Non è prudente aprire vecchie ferite.
It is unwise to open old wounds.
DAYS BEFORE DIVORANDO: 28
Alessa folded her gloves beside her plate and stared blankly at the table cluttered with barely touched plates and empty glasses. The Fontes declined, pleading exhaustion, when a server entered with tiny frosted glasses of limoncello. Their chairs practically left grooves in the floor.
Dante turned the nearest chair backward to straddle it and propped his chin on one hand. “They really are scared of you, huh?”
“Of course they are.” Alessa curled her fingers into a fist. “I’m the monster who haunts their nightmares.”
His eyes softened. She wouldn’t have noticed the change a day before, but it was there.
Dante picked up a bottle of wine and squinted through the cobalt glass.
“I watched them open it,” she said. “It’s not poisoned. Unfortunately.”
Dante tipped it to catch the remaining drops and reached for another. Spearing the cork with a knife, he gave a deft twist, popping it out. He tipped the bottle her way, and she shook her head.
She didn’t realize she was staring at the knives inked on his wrist until he raised his eyebrows.
“Do you regret it?” Alessa gestured to his tattoo.
“Always.”
She had no grounds to judge or pry into his past. She was a killer who’d hired a killer, and he was marked, not banished, so whatever he’d done, it hadn’t been cold-blooded murder—probably a street brawl gone wrong. But it struck her that Dante might be the only person she’d ever spoken to who knew what it felt like to end a life.
“It must be terrible to have a reminder of your worst mistake etched onto your skin forever.”
He absently rubbed his thumb over the mark. “If I forgot, it would be like they died all over again. They don’t deserve that.”
Guilt and sadness had always been a weight she couldn’t shake off, but he spoke of regret like a gift, like he cared enough to want to keep their memory alive.
“Well,” she said, trying to smile and failing spectacularly. “I’m glad I don’t have to get marked. I’d run out of space.” Her smile collapsed.
“You want to talk about it?”
Only her ghosts breathed in the long silence. She’d carried Emer’s story alone for so long, with no one willing to listen.
“The first time, I was so … excited.” The words came unbidden, like blood welling from a wound. “After waiting so long, I was hungry for any kind of connection, even a simple touch.”
“Hungry?”
Heat flared in her cheeks. “It’s the best word I could think of.”
“You wanted him.”
“No.” She shook her head. “I don’t know. Maybe. But that’s not what I meant. I simply wanted to be a part of society again, to be a normal girl who wasn’t set apart from everyone else. He was sweet and kind, and I knew he’d be patient with me as I learned how to control his—our—power. I sensed he could be a friend and maybe something more, eventually.”
“Was it quick?”
She swallowed. “No. And I only made it worse. I’d been warned I might feel a shock, so when he kissed my hand, I was waiting. I didn’t notice he hadn’t moved. Until he collapsed. I should have left him and run for help, but I didn’t realize it was my fault. It was so obvious, of course. The same thing happened to the child I was playing tag with on the day I became Finestra, but that boy wasn’t a Fonte. He was just a boy who had the bad luck to be touching me when the gift came. So, I tried to comfort Emer. I yelled for help.” She hiccupped a watery laugh. “I wanted him to know I was there, that he wasn’t alone.”
Her knuckles were white as bone around her glass.
“Because that’s what I would have wanted. No one should suffer or die alone. By the time help came, when I started to understand what was happening, he was already dead.”
“What did you do?” Dante asked softly.
The dishes before her blurred into a watercolor still life.
“I held his hand.”
Dante was still asleep when Alessa padded into the sitting area in the morning, wrung out and hollow.
Dea must have known he’d spend his life trying to be surly, so she’d crafted a face that would draw people to him anyway. Or maybe she’d meant to bless him with perfect features and charm, but he’d rebelled with sarcasm and a prickly demeanor.
His eyes opened, and her heart skipped a beat.
“Morning, sunshine,” she said with a brittle smile. “Our mission awaits.”
For Renata, “bonding” had to involve weaponry, so the first item on the Fontes’ agenda was whacking each other with blunt swords. Alessa doubted it would do much to build camaraderie. They weren’t a team. They were miserable quasi strangers trying not to look at each other.
They took their positions in one long row, eyes forward. Renata strode up and down the line, correcting form, instructing them to picture an invisible opponent, but Alessa visualized each step and flick of the blade as a dance. She’d never actually danced with anyone, but her foil became her partner, responsive to her touch, cutting a silver trail through the air. Her muscles grew pleasantly fatigued, and everything fell away.
Renata’s loud clap was as startling as being pushed into a cold lake, and Alessa’s foil clattered to the ground.
They all watched it roll across the floor.
“Well, that’s reassuring,” Kaleb said under his breath.
With a pained smile, Renata declared Alessa in charge. Her absence left a strange and unpleasant intimacy in the room, and Alessa polished her foil with unnecessary vigor.
Kaleb threw his sword on the ground with a clang. “Can someone tell me why we’re practicing fighting skills when we have magic?”
Kamaria shot him a death glare. “Not everyone lives in a walled villa, and anyone less privileged than yourself—in other words, everyone—knows it’s worth learning how to defend yourself.”
Kaleb rolled his eyes. “How many times have you fought off an attacker?”
“Ask him.” She pointed at Dante. “I bet he’ll tell you.”
Dante straightened at the sudden shift of attention his way. “Tell him what?”
“That it’s important to know self-defense.”
“Oh, sure. If that’s what you call it.” Dante’s lips quirked.
“What’s so funny?” Kaleb demanded. “If you have a problem, say it to my face.”
Dante stood. “You think a scarabeo will say en garde before it eats you?”
Kaleb glared. “Whatever. We have real power.”
“You won’t last long enough to use it.”
Kaleb gestured to the wall. “Hence the weapons—”
Dante scanned Kaleb with a dismissive sniff. “A weapon’s only as good as the fighter holding it.”
“Dante,” Alessa warned. Bodyguards were supposed to fade into the background, not indulge in sword-measuring contests.
Kaleb’s hands clenched. “Whoever was chosen as Fonte should have had years to prepare, but we’re all playing catch-up because of her.”
“Watch it,” Dante said, but Kaleb didn’t heed his steely glare.
“No uniform. You aren’t even a soldier. What do you know about anything?” Puffing himself up like an affronted goose, Kaleb strolled over until he was nose to nose with Dante.
Alessa only had time to sigh before Kaleb’s chin snapped up, Dante’s knife at his throat.
“I know how to find an opponent’s weakness.”
Kaleb’s eyes went wide with fear as Dante nudged his head higher.
“Enough,” Alessa said. She didn’t mind seeing Kaleb humbled, but she shouldn’t have let it get this far.
Dante didn’t move.
“Stand down.” Slowly, Dante lowered his knife, and Alessa hung her foil on the wall. “Thank you, Dante. Helpful, as always.”
Nina chewed on the end of her braid. “Do—do scarabeo even have weaknesses?”
Dante flexed his fingers. “Everything has a weakness.”
Alessa walked over to one of the painted scarabeo on the wall, trying to remember the details of the corpses she’d dissected. “I never paid much attention to their individual vulnerabilities, but let’s find out.”
Alessa spotted the thin, worn book she was looking for on the highest shelf of the library, in the section devoted to scarabeo. Her fingertips barely brushed it, even when she hopped. She turned to locate one of the step stools scattered about and found Dante’s warmth right behind her, trapping her between him and the shelves. She inhaled sharply and pressed back into the books, sending a few tumbling off the far side.
Dante dropped the book into her hands, then stalked around the other side to return the displaced tomes to their rightful places, scowling at her through the gaps. He’d let strangers batter him bloody, but looked mortally offended at the possibility of damaging some musty old books.
Gathering her scattered thoughts, Alessa flipped pages as she walked back toward the Fontes. Diagrams blurred into jerky motion, line-drawn scarabeo scuttling across the page so vividly that she shivered.
“There. See where their armor plates meet?” Using a table as a barrier between herself and the Fontes, she placed the book down, open to the page. They craned their necks to see, but made no move to approach, so she nudged it closer and pulled her hands away. “Dante, could you tell us which moves you would use to strike those areas of vulnerability?”
Dante emerged from the stacks. “I’m here to keep you alive, not play teacher.”
“Fighting off scarabeo would help keep me alive.”
He shrugged. “My job’s over by then.”
She would have thrown the book at his head if she hadn’t needed it. She’d probably miss, but it would be worth it to watch his horror on behalf of the poor book.
Josef cleared his throat. “Sir, I apologize for Kaleb’s abysmal behavior, but the rest of us appreciate any advice you have.”
“I’m a street fighter, not a soldier.”
“The scarabeo aren’t soldiers, either,” Kamaria said. “I doubt they’ll follow the rules of engagement. We might as well learn something useful. And I wouldn’t mind watching you do that knife trick again.”
Neither would Alessa, but she suspected for different reasons. Dante was nice enough to look at under normal circumstances, and primed to fight, he was glorious, but as far as she knew, Kamaria preferred girls.
“What weapons do you get to choose from?” Dante asked.
“Bayonets and long swords, I think?” Kamaria said.
“Exactly. So why are you fencing?”
“Tradition?” Nina ventured.
Dante’s expression lost its edge as he turned to her. “On the day of Divorando—”
“On the day of Divorando, we’re supposed to use our powers to ward off the invasion.” Kaleb was sullen, but less confrontational. “The gods gave us the gifts for defense, so that is what we use. Any weaponry we carry will be ceremonial.”
“No wonder so many Finestre and Fonti get wounded.” Dante’s brows drew together. “If it were me, I’d rather not wait around to be gored.”
“Finestre and Fonti?” Kaleb sneered.
“Si, stronzo,” Dante said. “Fonte is from the old language, and the plural is Fonti, not Fontes. Finestre, Fonti, Scarabei. I wouldn’t expect un somaro like you to know that, though.”
“Congratulations, Dante,” Alessa said with a wide grin. “You’ve just been promoted. In addition to bodyguard, you are now the Cittadella’s premier fighting coach.”
If his glares were as deadly as his knives, she’d have bled to death.
“Could you at least try not to threaten anyone this afternoon?” Alessa said to Dante as they waited in the training room for the others to return for the afternoon session. “This is difficult enough without them scared of you, too.”
“Kaleb’s an ass.”
She fought to keep her expression severe. “Everyone is under a lot of pressure. I’m sure he’ll improve eventually.”
“Doubt it,” Dante said. “People don’t change.”
“That’s not true.”
“It’s completely true. Kaleb was born an ass and he’ll die an ass.”
“Well, he’s also a Fonte, so if you hurt him, they’ll send you to the continent, and he’ll continue living as an ass while scarabeo gnaw on your bones, so cut it out.”
Dante looked thoughtful. “Free transport. Might be worth it.”
Alessa pointed to a chair in the corner.
Kamaria arrived first, gaze flicking around the nearly empty room until she found Dante, who pulled out a cloth to polish his knives, appearing to ignore everything else.
“Finestra,” Kamaria said by way of greeting.
“Kamaria. Good to see you.”
“Yeah, sure. What Kaleb said about my brother last night.” Her expression held a challenge. “He didn’t—I mean, I don’t think—” She sighed. “He’s never been one to turn down a dare, and his friends … It’s just, I’m sure he regretted it as soon as he woke up.”
“I won’t hold your brother’s decision against you, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“It’s not.”
Renata entered the room in a whirl of motion, and Kamaria turned away, leaving the rest unsaid, as Tomo and the other Fontes strode in.
“Ah, Kamaria, join us,” Tomo said, ushering them to one side of the room while Renata turned her attention to Alessa with the intensity of a general on the eve of battle.
Alessa struggled to focus, her attention sliding back to where Tomo sat, surrounded by a ring of Fontes.
Renata climbed onto a stone ledge against the wall. Above her, a large spider scurried on a half-completed web, glistening fibers stretched in an intricate design. Renata pointed to the lower edge of the web. “What happens if I tug this string?”
“It will break,” Alessa said dutifully.
“Precisely. Get up here.”
Alessa stole a glance at the Fontes. Nina quickly looked away.
On the ledge, Alessa followed Renata’s directions and lightly pinched one strand.
“Pull. Gently.”
The web shifted shape but remained intact as Alessa drew the string down.
From the corner of her eye, Alessa caught Dante watching as the indignant spider stopped working and scurried into the corner.
“Now, return it and release without damaging anything.”
This part was more difficult, requiring Alessa to roll her fingers to detach without snapping the thread, but soon the web was back in its original condition.
“There, you see?” Renata smiled. “A Fonte’s power is intertwined with their soul, and if you try to pull it free, you damage the connective fibers. You need to draw just enough of their gift to meet the part of you that controls your own power, then release. It isn’t a fight, it’s a give and take.”
Alessa frowned. “I think I understand.” Maybe.
“I know you’re nervous. I’ve been in your position.”
Not exactly.
“Finestra?” Tomo called out. “I told the Fontes that I will demonstrate first.”
Renata stepped down with a thump.
Alessa had assumed they’d draw straws to decide which of the Fontes would go first. Not Tomo. He hadn’t said anything about volunteering until they had a room full of witnesses, and now Alessa and Renata couldn’t argue without revealing their fear. They had no choice but to follow his lead.
Renata gave a jerky nod and turned to Alessa. “Strategy?”
Renata might never have truly understood Alessa before, but now someone she loved was threatened. Her fear was palpable.
Alessa recited from memory. “Steady hands, slow breathing, light touch, inner calm.”
“How?”
“Fingertips only.”
“When you sense the power?”
“Control and contain.”
Tomo extended his hands, palms up, as Alessa walked over to him.
Every eye in the room followed the movement as Alessa removed her gloves. Her palms were slick with sweat.
She lifted her gaze but didn’t quite meet Tomo’s eyes. She couldn’t. The thought of watching his light go dark—
No. She wouldn’t even think it.
He was waiting.
Everyone was waiting.
With a deep breath, Alessa reached her fingertips toward his.