He caught my eye and scowled. “Good manners are hard to break, no matter how unpleasant the company I’m forced to keep. Plus, you served me the dessert. It’s only fair to return the favor.”
I smiled, which seemed to rankle him more, and tucked into my food.
After a few minutes of watching him poking around at the scampi, I skewered one with my fork and held it out to him. His suspicion deepened. “What are you doing?”
“This is langostino. It’s like a baby lobster. I’m pretty sure you’ll like it. Unless you’re afraid . . .”
Wrath accepted the shellfish as if in challenge. He must have enjoyed it, because his focus shifted to his plate and he didn’t look up again until he’d sampled a bit of everything.
While he experienced the wonder of human food, I ate my scampi, enjoying the fresh lemon they’d used to cut the richness of the butter. Theirs was a bit heavier with citrus than ours, and I decided to experiment one day soon.
Maybe if I sliced a lemon in half, and grilled it facedown—
I paused, fork to mouth. I’d been enjoying myself so much I almost forgot the reason I was sitting there, with one of the Malvagi, eating. A month. My twin had been gone for a little more than a month, and I was daydreaming about recipes for Sea & Vine while in the company of our worst enemy. The food turned to stone in my stomach.
I pushed my plate away, no longer hungry.
Wrath watched me in a way a human might study a fly buzzing over their dinner. “Experiencing a moral dilemma, witch?”
I couldn’t muster an ounce of anger or annoyance. A hard blade of truth carved into me; I had no idea what I was doing. I was pretty sure my sister had summoned a demon, but didn’t know which one. I knew about the Horn of Hades, but didn’t know how we came to be the keepers of it.
Then there were the cryptic clues in Vittoria’s diary about her ability to hear magical objects, and the possibility of the first book of spells being in this world. I knew my sister agreed to become the devil’s bride, but still hadn’t figured out why she’d made that awful choice, or why she didn’t confide in me or our grandmother.
I had more questions than answers, and no one I could fully trust. Nonna almost died because of my quest for justice, and I refused to put anyone else in my family in danger by going to them for anything related to the murder. While Wrath might have saved me, he was a prince of Hell, and even though he’d vowed to not force a witch into a bargain, I still didn’t know how or why he was picked for this mission.
I leaned forward and dropped my voice. “I want to know everything about the curse.”
I stared at him, and his gold eyes—speckled with black—gazed back. “Have you considered moving in with me until we find the murderer?”
A most unexpected deflection. “I have.”
“Where are your belongings?”
“At home.”
He swirled his wine around, and I wondered what, exactly, he was thinking. “Would you like me to escort you there while you retrieve them?”
“I haven’t told you what I’ve decided.” I eyed him. “And I want you to answer my question. If Pride is the one who’s cursed, how does that affect you?”
“We should go back to the palace, and speak there.”
“Not until you give me some answers.”
Wrath looked like he was considering different ways to string me up using my innards. “I will. Later.”
“Now.” I refused to budge on this. He stared up at the sky and I wondered, if he was praying, why he hadn’t glanced down instead.
“Fine. If I answer your questions, will you agree to stay in the palace?”
“No. But it will help me decide. How about that?”
He drew in a long breath and slowly released it. I waited. After fighting some inner battle, I saw the exact moment he decided to confide in me.
“In order for the curse to be fully broken, a consort needs to sit on the throne and help rule House Pride.”
“Anir said the last consort was murdered. How?”
“Her heart was torn from her chest.” He looked at me, but I had a feeling he wasn’t really seeing me anymore. “Along with a few of her royal ladies.”
“Did the First Witch really curse Pride?”
“Yes.”
I allowed that information to settle in with all of the other tales I’d convinced myself were just stories. La Prima Strega was ancient—she’d begun the first line of witches. Or so the old stories went. Supposedly, she was the source of our power and belonged only to herself. No light magic, no dark magic. Just raw power slightly diluted from the goddess who’d birthed her. She predated human La Vecchia Religione—and the Old Religion was old.