Page 63 of Roguefinder

Chapter

Twelve

CALEB

The next morning dawned bright and early.

Well, Jesse dawned bright and early. I woke to the sound of him whistling. With a groan, I burrowed deeper into the mattress and pulled a pillow over my head.

Moments later, a towel snapped against my ass. “Up and at ’em, baby,” Jesse said. “We’ve got a busy day.”

“You’re chipper,” I said, voice muffled by cotton and feathers.

A slight gust of air was my only warning before the towel stung my ass again.

“Fuck!” I yelped, flipping over.

Jesse smiled down at me, fully dressed with the scent of coffee rolling off him. Hands blurring, he whipped the towel into another long, skinny rope.

“I’m up!” I said, flinging back the sheets.

His chuckle followed me into the shower. He was still smiling when we closed the rental’s gate behind us. Winter air bit my cheeks and the tip of my nose.

“Sun hasn’t even come up yet,” I muttered, breath puffing like I’d just exhaled half a cigar.

Jesse was obnoxiously cheerful beside me. “We have a lot of exploring to do. If you want to beat the tourists, you have to start early.”

He wasn’t wrong. Although, the tourists showed up anyway. Groups of them wandered the Pantheon, walking shoes squeaking on the marble as they photo-bombed each other taking wide shots of the ceiling.

They gathered at the Spanish Steps, too. And the Trevi Fountain. And the Circus Maximus. And the Roman Forum. Shoulders brushed mine. Dads with backpacks wandered into me. Strollers ran over my toes and sucker punched my Achilles tendons. Scents hustled me from every angle, the sour bite of human sweat layered with the chemical assault of body wash, shampoo, and perfume.

My wolf stirred under my skin. I brushed my fingertips over statues and murals, willing my gift to spark, but nothing came. Just elbows and fanny packs and the disjointed chorus of dozens of languages.

Every so often, Jesse’s eyes would lighten a shade, and he’d get that intense look he wore whenever he used his gift. Then he’d shake his head, and we’d move to the next congested site.

By mid-morning, I was ready to drown a family in matching T-shirts in the Tiber.

“Come on,” Jesse murmured, catching my elbow. “I know a few interesting places off the beaten path.”

He delivered, leading me through hushed temples and shadowed churches where dust motes drifted in the sunlight that slanted through the stained glass windows. The air warmed enough for us to unzip our jackets, and we descended a set of crumbling steps and entered a cave-like space Jesse called a “mithraeum.”

“Soldiers built these temples,” he said, leading me through the underground chamber. Water trickled somewhere. The wall ahead of us bore flecks of white paint and the faded image of a man stabbing a bull in the neck. Jesse stopped in front of it.

“Mithras,” he said.

I drifted closer. “He was a god of soldiers?”

“Among other things,” Jesse said. “A mystery cult sprang up around him. History doesn’t tell us much about their practices, but we know the followers created elaborate initiation rituals. Some scholars think they could get pretty intense.”

“Intense how?” Hale Valley had banned frat hazings, but they still happened. Several guys on the football team had shown up at practice looking like they’d spent time in a cement mixer.

“Endurance challenges,” Jesse said. “Blindfolds and bindings. Only men could join.”

I stared up at the mural. “So basically a gay bar with better architecture.”

Jesse kept his eyes on the bull, but the corner of his mouth gave him away.

I lifted a hand toward the mural, then pulled it back. Maybe I didn’t want to see whatever rituals had been performed down here.