Chapter 23
“So, it turns out you weren’t lying about the blood oaths,” I observe once we’re in the hall, working to settle my lingering rage.
“I tried to warn you,” he reminds me, then grows serious. “Apologies, Miss Hawkins. Truly. Ansaldo shouldn’t have done that.”
“No, he shouldn’t have,” I agree, wishing I could steady my voice as I stare sightlessly down the long hall.
What does this mean now? Besides never being able to stab my left foot with my switchblade maliciously, does that second drop of blood mean anything?
Have I promised something without realizing it?
“I know you want to run,” he murmurs, and I glance over at him, noting his pinched brow as his gaze searches mine. “I can see it in your eyes. And there’s probably very little I could say to convince you to stay, nor can I blame you for wanting to get as far away from this place as possible.”
He swallows hard and his jaw ticks. A part of me wants to tell him he’s wrong.
Yet, I also can’t stop wondering how the hell I’m going to pry open that mechanical door at the end of the car tunnel with my bare hands.
I’ve never been treated so poorly in my life, and I refuse to stay in a place where the leader abuses people and forces them into things they don’t want to do.
“You may think it can’t get worse than this, but it can.
If the God Men got their hands on you, assuming your affiliation with the order after seeing you with Cec and I, they’d torture you for information.
And if they broke you”—Bes pauses, nostrils flaring—“before you took the blood oath, then hundreds of people would die, and the world would fall.”
“How can you put that sort of pressure on me?” I glance away, lower lip trembling slightly. “I never wanted any of this.”
“I know, but you have it all the same. Now, it’s up to you what you want to do with it.”
I glance up at the stone ceiling. Fuck, he’s right.
I can’t run now. Even if I did know the way out, I don’t want to be tortured by the God Men.
If anything has been proven to me over the past few days, I wouldn’t last a week on my own without the connections the order has.
Ingrid would find me, torture me until I told her everything I know, and kill me.
Then, she’d use that information to hurt others.
No, I’ll have to stay and come to terms with needing to make a blood oath—and figure out how to use this place to my advantage.
I still plan to read all I can about the amulet—especially after what it did just now after the tree drank my blood—and now I need to find more about Nonna.
If I’m being kept here against my will, I plan to ask as many questions as I can.
I don’t realize we’ve stopped in front of my door until Bes clears his throat.
With slightly-trembling fingers, I fish the key out of the front pocket of my borrowed pants.
Slipping it into the lock, I push inside.
Of course, not knowing I was going to have company, my things are strewn about the place like a tornado breezed through.
I shove most of it—including the dirty clothes I left in the corner—underneath the bed.
Once that’s done, I get to my feet, finding Bes exactly where I left him. Maybe he’ll answer some more of my questions. I don’t want to ask him about my nonna—he claimed she was only Ansaldo’s friend, but that could’ve been one of his lies—or the amulet. Those, I’m reserving for Ansaldo.
I come to stand before him, clearing my dry throat. “What was this place before the order came here?”
He straightens. “Nothing that we know of. It’s possible it was a place of worship for the tree in the great hall, but we’ve found nothing to confirm that theory.
Even the castle above us wasn’t built until the twelfth century.
It was turned into a military stronghold a couple centuries later during the Venetian Republic, then finally abandoned in 1598 and repurposed as a rock quarry. ”
“Talk about a demotion.”
“Not for the order,” Bes argues. “When Frederick the First came to build on what he thought to be an empty hill, the order was forced to make a deal with him: he could erect his castle, but only if he took a blood oath to keep his knowledge of us concealed. Now, the castle is some tourist trap—making it easier for many of us to go unnoticed.”
“That was not a good enough reason to use the word erect, mate,” Cec says at the door.
Not realizing I’d moved so close to Bes, I jump back, unable to hold in my gasp.
Cec grins at my quick intake of breath and stumbling footfalls. “Unless I’m interrupting the only appropriate use for it.”
Bes hurries over and takes the four plates Cec balances precariously in his hands. The intoxicating smell of sauteed garlic wafts over to me.
“Right on time, old chap. I’m starving.”
Cec appears unconvinced, but decides to let it go. “I also pilfered this.”
After Bes sets the plates of food down on the ornate rug—the fourth, I notice gleefully, piled high with a delectable dessert—Cec reaches behind his back and procures a bottle of prosecco.
I gawk at him. “I don’t even want to know where you were keeping that.”
“You really don’t.” Cec pops off the top with precision and, miraculously, minimal spillage.
I smile at him. I still haven’t forgiven him for not having my back in the great hall, but I understand the thrall fathers can have over their children. Especially those who revel in authority, like Ansaldo.
“So, am I forgiven, Hawkins?” Cec asks, widening his eyes and jutting out his lower lip.
“Only if you promise to work on standing up to your father.”
He grimaces. “If you’ll help me, I will try.”
“Deal,” I say, thinking to hold out my hand so we can shake on it, then remember he won’t be able to see it. “I’ve gotten very good at standing up to authority.”
“I’m mostly blind, and even I can see that,” Cec mutters.
The three of us sit cross-legged on the rug, each taking a plate and set of cloth-wrapped utensils. I hold up my hand right as Cec is about to shove a rather large bite of what I believe to be risotto—though the bright yellow color isn’t quite right—into his mouth.
“Wait. We should eat the dessert first.”
They both look at me like I’ve grown a second head from the side of my neck.
Cec takes a purposeful bite of his main course. “Why in the bloody hell would we do that?”
“One of my philosophy professors always says: eat the dessert first, because you never know when you might die.” I wave my hand. “Or something like that.”
Bes takes his own first bite. “While I’m sure there’s some sound American logic to that, I’m far too famished to be existential about my dinner choices.”
“I’m going to… have to agree… with my cousin… on this one,” Cec says between hurried bites.
“Suit yourselves.” I shrug. “But if either of you start to choke on your risotto, I’m no longer obligated to save your lives.”
Cec swallows. “Noted.”
I eye the dessert: slices of Torta Paradiso. It’s a simple sponge cake, layered with some sort of cream or custard. My mouth waters before I take a bite, recognizing the filling instantly to be a decadent lemon custard. It’s soft and sweet and slightly tart, and it melts in my mouth.
I finish it in three bites, licking my fingers to get the last bits of flavor. “You two really missed out.”
They grunt in preoccupied satisfaction of their own choices.
I pick up the bottle of prosecco by the neck, wipe off the top with a napkin, and take a swig before setting it down again. I’m not sure if it’s the bubbles or the fermented grapes, but prosecco always goes straight to my head.
I’d love to disappear into those bubbles for a little while after what happened with Ansaldo.
Unable to stall any longer, I narrow my eyes at the risotto. “What is this?”
Cec gawks with an open mouth full of it. “Don’t tell me you’ve never seen risotto before. And you call yourself Italian.”
“Don’t talk to me about seeing things, Cecilio.”
He clutches at his heart. “A low blow.”
I pick up my full plate, eyeballing it with trepidation. “Why is it yellow?”
“It’s the saffron,” Bes says.
“But—”
Bes huffs. “For the gods’ sakes, Miss Hawkins, try some. You might actually like it.”
I blow an errant hair out of my face. “Fine.”
Bringing the spoon up to my mouth, I take a tentative bite.
Any uncertainties I had about the color of the dish disappear, and I’m once again punched in the mouth by glorious flavor.
I was wrong to question food—so wrong. It’s a cornucopia of sweet, floral, and earthy flavors, with a hint of dry white wine at the end.
Beside it on the plate, I find a square of focaccia bread, equally as delicious.
I take turns between them, eating it far too quickly and wishing I had more.
I finish my meal much faster than them—it’s either eat quick or go hungry in my house—and feel the need to fill the silence. I’ve managed to avoid it until this moment, given how hungry I turned out to be, but I can’t wait any longer to get some answers.
“Since the blood oaths are, in fact, real, I suppose that means magic is real as well.”
A part of me expects Bes to defer to Ansaldo again, but, after what happened, perhaps he no longer feels that’s necessary.
Bes considers this. “In a sense. Though nothing like you’ve read about in fiction books. It’s a more… natural magic.”
Nothing about what happened in the great hall was natural.
“Do they truly tattoo dried-up leaves somewhere on your body so that you can possess whatever powers the gods have chosen to grant you with?” I grasp the half-empty bottle of prosecco and take another swig of it. “You can’t honestly expect me to believe that.”
“Believe it?” Bes wipes his mouth with his napkin. “You saw with your own eyes that the blood oaths are real. How is this any different?”
“I don’t know,” I admit. “The blood oaths may have been proven true, but I’m having trouble wrapping my head around tattoos allowing a person to gain actual powers.”