Chapter Forty-One
The girl kicks away from me, her screams quickly dissolving into sobs.
Niccolo unlocks her chains. I half expect her to run, but instead she sags in the chair like she can’t hold herself up.
Her unsteady hand goes to the space behind her ear.
Iron breaks on my tongue when she discovers the scar tissue there, when I see her eyes grow round with shock.
“Who are you?”
It’s Lupa’s voice, but… not. There’s a wrongness, like velvet brushed in the opposite direction.
“We’re friends,” Leonardo says softly. “We’re here to help you.”
She smiles, a dreamy, half-asleep thing.
Her beige skin is going gray—a sickly pallor spreading faster than any wasting illness.
A trickle of blood weeps from her nose to her mouth, leaving behind a smear of red.
I stare, cold sweeping through me. Just moments ago, it was gold.
Just moments ago, she was Lupa, and now she’s not.
“She’s sick!” I cry. “Help her!”
“We have no more use for her,” Niccolo says.
What do you mean? The question dies in my throat.
Because I understand now, with awful, heart-stopping clarity.
Demons don’t visit Florence.
They possess it.
They inhabit the bodies of Florentine citizens while they’re on earth.
Lupa’s eyes flutter shut. Her head lolls to the side in the circle of my arms. Her body goes limp.
I feel frantically for the pulse in her neck, but there’s nothing.
Only a horrible stillness that fills me with horror.
Leonardo sinks to his knees, a soft, helpless whimper escaping the hand over his mouth.
The girl—Lupa—whoever she is—is dead.
There’s a flash of scarlet. A crushing pain on the back of my head.
And everything falls away.
I wake to the faint scent of linseed oil.
I push myself up slowly, shading my eyes against the ruddy daylight filtering in from above.
A soft tsking noise sounds. “About time you’re up. I was beginning to fear Father cracked your skulls too hard.”
I’m inside the Medici’s painting studio.
Lorenzo de’ Medici slouches against the back wall with a smirk.
The second day of his family’s elaborate, weeklong wedding celebration has him done up in white and gold, his hair carefully combed.
Tormenting us must be his entertainment between stealing sweets from children or yelling at puppies or whatever else evil people do when they welcome their brides into their nightmare families.
Leonardo’s red-gold head pops up beside mine. “What’s this ugly little room?”
Lorenzo scowls. “My family’s personal painting studio. It’s where you’ll be staying while you’re with us.”
I force myself to stand, wincing at the splitting ache in my head. My hand goes to the spot and comes away bloody. It’s in almost the exact same location as Lupa’s scar.
Is this how they took her? Cudgeled her in the skull, stole her away in the dark?
I drop my hand and fist it. “You’re killing people.”
Lorenzo scoffs, as if I’m being childish. “Did you think angels floated down from the clouds on little feathery wings?”
I couldn’t say what I thought. I was told heaven and hell were real, but they felt as distant as the Arabian Sea or China—places I was told existed but would not ever see. Either way, I hate how Lorenzo makes me feel small. “They’re demons. Call them what they are,” I snarl.
“If you insist. The hosts consent to serving. Some consider it a great honor.” His eyes cut to mine. Hold them as tight as the reins of an unruly horse. “Your brother did.”
I slither to the floor. My head hurts too much to stand anymore. “My brother agreed to be one?”
It makes no sense. Niccolo isn’t a demon. His soul is missing. Lupa tasted him and told me so. If he was a demon—if the demon isn’t inside him anymore—
He’d be dead just like the girl.
I shiver and hug my knees to my chest. There’s a sour vinegar feeling festering inside me. I don’t know if I want to vomit or cry.
Lorenzo snaps two perfectly manicured fingers. The hidden door behind him opens, and footmen stream inside carrying two copper tubs, jugs of steaming water, marble trays of soap. I briefly think about making a run for it, but guards come in after them.
“Bathe and dress for dinner. My father will explain it all to you.”
My belly fills with ice. “What if we don’t want to?”
Lorenzo’s smirk sharpens. “This is Florence. There’s always a deal to be made if you’re clever enough.”