Pulling on a long, dark sweater, I shoved my feet into soft-soled boots, grabbing a pair of knives out of habit—one can’t be too careful—strapping one to my thigh, another at the small of my back, then headed upstairs to the training room.
I had an escape route, one very stubborn door I’d had to rub half a bottle of olive oil on the rusted hinges, just to get them to move. A day spent unraveling the layers of stubborn spells, where even my unsealing charm wasn’t enough.
Tonight, that attic hatch opened with the faintestprotesting squeal, and I winced, easing the heavy door up until the braces caught and climbed out onto the roof.
The city spread out around me, gilded in silver beneath a full moon. The dark veins of canals split the staggered terracotta roofs, the distant glow from the Rialto, the soft pulse of lights lining the Grand Canal. Somewhere, a bell chimed, lonely and distant and echoing.
I leapt from tile to tile, muscles coiling and stretching in a rhythm I’d practiced since childhood. Venice was easier to navigate from above. Rooflines connected districts, every neighborhood, if you avoided the skylights as the dangerous traps they were.
My husband turned left at the first intersection, then cut along the fondamenta. He didn’t hurry. I kept him in sight, slipping along ridges and around chimneys, digging my fingers into mortar ridges when I needed balance, never losing sight of my target.
Every so often, his head tilted, as if he knew I was right above him.
I froze each time, willing my heartbeat to quiet.
He crossed a narrow bridge, cut through a courtyard that smelled of fresh laundry and basil. Then I lost him entirely when he ducked under a low archway and vanished into a cut-through so narrow, I couldn’t tell which way he was heading.
“Damn it,” I whispered, rocking back onto my heels, weighing my options.
Maybe he was testing me.
You’re not the only hunter in this marriage, I reminded myself, asking instead—where would Dante go in the middle of the night, alone, moving like he had a destination… like he was headed for a clandestine meeting?
I scanned my surroundings, mapping out the city in my head.
How many times had I met someone on a bridge? The perfect place to see your enemies coming from a mile away, and this city had over four hundred of them. My husband wouldn’t choose any of the popular ones. Rialto, Accademia, Scalzi—those were too visible, even in the dead of night.
But there was a humpbacked stone bridge not far from here, off the beaten path.
I jogged along the edges of sloped roofs, dematerialized over an alleyway, taking the most direct path until the canal came into view, the small bridge rising over the narrow waterway in a single, pale arc.
I dropped flat behind the ridge of the nearest roof, heart pounding.
Two figures stood at the crest, and even at this distance, with the night wrapped them like a shield, I knew them.
Dante, shoulders hunched to make himself look smaller.
Nico Draconi, posture loose yet dangerously coiled, long black braid down the center of his back.
I eased closer until I was at the edge of the roof on my stomach, fingers gripping the downspout. All I caught were fragments of sound. Dante’s brief, humorless laugh. Nico’s inaudible reply.
Then Nico reached into his coat, pulling something out—the size of a folded note. The weak lamplight caught a shiny edge for a heartbeat. Metal? Wax? Glass?
I couldn’t tell.
Dante closed his fingers around the item without even looking, as though he’d been expecting it. As if they’d done this before.
My stomach knotted.
They stood together another minute, embraced, then broke apart.
Nico dematerialized, melting away between one blink and the next.
Dante stayed where he was, alone at the crest of the bridge, hands braced on the stone rail, head tipped back, staring at the stars as if he were begging the gods for advice.
Then he turned and headed back the way he’d come.
Straight toward me.
