Wolf Omega: Lykanos Chronicles 2
Chapter Fourteen

We traveled west through the night across country roads that wound mostly through shapeless farmland. The roads often returned to the Adda River, the only moving body of water I’d known.

During our journey, Duccio remained mostly silent. For several lengthy stretches, he closed his eyes. I could not be sure if he slept or merely rested.

Though exhausted, I never fell asleep, even with the carriage’s lazy rocking. My drowsy eye always returned to the man.

In the dim light of the single flame, I studied his clothes—the crimson velvet of his coat and vest—the glint of the polished golden buttons, too finely crafted to be brass. His physique, which I could not see here but would never forget from my dream, filled his garments such that the precision of their cut was even more remarkable. I stared at his hands, relaxed by his sides. Even with their long, aquiline beauty, they appeared to be very strong. Sᴇaʀ*ᴄh the FɪndNøvel.ɴet website on Gøøglᴇ to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.

But when he shut his eyes, I stared at his face. It was what I still found most striking about this man. His skin was closely shaven, unlike the short beard I had seen him wear in my dream. In its absence, the beauty of his features overwhelmed me. His face was sharply angular with a perfectly straight, hawklike nose. He had the supple, flawless skin of a young boy, with full and sensuous lips. Yet, for a man so refined, he was inexplicably masculine. I wondered if perhaps that viewpoint resulted from my naiveté.

When I became cold, Duccio sensed it and removed his coat for me. Later, when my hunger ached, having missed dinner, I looked up to see a brooding tension in his face.

We will stop soon, and I will see that you are attended to, he told me. The silent words echoed in my mind with the color of an apology as if he were sorry for not realizing my need earlier. It was another inconceivable exchange—not only that his voice sounded within my mind, but that such a man would apologize to me for anything.

Two hours before dawn, the carriage arrived at a sizable town called Colico. The name came to me from Duccio when I noticed its many buildings through the carriage window. We rode through the town’s center until we came to nothing. Rather, that’s what I thought it was when I first beheld it.

I stepped down from the carriage to find laid out before me a vast, black, and empty space that even the stars could not illuminate. There were no trees, nor hills, nor features of any kind observable in this void. The faintest glimmer of torchlight came from miles beyond it, serving as the sole indicator this oddity might end.

Duccio stepped past me toward a path that led to a wooden bridge.

A dock, he said.

I followed closely until we came upon something just as unique to my eyes as the void. The dock ended at a massive construction, almost the shape of a bow. At its center was a pole as tall as any tree towering over it.

A sail barge, he said. It will transport us across the lake.

Dock; sail barge; lake: these words meant nothing to me. But through Duccio’s mind, I saw them as they might appear in daylight. The void before us was water—an unfathomable repository of water. It was the place where the Adda River ended and pooled into a still body, like the pond on my father’s farm. Only, what I saw now was a volume beyond my comprehension. And this sail barge—a construction of wood made by the hands of men to contain us—floated above this lake. The wind that rushed down from the mountains would fill the sails and push us forward.

Looking down from the dock, I saw the black water moving silently beneath us. It was as smooth as glass, even in its motion, and I could hear its gentle lapping beneath our feet. From above us, a bell rang that brought movement aboard the barge.

“Don Lupofiero,” a short man called to him, appearing on the dock with a lantern in hand. “I became concerned when you did not return.”

“It could not be helped, Captain. I trust all is well?” Duccio asked.

“We are fine,” he confirmed. “The men will be at their posts soon enough. Are we still to sail for home?”

“If the wind blows in our favor,” Duccio confirmed. He turned to me and reached for my hand. “May I introduce my cousin, Donna Gabriella Parravicini. She will be being staying indefinitely with my father at Castello Palatino.”

I never told Duccio my father’s surname. It would surprise me to learn Father Piero might have remembered it from my confession. Had Duccio taken it from my mind, as he had taken the rest?

A look of grateful shock took over the man’s eyes as if he hadn’t noticed me until that moment. The introduction seemed to overwhelm him. Dressed nearly in rags with my uncovered hair pulled back into a humble bun, no one on earth would believe me to be middle class, much less of noble birth. But the man held not a single doubt in his mind—I could somehow tell.

“Cousin, this is Captain Pisano of the Chiaro di Luna,” Duccio said.

The man removed his hat and bowed deeply to me.

“I am honored to serve you,” he said.

“Escort her to my cabin and task Angelo to her needs first,” commanded Duccio. “We left Morbegno at seven, and she has not yet eaten dinner.”

“At once, Don Lupofiero,” Pisano assured him. He smiled and nodded again to me. “This way, Donna Parravicini.”

He led me to a narrow wooden walkway that let up to the top of the sail barge. I followed him up, holding to the taut rope that served as a railway.

Once we arrived at the top, Pisano turned back and lent me his hand so that I might step aboard safely. On the upper deck, I noticed several faces and realized that only men surrounded me.

Apprehension overtook me as Pisano meant for me to follow him down a stairwell into the belly of the vessel. I remembered days earlier when I’d been abducted and shoved down a similar flight to my horror.

At that moment, Duccio manually stopped the thought in my mind—it’s the only accurate way for me to describe what happened. The fear, the smothering, the panic—he made all of it dissipate. It was as if he opened a window in my soul to let the wind carry my suffering away. The memories themselves stayed with me, but the pain all but disappeared.

When I breathed heavily from the otherworldly sensation, he took my hand and stared into my eyes.

You are in no such danger here, he said to me. I would slay any one of them if they so much as thought poorly of you.

I nodded to him, confident that what he promised was true. I looked back at the few town lights and then looked to see Pisano’s concerned expression looking up at me from below.

Feeling a sense of calm courage, I followed.

Most of the lower deck was an open cargo hold filled with crates of various sizes and dimensions. There was a small section where hammocks hung for the men to sleep, each now empty. I saw a small galley of food where an older man stood firing a stove to life.

Pisano led me through a narrow hallway past a series of doors until we arrived at the far end, where he opened the very last one.

“The master’s cabin,” he said with a slight bow.

I stretched past him to enter the space, which took up perhaps a fifth of the vessel. Inside was a small hutch desk against the left wall covered with scrolls of parchment and writing implements. On the right was a small armchair and side table carrying a lantern with three lit candles. At the very rear was a wide bed. These items were made of such refined craftsmanship and materials that I knew they must belong to Duccio. There was also the scent I had come to associate with him—that fragrance of clean incense and spice from the carriage.

From behind, I heard Pisano whisper orders to someone in the shadows outside the door. A young boy appeared beside him, carrying a tray of clean hand-linens and a flagon with a small glass. The tiny luxury sparkled in the dim light, announcing how very much it belonged in this room of finery.

Setting the tray on the desk, the boy lit several other candles throughout the space, bringing the room to a warm, comfortable glow.

“Signorina,” the boy said with a slight nod and left.

“Donna,” Pisano whispered to correct him.

“Angelo will bring your supper as soon as it’s prepared, Donna Parravicini,” he assured me. “I’ll take my leave of you.”

“Thank you, Captain,” I answered before he turned and pulled the door closed behind him.

I was as thirsty as I was hungry, but my bladder was inescapably full from the trip. I found a small basin and relieved myself, then hid it in the corner under hand linen. Placing it there struck me as a mistake, and I harbored useless regrets for having done something so ordinary in Duccio’s private quarters.

I opened the flagon and poured its red wine into the little crystal cup. The simple act flooded me with memories of Sofia Vervio and her insistence that I drink the vile substance meant to produce a masculine child. But, this wine smelled and tasted nothing like what she or my husband ever fed me. It wasn’t bitter or acidic, nor did it burn my nostrils when I drank it. Instead, it was fresh and filled with the smokey sweetness of pipe tobacco and plums.

This is his drink, I thought, swallowing the divine substance. This is his flavor.

By the time I’d indulged in a second glassful, the young boy had knocked on the cabin door. I opened it to find him carrying another tray.

“Donna,” he addressed me.

I bid him come in and grew ravenous when I smelled the heavenly fragrance of the meal they’d prepared. I marveled over the plate filled with cooked vegetables, small tomatoes surrounding a golden brown hen at the very center. It was a meal fit for service only in the type of room I stood, and I never felt more like an imposter.

He set the tray on the desk and quickly made his way to leave.

“What is your name?” I asked to stop his departure.

“I am Angelo,” he whispered to me as if expecting a raised voice might offend me.

In the warm light of the cabin, I finally saw the boy’s face. No more than ten years old, he was a mother’s pride: a cherub with large, liquid brown eyes and black, silken hair clipped just beneath his ears. But for the eye color, he reminded me of Duccio in miniature, wearing that same flawless skin only a child should have.

“Where are we going too?” I asked just as quietly.

“We sail for home at first light, Donna,” the boy answered.

“And where is home?” I asked.

Angelo looked to me with undisguised confusion in his eyes.

“Como,” he said. “To Castello Palatino.”

“Thank you, Angelo,” I returned, satisfied with the confirmation.

The boy bowed and made to leave. He stopped when he noticed the linen-covered basin sitting in the corner behind me. Angelo silently made his way to investigate it, then removed it and left without looking back at me.

I never saw the light of dawn before both the wine and my heavy supper pulled my exhausted eyelids closed.

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