“I’m not seeing anything this way.” Dante turned from the window and set the page down on a side table, pulling the page out of the sleeve. “Mind if I use my GUT?” he asked.
“Wait.” I held up a hand before Dante could begin. “How is the scar looking?” I asked Jack.
He stared at the china cabinet. “It’s just hovering. It should be fine. The scar didn’t let any Chucky-slime out when Tennyson and Branwell deliberately used their GUTs back in Florence.”
We all looked at each other.
“I think the risk is worth it,” Jack continued. “We need answers.”
Dante nodded. “If something happens, just break the connection for me. That should stop the Chucky-slime.”
He set the vellum sheet down carefully and touched it with one finger.
Watching one of my brothers work his GUT was always fascinating, no matter how many times I’d witnessed it. Dante could see the scenes that had occurred around an object. He described it as a movie played in fast forward. He heard nothing—hearing was Branwell’s portion of the GUT—but he saw everything.
Dante’s eyes grew distant, gaze unfocused as he scanned backward through time, searching for the scene when Cesare would have created the document. With any luck, Dante would be able to watch as Cesare initially wrote and read what the document said.
“Is the scar doing anything?” Tennyson asked.
“Just glowing with fluttery edges. It seems to consistently do that when you guys use your GUTs.”
“But no Chucky-slime?”
“Obviously not.” Jack swept a hand down his stationary person.
The moments dragged on, tension mounting.
I found myself moving closer to Jack. As if being closer would somehow protect him from the Chucky-slime, should it make an appearance.
I didn’t mean to end up in Jack’s space, but without a physical body delineating the boundaries between us, I found myself literally curled into his chest.
It should have been awkward. Really. Truly.
But . . . I found it oddly comforting. A ghost hug, of sorts.
We both watched Dante, his head swiveling as he tracked unseen things. Suddenly, his head jerked upright, staring at something straight ahead of him. He lurched backward, breaking the connection with the paper.
“Whoa.” Tennyson instantly steadied him. “You okay? I got some seriously strong shock from you right before that.”
Dante shook his head, lungs heaving. He raked two shaking hands through his hair, lacing his fingers behind his head. “I have never—and I meannever—experienced anything like that.”
“Describe it.” Branwell beckoned.
Dante arched his neck upward, staring at the ceiling before collapsing onto the couch. “I was scanning backward . . . seeing normal, everyday sort of things. Then, I landed on Cesareil Pompaso. It had to have been him. I was in the study in Villa Maledetti in Volterra. Or rather, I surmised it was the study because the fireplace surround and size of the room was the same. The house has changed a ton over the years, but it was still recognizable.
“It was nighttime, with candles lit around the room. The vellum sat on a desk, blank and untouched yet. A man moved across from the desk, snuffing out candles. Cesare, I assume. He was clearly a D’Angelo and his clothing was the correct time period with a full frock coat and long wig. He snuffed every single candle out except for a six-stick candelabra on the desk illuminating the vellum.”
Dante paused, sucking in a deep, stuttering breath, leaning forward to brace his elbows on his knees.
“You sure you’re okay? You’re seriously freaked out.” Tennyson sat down beside him, brows drawn.
“I’m good. So the guy, Cesare, walked back to the desk and methodically snuffed out five of the six candles in the candelabra. I’m just there, a fly on the wall, observing this. It’s a memory. A vision of a past event, right?”
We all nodded.
“But then Cesare lifts his head and—” Dante paused, letting out a huge burst of air. “—helookedstraight at me. Eye contact. Connection.”
“What?!” Tennyson’s head reared back.
