I pivoted, skirts twisting around me. Not a single living thing was in the street. In fact, it seemed eerily still—like someone had snuffed out all life. No lights were on inside homes. No movement or noise. I couldn’t hear the bustle and excitement of the festival, either.
Thick unnatural fog crept along the ground and curled around my feet, bringing with it the scent of sulfur and ash. Nonna would claim it was a sign demons were near. I wondered if some murdering human was hiding in the shadows, waiting with a knife.
“Who’s coming?” I demanded, feeling more and more like I was trapped in some terrible nightmare. I closed my eyes and forced myself to snap into reality. I couldn’t fall apart now. “When I open my eyes again, everything will be normal.”
And it was. There was no sulfuric fog, sounds of families sitting down together floated through open windows, and jeers of drunken festivalgoers echoed all around.
I rubbed my arms and hurried toward my house. Ghostly demons. Disembodied voices. Devilish fog. I knew exactly what was going on—I was suffering from hysterics. And now was not the time. Vittoria’s body needed to come home for death rites. I could hide my own despair and delusions away long enough to do that much for her.
After a few more minutes of mindlessly pushing forward down familiar streets, I stood outside our stone house and paused under the trellis covered with plumeria, unable to formulate the words I needed to say. I had no idea how to deliver the news to my family.
In moments they’d all feel like they’d been beaten and broken, too.
From here on out, our lives would never be the same again. I imagined my mother’s scream. My father’s tears. The horror in Nonna’s face, knowing all her preparations to save us from evil had been pointless.
Vittoria was dead.
I must have cried out or made some small noise. A swath of golden light cut through the darkness before fading as quickly. Nonna was at the window, waiting. She’d likely been there since she came home. Worrying and fretting. Her warnings about the devil stirring the seas, and the sky being the color of his blood didn’t seem like silly old superstition now.
The door swung open before I finished climbing the steps carved into the front of our home and reached the knob.
Nonna started shaking her head, her eyes watering, as she grabbed her cornicello. I didn’t have to say anything. The blood staining my hands said enough. “No.” Her bottom lip quivered. I’d never seen such despair and undulated fear in Nonna’s face before. “No. It can’t be.”
The hollowness inside me spread. All her lessons, all of our charms . . . for nothing.
“Vittoria is . . .” I swallowed hard, the action nearly choking me. “She’s . . .”
I stared down at the serpent dagger I still held, but had no memory of taking. I wondered if it was the weapon that had taken my sister’s life. My grip on it tightened.
Nonna took one look at the dagger and wrapped me in her arms, holding me fiercely against her. “What happened, bambina?”
I buried my face in her shoulder, breathing in the familiar scent of spices and herbs. Hugging Nonna made everything real. The whole goddessless nightmare.
“Your worst fears.”
Flashes of my twin and her missing heart crossed my mind, and whatever thread of strength I’d been clutching to snapped, plunging me into darkness.
The day after we laid my sister to rest, I sat alone in our room, an unopened book in my lap. It was so quiet. I used to cherish peaceful days like this, when my twin was out being adventurous and I was adventuring with a favorite character. A good book was its own brand of magic, one I could safely indulge in without fear of getting caught by those who hunted us. I loved escaping from reality, especially during times of trouble. Stories made everything possible.
My attention moved to the door the same way it had all morning, searching for a sign Vittoria was about to charge through it, her face flushed and her grin wide. All remained still.
Downstairs a spoon clinked against the cast iron cauldron. A moment later herbal scents wafted up. Nonna had been making spell candles nonstop. She lit them for the polizia, helping to guide them in their search. Or so she claimed. I’d seen the juniper berry and belladonna candle she’d made with a dash of salt and a pinch of pepper. It was her own recipe and it wasn’t used for clarity.
I set my book aside and went downstairs, hovering near the edge of the kitchen. Not quite hungry, but feeling empty, hollow. I hadn’t felt like cooking or creating, and couldn’t imagine ever feeling that light and free again. Living in a world without my sister felt dark and wrong.