Sensory:The overwhelming stench of rotting fish and diesel fumes, the slick cobblestones under thin soles, the claustrophobic shadows of tall, narrow buildings.
Mood:Predatory Independence.
The port of Genoa is a scar on the coastline of Italy. It is industrial, loud, and smells of centuries of trade, theft, and stagnant seawater.
The Atlasdocks under the cover of a thick, grey dawn fog that rolls off the Mediterranean like smoke from a dying fire. The massive cranes loom overhead, skeletal fingers picking containers off the deck with groaning metallic screeches.
We disembark with the crew. We are ghosts in the mist. I am wearing oversized mechanic’s coveralls one of the Filipino sailors gave me, rolled up at the ankles and wrists. Alaric is wearing a heavy wool pea coat that smells of mothballs, the collar turned up to hide his face. We walk down the gangway, heads down, blending into the shift change of the dockworkers.
At the edge of the container terminal, Charon stops. He looks at us. His face is soot-stained, his eyes bloodshot. He lost his boat. He lost his livelihood. Alaric reaches into his pocket—the waterproof pouch is still intact—and pulls out the last thick stack of wet euros. "Buy a new boat," Alaric says, pressing the money into Charon’s hand. "A faster one."
Charon nods. He doesn't say thank you. In our world, gratitude is a weakness. Transaction is the only language. "If the Syndicate finds me," Charon says hoarsely, "I never saw you. I scuttled the boat and died."
"You died well," Alaric agrees.
Charon turns and disappears into the fog, vanishing like a spirit crossing the Styx. We are alone. Two fugitives on foreign soil. No passports. No phones. Only a gun with three bullets and a USB drive worth an empire.
"We need to move inland," Alaric rasps.
I look at him. He is hiding it well, but I know the signs. The shudder in his breath. The way he leans slightly to the left to favor his wounded shoulder. The heat radiating from him that I can feel even through the layers of wool. The swim in the freezing ocean broke the fever initially, shocking his system, but now the cold has settled deep in his bones. The infection in his shoulder—the one the antibiotic flush in the factory barely touched—is roaring back. He is a furnace walking on ice.
"We need a place to rest," I say, grabbing his arm. "You're burning up."
"I'm fine," he lies, the standard refrain of a man who refuses to be mortal. "We need papers. We can't access the accounts without a clean terminal. We can't travel without IDs."
"We can't get IDs if you collapse in the street."
I look around. The port opens up into the old city. Thecaruggi—the narrow, labyrinthine alleyways of Genoa—rise up the hill like a dark, stone hive. It is a place of shadows, where sunlight rarely touches the ground. Perfect for rats. Perfect for us.
"Come on," I say, taking the lead. "I see a sign.Camere. Rooms."
We walk. The cobblestones are slick with morning dew and grime. The buildings are tall, painted in fading ochre and pink, peeling like sunburned skin. Laundry hangs from lines strung between windows five stories up, dripping water onto our heads. We find a door. No name. Just a hand-painted sign:PENSIONE. I knock. An old woman opens it. She looks at us. She sees the desperation. She sees the cash in my hand. She doesn't ask for passports. She gives us a key.
The room is small. A bed with a wrought-iron frame. A sink in the corner that drips rhythmically.Plink. Plink. Plink.I help Alaric out of the heavy coat. He sits on the edge of the bed, swaying. He catches himself, gripping the mattress with his newly healed hand. The knuckles turn white.
"The fever is back," I say, touching his forehead. It burns my palm.
"It’s just... a setback," he wheezes. He coughs, a wet, rattling sound deep in his chest. Pneumonia? Or just the water in his lungs?
"Lie down."
"No time," he insists, forcing his eyes open. The silver is dull, clouded. "We are exposed here, Elodie. The Syndicate has eyes in every port. If they track the credit card trail from the Rolls Royce... they know we came south." He reaches into the pocket of his discarded coat. He pulls out a small, crumpled piece of paper. "Matteo," he says. "Matteo the Inkman."
"Who is he?"
"A forger. The best in Italy. He operates out of a shop near the San Lorenzo Cathedral. A bookbinder's shop." Alaric tries to stand up, but his knees buckle. He falls back, frustration contorting his face into a snarl. "Damn it!" he roars, hitting his thigh. "My body... why won't it obey?"
"Because you are human, Alaric," I say softly, kneeling between his legs. "Even monsters need to sleep."
I take the paper from his hand. "I'll go."
"No," he grabs my wrist. "Matteo is... not civilized. He deals with the Camorra. He deals with traffickers. You cannot go alone."
"Look at you," I say, gesturing to his trembling frame. "You can't walk a straight line. If you go, they’ll roll you for your coat. If I go..." I stand up. I unzip the coveralls. Underneath, I am still wearing the black lingerie from the boat. I pull the coveralls back up, but I leave the zipper lower. "If I go, I’m just a desperate girl looking for help. They won't see the threat until it's too late."
Alaric stares at me. "You're enjoying this," he whispers, a mixture of horror and pride in his voice. "The danger."
"I'm surviving," I correct. "Give me the address. And the code."
