He quickly found the volume he needed, but as he pulled down the heavy tome, Felipe realized he hadn’t passed any carrels or podiums. He knew he should lug it upstairs to properly peruse it, but all he needed was one address. And if there was no one down there but him, then there was no one to reprimand him. Pulling a pencil from his pocket, Felipe stuck it between his teeth and flopped the book open against his thigh. He flicked through page after page of warrants, only slowing as he grew closer to 1894. When he hit February, he scanned each page for Enoch Whitley’s name in case Turpin had been wrong about the exact date, but as he reached for the next page, he froze at the soft pad of footsteps against the wooden boards.
He hadn’t heard anyone come down the stairs, and the steps, while muted, were too heavy to be from Miss Patel. Someone could have been deeper within the labyrinth, but why would they walk as if they didn’t want to be heard? A low hum of adrenaline built in Felipe’s blood as he soundlessly straightenedand set the book back in its place. Felipe listened: a whisper of clothing, the rhythmic inhalations of a sniff, and the quickly silenced squeak of a board. Sounds echoed strangely in the cavernous tunnels, but whomever it was, Felipe was certain they were getting closer. He instinctively reached for the knife tucked inside his jacket as he crept toward the aisle. Before the intruder could reach his hiding place, Felipe sprang out, ready to swing.
“Ma che cavolo!” Antonio DeSanto cried as he leapt back like a startled cat and raised his empty hands. “It’s me, inspector!”
Felipe deflated at the stricken, fearful look on DeSanto’s face and let his hand drop. “Christ almighty, DeSanto. Why were you sneaking around like that?”
“I— I was practicing.”
“Practicing, what? Getting yourself killed? If no one has told you yet, do not sneak up on investigators.”
“I didn’t mean to.”
Guilt welled in Felipe’s chest at the stifled tremor in DeSanto’s voice. He probably scared the man half to death, all because he was feeding off the steady stream of anxiety on Oliver’s end of the tether and letting his imagination run wild. Sighing, he gave DeSanto a solid pat on the shoulder.
“No harm done, son. Just be careful around the others. Many of us carry our scars unseen.”
Without meeting his eyes, DeSanto nodded. Felipe couldn’t remember how he looked at eighteen, but he was certain he didn’t look as young as Teresa or Tony DeSanto did. While DeSanto had filled out since he first arrived at the Paranormal Society by spending much of his time in the training rooms, he still had that sharp, rangy look young men got after they grew several inches in a short time. He had a mop of black hair that never seemed to lay down no matter how much pomade he combed through it and a slightly crooked nose that looked as if it had broken and healed poorly. Usually, his hands and facewere in constant motion, and the only time he looked serious was in the darkroom or behind a camera. Felipe hadn’t seen him fearful before, and he didn’t want to be the cause of it ever again. Giving the young man another clap on the back, Felipe relaxed his stance and gave him a paternal grin.
“So what brought you down to the catacombs? I thought you were working in the darkroom.”
“I was— I am. One of the other investigators sent me down to look some stuff up for him.”
Smart man, Felipe thought. “Did you find what you were looking for?”
DeSanto opened his mouth uncertainly before shaking his head. “I’m not sure.”
“Well, if you’re willing to help me for a moment, I can accompany you upstairs, and we can talk to Miss Patel together about finding what you’re looking for. It’s easy to get lost down here.”
“All right,” DeSanto replied, giving Felipe a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.
As they walked under the brighter lights between the shelves, Felipe noticed how rumpled and drawn the younger man looked. Tension pulled at the corners of his eyes and mouth, and beneath his thick lashes, DeSanto’s eyes were bloodshot. Felipe pulled out the book of warrants he needed in time to watch DeSanto wince beneath the light. He probably had a banger of a headache.
“Hold out your hands for me.” When DeSanto hesitated and gave him a wary look, Felipe held up the book. “No desks.”
Nodding, DeSanto tugged his sleeves lower and held out his hands for Felipe to drop the book into. As Felipe thumbed through the pages, he thought he caught a faint whiff of blood, but he wasn’t sure where it was coming from. Some of thewarrants looked as if they had gone through a war, and what he had assumed was coffee could have been dried blood.
“Rough night?” Felipe asked when DeSanto shut his eyes but caught himself as he swayed on his feet.
“You could say that.”
“I noticed my interview notes didn’t appear until this morning.”
“Sorry, inspector. I got in late and fell asleep in my clothes. I sent them down as soon as I woke up.”
“Well, whether it’s booze or work keeping you out late, you should take it easy,” Felipe said as he finally reached the warrants from March 1894 and found the one with Enoch’s name on it.
“It isn’t that. Well, not fully. I’ve had a lot on my mind.”
Felipe gave DeSanto the same open look he would give Teresa when she hinted at trouble, the one Señor Quintero had used to pull the troubles from his throat as a boy. After a beat of silence, DeSanto released a heavy sigh.
“My family doesn’t like me being part of the Paranormal Society.” At Felipe’s raised brow, he quickly added, “It’s complicated. They don’t like me living here, but they don’t want me living with them either. To them, magic is fine as long as you never use it, and I can’t do that right now.”
Raising his gaze from jotting down Enoch’s address, Felipe caught a flash of shame and hurt in the other man’s eyes before he looked away. “And what do you think about how they view people like us?”
“I… I get why they think that way. My family, especially my ma and my nonna, are very pious. They follow all the rules, go to church on all the holy days and saint days, pray every day, so if the Pope says, no magic, then there’s no magic in their home.” DeSanto’s hands tightened on the bottom of the book in time with his jaw. “But I didn’t do it on purpose. I just shifted out ofnowhere, and they threw me out when I came to. I mean, I get it. I turned into a wolf and broke a bunch of stuff, but I didn’t hurt anybody. I didn’t even know werewolves were real.”
Felipe’s hand stilled as DeSanto’s words sank in. He couldn’t imagine how terrifying it must have been for DeSanto, to suddenly be a passenger in his own body when the wolf took over. In the span of minutes or hours, he had gone from scared boy to scared wolf and back again with no one to care for him or explain what had happened. Felipe shut his eyes as if he could block out the thought. Teresa had shifted into a jaguar for the first time when she was twelve, and even with Louisa there to guide her and tend to her, it had been overwhelming. Louisa once told him that shifting for the first time was the most natural yet painful experience of her life. Her father had helped her through it, as she had done for Teresa, until her body traded one form for another as smoothly as breathing. It’s what packs or families of shifters had done for centuries, but instead of help, DeSanto had been cast out for something he couldn’t control and never asked for. When Felipe looked at DeSanto again, for an instant, he saw Santiago’s face echoed in his features.
