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A scratch, and the Wolf’s face was lit by the match he held up. “Walk faster.”
She picked up her pace, searching the gloom for the glint of a metal gate.
There was only one ship in the enormous cave, but soon others would arrive, packed with passengers and cargo from the continental settlements. The lower caverns would become crowded with wine barrels, seeds, fabric, food supplies, and farm animals, all the supplies they’d need to rebuild what would be lost. The hearty souls who chose to move to the continent between invasions would be welcomed with warm beds in Saverian guest rooms until it came time for everyone to barricade themselves within the Fortezza.
She’d never been to the continent, but the paintings made it seem harsh and strange, all barren plains and jagged mountains. It must be incredible to watch the new life bloom between attacks. She’d read a book once about the ways some animals hid during the rise of the swarms, but Mama had taken it away when she couldn’t stop crying about the creatures that didn’t survive.
“You tell your handlers you were going on a hiring spree tonight?” the Wolf drawled.
“No,” she said, even though it was none of his business. “I don’t need permission to hire a guard.”
“Oh, really?”
“Yes, really. Technically. I mean—” She steadied herself. “If anyone has a problem, I will take care of it.”
He made a skeptical sound.
She pushed her hood back. If they ran into guards in the tunnels, her face was their only protection against a swift and deadly punishment.
“Do you need medical attention?” she asked.
He gave her an irritated look. “No.”
Doubtful. But if men and wolves preferred to downplay their injuries, it was a waste of time to argue with either.
He moved so quietly he could have been hunting her. It made her want to run, like a scared rabbit.
Papa used to say fear began with the unknown, so maybe learning more about the man stalking behind her would quell the fear dancing over her skin.
“What’s your name?” she said.
“They call me the Wolf.”
“And they call me the Finestra, but it’s not my name.”
“I thought the Finestra didn’t have a name.”
“No, not until after Divorando, but at least you know what to call me. Shall I address you as The Wolf, then? Mr. Wolf? Or simply Wolf?”
She glanced over her shoulder and caught a glimmer of amusement in his eyes, quickly extinguished.
“Dante.”
“Do you have a last name?” She had to turn back so she didn’t run into a wall.
“Not anymore.”
“Well, nice to meet you, Dante.”
“Is it?”
Either her conversation skills were rusty from disuse, or he was exceptionally difficult to talk to. Or both. But while she might be lacking in some personality traits, persistence wasn’t one of them. “Where are you from?”
“I don’t know.”
“If you don’t want to tell me, you can say so.”
“I’m not lying. I don’t know.”
