The Courier
It was because of his witch mother that his instincts were his greatest defense. They had kept him alive, season after season, decade after decade. He knew, within seconds of meeting someone, if they could be trusted. If they were vile or if they were decent. Everyone had both angel and devil in them, but it was their heart that ultimately told him who they were. It had taken him years to master the ability, through practice and trial and error. His assessment was almost always accurate.
But now, for the first time, he couldn’t classify someone.
That immortal.
The courier kept to the shadows as he returned to his apartment in the heart of Santa Croce. He cataloged his surroundings, the people ahead, the people behind, the best route to evade capture, the fastest way home. But his mind dwelled on Cavaliere Saturnino. The immortal contained every selfish, angry, deceitful thing within himself, but when he looked at Ravenna, his manner, the air around him, softened and transformed into something holy and beautiful.
The courier didn’t make the decision to trust lightly. But while he didn’t know how to categorize Saturnino, he instinctively knew he could trust the knight’s feelings for Ravenna. He would protect her in a way the courier could not.
She alone would have the opportunity to strike.
And he would provide the weapon.
He wandered through a winding alley off the main thoroughfare until he reached an abandoned workshop, its weathered door flung open. It smelled foul, as if infested by rats. No one ever ventured near the space, he made sure of it. He was a very good rat catcher. The courier went deeper into the workshop, navigating the overturned tables and upended chairs until he reached a scarred wooden door at the back. He ran a light finger over the left corner until a blue symbol appeared, his witch family’s crest: a unicorn and an owl, blue stars, and a slim dagger.
The door vanished and he walked through, up the curved stone steps to his apartment. It was all of two rooms, the walls made of plaster and stone, with a single round window covered in stained glass. The scent of candle wax, old paper, and herbs hit his nose. The smell always reminded him of his mother. A wooden worktable dominated the living space. Scattered across the surface were a marble mortar and pestle, metal instruments for measuring, scrolls, piles of codices, and pamphlets.
It was there he created spells for sale, ate his meals, and wrote letters.
They were always to the same person.
And he’d never mailed any of them.
The courier flicked his hand and blue light illuminated the various lanterns lining the shelves, as well as the small fireplace where a cauldron hung over the flames. Apothecary bottles in all shapes, sizes, and colors crowded the space, some filled with dried herbs and others with shimmering liquids that bubbled and sparked. Tinctures and vials were kept on the top shelf, all meticulously labeled in Latin and German, and on the ground were boxes of various powders, chimera scales, belladonna, wolfsbane, and a half dozen corked bottles filled with dragon blood.
There were scores of spells that had been blended into salves, oils, and powders, steeped, crushed, and distilled into teas and elixirs, and stored in tiny charms for customers to wear around their necks and wrists and ankles. Witches and wizards all had a talent for magic,but their power was amplified using a crafted spell, which was why they were all taught how to make them at a young age. But for him, spellcraft was more than a necessity; it was an art form and how he made his living. His most popular spell, bought by his kind and other magical creatures alike, was the Volifex, which could turn thought into reality.
He went to the old leather chair propped in the corner of the room and picked up the mallet he’d left on the cushion. It was sturdy, but slim. He’d bought it off a sculptor for a handful of coins soon after meeting the sculptress. It was the perfect weight for her, a tool she knew how to use instinctively and with ease. He dropped the mallet into the cauldron, then went to the shelves and gathered the necessary ingredients to turn an ordinary thing into a weapon capable of chipping away at century-old magic.
The courier would make sure Ravenna would only need to strike once.
Capitolo Trentanove
Saturnino gripped Ravenna’s hand as they strode through the narrow streets, the moon high over their heads. At this time of night, most people would ordinarily have been tucked into their beds, candles blown out, doors locked. But the city of Florence was in chaos. Those loyal to the Medici had taken control of key locations, and public executions were still ongoing.
Ravenna could hear the screaming.
People begging for their lives, trying to convince whoever could hear them of their innocence. Smoke billowed high above the roofs from fires burning in piazzas. Lanterns were lit on most corners, the better for Medici patrolmen to enforce order.
It was Volterra all over again.
She tried to push the memories to the side, but they plagued her as they walked from one street to another. Bodies piled on top of one another on wheelbarrows, the sound of buzzing flies, the scent of burnt flesh and singed hair, children crying for their parents. She remembered running to Maria’s house, heart pounding, worried sick, knocking on the door, praying her friend would answer. She had, clutching her young son, eyes red-rimmed as she told Ravenna the devastating news of her husband’s death.
His wasn’t the only one.
Antonio had lost most of his childhood companions.
Every moment had been a waking horror.
“Not far now,” Saturnino whispered, pausing at the end of the street. Finger pressed against his lips, he motioned for her to come close to his side. “Quiet, I can hear the guards.”
The faint clinking of armored boots echoed down the cobbled path. Distant voices barked orders; a loud scream came from a detained conspirator.
“Please!I’m innocent,” a man said in a guttural roar. “No—no!”
Ravenna shuddered and pulled Saturnino’s cloak tight around her. She’d had to borrow a tunic and hose from him since her gown still bore the bloodstains from Easter Sunday.
