“If I withdrew your invitation now, would you have to leave right away?”
“Yes. Do we have a bargain?” He looked relaxed, casual. But his eyes were focused, sharp. He very much wanted me to agree to his offer. I thought about the stories Nonna told us as children, about how the Wicked could never be trusted. Wrath had been specifically named.
I wanted very much to be more like my twin. But I couldn’t help being me.
“No, Prince Wrath. I do not accept your blood trade.”
Thirteen
A witch must never enter into a blood trade with a prince of Hell. By doing so, it allows the one conjured to have a direct link to the witch. It is unclear how long the bond lasts or if it can be broken. Never forget: forging a bond made from love is as dangerous as those made through hate.
—Notes from the di Carlo grimoire
Nonna glanced at the dagger strapped to my hip, then pounded chicken like she was envisioning someone’s skull instead. I’d commandeered the weapon again before I’d left the cave, and Wrath had looked very much like Nonna now. If she was that put off by the demon prince’s blade, I couldn’t imagine how upset she’d be if she knew about the magical tattoo we shared.
I’d chosen a blouse with long fluttering sleeves to hide it. Before I went to bed, I inspected the two crescent moons within the circle of stars. The ink shimmered like moonlight. Despite the fact it bound me to Wrath, I didn’t mind it all that much. It was delicate and pretty.
Thwack. Thwack. Nonna beat the poor chicken with singular focus. At least today’s house special would be mouthwateringly tender for our customers. It was good some people still had an appetite. I’d certainly lost mine.
I ignored the way my stomach churned each time I thought about the events of last night. If Nonna knew I’d not only summoned one of the Malvagi, but almost willingly entered into a blood trade with one . . . I closed my eyes and fought the urge to lay down.
Nonna might stop pounding the chicken and walk herself off the nearest cliff instead.
My focus slid to the little clock above the stove. I wanted to finish dinner service and get back to the cave where Wrath was trapped before dark. Tonight I’d demand answers. Aside from his royal standing in Hell, I didn’t know anything about him. For all I knew he was the devil and had his own evil agenda.
Regardless of all the unknowns surrounding Wrath, I was certain of at least two facts. The first being he wanted to locate my sister’s murderer and probably kill whoever it was. And the second was his desire to form a blood bond with me. I had no intention of going through with the creepy bond, but it gave me excellent leverage to use when I interrogated him. His brother seemed to be interested in bargaining with witches, and I wanted to know why.
If his demon brethren weren’t responsible for murdering my twin, that made it all the more likely strega hunters were responsible. Having Wrath around to guard me while some witch-hating zealot was ripping out hearts might be wise. I’d let the demon prince fight him and run for safety. And if they destroyed each other in the process? Good riddance.
I sliced mushrooms for the sauce, adding it to the pan of garlic and shallots already simmering in butter. My work was mechanical today, the kitchen held little magic like it once did. It didn’t help that my focus kept straying to the clock. I was worried about leaving a demon by himself all afternoon. Whether he was a prince of Hell or something worse, he was still undeniably wicked.
Before I’d left the cavern at daybreak, I’d cast an extra spell of containment that didn’t go over very well with him. He couldn’t harm me because of the protection charm, and I was fairly confident he wasn’t lying about being trapped for three days, but I enjoyed taking extra precautions.
Especially when they made him spitting mad. Nonna told us the Malvagi couldn’t stand sunlight, so I planned to be back before nightfall just in case my spell hadn’t worked, or he’d somehow broken it.
Nonna set her rolling pin aside and handed the platter of flattened chicken to my mother to drench in flour. She watched me slice more mushrooms as she uncorked a bottle of marsala and splashed it into a hot pan, and I pretended not to notice.
“Distractions in the kitchen lead to accidents, Emilia.” She wiped her hands and tossed the towel over her shoulder. “Do you need to sit down?”
I glanced up, pausing my assault on the mushrooms. “I’m fine, Nonna. Just tired.”
And more than a little anxious about the last twenty-four hours. It was hard to grasp the fact that the monsters from my childhood stories were real. They didn’t have red eyes, or claw-tipped fingers, or horns. The creatures from Hell were elegant, regal, well mannered. It upended my idea of how evil was supposed to present itself to the world. Wrath was supposed to be fang-toothed and drooling, not a shirtless wonder any artist would dream of painting.