.
The early afternoon sun struggled above the nearest line of buildings. But the rain had slowed to a drizzle, and more groups of tourists streamed toward the catacombs. Scooters zipped past us like giant insects. Jesse’s brow was furrowed, his lips pressed into a thin line.
“Hey,” I said, letting my fingers brush his. “We’ll find Ulfrik again. You’re the best wolfseeker I know.”
He looked at me, and some of the lines smoothed from his forehead. “I’m the only wolfseeker you know.”
“You’re the only one I want to know. You’re also really hot, so I feel like my judgment is unimpeachable in this situation.”
He caught my hand and squeezed, and some of the anxiety left his eyes. “Thanks, babe.”
We smiled at each other before he released me and focused on the street. “I’ve never lost a trail like that.”
“Never?”
He shook his head. “Scent signatures don’t just vanish. They can linger in the air for hours after a wolf leaves a room. Rogues are no different.”
“Last night you said rogue scents can come and go.”
“They can, but not underground where there’s nowhere for a scent to dissipate.” His jaw tightened. “It was too abrupt, as if something cut it off deliberately.”
I turned that over. “And you’re certain it was Ulfrik?”
“No question.”
“Well, at least we have confirmation that it’s him. That’s better than nothing, right?” Although, nothing was sounding pretty damn good. Nothing to hunt down. Nothing trying to kill us. Nothing coming between me and all nine inches of Jesse’s dick.
“It’s something,” he conceded, sounding like he’d just chewed a bunch of nails.
“But everything about this assignment is unusual. Ulfrik shouldn’t exist in the first place.
Two different people photographed him in front of Carlo Gesualdo’s opera house.
Now his scent is popping up and disappearing without a trace. ”
Wariness slid down my spine. “Are the vampires capable of hiding a rogue’s scent?”
Jesse’s face was grim. “I don’t know, but I think we have to find out.”
My stomach growled, the sound loud enough to trip a seismometer. I slapped a hand over it. “Sorry,” I told Jesse. “I think I might be dying?”
He laughed, more tension leaving his eyes. “Let’s go check out the rental,” he said. “Then I’ll feed you.”