“It’s you. You killed my sister.” My voice trembled. “Why?”
“Is it really that hard to believe? That I, a man of God, would wish to rid the world of evil?”
“You sound just like Carmine.” I curled my hands into fists, needing to feel the prick of my nails to keep from lashing out. “Murdering innocent women isn’t its own act of evil?”
“God’s finest angels are fierce warriors, Emilia. Sometimes in order to accomplish the greatest good, we must first become a blade of justice and carve through our enemies. You wouldn’t understand. It’s not something you’d be capable of doing, witch.”
What little control I’d managed to hang on to, left me.
“You know nothing of what I can do.”
“Maybe not. But if you use magic on me now, you’ll prove me right.” He jerked his chin toward my combined amulets. They were fiercely glowing. “All witches are born evil.”
My temper and hurt raged around. I stepped forward and unleashed the pent-up wrath I’d been clutching onto since my twin’s murder.
“You’re wrong. We’re not born evil. Some of us become that way. Through hate.”
Strands of my hair lifted as if there were suddenly a breeze. A storm was brewing and it wasn’t of this world. The glowing words that surrounded us pulsed faster. Magic singed the air, and incantations I didn’t know swirled through my mind. Maybe the devil’s horns were fueling me, or the first book of spells was feeding me its charms.
Perhaps it was simply my own darkness escaping. I didn’t care.
I held the Horn of Hades and whispered a spell so foul, the words burned as they left my lips. I lifted my arm, then slashed down in an arc. Invisible claws cut Antonio’s robes to ribbons.
This time I spared his flesh.
Fear entered his eyes. He slowly backed away, hands up. As if that would stop me.
“Frightened?” I stepped toward him. “You should be. I’ve only just begun.”
I lifted my arm and he cringed away. His voice quivered. “M-mercy, Emilia. P-please.”
“Now you want mercy?” Pure, white-hot anger burned in my soul. “Tell me, did my sister beg?”
I thought of her chest, the gaping hole where her heart had been. He did that to her. Our friend. I threw my arm back and slashed his chest open. An eye for an eye. Justice. He pressed his fingers to his wounds, saw blood, and stumbled away. It was nothing more than a scratch.
Fury propelled me forward. “Did you offer Vittoria mercy when she pleaded for her life? Or Valentina? How many women pleaded with you to spare them? Where was your mercy then?”
He fell to his knees and began praying. I waited. But God didn’t show up. The goddess of death and fury did. I knelt down, eyes blazing, and forced him to look at me. I wanted him to see my sister’s face, too. Tears slipped down his cheeks. I fought the urge to smash his skull against the floor and watch the life leave those hate-filled eyes.
Death would be a kindness. And I wasn’t feeling particularly kind.
“When I finally kill you, you will beg for the sweet release of death, Antonio.” I glanced at my finger, concentrated on an invisible blade pricking it. A tiny ruby of blood beaded up. “I swear on my blood, you will never know true happiness again. Your heart will be cursed to be broken each time you forget the sins you’ve committed. And each time you laugh, I will be there, waiting, to remind you.”
I was about to seal the vow with the drop of blood, when the scent of urine filled the space around us, awakening a memory in me. I’d scared the piss out of Antonio. Just like Wrath had done when he’d beaten information from . . . I startled back and let my hand fall to my side.
Wrath, a prince of Hell, had shown mercy.
Knowing the sort of power he had, I don’t know how he’d managed restraint. And I wished I could be a little more like him now. But I wasn’t.
“New rules. You will tell me the truth about everything I ask, and only then will I consider sparing your life. Do you understand?”
“Y-yes.” He nodded several times and inhaled deeply. “W-what do y-you want to know?”
“Before you met this ‘angel of death’ something must have prompted this. Tell me what grew so twisted inside you. So foul.”
“I—I’m not . . .” He shook his head. “A-all right. A week before my mother died, I took her to a woman I thought only used folk magic and prayer to heal. Turned out, she was a witch.” His laugh was hollow. I gave him a flat look and he choked it off. “She caused my mother’s death. I vowed, right then, to make amends to God. I promised if I ever met another witch, I’d send her straight to the dungeons of Hell where she belongs. That’s when my prayers were answered.”