Page 35 of A Betrothal So Bloody

The hunter nods at his companion, an obedient disciple. “Come, we have work to do.”

They depart, and that electric rise in the air fades into nothing. Around us, the Calendimaggio revelers continued to pass by, the performances in the streets uninterrupted—all of them unaware their own kin had just been hypnotized.

“The alley has better cover,” Dante says under his breath—this is to the girl, still cowering behind the barrel. He gives her a mere flick of his eyes in the direction of the slit between the inn and its neighboring building, just wide enough for a child to squeeze through.

The child looks at him with suspicion, eyes wide. The distrust of an urchin unused to the kindness of a stranger. She glances sharply at me, as though gauging whether I would help or hurt. Then, without a word, she bolts, squeezing down the alley as Dante had suggested. Her small footsteps vanish down the damp cobblestone.

Dante faces me, and I growl in my throat, bumping his shoulder with mine as I brush past him toward the inn.

“You’re making it extremely difficult for me not to kill you,” I mutter under my breath. “What if she really did take those men?”

“Not our problem,” Dante says, keeping stride with me. “People die by the dozens every day. And tales of a non-human caught in Terralta would be like a blaze in the dark to Alessandro.”

I grit my teeth. He’s so dismissive of the entire ordeal, as though it was as routine as putting on a pair of boots. Corvus’ mission hinged on the extermination of vampires, but we’re not unaware of the bloodshed some of the less fearsome beasts cause.

“How many monsters are roaming the country because of you?” I ask sharply.

“Monster is such an ugly, limiting word.”

“I’m not playing semantics. I have half a mind to chain you naked to a tree and let you burn to a crisp in the sunrise.”

Dante pulls open the door for me. “Ah, so you have thought about me naked.”

twelve

Woodsmoke fills the air inside, wafting from the large fireplace at the center of the room. Every seat seems to be occupied—we’re clearly not the only travelers passing through during the festival. Wine is flowing like a damned river between patrons, most of them flushed from hours of celebration. Watching their clumsy merriment, it’s not hard to understand why Corvus doesn’t permit the substance on our grounds, apart from flavouring meals.

Enticing though it is, I can’t help but feel like I don’t belong here. I don’t drink, and I certainly don’t dance. All I want is a ladle of that steaming stew cooking over the fire and a private room.

To the left of the main bar, another stall is set up offering flowers. The vendor calls to us as we pass, holding out a scarlet rose for inspection. I expect Dante’s patience to be worn to the bone after our altercation outside, but something about this human has clearly caught his eye. He idles by the floral display, offering his full attention—even prising about whether the man grew the plants himself.

In a quick glance, I size up the vendor; he’s young—perhaps a little older than me—and handsome in a rugged sort of way, with dark stubble peppering a square jaw. The sort of exquisite packaging I’m sure Dante would appreciate in both a meal and a lover.

Fucking vampires. Always thinking with their stomachs or their dicks.

I excuse myself, taking advantage of Dante’s engrossed conversation to approach the bar alone. This will be far easier without him glued to my side.

“Good evening, signora. What can I get you?” The woman who greets me behind the bar is quite tall, with wide-shoulders and the faint etching of smile lines around her dark eyes. She’s perhaps in her early fifties, with a pleasant countenance that gives the impression that the last few days have been horrible for sleep and wonderful for business.

Her eyes widen when she catches sight of my left arm, still securely wound by linen bandages. “Your arm, dear! Are you quite alright?”

“A clumsy spill from my horse. I hardly feel it now,” I bluster with a smile. I rummage under my cloak for the letter I’d scrawled by the straggling light of sunset, pushing the folded parchment across the bartop. “Do you have a courier who can get this to Isola?”

The barmaid’s brow furrows as she turns it over to read the location—it’s addressed not to Corvus, but to a cottage in the village just outside the abbey’s towering walls. Another long-held precaution, in addition to the encoded contents. Mother Superior is owed an update—even if my letter is full of white lies on the status of my mission, stirring up guilt that I struggle to shove away.

It will be worth it.

“Is there a problem?” I ask. She’s been quiet too long.

“No, of course not,” she answers, tapping the address. “It’s just… This town isn’t far from that obscure faction of vampire slayers. You’ve heard of them, I’m sure. The Corvus Order.”

These last words are said quietly, a whispered superstition.

“I have,” I say carefully.

The barmaid mistakes my trepidation, wrinkling her nose. “I’m grateful for the work they do. I know more than one who’s been saved from their efforts. But their methods… It’s ungodly. Taking young girls from their families like that and cloistering them without a word of contact…” She grimaces. “I can’t imagine being separated from my little one like that. Not after fighting so hard to bring her into this world.”

My parents had clearly not had such strong sentiments about me, even at fourteen.