“I . . . I think so, but can’t remember for certain. He’s here most days. You don’t think . . .” He slid his attention to Claudia, who’d begun mumbling in that strange tongue again. Concern filled his expression. “You don’t think he hurt her, do you?”
“It’s dark. Dark and musty, and death is lurking. It’s gotten a taste and craves more.” Claudia blinked rapidly, suddenly seeming more like herself. “Is he still here?”
“No,” Antonio said, “Domenico’s gone.”
“But don’t worry.” I helped her to her feet. “I’ll find him.” I faced Antonio. “Do you know where he lives?” He shook his head. Of course things wouldn’t be easy; they never were. “I’ll check their arancini stand just in case they’re working late.”
“Alone?” Antonio’s mouth pressed into a tight line of worry. Brown hair fell across his brow. He looked so young and inexperienced compared to Wrath. “If he did something . . . maybe we should go together.”
I mustered up what I hoped was a reassuring smile. While I’d love to have him with me when I confronted Domenico, there were questions I needed to ask that he couldn’t be privy to. And not just because he was human. I wouldn’t be able to mention the dark arts, or toss around accusations of cavorting with demon princes in front of a member of the holy brotherhood.
“I’ll be all right. I don’t believe Domenico did anything sinister,” I lied. “He might know if she ingested any strange food or drink. Who knows? Maybe there was some mold, or other toxin present for one of her desiccations. Or maybe she had a bad bottle of wine. Valentina’s death is probably to blame if she drank too much. Murder isn’t easy to accept.”
That seemed to mollify Antonio. It was perfectly logical. And humans loved logic, especially when it explained away the unexplainable. “She did complain of the bay leaves being rotten earlier. I believe she burned them in the preparation room.”
“See?” I smiled. “I’m sure that’s all it is. She inhaled mold, or something equally bad. This will pass with some fresh air and sleep, you’ll see.”
With a polite nod good-bye, he escorted Claudia out of the courtyard. I waited until they were safely down the street and far away from the lingering brotherhood before I left, too. I tried not to think about the searing accusation burning in Brother Carmine’s gaze as I hurried away.
Since I still didn’t know where Domenico’s family lived, and I was fairly confident their arancini stall had long since closed for the night, confronting him would have to wait until morning.
I knew where to find Claudia’s aunt Carolina, though. And she and I were going to exchange some words. I understood how grief warped a person into doing things they’d normally never do—I’d prayed to the goddess of death and fury and had summoned a demon—but asking someone else to do that when she could have done it on her own . . . I hoped to reign my temper in before I saw Carolina.
I stomped off in the direction of her neighborhood, unable to wrap my mind around what she’d convinced her niece to do, and how dangerous it had been. I’d asked Claudia to use a powerful spell to ward our homes because I didn’t know how, and because not much could go wrong. What Carolina did was much more dangerous.
I rounded the corner and felt a prickle of energy between my shoulder blades. I kept walking, picking up my pace. The sensation continued, which meant I was being followed. And whoever they were, they were furious. I could think of at least one demon I made that angry on occasion.
Wrath probably returned from his visit with whomever he’d been trying to impress earlier than expected, and wasn’t happy I’d escaped my pretty cage. Good. Maybe his evening didn’t go as planned, either. I turned and glared into the shadows. I really hated the stupid magical ink that connected us, letting him find me when I didn’t wish to be found. I’d assumed when I broke the spell that bound us together, the tattoo would fade.
Apparently some gifts couldn’t be returned.
“Stop lurking, it’s beneath you. If you’ve got something to say, say it.”
“Bold for a witch.” The voice wasn’t familiar, and his accent was hard to place—almost English but not. I peered down the street, pulse racing. A few paces away, a dark figure peeled away from the building. I instinctually stepped back. He followed, his movements smooth and quick. “Your blood smells like spiced wine. Give us a taste?”