Chapter 12 #3
He didn’t wait for a protest. The scripture lay before me like a curse waiting to be spoken.
I stared at the words, tongue dry, throat tight. Then I began.
“Ya hamiat alqamar fi allayl, ’adeuk litutliq aleinan lilnuwr waturshiduni khilal alzalami. Dae alshams aleazimat tarqus min hawlik bialhubi walmawadati...”
Each syllable scraped across my nerves like broken glass.
Zampa stood over me, relentless, barking corrections with the severity of a warden breaking in a prisoner. Every slip of the tongue, every faltering breath, was met with a pointed rebuke.
Finally, he slumped into his chair, rubbing at his temples, exhaustion written across his features.
“I know I’ve been harsh, Lady Tocino,” he said, voice low. “But I saw Lord Balthazar at the funeral. Lurking in the shadows. When I couldn’t find you, I feared the worst.” He clenched his fist against the arm of the chair, knuckles whitening. “He’s watching. Waiting. And I won’t let him touch you.”
My breath caught.
He’d seen him.
My heart thundered in my chest, not just from fear, but from something else. The knowledge that Balthazar had been so close, watching me from the veil of shadows, sent a thrill racing down my spine.
Dread and desire twined inside me, coiling tighter with every beat of my heart.
Would he come for me?
Did he know I wanted him to?
The ache deepened. A dangerous yearning that lived somewhere between memory and madness.
“May I be excused?” I asked softly, taming my voice into something sweet and composed.
Zampa nodded, dabbing his brow with a handkerchief. “Of course. But keep practicing. I’ll test you again tomorrow.”
I crossed the room with careful grace, leaned down, and pressed a kiss to his cheek. “Thank you for your kindness, Signor.”
His gaze darkened with determination. “I will do anything to keep you safe until the ritual is complete. But first… fetch me my whiskey before you go.”
“Yes, of course,” I replied with a pleasant smile.
If Zampa needed whiskey before noon, he was more afraid than he let on.
And so was I.
I moved swiftly into the drawing room, retrieving a tall bottle of rich amber whiskey from the cabinet. I paused. My fingers curled around the crystal stopper.
Then—
I drank.
A deep swallow.
The liquor burned as it slid down my throat, but I welcomed the heat. It settled in my belly like fire and steel, spreading through my limbs until the fear dissolved into a reckless buzz.
I returned to his study, tumbler in hand, and set both bottle and glass on the polished mahogany desk. His eyes didn’t meet mine. He was lost in his thoughts.
Without another word, I turned and slipped away.
Upstairs, I locked the door behind me and collapsed onto the bed, tension still deep in my core.
But the whiskey’s fire lingered.
And with it came the ache.
I shut my eyes, letting my hand drift beneath my skirts, seeking relief from the hunger that had gripped me since the funeral.
I tugged up the layers of fabric, my breath hitching as my fingers slid into the wet heat between my thighs. I gasped softly, back arching against the sheets.
I imagined Balthazar’s hands replacing mine—rough, commanding, worshipful in their destruction.
I imagined his mouth on my skin, his voice in my ear, whispering twisted praises as he buried himself inside me.
I came quickly, but it brought no satisfaction.
No peace.
Only more torment.
As I lay in the afterglow, panting softly in the dim room, my thoughts turned dark again.
What would Signor Zampa think if he knew the truth?
That the blood of darkness ran through me—that I enjoyed the murders.
That I didn’t just want Balthazar to find me—
I needed him to.
But what if he never came?
What if he let me go?
Unable to stand the flood of doubt, I bolted upright and stormed out of my bedroom, skirts swirling around me as I descended the stairs in haste.
I found Signor Zampa sprawled on the drawing room settee, sunken into the cushions like a man caught in a drunken stupor. His hand clutched an empty tumbler to his chest, while the half-drained bottle of whiskey glinted beside him like amber poison.
His bleary eyes lit up when he saw me, and a crooked grin stretched across his face.
“What can I do for you, Lady Tocino?” he slurred, his voice heavy with warmth and liquor.
My throat tightened. I hesitated, but then the words spilled out.
“Will Lord Balthazar be able to find me after I travel for a certain amount of time?”
Zampa blinked, then pushed himself upright with effort. The alcohol made his movements sluggish, but his mind, still sharp beneath the haze, latched onto the question.
“No,” he said, dragging a hand down his face. “He won’t be able to trace you. Not unless he’s traveling with a group or finds some clue. You’ll disappear, and he’ll have no idea where—or when—you’ve gone.”
He smiled as if that were a comfort.
But to me, it felt like a blade sliding between my ribs.
I wanted him to find me.
I craved the chase.
The collision.
“I don’t know if I can do this,” I whispered, my voice trembling despite every effort to keep it steady. “What if I land in the wrong era? What if I’m alone forever?”
Zampa let out a low, lazy chuckle, thick with whiskey and weariness. He patted the cushion beside him with a heavy hand.
“Oh, my dear,” he slurred gently. “You worry too much. Just picture when you wish to go, and the dagger will take you there. That’s all there is to it.”
I hesitated before lowering myself beside him. The sofa’s velvet was cold beneath my fingertips, almost unwelcoming—like it, too, resented what I was about to do.
“What if I can’t do it?” I asked again, more quietly this time. My words barely carried, but they felt heavier than anything I’d said all day.
Zampa’s smile flickered. For a heartbeat, something in his eyes looked clear, sober. But then he reached for the bottle again, took a long swig, and placed it back on the table with a dull thud.
“You’ll do it,” he said. “Enjoy the journey. And the safety you’ll find far away from Lord Balthazar.”
The name hung in the air like the scent of blood.
His words were meant to soothe—but they only deepened the pit in my stomach.
I thanked him, murmuring something polite, and rose to my feet. A spark ignited in my mind as I walked back to my room.
A dangerous, brilliant idea.
Once behind the safety of my door, I rushed to my desk and tore open a drawer. My fingers found pen and parchment as though fate had already arranged them.
I sat. Took a deep breath.
1666.
I scrawled it onto the paper with shaking fingers, the ink blotting and bleeding like a secret whispered too fast. It was a gamble—one that could doom me or save me. But I had no other choice.
If Balthazar came searching, this would be the only thread he might follow.
The paper fluttered as I set it down on the desk, leaving it conspicuous enough and vulnerable to discovery.
I stared at it, heart thundering.
Let him find it.
Let him follow me through time.
Let him chase me into the fire.
The night of the full moon was darker than any I’d known. The stars were veiled, the wind still, as if the world held its breath for what was to come.
I followed Signor Zampa through the quiet town, each step heavy with dread. Though he searched for a secret place to perform the rite, my heart tugged in the opposite direction—back to Balthazar. To his arms. To the madness I both feared and ached for.
So, it felt like fate—or a cruel twist of—when our path ended at that park.
The one where Balthazar and I had stolen kisses in the shadows, whispered terrible dreams, and written promises in sweat and blood.
My hand tightened around the slip of paper in my pocket, the one marked in my delicate, flowery handwriting—1666.
Zampa led me to a secluded corner, hidden by thick brush and moonlight. There, he revealed the dagger.
I froze.
The blade shimmered like it breathed. Its gold-etched hilt caught the moonlight in quiet defiance, while its edge seemed to pulse—as if it were alive and waiting.
“Are you ready, child?” Zampa asked, gripping my chin in his calloused hand, forcing me to meet his eyes.
His voice was low, unnervingly calm. Like death, whispering.
“Yes,” I breathed.
He raised the dagger between us. “I must cut your palm. You’ll speak the words of the rite. And you must not make a mistake. Do you understand?”
I nodded.
But inside, I trembled.
My voice began the sacred incantation, just as he drew the blade across my palm with a swift, brutal stroke.
I cried out, pain flaring through me like fire as blood welled and spilled—but I didn’t falter. I kept chanting.
He pressed the hilt into my bleeding hand, curling my fingers around it, sealing my grip with his own.
The dagger flared with an eerie, pale light.
A jolt surged through me, like lightning through my bones. My vision blurred. The world shivered around me, bending and groaning like time itself was drawing a breath.
I clutched the knife tighter. It buzzed in my hand, vibrating with unspoken power, as if it recognized my desperation.
It was no longer just a blade.
It was an escape. It was destiny.
My other hand fumbled into my pocket, fingers slick with blood, until they found the note.
The paper.
His chance.
With effort, I released it into the wind.
I watched it float downward, caught in a lazy current—spinning and drifting—before it landed near the base of a tree.
A message.
A hope.
A dare.
Then the world unraveled.
I was being pulled apart, slowly and completely, as if I were made of silk threads caught between past and future. My body felt light, yet impossibly heavy, like I was sinking through air.
Memories crashed into visions.
Laughter and blood. Warm hands and whispered prayers. Balthazar’s mouth was on my skin, and the weight of tomorrow was pressing against my chest.
The air thickened like fog, but it shimmered—otherworldly. A wind that wasn’t wind wrapped around me, coaxing me, lifting me, carrying me across centuries.
And then—
Silence.
Stillness.
The air thinned. The pain vanished.
The pull released.
And I was no longer in the park.
No longer with Signor Zampa.
No longer in my own time.