Chapter Twenty
Leonardo races out of the palazzo, into the knotted streets. I chase after him, cursing his too-long legs. “Leonardo, wait!”
His feet churn faster.
He doesn’t slow until he reaches the Piazza Santa Croce and stops on the steps of the stone-faced basilica. Chanting seeps from inside, low and soothing and entirely at odds with the air sawing in and out of my lungs.
“What are you doing? Anyone could’ve seen us running!” It’s the wrong thing to say, but horror and shock have overwhelmed me, stolen away my better instincts.
Leonardo presses against the door and turns. His eyes are wild, rimmed with red. “Avoiding her. A demon can’t step on holy ground.”
Lupa freezes, her foot poised over the church’s first step. Her face fills with hurt. “That is not true.”
A high keening sounds escapes Leonardo. It pushes my pulse up to my skin, unearths some deep, defensive urge in me. I step between him and Lupa.
“Is it true? Are you—a demon?” It feels absurd to ask. Like wondering if the sky has gone green or hearing that the king of France demands my presence at his court.
Lupa runs her tongue along her pointed teeth, not meeting my eyes. “I don’t know.”
“You don’t know, or you don’t want to tell us?”
She shudders, tendrils of hair lifting around her face. “I don’t know! I can’t remember!” Breathing heavily, she folds in on herself: shoulders bowed, chin lowered. “Please don’t be afraid of me like everyone else.”
There’s no sound but the Gregorian chant, its highest notes lifting like incense. I bite my lip and look away from both of them, blood rushing, heart torn. I don’t know what to think anymore. I don’t know what to believe.
If angels are demons, then the entire holy legacy of Florence, the city beloved by God, is a lie. It’s demons whose magic infuses the streets and city walls. Demons who take our lives and memories.
And the Medici know. Whether they’ve known for days or decades, they knew and decided to let it stand. How could they let thousands and thousands of people believe such a lie? To let them worship demons instead of angels?
You know why, a cold, insistent voice whispers. You’ve seen it firsthand.
The Medici only care for themselves. I remember my and Niccolo’s failed meeting with their bank, how we broke down into tears begging for them to forgive our father’s debt. How their clerk flashed two sniveling boys a close-lipped smile and said, A deal is a deal that must be honored.
Leonardo snorts derisively. “I see you softening, Virgil. Ask her what she gets out of the bargains.” He pushes off the door, fists clenched. “What do you take from us?”
The silence damns, the deepest note of a church bell.
“Souls.” Lupa’s eyes flutter shut, like she can’t bear to see us. “We eat part of your soul with every bargain.”
With a soft, brokenhearted sound, Leonardo opens the church door and slips inside. Even though he didn’t touch me, it still feels like he’s ripped part of me out along the way.
Lupa minces up the rest of the steps. I flinch away from her, the hair on the back of my neck prickling.
Hasn’t my body always responded this way to the angels?
A mouse cringes beneath a hawk’s shadow even if it’s never seen its talons.
Lupa says she doesn’t know what she is, but part of me always knew I wasn’t safe with her.
“Is that why you won’t make a bargain with me? If you take the last scrap of my soul, will I end up in hell?” I whisper.
Lupa’s face is a study in agony, more alive than I’ve ever seen it. A sorrow-stricken pietà. It cracks something in me, the humanity alongside the truth of what she is. “I don’t know, but… I thought it might hurt you.”
Her fingertips graze my wrist, as if to take my hand. I pull away. I need a human moment. I can’t be the person she needs me to be right now.
Someone else needs me more.
The basilica swallows me without a sound.
Easter Mass is long over, but the monks are still chanting, devoted to their afternoon prayers.
Even though it’s light outside, the inside of Santa Croce is twilight dark.
Gold glimmers around the high altar—a treasure trove of art telling the tales of the Bible.
I shiver and cross myself. How much demon magic infuses the display?
Does the holiness cancel out the profanity?
In the very last row, I spot a familiar red-gold head. Careful not to disturb the other worshippers, I tiptoe down the aisle and slip beside Leonardo.
His face is damp when he looks up.
I wish I had a handkerchief to give him, or the courage to reach over and rub the tear tracks from his cheeks. His face was sculpted for smiles; seeing him like this feels wrong.
He thumbs the wetness away himself. “We should tell the other artists. Warn them to stop making bargains with her.”
I feel overspun, fabric with too fine a weave on the verge of tearing. Lupa is a demon, but she’s still Lupa, the creature who wanted me to have dolci on my birthday, who worried enough to find me when I didn’t come home. “I don’t know if telling other people is a good idea.”
Leonardo flinches. “Does a heart beat in your chest? My stepmother gave away all of her life to a soul-devouring monster.” He ducks closer, lips nearly brushing my ear. “Don’t you think everyone else should know?”
I shudder, the warmth of his breath too much on my icy skin. Do the other artists deserve to know the truth of their bargains? Of course, but also… would they want to? Would the truth stop them from seeking out magic?
I think of the portfolio I created to earn my apprenticeship in Verrocchio’s workshop, how many nights I labored by candlelight until my head ached and my eyes strained.
How when I struck my first bargain with the old angel, I was relieved that creating would finally be easier.
Making bargains let me do what I loved to support the people I loved.
Without my magic, my mother and sisters would’ve been homeless long ago.
I rub my fingers over my dead bargain marks, thinking of all the power they gave me. I wait for the regret to well up like a rising tide… but ’tis more complicated than that. I regret how it’s ending, but not what I did. Knowing angels are demons doesn’t change anything that’s happened.
“You once asked if a wolf means to kill or does she kill because she’s hungry?
I don’t think we can judge a creature for trying to live.
” Leonardo scoffs and turns away, but I grab his thigh.
He gives an annoyed huff, hard gaze striking against mine, but I don’t let go.
“I agree that Florence deserves the truth about the angels, but you heard Piero and Lorenzo. The Medici do know the angels are demons, and they’ve chosen to lie about it for a reason.
” The slain prior’s blood has dried on my clothes, but the rust scent lingers.
I can taste it with each breath. “Think about it. Who would you believe: the most powerful family in Florence or two lowly painter’s apprentices? ”
Leonardo jerks away, a hiss pushing through his teeth. The church door creaks open, sending a slice of daylight across his face. His frown is still there, but the lines are softer now, like he’s turning over my words.
Lupa sits gingerly on my other side, a honey-scented pastry clutched in her hand.
My stomach sinks. “More stolen goods?” Now doesn’t seem like a great time to remind Leonardo of her thieving fingers.
“No. I bought this with your money.” Her brow furrows suddenly. “Is that stealing?”
I pat the coin purse at my waist—and yes, it’s certainly lighter than before. “Not if you ask me next time.”
Lupa offers Leonardo the cake. “I am sorry for making your face wet. Virgil has said the wet face—”
“Crying. It’s called crying.”
“That crying means I have hurt someone. You are not someone I wanted to hurt.” She traces the ridgeline of a scar along the back of her head. “I don’t know why I can’t remember anything from before. But I wish I could.”
I feel the quiver of her voice in my bones. Florence and her bargains. It’s a handshake over a gilded desk, a knife biting into my skin. A banker with a predator’s smile. Perhaps the true terms of what Lupa agreed to were hidden from her until it was too late to matter, just like they were from me.
“I believe you.” Leonardo inhales sharply when I lay a hand along Lupa’s face. “Do you know why you’re like this?”
Her scar that shouldn’t be there. The magic she uses outside of the bargains.
Her girl-shape. Lupa has been so different from the very beginning.
I shouldn’t trust a demon, an eater of souls—the rabbit race of my pulse warns me away from her with every thump—but Lupa has never lied to me. She saved me when she didn’t have to.
Lupa blinks, pinpricks of predator green flashing. “No. But I think… I think you make me different.” Her lips part, pointed teeth sinking into the meat of my thumb without breaking my skin. “You make me want to be different.”
I don’t know what to think of that.
Leonardo’s dark eyes lift beneath the fringe of his lashes.
He traces the single bargain mark on his wrist, the scrap of soul he’s pledged to this penitent demon.
I bite my lip, half wanting to ask if whatever he asked for still feels worth it, already knowing he won’t answer.
He touches the pocket of his jacket, the place where he keeps the lock of his stepmother’s hair. “I have to go.”
“Wait, why?” It feels like I’ve gotten lost in a neighborhood I’ve walked through a hundred times before. “Shouldn’t we figure out what to do next?” I don’t want to puzzle it out myself. I need his quicksilver mind, his steadying calm.
Leonardo smiles, but the expression is as hollow as an empty heart. “Because my stepmother is dead because of demons. And you might be ready to forgive them, but I’m not.”