(Thomas POV)
The man who finally stepped forward was wiry and young, with sharp eyes and the quick grin of someone who lived by instinct. "I'll take your deal," he said. "But if I get a ticket, you pay that too."
"Fine," I said.
He barked something to the others in rapid Italian—probably claiming the fare as his—then waved me toward his car. It wasn't much: a compact sedan with a scuffed bumper and a half-finished bottle of water in the cup holder. But the engine sounded healthy, and that was all I needed.
"Name's Marco," he said as I tossed my pack into the back seat and folded myself in beside it. "And you?"
"Thomas."
He nodded, sliding behind the wheel. "Then hold on, Thomas."
The tires chirped as we shot out of the airport lane and onto the autostrada north. Rome blurred by in streaks of red tail lights and early sunlight glinting off car roofs.
At first, the road was open enough that Marco could test the limits of his engine—weaving through traffic, muttering satisfaction each time we overtook another car. I didn't count; he did, tapping his fingers against the steering wheel like a man keeping score in his head.
He drove like a man with something to prove—smooth, confident, precise. The countryside began to shift from concrete to green, hills rolling wider with each passing kilometer.
"You said before noon, yes?" he asked.
"That's right."
He grinned. "Then you shouldn't have offered so much money. We'll be early by ten minutes if I drive normal from here out."
"The faster you get there, the better the tip," I said.
He laughed, a quick bark of sound, and leaned harder on the gas.
By the time the signs for Volterra began to appear, the road had narrowed into winding hills. The air carried the scent of cypress and dust, and the medieval skyline rose from the cliffs ahead—stone towers jutting up against a deep blue sky.
The closer we got, the slower the traffic became. First locals, then tourists, then a long, creeping line of cars. Bells rang somewhere in the distance, echoing across the valley.
Marco cursed softly under his breath. "A parade," he muttered. "Always a parade in these little towns."
Then, with a flare of bright color, a yellow Porsche shot past on the shoulder, the engine's snarl slicing through the quiet like a blade.
Marco blinked, then let out a disbelieving laugh. "Ma che ingiustizia! That's not fair! You say every car I pass earns me money—what about one that passes me going like the devil himself?"
"You know the deal. That's minus five hundred like we agreed," I said, laughing.
Moments later, he slapped his hand on the steering wheel in frustration after trying to follow the Porsche's example, edging onto the shoulder—but people weren't cooperating. The road was clogged tight now, the festival crowd spilling out from the stone gates ahead.
"I cannot take you farther," he said, frustrated. "The square will be closed. Too many people."
"That's fine." I pulled the cash from my jacket and handed him the full amount, plus a few extra bills for his trouble. "You got me close enough."
I stepped out into the crush of noise and sunlight. The air was thick with voices, the heat rising from the cobblestones like a living thing.
For a heartbeat, the press of bodies and the noise hit me harder than the light. Just months—maybe a year—ago, a crowd like this would have locked my lungs, dragged me back to the echo of gunfire and screaming in that Denver mall. But the fear didn't come this time. The memory was there, yes, but dulled—filed into instinct instead of panic. I wasn't that kid anymore. I'd learned to move through noise without freezing, to read a crowd instead of fear it.
I adjusted my pack and joined the current of red-cloaked bodies.
Scarlet banners rippled from balconies overhead, each one emblazoned with a golden cross. The narrow streets pulsed with motion—men, women, and children wrapped in crimson, laughter and church bells tangling in the air. The scent of sun-warmed stone mixed with wine and sweat.
A woman caught me pausing beneath a banner that read Festa di San Marco. She smiled, eager to share. "Today we celebrate Saint Marcus! He saved Volterra from the vampires!"
I managed a polite nod. The irony twisted low in my chest. If only you knew.
Saint Marcus hadn't saved anyone from vampires—he ruled them. One of the ancient three who still governed this city from its catacombs.
The streets narrowed, funneling the crowd toward the clock tower. Its black face loomed above the roofs, the hands crawling toward eleven-forty-five. Fifteen minutes. Maybe less.
The bells struck again, rolling through my ribs. I moved faster, scanning the press of red hoods for a familiar face—or anything out of place.
A small alley split off to the right. I slipped into it, letting the noise dim to a dull roar. The alley opened into a smaller square bordered by shuttered shops. From there I could glimpse the edge of the main piazza—bright, packed, feverish.
Someone brushed past carrying a basket of roses; petals spilled across the stone like drops of blood. I followed them toward the main square, still looking for anyone familiar, paying special attention to dark alcoves that could hide a moron about to do something stupid.
The square opened ahead of me in a blaze of sunlight and red. Flags whipped overhead; children waved banners; church bells and the clock tower thundered the noon hour so loudly it was hard to think. And in the center, framed by centuries-old stone, a figure stepped from a side alcove, moving towards the sunlight as he began unbuttoning his shirt.
Edward.
Then a voice I would recognize anywhere cut through the bells: a single, hoarse scream.
"Edward!"
Bella.
She broke through the barricade, stumbling, running flat-out across the square. Time compressed—the air seemed to shatter as she hit him, driving him back into the shadowed archway.
I forced my way forward, ignoring the shouting around me. When I reached the alcove, they were there—Bella clutching him, Edward's hands hovering over her shoulders, disbelief raw on his face.
For a heartbeat, everything stilled.
Then I heard it: quiet, precise footsteps come from down the hall. Two of them.
Edward pulled Bella behind him, "Greetings, gentlemen." His voice was trying to suggest calm and friendliness, on the surface. "I don't think I will be needing your services today. I would appreciate it very much though, if you would relay my appreciation and respect to your masters."
"Perhaps we should take this discussion to a more private venue," came the reply—velvet-soft, threaded with menace.
Edward responded quickly, "That won't be necessary, Demetri. My friends can rejoin the parade, and I will watch from here until night falls, and we will be gone from your city."
The larger of the two cloaked figures stepped forward, his smile polite and sharp. "I believe Demetri was merely pointing out that the sun will soon reach this enclave. So, we really should move somewhere more private."
Edward inclined his head slightly. "That's agreeable, Felix—just let me see these two back to the parade, and I'll accompany you both. After all, no rules have been broken here."
Felix's grin widened. "Rules are flexible in Volterra." His crimson gaze slid to me, then to Bella. "And visitors rarely leave without a guide."
I shifted, putting myself half a step forward—close enough to draw their attention away from Bella. The air between us seemed to thicken, heavy and expectant—the calm before lightning strikes.
Then new footsteps echoed down the narrow hallway, light but deliberate.
While I kept my eyes on Felix and Demetri, I heard them approaching from behind. My fists clenched on instinct, heat stirring low in my chest. If they tried anything, I'd make sure the crowd outside noticed—one way or another.
A lilting, amused voice cut through the tension. "Let's behave ourselves, shall we?"
Felix's head turned slightly, irritation flashing in his eyes.
Then another voice followed—calm, sharp, and familiar enough to steal the breath from my lungs.
"There are ladies present, after all," Edythe said, her tone smooth as glass but edged like a blade.
The Volturi stilled. Even monsters remembered their manners when she spoke. Especially when they realize they are now outnumbered by more than double.
Alice joined Edward and Bella as Edythe stepped to my side. It took every bit of control I had not to reach for her and crush her to my chest. But I knew turning my back on these two would only invite danger.
I took some joy in noticing that we had started to gain a small crowed staring at our group, this seemed to make the two cloaked figures nervous.
"Enough"
The new voice was higher—measured, commanding—and it came from behind us.
I looked over my shoulder and saw a small dark-cloaked figure leading several others towards us. The numbers were no longer in our favor.