Page 43 of Roguefinder

He shook his head. “Romans have always had crows. They’re highly intelligent, in addition to being nosy. They remember faces.”

“If you tell me you’re a bird expert, I swear to god…”

Laughing, he tugged me back to the light and noise of the street.

“How did Carlo become a vampire?” I asked.

“He was a remarkable composer,” Jesse said. “He attracted the notice of a master vampire who wanted Carlo to write music for his household, so he turned him. Eventually, Carlo grew stronger than his maker and killed him.”

I startled. “You’re shitting me.”

“No.”

“So much for loyalty. Was his master an asshole or something?”

“That’s a common vampire trait,” Jesse said dryly. “They’re also very territorial. It’s not unheard of for fledglings to challenge their master. About once a century, you hear of one amassing enough power to stage a coup.”

“Doesn’t Carlo worry about the same thing happening to him?”

“Probably.” Jesse glanced toward the street. “But he also doesn’t let his fledglings get old enough or strong enough to challenge him.”

Moments later, Jesse stopped across the street from a building that dominated a whole block. It rose five stories from the cobblestones, its pale facade carved with pilasters and rows of arched windows framed in stone relief. Thick cornices separated each floor. Iron torch brackets lined the entrance, the shadows from their flames dancing over the stonework. A conservatory of glass and iron crowned the roof. My McMansion-loving parents would have eviscerated their iPhone storage taking photos of it.

“Ready?” Jesse asked.

Not really.

“Yep.”

We crossed the street. Halfway up the steps, a young woman in a black, figure-hugging skirt suit stepped from a side door and nodded to us.

“Gentlemen,” she said with a soft accent. “Signor Tesoro is pleased to meet with you now.”

Her demeanor was polite, but there was no question we weren’t getting inside unless we went with her.

“Grazie,” Jesse said with a quick look at me. We followed her through the door, which led to a hallway illuminated by sconces on the burgundy walls. The woman moved silently ahead of us, her black stilettos leaving little stab wounds in the carpet. Her dark-brown hair was secured in a low ponytail that descended to her lower back. When she led us around a corner, her collar shifted, exposing twin puncture marks on her neck. Bruises discolored the skin around the tiny circles.

One of Carlo’s pets. But a favored one, maybe. She didn’t look ready to keel over.

We trailed her through more corridors decorated with gold-framed mirrors and tasteful art. As we made our way deeper into the opera house, a man began to sing.

The hair on my arms lifted. I’d never been to an opera, and my experience with classical music was limited to ninth grade choir performances and a couple of Broadway shows my parents had taken me to before my mom decided too much exposure to musical theater might make me gayer.

This was something way different. The man’s voice rose and fell, each note unfurling like he’d painted it in the air. The sound grew louder.

Louder.

We passed an open doorway, and I slowed, caught in the voice’s tractor beam.

Rows of seating sloped to a stage lit by a single spotlight. Private boxes with red and gold curtains ringed the upper levels. A man stood under the light, one hand lifting as he sang.

Another man sat at a piano to one side of the stage, occasionally striking a single note. A handful of people observed from the front row.

“This way,” the woman said. She’d stopped several steps ahead, an expectant look on her face. Jesse had slowed, too, and he put a hand in the small of my back as we caught up with her.

A few corridors later, we reached a set of glossy black doors. The woman pushed them open and stood aside to let us pass.

Dark wood paneling covered the walls. An enormous candelabra sat at the edge of a desk big enough to have crossed the Atlantic with the Mayflower.