“I’m not convinced of anything. I’m just trying to tug on threads that seem likely.” I bumped into a few people still on their way to the murder scene, muttered apologies, and turned down another street. “As for evidence? Based on my conversation with him, his desire to possess the Horn of Hades, and the attack on my grandmother immediately following my meeting with him, Greed makes the most sense right now.”
I felt Wrath’s attention on me as we moved into a narrower street, a constant prickle of energy between my shoulder blades, but he didn’t ask how my grandmother was or offer apologies.
And to be perfectly honest, he was the last creature in the world I wanted comfort from.
I stopped at the turnoff to my neighborhood. “Who is the next witch on your list?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“That needs to be our next priority,” I said, glancing past him. The street was quiet in this quarter. “Once you find out who she is, we’ll have to hide her somewhere safe.”
Wrath pressed his lips together, but finally nodded in agreement. “I’ll send word to my realm tonight. I should have an answer by morning.”
It wasn’t cold, but I rubbed my hands over my arms anyway. My dress was creamy white and sleeveless. Perfect for warm summer nights, but terrible for fighting chills brought on by fear. Wrath tracked the movement, his attention focused on my forearm. Wildflowers twisted and tangled all the way up to my elbow now. I didn’t have to see his arm to know his tattoo was the same. I looked down my street, relieved to see a few children out playing. I didn’t want to be scared of Greed or Envy lurking in the shadows, but I was.
“All right,” I said. “I’ll see you tomorrow then. Where should we meet?”
“Don’t worry.” Wrath flashed a wolfish grin. “I’ll find you.”
“You know that’s deeply unsettling, right?”
“Iucundissima somnia.” Sweetest dreams. And then he was gone.
Twenty-Seven
“I was thinking of making cassata for tomorrow’s dessert.”
Mamma turned to me, her expression worn, but hopeful. Somehow I managed to hide the swift emotional punch from registering on my face. The sponge cake with sweet ricotta layers was a favorite of both mine and Vittoria’s. We used to request it each year for our birthday and Mamma never disappointed us. She’d roll out a thin layer of marzipan, covering the whole cake in the sweet paste before decorating it with brightly colored candied fruit. I loved how that slightly chewier upper layer contrasted against the soft deliciousness of the wet cake hidden inside.
I wasn’t sure I could ever eat it again without feeling crushed by a wave of sadness, but refused to dampen my mother’s spirits. When I smiled, it was genuine.
“That sounds delicious.”
My mother shuffled over to the dry goods cabinet, seemingly exhausted again from her brief spurt of conversation, and pulled out a bowl, filling it with sugar and all the supplies she needed for the cake. Today was a bad day for her. I watched her, then went back to removing the sarde a beccafico from the oven. I inhaled the fragrant scent of stuffed sardines.
Nonna’s recipe called for golden raisins, pine nuts, and breadcrumbs in the stuffing, then she’d drizzle melted sage butter and thyme over it before finishing it off with large bay leaves to separate the fish while it baked. The result was a symphony of flavors that melted in your mouth and stuck to your ribs.
I’d no sooner set the fish on a platter when my father stepped into the kitchen, waving around a folded note. He expertly swiped a piece of stuffing that had fallen out, and I shook my head, but smiled all the same. My father was always very helpful in the kitchen, sampling each new recipe for quality purposes. Or so he kept claiming.
“Salvatore dropped this off for you, Emilia,” he said around a mouthful of food. “Said your friend asked him to deliver it right away.”
Mamma wore a rosary like other humans, and I imagined she’d be kissing it later, uttering novenas if she ever found out who my “friend” really was. I hastily snatched the note before she could. “Grazie, Papà.”
My father pulled a stool over and started loading a plate, drawing my mother’s attention. I used the distraction to hurry into the corridor and read the short message.
Piazza Zisa and Via degli Emiri. Eight in the evening.
I didn’t recognize the careful, neat penmanship but it dripped regal arrogance and made my stomach twist. The address he’d given was Castello della Zisa. La Zisa was a sprawling Moorish palace that mostly sat in ruin now. The king who’d had it built was called Il Malo—“the bad one”—so it was more than fitting the demon prince had taken up temporary residence there.