This Vicious Grace (The Last Finestra #1)(21)

“It’s not my fault. I don’t want anyone to be kept out of the Fortezza. I don’t make the rules, I just have to follow them.”

“Yeah, well, it’s a bit late to give a shit now.”

Like he was some noble advocate for the poor. “I thought Saverio could fall into the sea?”

His mouth pulled up in a bitter smile. “Let the whole island burn or give everyone the same chances, that’s all I’m saying.”

Alessa led the Wolf past the ramshackle dockside buildings and onto a narrow footpath leading into the damp darkness of an immense cavern used to shelter the fleet during storms.

A scratch, and the Wolf’s face was lit by the match he held up. “Walk faster.”

She picked up her pace, searching the gloom for the glint of a metal gate.

There was only one ship in the enormous cave, but soon others would arrive, packed with passengers and cargo from the continental settlements. The lower caverns would become crowded with wine barrels, seeds, fabric, food supplies, and farm animals, all the supplies they’d need to rebuild what would be lost. The hearty souls who chose to move to the continent between invasions would be welcomed with warm beds in Saverian guest rooms until it came time for everyone to barricade themselves within the Fortezza.

She’d never been to the continent, but the paintings made it seem harsh and strange, all barren plains and jagged mountains. It must be incredible to watch the new life bloom between attacks. She’d read a book once about the ways some animals hid during the rise of the swarms, but Mama had taken it away when she couldn’t stop crying about the creatures that didn’t survive.

“You tell your handlers you were going on a hiring spree tonight?” the Wolf drawled.

“No,” she said, even though it was none of his business. “I don’t need permission to hire a guard.”

“Oh, really?”

“Yes, really. Technically. I mean—” She steadied herself. “If anyone has a problem, I will take care of it.”

He made a skeptical sound.

She pushed her hood back. If they ran into guards in the tunnels, her face was their only protection against a swift and deadly punishment.

“Do you need medical attention?” she asked.

He gave her an irritated look. “No.”

Doubtful. But if men and wolves preferred to downplay their injuries, it was a waste of time to argue with either.

He moved so quietly he could have been hunting her. It made her want to run, like a scared rabbit.

Papa used to say fear began with the unknown, so maybe learning more about the man stalking behind her would quell the fear dancing over her skin.

“What’s your name?” she said.

“They call me the Wolf.”

“And they call me the Finestra, but it’s not my name.”

“I thought the Finestra didn’t have a name.”

“No, not until after Divorando, but at least you know what to call me. Shall I address you as The Wolf, then? Mr. Wolf? Or simply Wolf?”

She glanced over her shoulder and caught a glimmer of amusement in his eyes, quickly extinguished.

“Dante.”

“Do you have a last name?” She had to turn back so she didn’t run into a wall.

“Not anymore.”

“Well, nice to meet you, Dante.”

“Is it?”

Either her conversation skills were rusty from disuse, or he was exceptionally difficult to talk to. Or both. But while she might be lacking in some personality traits, persistence wasn’t one of them. “Where are you from?”

“I don’t know.”

“If you don’t want to tell me, you can say so.”

“I’m not lying. I don’t know.”

“Too many fights knocked your memories loose?” She was treading on dangerous ground, but that seemed to be the theme of the evening.

“Do you remember your birth?” he asked.

“Obviously not, but my parents have mentioned it.”

“Well, mine are dead,” he said, his voice flat.

Dammit. She cringed.

“Where are you from?” He posed it like a challenge meant to deter her from asking more questions, but she answered as if he actually wanted to know.

“Here, in the city. One of the lower terraces, though, nowhere near the Cittadella.”

Every gate seemed to clang louder and screech longer, and the final gate before they reached the Cittadella wailed loud enough to rouse the temple’s dead. Alessa cringed. Escorting a marked man through the Fortezza—a crime punishable by death for anyone but the Finestra—at a time when so many sought to justify killing her felt a bit like handing over the final stone to throw, but miraculously, the corridor remained empty of ghosts and guards.

Dante’s last match went out as they reached the entry to the stairs below the Cittadella.

Sometimes, when the world was quiet enough, she could find the echoes of stolen power, like the sparkle of Ilsi’s lightning at her fingertips or Hugo’s wind at his funeral. Maybe echo wasn’t the correct term. More of an imprint. The dip left in a mattress by an occupant who’d left hours before. She turned her palm up and breathed a tiny blue flame into life above it. The illumination only lasted for a few seconds, but it was long enough for her to find the keyhole.