“Your family will be informed of your whereabouts,” he said. “As long as you do what you’re told, they need not worry.”
Her brother burst into view, panic carved into his thin face. He yelled her name once before the Luni family’s guards surrounded him. With a snarl, he struck the one closest to him. The guard pivoted at the last moment, and snatched Antonio’s hair, yanking him off his feet.
“Please,” Ravenna gasped, “don’t hurt him!”
The guards dragged him out of sight as he kicked and screamed her name.
They reached a carriage, gilded and heavily adorned with elaboratewooden carvings. The door displayed the family crest, but Ravenna didn’t have time to study it before the steward opened it and then indicated she climb inside. The family’s guards crowded her, inching her toward the door.
“You can’t do this,” she said. “I don’t want to go.”
The steward read her expression and made an impatient noise at the back of his throat. He indicated to the two guards, and they pushed her up the carriage steps. She went up, numb, her legs shaking. It was happening too quickly. She barely understood. Why were they doing this—whyher?
The door snapped closed behind her.
The steward clicked his teeth, the horses reared, and the carriage lurched forward, out and away from the piazza.
The Pope
Deep in the heart of Rome, a man stood at his window, looking out upon the sprawling city, partially shrouded under thick, dark clouds brewing a storm. Scattered moonlight illuminated the domes and spires of churches, the winding, cobbled streets, and the Tiber River swiftly moving in the distance.
Pope Sixtus IV pressed his hand against the glass, his skin smooth, unblemished. The mark of youth and a promise of many more years to come. Satisfaction curled deep in his belly as he studied the ancient and new city alike. It was under his rule, every inch of it.
It had taken years, it had taken blood, but there was no one more powerful than he. His God had been faithful, had blessed him above all others; the weak, the common, the sinner.
He had everything he wanted.
Almost.
Anger crept up his skin, and he turned from the window, shedding his papal vestments in favor of a long nightgown made of luxurious silk, the color of his favorite gemstone. The crimson set off the pale gold of his hair, the blue fire of his piercing eyes. Underneath the fabric, the clink of metal followed his movements as he draped a velvet robe over his body. He never took off the chain mail, not for sleeping. Not for his mistresses.
The pope had powerful enemies, and even in the Vatican, he wasn’t safe from the rabble.
Candles illuminated his opulent room in a soft, inviting light, while sticks of incense scented the air in frankincense and sandalwood. A golden cross hung on the wall, sandwiched between frescoesand gilded paneling. An expensive Persian rug was spread under his slippered feet, while a fireplace with a marble mantel provided a cozy warmth.
The air within his chamber grew heavy. One by one, the candles were extinguished, and the crackling fire was smothered, as if it had been put out by a strong wind. He glanced at the tall wardrobe in the corner of his private quarters. His courier had come through.
About time.
The pope crossed the room, pulling at a long cord around his neck, hidden underneath his chain mail. A gold key dangled at the end, and he used it to open the wardrobe doors. He unlocked a secret compartment and pulled out a silver bowl, no larger than his smooth palm. It was filled with water, but no matter what movement he made, it never spilled. He’d once turned the whole thing over, and not a single drop splattered onto the rug.
Magic was a terrifying, awful thing.
A necessary evil.
His breath faltered, as it always did in the presence of the devil’s ways. He clenched his jaw, fought the unease and painful stab of guilt. He knew he was justified in using it, but sometimes during the night he would wake, drenched in sweat, fearing for his soul.
His eternal nightmare.
The water vanished, revealing the Echostone, a small orb the color of an angry sea. The pope had been warned never to touch it himself; only a witch or fae could withstand the power it held. The Echostone lifted upward, and the pope flinched at the unnatural sight. When this was over, he would give the order for the courier to burn on a pyre. Wizards were an abomination, like all the other magical creatures polluting the peninsula… even if they did have their uses. His gaze flicked to the luxurious canopy bed where he’d once spent the best nights of his life with such a creature. He remembered the noises she made when he pleasured her, the gold spill of her hair across his silk pillow, the satiny feel of her skin against his.
She had been his favorite possession, and he’d lost her.
His first mistress had not only abandoned him, but she’d stolen from him. The statues haunted his thoughts, priceless works carved by Praxiteles, the fae sculptor whose name had lingered through the centuries like a whispered legend. Praxiteles, they said, had lived for more than a millennium, long enough to discover the Lacrima Coeli, tears of heaven, fragments of stars cast down to earth during a celestial battle of incomprehensible scale. From those shards of heaven, he had shaped his most famous set of statues, each one a testament to the divine essence embedded in the stone.
The pope had bought and paid for them with the blood-coin of indulgences, securing them as his by sacred right—untouchable, unassailable. Or so he had believed. Nearly a hundred years later, they were still missing. Just like the woman herself. The courier had better find what once belonged to him. What belonged to him still.
The enchantress, the half witch, would be his or face the pyre.
