Lucien’s pov.

They led me down a narrower hall where the torchlight flashed against damp stone. The smell in the room hit my nostrils first: sweat and damp walls.

The room was small. Two cots, a rickety table, a single sputtering lamp. Dante lay on one bed, sweat slicking his hair to his forehead, eyes half-rolled, breath coming in ragged gasps. The driver was on the other cot, muttering words I couldn’t make out, hands clutched to a forearm gone black around a bite. Both of them trembled, ...