Chapter 12
Chapter
Twelve
CALEB
The next morning dawned bright and early.
Well, Jesse dawned bright and early. I woke to the sound of him whistling. With a groan, I burrowed deeper into the mattress and pulled a pillow over my head.
Moments later, a towel snapped against my ass. “Up and at ’em, baby,” Jesse said. “We’ve got a busy day.”
“You’re chipper,” I said, voice muffled by cotton and feathers.
A slight gust of air was my only warning before the towel stung my ass again.
“Fuck!” I yelped, flipping over.
Jesse smiled down at me, fully dressed with the scent of coffee rolling off him. Hands blurring, he whipped the towel into another long, skinny rope.
“I’m up!” I said, flinging back the sheets.
His chuckle followed me into the shower. He was still smiling when we closed the rental’s gate behind us. Winter air bit my cheeks and the tip of my nose.
“Sun hasn’t even come up yet,” I muttered, breath puffing like I’d just exhaled half a cigar.
Jesse was obnoxiously cheerful beside me. “We have a lot of exploring to do. If you want to beat the tourists, you have to start early.”
He wasn’t wrong. Although, the tourists showed up anyway. Groups of them wandered the Pantheon, walking shoes squeaking on the marble as they photo-bombed each other taking wide shots of the ceiling.
They gathered at the Spanish Steps, too.
And the Trevi Fountain. And the Circus Maximus.
And the Roman Forum. Shoulders brushed mine.
Dads with backpacks wandered into me. Strollers ran over my toes and sucker punched my Achilles tendons.
Scents hustled me from every angle, the sour bite of human sweat layered with the chemical assault of body wash, shampoo, and perfume.
My wolf stirred under my skin. I brushed my fingertips over statues and murals, willing my gift to spark, but nothing came. Just elbows and fanny packs and the disjointed chorus of dozens of languages.
Every so often, Jesse’s eyes would lighten a shade, and he’d get that intense look he wore whenever he used his gift. Then he’d shake his head, and we’d move to the next congested site.
By mid-morning, I was ready to drown a family in matching T-shirts in the Tiber.
“Come on,” Jesse murmured, catching my elbow. “I know a few interesting places off the beaten path.”
He delivered, leading me through hushed temples and shadowed churches where dust motes drifted in the sunlight that slanted through the stained glass windows.
The air warmed enough for us to unzip our jackets, and we descended a set of crumbling steps and entered a cave-like space Jesse called a “mithraeum.”
“Soldiers built these temples,” he said, leading me through the underground chamber. Water trickled somewhere. The wall ahead of us bore flecks of white paint and the faded image of a man stabbing a bull in the neck. Jesse stopped in front of it.
“Mithras,” he said.
I drifted closer. “He was a god of soldiers?”
“Among other things,” Jesse said. “A mystery cult sprang up around him. History doesn’t tell us much about their practices, but we know the followers created elaborate initiation rituals. Some scholars think they could get pretty intense.”
“Intense how?” Hale Valley had banned frat hazings, but they still happened. Several guys on the football team had shown up at practice looking like they’d spent time in a cement mixer.
“Endurance challenges,” Jesse said. “Blindfolds and bindings. Only men could join.”
I stared up at the mural. “So basically a gay bar with better architecture.”
Jesse kept his eyes on the bull, but the corner of his mouth gave him away.
I lifted a hand toward the mural, then pulled it back. Maybe I didn’t want to see whatever rituals had been performed down here.
“You don’t have to,” Jesse said.
But we were in Rome to catch Ulfrik. I pressed my hand to the wall.
Nothing. Just the drip of water and the low hum of the temple’s retrofitted lightbulbs.
I dropped my hand.
Jesse took it and laced his fingers with mine. “We’ll try somewhere else.”
“Another dudes-only cult cave?”
He tugged me toward the stairs. “A Roman bath complex two streets over.”
But my gift didn’t spark there, either—or at the next three places we visited. When I yanked my hand from a marble bust, Jesse squeezed my shoulder.
“It’ll come,” he said as we stepped into the afternoon sunlight. “You have to be patient.”
“I’m patient.”
He gave me a look that said he knew exactly how full of shit I was. Then my stomach growled, and his lips curved.
“Lunch.”
“Finally. I was about to eat that bust.”
Twenty minutes later, we entered a restaurant wedged between a dry cleaner and an abandoned beauty salon.
The inside was roughly the size of my bedroom back in Hale Valley, with four small tables and battered chairs.
A long counter held glass cases loaded with cannoli, cookies, and fluffy pastries my mother would have called cream puffs but probably weren’t.
The place was empty, but garlic and tomato wafted thick in the air. A swinging door led to what I assumed was the kitchen.
“We’re lucky,” Jesse said, pulling out a chair. “It’s usually packed with locals. We must have missed the lunch rush.”
I sat across from him and looked around. “Where are the menus?”
His eyes warmed. “There aren’t any. You get whatever Consolata feels like making.”
I glanced at the swinging door. “Are you sure she’s open? This place looks—”
“Listen more closely,” Jesse said. “Use your wolf.”
Oh, yeah. Good point.
I closed my eyes and let my beast rise. With my wolf hovering, I sifted through the layers of noise, discarding the distant rumble of scooters and the determined rattle of the restaurant’s refrigerator. Just when I started to give up, I found it.
There.
Somewhere behind the swinging door, a heart thumped.
Except the rhythm was all wrong. My business major hardly qualified me to assess heartbeats, but I’d endured enough sports physicals to know the basics.
And this heart was all over the place, its beats scattered and stumbling.
A watery sound leaked between the pulses, which faded abruptly before strengthening again.
When I opened my eyes, Jesse’s were soft. And sad.
“She doesn’t have a lot of time left,” he said.
As if he’d summoned her, footsteps echoed from the kitchen.
A moment later, a woman bustled through the door.
She was at least eighty, with gray hair pulled into a bun and tucked under a net.
A floral apron covered a black dress that started just under her chin and finished around plump calves.
A small gold crucifix glinted at her throat.
When she spotted Jesse, her face broke into a smile that showed straight white teeth with a prominent gap in the center.
“Yes-say!” she exclaimed, swooping to the table with surprising speed. Jesse grinned as he stood, then laughed when she scowled and pinched his side.
“Magro!” she said, throwing up flour-dusted hands.
He replied in Italian, and they went back and forth while I watched like a spectator at Wimbledon. Eventually, her dark gaze landed on me. She looked me over before slanting Jesse an approving look.
“Bello, Yes-say. Molto bello.” She rattled off a few more lilting words that made Jesse’s smile spread.
He looked at me. “Consolata says I’m too thin, but you’re very handsome and I should be grateful that you agreed to sleep with me.”
My startled laugh filled the restaurant.
Consolata’s eyes lit up. Turning to Jesse, she spoke again as she ran her finger over the bridge of her nose.
Jesse grabbed her hand and kissed it. “Her husband had freckles like yours.” He looked at me. “She says if she were twenty years younger I’d have serious competition.”
More like fifty years, but who was counting?
I put a hand over my heart. “Consolata, you had me at bello.” I winked at Jesse. “Tell her I only accept compliments from beautiful women, so it’s a good thing she’s here.”
Jesse translated, and Consolata flushed pink and swatted my arm. More Italian flew back and forth, then she disappeared into the kitchen.
“She agreed to feed you,” Jesse said, resuming his seat. “That means she likes you.”
I didn’t need to see a menu. The food was going to be amazing. “How long have you known her?”
“Longer than she realizes. I came here decades ago, when she was a young bride just starting out with her husband.”
An ache shot across my heart. “And then you couldn’t come around anymore?” The same pattern had happened at other points in his life, when his immortality had forced him to stop teaching.
He nodded, his gaze lingering on the swinging door. “I visited a few years ago. Consolata is nearly deaf, and her eyesight is poor. She thinks I’m my own grandson.”
The ache deepened, and I reached across the table and took his hand. “So you became friends again.”
He smiled. “We became friends again.”
The door swung wide, and Consolata reappeared with a tray laden with food. When Jesse stood, she barked something that made him drop back into his chair like he’d been electrocuted.
I folded my arms in a feeble attempt to hold back my laughter. Jesse sat sheepishly as she unloaded plates of steaming rigatoni glistening with olive oil, a basket overflowing with bread, glasses of red wine, and a plate of oval-shaped cookies coated with powdered sugar.
Tucking her tray under her arm, she spoke a string of Italian at Jesse. He shook his head and started to respond, but she talked over him with a dangerous glint in her eyes.
Finally, he raised his hands. “Va bene.”
She held his stare, her eyes so fierce they rivaled Jesse’s when his wolf was close to the surface. Apparently satisfied she’d won their argument, she nodded.
Jesse turned to me. “Consolata says lunch is on the house.”
Having faced down a dominant werewolf more than once, I knew when to pick my battles. I met her eyes and lowered mine. “Grazie mille, signora.”
Her face split into a smile that must have broken hearts once upon a time. Cheeks pink, she waved me off with muttered Italian and returned to the kitchen.