Dante may have grown unpredictable, but his desire is clear—he wants Luce to himself. What does Justus Rossi long for?
A man whose agenda is unclear makes for a frightening nemesis. My only hope is that Meriam, cunning woman that she clearly is, knows what he’s after.
Gods . . . Meriam might be on our side. Who the Cauldron cares about Justus?
I glance back her way, finding her heavy-lidded gaze already on me. Though she does not yawn, she’s as pale as the bust Dante damaged with his petulance. I only now realize whose face it represents: Xema Rossi. Not only did the artist manage to capture the ancient Faerie’s caustic stare and razor-sharp wrinkles to absolute perfection, but they added a flawless replica of her dead pet parrot—the only animal I’ve ever loathed—on her shoulder.
Dante snaps, “Fine. Keep the smith alive. But begin training a new one.” As Justus nods, he takes me in from tattered shirt to stained suede pants. “Give Fallon a bath and find her something to wear that does not make her resemble a prepubescent Racoccin male.”
I sputter. “I’m no babe, Dante! I will gladly bathe but I will notbebathed.” I grip my shirt and wring out the fabric, picturing Dante’s neck.
He lingers in the vault’s entrance, his gaze scraping over me once more. “She is not to be left alone for even a second.”
“Of course, Maezza.”
“One more thing, Rossi. Fetch paper. Plenty of it. I want to use the month ahead to learn every sigil known to Shabbin-kind.”
“I shall have vellum and ink stocked immediately.”
“No need for ink. I will be using Fallon’s blood.” With a cruel smile, he whirls and strides out of the vault. “Fresh from the source.”
My pulse jumps, battering my skin with unadulterated anger, but then it jumps again, this time in dread. If we’re married, he’ll know Meriam’s spell worked because he’ll be able to use my magic. I glance toward my fellow Shabbin, but her gaze is locked on Justus’s. Although they do not speak, something seems to pass between them.
She must sense the weight of my gaze because she murmurs, “Worry not. I will teach him only erroneous symbols.”
I side-eye Justus who seems to be fluent in sigils.
“Worried I teach him correct ones?” Justus volleys a scheming smile.
I blink.
At him.
At Meriam.
Oh. My. Gods.
Justus understands Shabbin!
And Meriam . . . she doesn’t bat an eyelash.
“Come. Your grandmother needs rest.” As Meriam’s head finally tips toward her shoulder, Justus strides ahead of me, posture so straight that his long ponytail barely swishes as he marches.
“I will not give that man a milliliter of my blood,” I hiss as Meriam’s lids close in exhaustion.
Justus halts before rounding on me, stepping so near that, to keep my gaze leveled on his, I must crane my neck. He may not be as tall as Lore or Dante, but Justus Rossi is still imposing.
In a hushed voice, he says, “If you refuse, you’ll be signing Antoni’s demise. Is that truly what you want?”
My heart thrashes against my ribs. “Of course not.”
Louder he says, “Then you will act as Dante’s inkwell.”
“What game are you playing, Generali?”
“The one where my granddaughter stays Queen of Luce.”
“I’m not your—”
