Chi pecora si fa, il lupo se la mangia.
Become a sheep and the wolves will eat you.
DAYS BEFORE DIVORANDO: 26
The island began trembling during breakfast, as though it, too, shook with dread. The second quake sent Alessa back upstairs, dripping with spilled orange juice and grumbling about deities who could have sent messages composed of clouds or rainbows, but oh, no, they simply had to use natural disasters as a countdown clock.
The shaking subsided by the time she stood in the training room in clean clothes, but Crollo seemed determined to dump an ocean from the sky. She set to work arranging the pillows she’d brought to make it feel less threatening—and break any potential falls—but she couldn’t do anything about the ominous rumble of the storm.
Kamaria leaned against the wall, projecting rakish ennui in snug, fawn-colored breeches, but she kept fiddling with the laces of her untucked blouse. Nina stood behind Josef, subtly mirroring his movements like the tide responding to the moon. The pale pink of her dress was a change from her usual white attire, but not by much.
Kaleb’s usual scorn had melted into sullen gloom, and in case anyone wasn’t entirely certain how he felt about being there, he’d chosen to wear uninterrupted black from head to toe. Feet planted wide, arms crossed, he glowered at anyone foolish enough to glance his way.
Saida was the first one to meet Alessa’s questioning gaze, and she stepped forward. Dressed as if bright colors could banish the oppressive air of pessimism, each layer of her skirt was brighter than the last, and her eyes were highlighted with blue eyeshadow. The color coordinated perfectly with the scarf she’d tied around her hair, presumably to keep it from whipping around when she used her powers.
“We can sit, if you’d like,” Alessa said, gesturing toward the scattered pillows.
Saida pulled her shoulders back and looked Alessa directly in the eyes. “Thank you, but I prefer having room to move.”
To escape.
Working her fingers, Alessa tried to coax her blood to circulate, even though cold fingers were the least of anyone’s concerns.
In one corner, Renata watched intently, lips moving in a silent litany of “gentle, easy, careful” that matched the refrain in Alessa’s head.
Her hands were so clammy she wasn’t sure she’d be able to hold on, so at Saida’s jerky nod, Alessa curved her thumb and pointer finger around Saida’s wrists like a bracelet.
Her power woke with a surge, a current racing through her, greedy, yearning for something long denied. It was too much, too fast.
Saida whimpered, and Alessa let go. She needed a second. “Thank you, Saida. I’ll come back to you. Josef?”
He’d brought a glass of water for Alessa to try and freeze and had the foresight to place it on the ground so they didn’t end up with shattered glass everywhere.
Alessa took Josef’s smooth, cool hands in hers and stared at the water glass. Nothing changed. A chill hit her breastbone, spreading toward her limbs. It might have been Josef’s gift, or merely her growing panic.
He held on longer than Saida, insisting he was fine through gritted teeth, as though afraid he’d be sick if he opened his mouth.
It was only the first day. They had time.
A little.
Not enough.
Kamaria sauntered over, carrying a candle in a metal stand. “I brought props.” Her voice was light, but the flame shook. She put it on the floor and grabbed Alessa’s hands.
Alessa couldn’t get her hands free. She was going to hurt Kamaria, or worse—
Focus. She gave herself a mental slap. Breathing deeply, she reined herself in until the greedy need abated. Then—only then—she tried to reach for the flicker of Kamaria’s power. It brushed against her mind, dancing like a flame in a breeze, but she couldn’t grasp it.
Renata had told Alessa to think of a singer—frankly, she was starting to lose track of the metaphors—but her attempts to use her power felt like straining to remember a forgotten melody or having a word at the tip of her tongue. It was there, inside her, and a part of her knew how it was supposed to go, but the more she strained, the harder it was to grab hold.
Kamaria’s grip loosened enough for Alessa to pull away, and they let out matching sighs of relief. Trembling slightly, Kamaria bowed with a flourish and a cocky grin.
The candle hadn’t done anything.
Three Fontes, no results.
Icy fingers of panic walked up Alessa’s spine. She’d been so worried about killing Fontes she’d never considered the horrible possibility of keeping them alive but being unable to channel their power.
Kaleb skulked over, looking so stiff he might snap in half if she made a sudden move. His hands were cold, and large—a ridiculous observation but the first thing she noticed before she opened her mind completely. A jolt went up her arms, and she let go with a gasp.
Kaleb bent over, clutching his hand. “Dammit, that hurt!”
“I’m sorry,” Alessa said. Lightning danced between her fingers. “I didn’t mean to—”
“Your turn, Freckles,” Kaleb sneered at Nina, who was cowering behind Josef, whispering a prayer to Dea. “Get on with it. Evil monster bugs a comin’.”
“You’re such a bully, Kaleb.” Nina lowered her hands, eyes shining with angry tears. She cried through her turn, sobs shaking them both until Alessa struggled to maintain a light touch. She didn’t even try to use Nina’s gift for warping matter. One step at a time. Nina needed reassurance before she could stand a chance of being a useful Fonte.
After one more round where “no one died” was the best anyone could say about it, Kaleb declared the session over and stalked out, glaring at anyone who dared look his way.
Alessa let him go. He might light the Cittadella on fire if she attempted a pep talk.
The others filed out behind him, but Kamaria hung back. “Can I ask you something?”
“Of course.”
“Do the Finestra and Fonte have the power to pardon someone of a high crime?”
Alessa cut a glance at her.
“Don’t worry, I’m not a serial killer or anything. I’m talking about my brother. I know what everyone thinks, but Shomari’s not a deserter, I swear. Like I said, he’s just a sucker for a dare, and his friends challenged him to sneak onto a ship. The little jerks ran away when the crew woke up, and I bet you anything Sho tried to hide so he wouldn’t get in trouble, then panicked when the ship left the dock, and he officially became a deserter. He didn’t even take anything with him.”
Alessa blew out a breath. “I’ve always been told desertion was an unforgivable crime, but I don’t know, maybe under the right circumstances.”
“Like if his sister became Fonte?”
It was tempting to say yes, to lock in one strong contender, but she couldn’t use Kamaria’s brother as coercion, and she truly didn’t know. “Maybe. I can’t make any promises.”
“I get it. Sorry we’re not making this easy for you.”
Alessa tried to wipe her eyes discreetly as Kamaria left the room.
“Don’t say anything,” she said to Dante, who was watching her far too closely.
“Wasn’t going to.”
She sniffed. “They’re all alive.”
“They are.”
“Saida has a good attitude. Josef was a good sport. Kamaria was strong and she seems motivated. Kaleb was … well, Kaleb was Kaleb.”
“I enjoyed watching him squirm.”
She gave him a scolding look. “Be nice.”
“I’m not nice.”
“I think you might be, actually.”
Dante looked mortally offended, which struck her as so funny she began laughing, then couldn’t stop, until the tears she’d been fighting broke free and she wasn’t sure if she was laughing or crying.
Dante looked increasingly horrified, but she couldn’t have stopped herself for anything in the world.
“Uh, are you okay?” he asked.
“Never better,” she wheezed. “Inigo?”
“Wrong.”
“Alberto?”
“Still wrong.” He held the door open for her.
“Ranieri?”
“Not even close.”
“Julian? Amadeo?”
“All right, piccola, that’s enough for today.”
The rain had become a deluge during their training session. Water coursed from the eaves of the courtyard, ferocious gusts of wind sending sheets of rain sideways, so the covered walkway offered no protection.
Alessa and Dante sloshed through the courtyard to the stairs, and she heard a huddle of servants arguing about the fastest way to bail out the kitchens. If the Cittadella, perched at the top of the city, was this inundated, she hated to think of everywhere else.
“Shall we make a run for it?” Alessa asked Dante.
Rainwater dripped from the tips of his hair as he looked at the sky. They were going to be drenched no matter what.
“Come on.” Alessa grabbed her skirts and dashed into the pouring rain. She could barely see past the water coursing down her face, but she stuck her tongue out at the statue of Crollo as she passed anyway.
A loud rumble, and someone slammed into her.
“What—”
Dante propelled her forward as something crashed to the ground behind them. The statue. Shards of marble skittered across the waterlogged courtyard.
She stumbled but didn’t fall. Dante had her arm in a vise grip, hauling her toward the stairs.
“It’s not going to fall again.” She struggled, but his hand might as well have been an iron shackle. “You can’t touch the Finestra, you dolt. The earthquake is over.”
“There was no earthquake, and that wasn’t an accident.”
She tried to turn around. “Did you see someone?”
“I could barely see anything.”
He let her go when they reached the stairs, pushing aside wet hair plastered to his forehead.
Dante flicked the drops from his fingers and gestured at the side of her face. “You’re bleeding.”
“What?” She touched her cheek.
Dante gripped her elbow again, urging her along, but her waterlogged skirts kept tangling her legs, binding them together.
“Oh, for Dea’s sake, hold on.” She yanked her arm free and found the clasp, unwrapping herself and bundling the wet fabric into her arms. The forest green tights she wore beneath were nearly as thick as pants, and her leather boots—which were probably ruined—went above her knees.
Dante’s gaze flicked down, then immediately up and away.
“Oh, please,” she said. “Like you’ve never seen a woman’s legs before.”
“Just keep moving,” he said gruffly.
When they made it to her rooms, Alessa hurried to the bathroom to examine her injury. The cut on her temple, courtesy of a stray piece of marble, was straight, as long as her finger, and relatively shallow. Nothing that required stitches, thank the gods, because she would’ve had to do it herself and she’d probably faint. First her ear, now her face. At this rate, she’d look like a battle-worn Finestra before Divorando even began.
Dante came up beside her. “I found salve. Hold still.” He raised a finger, and Alessa stumbled back, tripping over the commode and falling into the tub.
“Have you lost all sense?” she said. “You can’t touch my skin, or you’ll die.”
Dante blinked. “Oh, right. Here.” He tossed the salve into her lap.
Her backside hurt, her temple smarted, and she must have looked ridiculous with her legs draped over the side of a bathtub, feet sticking up. Meanwhile, instead of looking like a drowned rat, Dante looked gorgeous, hair curling, white shirt translucent and plastered to his chest, and his pants—no, she was not looking at his pants.
She glared at him while unscrewing the cap. “Are you laughing at me?” she said. “You think someone tried to kill me again and you’re laughing?”
He raised a fist to his mouth. “Someone’s been trying to kill you the whole time I’ve known you.”
She hurled the salve at his head.
He caught it. “Can we agree that when I tell you to move your ass from now on, you do it without question?”
“Fine. Can we agree that as long as I do, you won’t drag me around? The Finestra isn’t supposed to be manhandled.”
“Deal.” He shook the salve at her. “Done with this?”
Alessa pushed up to her elbows, squinting at the inside of his wrist. At the two crossed blades, the thin circle of minuscule letters around it—the mark that declared him a criminal, a killer. The faded mark.
Dante dropped his hand, but she’d already seen the proof.
“It’s fake,” she said. “You marked yourself.”