“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.
Dante stared. “What was that?”
She flushed. “An echo. Nothing to be alarmed about.”
“A what?”
“A … remnant. I never had the chance to use the power I absorbed from my Fontes, so a bit lingers.”
“Can you do it again?”
She reached into the recesses of her mind but found nothing. “No. That was the last bit.”
The last of Emer. Her heart sank. She’d burned through his light, and it hadn’t even been for something important.
“Why do you even need a Fonte, then? Touch them now and save it for the battle.”
She shook her head. “A Finestra can only magnify a gift while in contact with a Fonte. At best, I’d only have enough power to delay the invasion for a few seconds. Probably not even that. Normally, a Finestra only holds on to another’s power for a minute or so.”
“It’s been more than a minute.”
She sighed and closed her eyes. “Because I killed him. Think of it as a final breath. I stole his last magical exhalation.”
“But—”
“Believe me, we’ve tried. It doesn’t work that way.”
As Alessa led Dante up a spiral staircase, the vise gripping her chest eased, leaving space for a small rush of victory. She’d done it. She’d escaped the Cittadella, braved a tavern full of criminals and outcasts, and convinced a feral wolf to follow her home.
Around the moonlight-dappled stones of the courtyard, each staircase to the next level was on a different corner, forcing anyone bound for the upper levels to circle the entire structure, so the walk to the fourth floor would offer plenty of stilted silence.
The thought had barely crossed her mind when a form surged from a darkened doorway.
Eleven
L’uomo solitario è bestia o angelo.
A solitary man is either a brute or an angel.
“Watch out, Finestra.” Captain Papatonis slammed Dante to the wall. “He’s armed.”
Dante’s shirt hiked up, revealing a strip of skin and scabbards on either side of his waist. Even with his cheek pressed into the wall, he managed to look bored and irritated. Papatonis might have the upper hand, but only because Dante was letting him have it, and he clearly didn’t plan on tolerating the rough handling much longer.
“At ease, Captain,” Alessa said, drawing herself tall. “He’s with me.” She was technically the head of the military, and he’d better remember his place. “I have the right to choose my own personal security officer, and I have chosen him.”