The Vows We Break - Serena Akeroyd Page 0,17

know I need him for the end.

So, I tracked him. Traced him through his articles, studied the trajectory of his career as much as I could, and have even called the archdioceses of his last parishes—ones that were listed in articles online—and found out where his current church is.

Rome.

The Catholic capital.

And I’d never been there.

Ever.

So, it’s fate that’s my destination. At least, that’s how I figure it.

The taxi takes me straight to the street behind my Airbnb. I’m in a part of Rome that’s called Borgo, and the street is called Borgo Pio. It’s ancient with an old wall surrounding it like a barricade, and the history lines these streets as well as the pizzerias and trattorias do.

Just at the bottom of the cobbled road, there’s a McDonalds that’s humming with life, and I passed the Vatican to get here.

Yep, the Vatican is actually a neighbor. It’s a minute’s walk away, just off McDonalds.

With a rucksack on my back, I stand in the center of the chaos as people walk past me. Some of them are heading for the Vatican, and others heading away from it. I know which is which because, the damn nerve, they toss their tickets on the ground as they shuffle away.

I can’t stop myself from picking up one of the tickets, chasing down the litterer, and shoving it at their chest. They blurt something at me in Russian, I think, but I just glare and say, “Your trash.”

They’re probably swearing at me, but I don’t care. I stare the bastard down, ignoring how his bulging cheeks turn red and his squinty eyes narrow even more. He takes the ticket, huffs, then moves a few feet away to shove it in the bin.

“There. That wasn’t so damn hard, was it?” I snap at him, then, nose in the air, storm off.

A second later, my irritation has fluttered away. Life teems here, and I wander down the street, passing doorways to buildings as well as shops that sell religious artifacts, and other little restaurants and delis that will become my locales. There are groups of tourists, old and young, some with heavy duty cameras around their necks, others with their cell phones out, posing for selfies, then there are families with bored kids, and waiters touting their wares to all and sundry without prejudice. What there isn’t?

Many Italians around.

Which makes the person I’m looking for easy to spot. She’s standing in a doorway, a briefcase in her hand, entirely out of place for this heavily touristic spot.

So, wandering over to her, and peering at the street which, seriously, has no numbers above the door, at least, not as far as I can see, I ask, “Excuse me?”

She pushes shiny black hair over her ear as she peers over her phone at me. Disdain lines her features until she manages to hide it—barely—saying, “Si?”

I actually speak decent Italian thanks to my mother’s belief that we’d be transferred overseas for one of my father’s deployments, so I reply, “I’m Andrea Jura? Are you Anna from Your Vacation in Roma?”

Anna casts another glance at me, and though she’d just lumped me in with all the other backpackers, the second she hears my name, her eyes light up. She grabs my arm, and as she does, the scent of vanilla and chocolate wafts my way.

Super smell has been a weird addition to my abilities in the aftermath of the surgery.

I couldn’t run anymore, not without my legs feeling like jelly, and my strength has depleted to the point where I need to find a gym to work out at while I’m here to rebuild some strength, but I gained the ability to sniff the grossest stuff all while I maintained the ability to see things no one else does.

I’m still a Watcher.

I know it, even if I never told anyone.

I’d never share that again, not even with Savio. He’d think I’m insane.

I’m not.

Truly.

I want to pull back the second her perfume floats over me, but I’m not rude, so I tense as I smile, trying not to heave at the abundantly musky scent, and murmur, “Ciao.”

She grins at me. “I loved Thunderstorm.”

I’m getting used to that for a greeting—it was my biggest release to date, and unfortunately for me, the release of the movie pretty much synced up with my being taken into the hospital. “Thanks,” I tell her.

She ignores my wooden tone. “Are you going to be writing while you’re here?” Her gaze drifts over my head, which is no