Saturnino tugged her up, and whispered against her parted lips, “I’m yours.”
Neither of them noticed the witch gazing at them with a mixture of satisfaction and pride. She glanced once more at her son, still directing the crowd, before turning away from the fire and smoke that clung to the buildings in the piazza. She’d meddled enough for now; the humans had things well in hand.
She’d taken only a few steps before realizing how much the cloakitched her skin, how the cobbled stone hurt her bare feet. A rueful smile tugged at her mouth. Her father really did know her best. Simonetta said a quiet spell under her breath and with her next step, transformed herself into a black cat, who went off in search of milk.
Simonetta
ONE HUNDRED YEARS EARLIER
• MAY 1378 •
Simonetta thought of herself as a reasonable person.
She wasn’t prone to theatrics, she didn’t so much as raise her voice. Her witch mother had taught her at an early age a better way to get what she wanted. Patience and silence.
Simonetta loved her pragmatic mother, long since passed, but she still wielded her two greatest strengths with the precision of a master swordsman. Silence was a powerful tactic. Simonetta never stumbled over her words, never anxiously rambled like a young child. With one well-timed look, men often set off scrambling to do her bidding, fulfilling her desires and ambitions with their mouths and with their pockets.
And Simonetta was very ambitious.
She could still hear her mother’s voice, a whisper like silk over steel: “Remember, my treasure, men are easily swayed. Let your words be few, for they carry more power than you know. Scheme with precision, and above all, let patience and silence be your constant companions. In quiet, you control everything.”
Without fail, this approach had always worked.
Until now.
Which was why she was lurking in her lover’s secret room, half-covered in shadow and surrounded by treasures he’d been collecting for decades, using his power and influence in backroom dealings to acquire the priceless works of art.
Simonetta didn’t care about any of that.
What she cared about was his word. She had trusted his promises, his desire for her, his devotion. But her bastard of a lover had refused to acknowledge their infant son as his own flesh and blood. That he was the pope bore no significance.
In fact, it shouldn’t have.
Wasn’t he the most powerful man in the known world? The shepherd of souls, the divine spokesperson of God almighty? At his fingertips, he had the blind obedience of the masses, he had property, status, wealth. Kings trembled in his presence, not to mention the scores of nobles who would kneel before him to kiss his purple robes.
Her lover had the power to claim what he wanted, the power to claimwhomhe wanted. He had claimed her, not just her body and mind, but the magic flooding her veins.
But he would not claim his child.
His own son.
There had to be some way to convince him to accept them both. She was the daughter of fae nobility, and a powerful witch in her own right. She had wealth, power, beauty, the pope’sheir.There had to be a way to reason with him. They could be a family. Unless, of course, His Holiness decided she wasn’t worth the bother anymore and had her killed.
Which meant that she would have to disappear. Leave the life she had built, her status and her lovely things, hername.
It was all so infuriating.
Simonetta scowled into the dim room, the only light coming from the lit candlestick she carried. It was still and quiet, as she knew it would be. The guard stationed outside had been taken care of the moment she held up a Moonhaze gemstone. The sleeping stone hadpulsed with purple light; the guard had slumped over in his stool and wouldn’t wake for an hour, perhaps more if she was lucky. She didn’t possess a deep well of magic, not like her illustrious father, king of all fae.
Evenhehad acknowledged her existence.
A soft pattering noise came from somewhere in the room.
Simonetta paused, her arm aloft, the candle flickering. “Who’s there?”
The sound grew louder and she stiffened, her free hand slowly reaching for her necklace, fingers brushing the charms until she found the Sunspire, a crystal in the shape of a spiral. She murmured a revealing spell under her breath, the words caught and twisting with the golden light emanating from the gemstone. It brightened, almost hurting her eyes, and bathed the pope’s storage room in a hazy, golden hue as the scurrying drew closer.
Her gaze dropped to the source of the sound.
