Four doors, all cracked open, showed me a glimpse of Dante’s world. A cramped study with maps on the walls and books stacked in precarious towers. A washroom with chipped tiles and a tub that looked big enough to drown in.Two bedrooms—one small, one larger facing the canal, with a narrow bed and deep scars in the floorboards that somehow reminded me of him.
At the end of the hall, another set of stairs led up to a top floor.
The magic tugged harder, and while instinct warned me to turn away, curiosity sat on my shoulder and told me to keep going.
At the top of the steps, a heavy wood door, reinforced with iron, was locked shut with a discrete line of warding runes carved along the jamb. I touched one of the markings, and the ends of my fingers tingled, not in pain, more like...recognition.
“Don’t be a fool, Ember,” I scolded, but whatever was behind this door called to me, as though the magic had a voice, as if the house was speaking straight into my heart, urging me to discover its deepest secrets.
I pulled a pin from my tangled hair.
A pearl fell to the floor as I dropped to my knees, inserting the pin and twisting to the right.
The lock surrendered with humiliating speed.
One touch of my fingers and that whispered unsealing charm had the runes flaring with light, then going inert as the door swung inward, revealing a long room tucked under the high beamed roof, each cross-member dark with age. The floor was high-tech rubber mats, the kind that softened falls, and practice dummies stood along one wall, all of them battered and patched. Weapons racks lined the other—blunted swords, staffs, a few steel blades gleaming among the wooden training ones.
Target circles were painted on the far wall, scarred by the wounds of a hundred perfect throws.
Dante had his own training room.
My lungs did some strange, sort of half-sob that I swallowed down before the sound escaped my lips. This room was so like my own back at the DiRavello palazzo—and so much rougher. No frescoes.
No polished mirrors for practicing my stance.
Just a utilitarian space built for stabbing things until they stopped moving.
I stepped inside, trailing my fingers over the nearest rack of battered swords. The magic here was wild and strange, Dante’s layered over much older spells, a haze of dust hanging in the still air. Air that was thick with Dante’s scent, a hint of salty sweat, the echo of movement.
“Of course,” I muttered, secretly elated by the discovery. “Of course you have one of these.”
“I knew I sensed trouble.”
I spun, going for the knife at my thigh and finding nothing but wrinkled black silk.
“Imagine my surprise when I was away on an errand for mylittle wifeand sensed my wards being broken. Whatever are you doing up here,tesoro?”
Dante leaned in the doorway, arms crossed, shoulder propped against the jamb where the wards had flared. His hair was damp, shirt clinging to his body, dark curls falling into his sparkling blue eyes. He looked… pissed off. And a little impressed.
“How the fuck did you get in?” he demanded, eyes glinting. “That door’s keyed to my sigil and mine alone.”
“Then your sigil is sloppy,” I shrugged, reveling in my shiver of triumph. “The lock is easy enough to pick; a child could get in here.”
He looked like he wanted to punch the wall. Or strangle me. Or both.
“For your information, that lock is a fine piece ofVenetian craftsmanship. Now, how did you really get in? Don’t tell me you’re a professional lock picker because I’ll know you’re lying.”
I crossed my arms over my chest, my pride bristling as I brandished my hairpin.
“Pfft. That lock was practicallybeggingto be picked.”
“It was explicitly wardednotto be picked.”
“And yet,”—I spread my hands wide—“here I am.”
For a long moment, we stared, and I decided I would rather go blind than be the loser who blinked first. Finally, he scowled.
“You fed from me,” He declared, as if that explained everything. Stepping inside, he slammed the door shut with his foot. “The magic recognized you, maybe even thought you were me. You seem to have a problem with boundaries,wife.”
