“You forgotimmortal.”
“No, he’s…” She tilted her head, pulled at her bottom lip with her teeth. “He’s been blessed with a long life, like the prophets in the Old Testament.”
“Has he.”
“That’s what I’ve been taught,” she said. “What I’ve always believed.”
The courier waved this off with an impatient flick of his hand. “You know what I am. I can sense magic. I can sense it in you. I can sense it in all five members of the Luni family.” This time it was he who leaned forward over the table, his face bright and alive. “I can sense it in the pope.”
“The pope is a magical being?” Ravenna hissed, disgust coating her tongue. He had sent witches to the pyre, had drowned werewolves, executed vampyres by weeks out in the sunlight until they withered. “What is he?”
“Ravenna,” he said quietly. “There are only a handful of people who know the truth. It is a burden to know it. If you ever reveal where you learned what I am about to tell you, I will hunt you down and drain your body of every drop of its blood. Do you doubt me?”
She shook her head, shivering.
“Do you still want to know?”
Her brother’s face leaped to her mind. His face twisted in righteous fury, the hatred radiating off him, touching everything around him. She had to try.
Ravenna nodded. “Yes.”
“If your brother refuses you,” he said slowly, “then you will have only one more chance to save him.” He paused, waiting for her to grasp his meaning. She almost understood, even as much as it terrified her. “The pope isn’t a magical being, but he’sprotectedby magic. An old enchantment woven into his chain mail. It’s his only weakness,ifyou could call it one. For the last time, do you still want to know?”
“Yes,” she breathed.
The courier studied her, then muttered, “You asked.” In a low, clipped voice, he told her everything. When he finished, he waited for her reaction, assessing her with a critical eye. “You look pale.”
She clutched at the edge of the table with both hands, her mind reeling. “It’s impossible.”
“I know.”
“I can’t do it alone.”
“No.”
She stared at him, almost pleadingly. “And you won’t help me?”
The courier shook his head. “I can’t risk it.”
“But—”
“Ravenna,” he said sharply. “Do not ask me again.”
Her gaze dropped. “Can I ask you something else, then?”
He sighed. “What is it?”
“Can you take me to my brother?”
Capitolo Trentacinque
Ravenna trailed after the courier, marveling at the way he seemed to blend in with the night. He was a creature of darkness, thriving under the light of the moon and little else. On the way to Santa Croce, the streets became narrower, winding between tightly packed buildings. The stone underfoot was smooth, even, the cobbles worn down from centuries of use.
The courier stuck to the shadows, passing by open doorways as if he were a phantom, a mere trick of the light. The smells of bread baking and chestnuts roasting spilled out into the night, mingling with the scents of damp cloth and aged wood.
“What is your name?” she asked.
“No.”
