Page 29 of Roguefinder

Six

CALEB

By unspoken agreement, we lifted our suitcases from the cobblestones. Then we ran.

Well, Jesse ran. I did my best to keep up with him.

He moved through the streets like he had a compass lodged in his brain. Which, in a way, he did. Every couple of minutes, he’d stop, nostrils flaring, then take off again, leaving me helpless to do anything but follow.

Because whatever drew him, I couldn’t sense it at all. The only smells that reached me were car exhaust and old stone. As we headed into a tangle of narrow alleys, the sky stopped flirting with rain and went full downpour.

Within minutes, the streets were dark and wet. Apartment dwellers in upper stories pulled shutters closed. Tourists ducked under shop awnings, their bodies wrapped in plastic ponchos that made them look like they’d stumbled into an oversized sandwich baggie.

Ten minutes passed, then fifteen. Jesse ignored the rain and kept moving.

My backpack thumped against my spine. My suitcase swung from my fist. Before I’d grown fur and fangs, the weight would have had me gritting my teeth and rolling my shoulders. But lycanthropy did its thing, and I barely broke a sweat as Jesse led us up one street and down another.

He moved at a pace just below a run, his long legs eating up cobblestones and flat pavers. His muscles seemed more defined than usual, his shoulders thick mounds under his shirt. Every dozen or so steps he’d stop, utterly still and completely alert. Then he’d start off again, his glowing eyes cataloging everything in his path. Rain dampened the hair at his nape, and energy rolled off him in waves that threatened to make my teeth chatter.

I clamped my jaw shut and stuck to his heels. I’d stopped being afraid of him somewhere between the Albany steakhouse where we’d had our first date and the bed in his townhouse where he’d made a five course meal out of my ass. But my wolf understood something my human brain had forgotten: Just because Jesse van der Meer didn’t scare me didn’t mean he wasn’t a scary motherfucker. And he’d never been scarier than he was now, his beast just under the surface.

Pride pumped hot in my veins. My wolf, which apparently had zero chill, urged me closer, eager to plaster itself to Jesse’s side and never leave.

Jesse stopped abruptly, and I almost smacked into him. Turning his head, he scented the air. His irises were like amber set on fire, and a growl rumbled from his chest.

“This way,” he rasped, his wolf in his throat.

Glancing around, I followed. He moved faster, splashing past shops and apartment buildings. The scent of bread and melted cheese drifted from a two-story building that hummed with music. A few street vendors sat behind covered carts bristling with selfie sticks and flowers. We skirted one, and Jesse almost collided with a man in running tights and a quarter-zip.

“Scusi,” Jesse said, raising his free hand.

The man paused, chest heaving. He looked between us, his dark eyes scanning me. “No problem,” he said, and jogged on.

I watched him go, then turned back to Jesse. “Am I really that American?”

He stared at a weathered orange building across the street. Rain dripped from its tiled roof. A mix of round and square windows dotted the facade, which looked like it had been expanded the same way I’d played with Legos as a kid—slapping leftover pieces together until I got a vaguely castle-shaped structure with no hope of passing a safety inspection.

“There,” Jesse said.

A family of four clustered near a pair of dark green doors. The adults huddled under an umbrella, their heads bent over a phone. Two teenagers in puffer jackets flanked them, their expressions like convicts awaiting sentencing.

Jesse grabbed my arm and steered me across the street, pausing at a narrow doorway set back from the pavement. He grabbed my suitcase without breaking stride and wedged both of our bags into the alcove as far as they’d go. “Keep your backpack,” he said. “We’ll come back for the rest.”

Unburdened by luggage, we wove past the tourists and rounded the building’s perimeter until we reached a tall iron fence with a padlocked gate. Jesse closed his hand around the lock and squeezed. A second later, the metal gave way with the sound of a tree branch snapping.

“Cool,” I said.

He opened the gate a crack and waved me forward. “I set a ward, but I won’t be able to hold it very long. We need to get inside before someone notices us.”

I darted past him, and we rushed through a courtyard to another set of wooden doors. The corridor inside was cramped and dimly lit, the walls covered in mosaics that made me catch my breath. Tiny squares of faded color formed one incredible scene after another. Saints and angels. Animals frolicking in forests and gardens. Men and women in white robes. Romans. Whoever had cut the stones had done it at least fifteen hundred years ago. Their work lived on, their talent close enough to touch.

I reached out a hand, then snatched it back. Was it okay to touch this stuff? It looked like it belonged in a museum.

Jesse was already ten feet ahead of me. Abandoning the mosaics, I hurried after him.

We descended a set of stone steps, and the walls narrowed. The air grew cooler and damper, the smell of wet clay clinging to my nose and the inside of my throat. The barrel-vaulted ceilings lowered, and the ground sloped. Recessed lights splashed puddles of gold illumination over the stone floors. We descended more stairs. My shoulders brushed the walls.

The corridor twisted left, then right. We turned into another passageway, and the walls became long, flat shelves. They ran floor to ceiling on both sides, the niches carved directly into the rock like bunk beds. But they were all empty.