“It does look a bit … soft,” Alessa said, trying to sound unimpressed.
Saida made a sound between a cough and a sob.
Kamaria and Kaleb had their eyes closed, and it wasn’t clear if Josef was holding Nina up or the opposite, as they both looked at risk of keeling over.
Alessa swallowed a bubble of hysterical laughter. Either her years of preparation were finally paying off and she’d been toughened up by the many hours she’d spent in the cold storage room examining mummified scarabeo from past Divorando … or she’d finally snapped.
Hors d’oeuvres and a deceased scarabeo. A fitting welcome to the Cittadella of Doom.
Dea, your comedic timing is impeccable.
“The pincers are, uh, more curved than the last batch, wouldn’t you say? Closer to those from the Divorando in 431?”
Renata nodded as if Alessa had made a very good point, which was especially impressive since there hadn’t been a Divorando in 431. It had been 43 … 5? 437? It was definitely an odd-numbered year.
It didn’t matter. The Fontes didn’t look as though they were hearing much of anything.
She muddled her way through a few more derisive comments before Renata clapped her hands together and cheerily announced she’d show the Fontes their new quarters.
Like a train of miserable ducklings, they followed Renata up the stairs, seeming as defeated at the prospect of moving in as they were at remaining near the monster.
“Well, you were right,” Dante said, strolling over. “That did not go well.”
“You don’t think so?” Alessa nudged the scarabeo’s claw with the toe of her boot. “I thought the demon corpse lightened the mood a bit.”
“Still dead?” Dante gave it a kick and nodded at the wet cracking sound. “Still dead.”
“I should probably tell Renata to lock the windows, so they don’t try to escape.”
Alessa stared down at the claw an arm’s length from the toe of her shiny black boots. Two identical curves, glossy and smooth, dark and deadly.
They matched.
* * *
She didn’t check the windows, but she put on a vapid hostess smile and peeked inside the Fonte suite to be sure her new prospects weren’t making ropes out of bedsheets.
They stopped unpacking at the sight of her in the doorway, and no one seemed inclined to speak, so she mumbled something about staying close by and scurried toward the library, Dante following like a surly shadow.
Inside the vaulted room, she stopped, breathing deeply of leather, old paper, sandalwood, and a hint of something strangely enticing she’d never noticed before.
Her favorite room in the Cittadella, the library was also the closest thing she had to an escape, with books and maps of every kind. As far as she knew, it held a copy of every important book printed on Saverio, and many from before Dea created the sanctuary islands. Even better, the rows of shelves held plenty of less pompous books as well, and she’d already worked her way through hundreds of stories that her mother would certainly disapprove of.
Dante looked frozen in place. Unblinking, jaw hanging open, utterly gobsmacked.
She’d had a similar reaction the first time she saw the opulent room. The sheer magnitude of books and priceless art pieces were enough to leave anyone speechless, and this time of day, with everything speckled in rainbows from the sunlight streaming through the tall, stained-glass windows, it was downright magical.
She gave him a minute to take it all in, pretending to study an enormous map of Saverio on the nearest wall. Every town on the island was labeled, as well as the intricate system of underground tunnels, and it was so large the mapmaker had included every major street in the city. She raised her hand to trace the many beaches on the farthest shoreline, resting her finger on a tiny cove with no name. It had been named once, but the words were so faded they got lost in the background. Someday she’d visit them all.
Dante shook himself and sprung into motion, striding the length of the room to check behind the shelves for lurkers. No bogeymen leapt from the shadows, and when he was satisfied they were alone, he began peering at titles and pulling books off the shelves. Within minutes, he had a tall stack.
“What?” He glanced over as though he sensed her curious gaze. “Didn’t think I could read?”
She must have looked as surprised as she felt.
“No,” she answered. “I just didn’t peg you as someone who would. What sort of books do you like?” A straightforward enough topic, even for someone who seemed allergic to speaking.