The Pope
“Say that to me again,” he snarled. “Who is she?”
The courier’s cool voice broke the quiet in his chambers. “Ravenna Maffei. The Luni famiglia kidnapped her and have now brought her to Florence. She is the daughter of an innkeeper but also happens to be a sculptress. By all accounts she’s the quiet sort, and very close to her family.”
“It’s uncertain how much,” the courier said. “However, it’s safe to assume the Luni famiglia has need of her ability with a Nightflame.”
“That I don’t know.”
The color red stole across the pope’s vision. The courier was incompetent, and for a moment, he reconsidered burning him at the stake. “Clearly,” he spat.
The courier remained unruffled, confound him. His tone continued to be annoyingly even. “What are your orders?”
The pope inhaled sharply, forcing his thoughts into a semblance of order. “Find out everything you can about her: family, finances, weaknesses. Everything. Recruit them to our side, if possible. And I will need you to deliver a message to her in all possible haste.”
“It will be no problem. I’ll use a Lodestar gemstone to return to Florence.
” The courier paused. “Word has spread about the new sculptress to every household. People who caught a glimpse of her arrival spoke of her beauty and humility. It’s been said the Medici are eager to meet her, a woman dedicated to her craft with a rare magical talent.
” There was another weighted pause. “A rare and miraculous talent.”
Fury detonated within him.
The nerve of the immortal family inflamed him.
He saw through their tactics and all the ways they sought to diminish his position.
They wished to undermine the power of the Church.
They wished to undermine him. With word spreading of Ravenna’s miraculous talent, they wished to dismantle his hold over his hard-won empire.
He alone had the God-given right to perform miracles.
He alone could harness the power and will of God Almighty.
Now they had brought a woman into their fold as a symbol of their rebellion.
A Jeanne d’Arc—and he was no better than the English king who had her killed.
That was something he would not let stand.
But little did the Luni famiglia know of the serpent in their midst. Little did they know how he was orchestrating their downfall from behind their own walls. And soon, he’d have another informant.
Ravenna would belong to him, and him alone.
“Send me the letter,” the courier prompted. “I will watch for her until I can approach her when she’s on her own.”
The pope crossed the room and set down the silver bowl with the blue orb suspended above it onto his desk, next to an ornate rosary and his Bible, bound in fine leather.
Stacks of paper were perched on the corner, along with a quill and pot of ink.
He scrawled out a letter to the young woman, folded the sheet in half, and tucked it into an envelope.
Using a match, he warmed red wax until it dripped onto the flap.
Then he stamped it with his own seal, a triple crown.
The pope pushed the envelope toward the orb, and it slowly disappeared inside, the magic hungry.
He stared into the glowing blue orb, anger roiling inside him.
His control on the situation was tenuous, but he understood that sculptress, much like he understood many magical creatures who darkened the door of a church.
They all wanted one thing, the poor mites.
“Make sure she reads the letter in front of you,” he murmured.
“Understood.”
“Has your informant found out what’s inside the crates?”
“No, the room is too heavily guarded.”
“Mi hai rotto i coglioni,” the pope hissed. “Someone better get inside that room soon.”
Now the courier sounded bored. “Understood.”
A niggling feeling in the pope’s gut gave him pause.
He didn’t like loose ends, nor did he like to leave anything to chance.
Ravenna might bend to his will with her soul on the line, but she would move mountains for him if her family was in danger.
After a moment’s consideration, he added, “I’ll need you to move in on her family and bring them to me. ”
“Done. Anything else?”
Yes, as a matter of fact. He did have one more question, but it galled him to keep asking.
It was a question he had asked routinely, across multiple decades.
Over and over, damn his feebleness. He wrestled with the desire, fighting his body, his flesh; fury at his weakness coursed through his veins.
He was better than this, stronger than the devil himself—God had made him so, hadn’t he?
But his flesh won the battle. The question ripped out of him.
“Have you found her?” He forced himself to say the name. “Have you found Simonetta?”
The pope waited for the answer, his pulse roaring in his ears, his body taut with pent-up desire.
He waited to hear where his love had gone, waited to know what life was worth more than what he offered her.
Waited to understand why their child, a bastard he’d refused to claim, a mere shadow of himself, was worth more than the love and wealth he had given her.
He wanted the answers like he wanted eternal life.
Like he wanted back the statues she’d stolen from him.
He held his breath and fought to keep his flesh in control.
“She is still lost.”
The orb winked out.