Chapter 187

Dante found me later—not by scent (though I knew he easily could), not by sound (though Dante always hears me before anyone else)—but because the bond tugged him away from whatever web of strategy Alessio and Malcor had wrapped him in, and drew him here. To me. To the old garden with the stubborn ivy, where I had set myself down with my charcoal and let memory guide my hands.

He stood just inside