Raphael (The Immortal Youth Book 1) by Monica La Porta Page B

cub, his father brought him to Termini Station every Sunday. Usually, Raphael was left to entertain himself by the spice vendors, while his father worked on one of his cons. Those schemes of his were seldom successful, and, afterward, his father would be in a bad mood for days. Drinking helped his father forget about his latest failure, and by Saturday he would come up with the next big idea. Despite what happened after those weekly visits to the station, the spare hours Raphael spent there were his fondest childhood memories. A gift his father had inadvertently given him.
    The hint of freshly ground turmeric was followed by basil and rosemary in his roaming along the carts and boots. Then the colors and scents changed and became hearty and rich in cardamom, cinnamon, fenugreek, and nutmeg. An African tune blasted from a broken speaker hanging by a cable from an umbrella stretcher.
    From one of the larger stalls, a small man invited Raphael closer, then he gestured for him to consider his baked goods. “Couscous? Homemade with lamb.” He pointed to a different spot on the table. “Eggplants? Zighinì?”
    Shaking his head, Raphael smiled at the man. “Not today.” He wished he could pause and savor a plate or two. The food was presented on brass trays with flower petals to separate each dish. The aroma emanating from the stall was wetting Raphael’s mouth, but the night would be on him soon if he didn’t get moving.
    “Next time, yes?”
    Raphael brought his hand to his chest and resumed his stroll. “Next time.”
    Under the sun and the afternoon heat, Nimbus was heavy to pull along. Raphael’s eyes were watery, and he was sweating. Yet, he pushed himself and the bicycle out of the African section, and headed toward the Far East corner. The Street Angels used to frequent that portion of the Roman Kasbah—Raphael had renamed Termini Station thus after watching a documentary on Istanbul’s famous market, and noticed the similarities between the two places.
    Not sure he would find them at their usual spot, between the mahjong players and the dumpling soup cart, Raphael looked among the crowd, hoping to see the spiky purple mane of Edoardo and Ludovico’s shaved head with a Roman Eagle tattoo. A werewolf and a were-puma, they liked to mingle with renegades and mortals better than with their own.
    “Hey, little wolf!”
    The call came from the right, where, from under a pagoda-shaped gazebo decorated with red paper lanterns, a raised hand was waving at Raphael who couldn’t help but breathe in relief. “Edoardo.” Raphael beelined toward the werewolf, passing among the thick crowd and entering the pagoda.
    “Long time no see.” Edoardo rose from the bamboo stool he was sitting on cross-legged, and gave him a one-armed hug. “Glad you came to visit.” He showed him a second stool and sat back down.
    “Where’s Ludovico?” Raphael couldn’t remember a single time when he had seen one but not the other. The two shifters were a couple, and they usually did everything together.
    “Family day. I’m not welcome.” Sadness tinged Edoardo’s words.
    “They’ll come around.” Raphael lowered himself to the stool, but couldn’t find a comfortable position.
    “I’m not so sure anymore. We’ve been steady for two years now, and his family won’t relent.” Edoardo passed a hand over his stiff hair. The purple was highlighted by blue strands. The complicated hairdo and the colorful mane were all the rage among werewolf youth.
    Poverty had dictated Raphael’s signature haircut and color, long and naturally light brown with sun-bleached blond streaks. Accustomed to it, he had kept his mane thus even when he had the money to go to the barber.
    Raphael shifted his weight to the side, sitting on his bent leg. “Were-pumas are known to be on the racist side.” He checked the time on his cell phone, and noticed several calls from Quintilius’s office. Most assuredly Iris’s.
    Edoardo snorted. “That’s an