by Alys Arden
“I did not,” he snapped. “I was sitting on the roof when you walked through the door. How did you not see me? You’ve clearly lost it.”
Panic flooded my veins. I knew we wouldn’t make it through this fight again. How did we even make it through the first one? The words blurted out: “I think I’m getting my Spektral magic.” It was the only Hail Mary I had.
His eyebrow raised.
“I’ve been having these dreams—and I got this book on dream magic. I was going to tell you the other night, but I knew you’d get mad.”
“Why would I get mad? And what does your magic have to do with being at the attic?”
“It’s called dreamcasting, and it’s kind of like . . . dream telepathy. Connecting with people through their dreams.”
He looked to the door and then back to me. It didn’t take a genius to figure it out.
“Have you ever broken the seal?”
“No! I swear!” I thought about making something up about connecting with Lisette, trying to get information, but I was sick of lying, and hiding, and fighting. “But the only person I’ve been able to connect with is Nicco.”
He sighed. The kind of sigh that scared me. My chest tightened.
And then he turned around and walked away.
“Isaac?” Tears rose to my eyes. “Isaac! I just want answers to why they’re after my family! I didn’t do anything wrong!” I shouted his name again, but it didn’t matter.
He was gone.
I stood there, halfway between the two doors, tears pouring down my cheeks. “I just wanted answers . . .”
Then he reappeared, a huge heap of fabric folded under his arms: a stack of blankets. They must have been in the room with all the statues.
He walked straight past me and stopped near the locked door. He looked back. “Is this close enough?”
I nodded, trying to stop the tears.
He dropped the blankets to the floor. “So did you find anything out?”
I shook my head, still in shock. I looked down to the blankets and back to him. “You’re not mad?”
He stepped in front of me and wiped the tears from my cheeks with his thumbs. His voice was soft. “Don’t you think I want to know why a clan of vampires is after you? Even if it means . . . whatever this is.”
“But you hate Nicco.”
He nodded and let me go. Then he pulled the dream catcher out of his pocket, walked to the attic door, and hung it from one of the locks. He turned back to me.
“But I love you.”
I froze, trying not to let the shock sprawl across my face.
“Don’t worry, you don’t have to say it back.” He took my hand, pulling me down to the blankets with him. “But what’s the point of me not saying it? We both know it’s true.”
I smiled, and he smiled, and he fluffed up the pile of blankets for maximum cushion.
“You’re staying?”
“Unless you want me to go.”
I shook my head. “I don’t want you to go.”
“Well, let’s get your Maleficium,” he said, lying back.
“So you’re just going to watch me sleep?” I tried my best to sound playful.
“I have no intention of watching you do anything. I’ve slept a grand total of six hours in the last couple nights.” He pulled out his phone. “I’m setting the alarm for midnight. Do you think that will be enough time?”
“Yeah, and that should be plenty of time before my dad gets home.”
“Good, I don’t want him hating me.”
“Abouuut that . . . I got grounded because I forgot to set my alarm the first night I came here to test the dreams, and Mac was waiting in my room when I got home the next morning—he thinks I slept at your place.”
“Wait, what?” He sat up. “So he thinks we—but we haven’t even—shit!”
“I’m sorry,” I said through clenched teeth.
“Why didn’t you tell him you were at Désirée’s?”
“I did, but he’d already called Ana Marie, freaking out, and she told him I wasn’t there.”
“So, you snuck out on a dream-date with Nicco, and now your dad hates me?”
“But you love me,” I squeaked.
Before I could stop him, his fingers attacked, poking my ribs. “This is not funny!”
“No tickling!” I cackled, trying to crawl away, but he pulled me back.
I twisted around and lay next to him, my cheek cradled into the crook of my arm. He did the same. “He’ll calm down eventually,” I said.
“Like, before he kills me, or after?”
“Hopefully before.” My fingers laced together with his, and I pulled his hand to my lips and kissed it. It was the first time I relaxed in days. Isaac had that way about him—an aura of calm that made you feel like everything was going to be okay—even when lying on an attic floor, even knowing I was about to go into Nicco’s head. A swell of tingles rushed through my chest to the tips of my fingers, still woven with his. The sensation of supernatural energy. Magic. Our magic.
“And it wasn’t a date,” I said.
He squeezed my hand. “Yeah, I know.”
“Do you realize how weird this is?”
“What, the curse? The dream magic? Camping out in a convent?”
“All of it.”
“Adele, I can turn into a bird.”
“And I love that about you.”
He swept the strands of hair out of my face, and I don’t know who was smiling more. Or, with our legs intertwined, whose eyes fluttered shut first.
Next to me on the workbench, León scoops a heap of brimstone onto a brass scale, and the powder puffs out around us in an ethereal haze.
The door opens, and Emilio’s voice wafts over. “You’re one year older, fratellino.” His voice sounds strange in the laboratory, for there are so rarely words spoken down here by anyone other than León and myself. “I’ve brought you a present.”
“I’m in no mood for celebrating,” I say without looking up, for the mercurial mixture I’m bringing to boil is a delicate, time-consuming process, and I don’t want to ruin the batch.
“But I’ve heard you’ve made great strides with the Elixir! Or is that just Father’s usual hyperbole when it comes to your accomplishments?”
I still don’t look back, only fantasize about how quickly Emilio could duck if I sent a copper dish spinning at his head. “I know not what remarks Father has been making. We’ve made progress, but it’s difficult to work on a medicine whose effectiveness can only be tested by killing the inflicted!” I knock the book, my notes, and the scales from the table in one swoop—everything but the mercury. “This is not a job for me, Emilio. It’s a job for you!”
“I couldn’t agree with you more, but alas, it is you who Father has chosen. It is you who he says possesses the real gift of all his children. Tanti auguri, Niccolò.” He tosses a vial onto the workbench.
The vial, sealed with wax, is the kind used by military physicians to distribute opiates to the wounded on the battlefield, but the substance it contains now is crimson.
I break the seal, pull out the glass stopper, and smell the substance. Blood.
“Not that I need a laboratory to make history, my brother,” he continues.
I put the vial down and return my focus on the flame beneath the glass pot, making sure it doesn’t grow too strong.
“Rest assured that after this trip, I will become a legend. There will be songs sung and poems written of the night Emilio Lorenzo Medici became the greatest hunter in all of Europe—the greatest hunter in the history of mankind.”
León and I glance at each other, and I am sure we are wondering the same thing: How drunk is he?
“The one who first caught a vampire.”
I finally turn my attention to Emilio just as he dumps a body onto the table with a loud thunk, knocking over the mixture. I jump out of the way before the glass smashes onto the bench, but León yelps as the mercurial backsplash catches his hand.
>
“Dannazione, Emilio!” I yell, grabbing the nearest cloth and drowning it in a bucket of water kept beside the table. I bring it to León’s hand, which is already bright red.
León gapes, but his gaze is fixed on the corpse behind me. “Could such a creature exist?” he asks.
“She is in front of your eyes, is she not?” Emilio says.
I look down at the bedraggled girl, whose head rests on her piles of loose pale braids. The hem of her silver gown and the layers of skirts underneath are dirty and torn. She appears quite dead, but other than the ashy color of her skin, there are little to no signs of decomposition. Then her fingers move—not the twitchy jerk of rigor mortis, an intentional curling of the fist.
Rage overcomes my curiosity. “She’s alive? How dare you bring someone down here! This place is known to no one—not even our mother!”
“No one but us, and now her,” he replies with a smirk.
“I knew Father was mad to give you access to this laboratory; you are nothing but an imbecile!”
“Oh, how you will regret saying those words, baby brother, once you see the magic that flows through this diabolical creature.”
“Diabolical creatures do not possess magic,” says León, squeezing his injured hand tightly. Sweat pours from his brow, and only then do I realize he’s shaking.
“Let me rephrase. You will regret saying those words once you see the anatomical makeup of this creature. Does that pique your interest, Niccolò? Is that academic enough for you?”
I fetch a bottle containing an iodine tincture. The liquid swishes as I cross the room for a clean rag, looking back at the girl, who doesn’t seem to have moved again. I break my gaze from her for only a second as I reach also for a bottle of olive oil, which we keep by the barrel around here for such instances. Ours is far more . . . special than the bottle on the dining table.
I dab the olive oil onto León’s wound, and he curses. The burn is blistering and clearly far worse than he has let on. My frustration and curiosity battle each other as I douse a second rag with the tincture and apply the cloth to his skin, wondering if I should make a stronger salve. My gaze darts from the girl to the tome on the podium, to the girl, and then back to León.
“But, Emilio,” he says, “if she is really a vampire, how did you manage to capture such a dangerous foe?”
“A magician never reveals his secrets,” my brother says, a clear jab at our refusal to talk about our own research.
In Emilio’s case, I’m guessing his secret is a combination of inventive weaponry, an irrational lack of fear, and unadulterated stupidity. “So this is the secret mission Father has had you on?” I ask him. “To hunt a vampire?”
“Not just any vampire. This is the one they call il cacciatore di streghe.”
“The witch slayer?”
“Yes. I caught her in France after she attacked Étienne Deshayes’s sister—an unfortunate loss of a powerful woman. No doubt Étienne will be looking for revenge.”
“Then why did you not deliver her to Étienne?”
He takes the vial of blood from the workbench, removes the stopper with his teeth, grabs León’s hand, and rips off the rag. León howls with pain, but before he can pull away, Emilio pins his hand to the table and pours the liquid directly over the wound.
I reach for a bowl to start the salve.
Emilio yells, “Keep your eyes here, Niccolò!”
And then I no longer need to be told to watch.
“What’s happening?” León asks, writhing in pain as Emilio holds his arm in place. “What’s happening to me?”
Despite hearing the concern in his voice, I cannot answer, for I am speechless.
“Madonna mia,” I finally say, grabbing the magnifying lens from my apron pocket for a closer examination.
I quickly move the glass away again, double-checking that it isn’t playing tricks on me. “Emilio, what sorcery is this?”
He comes closer, peering at the wound, and for the first time in a long time I want to kiss my brother.
“M-m-my skin. It’s healing.”
“It’s regenerating,” I say, mesmerized.
León’s face is as pale as a ghost’s, sweat dripping from his brow.
“How does it feel?” I ask.
“Nothing more than a slight tickling sensation.”
We watch as the blistering wound shrinks until the skin is soft and pink as if newly formed, not white and hard like the scar tissue expected after such a burn. I trace my fingers over the spot where the wound was.
“Un miracolo,” I say, kissing the new skin, which is just as soft on my lips.
“This is why I didn’t bring her to Étienne,” Emilio says. He kisses the top of my head. “Happy birthday, Niccolò. Don’t ever forget who brought you this miracle, baby brother.”
León holds his unmarked hand up before his eyes. “Niccolò, do you understand what this could mean for medicine?”
“I can think of nothing else.” My mind reels, too fast for me to keep up.
“Niccolò,” my brother says, “as exciting as this is, you might want to prepare yourself for the celebration starting soon upstairs.”
“To celebrate you catching the vampire?”
“No, stupido, for your birthday! There is an exceptionally beautiful girl upstairs expecting your company.”
“Clearly I don’t have time for such frivolities now.”
“I’ll be sure to let Gabriel know. He’ll be delighted to take her off your hands.”
His comment doesn’t rouse me. I stalk to the other side of the room, to the podium. Gabriel knows my affection for Maddalena is unwavering no matter how little time I spend upstairs during her visits. I’d planned on dining with her tonight, but now . . . now it is not a possibility.
A loud clank comes from the corner. I turn to see Emilio locking the large cage. The girl, who was not much more than a corpse just a moment ago, is standing inside, clutching the bars.
He tosses the long iron key to León, although I’m not sure why. “Her name is Séraphine Cartier, and she killed more than twelve of my men before I was able to kill her.”
“Except that clearly you didn’t kill her,” León says.
“Dear León, if there is one thing I am certain of in this world, it is when I have killed. But this particular woman has a little habit of coming back to life.” The way he looks back at the creature in the cage makes me wonder what else happened between them.
“Niccolò,” he says, “do you still have the dagger I gave you? Sometimes one must do whatever is necessary. After all, you are a Medici. If the need arises, drive it directly through her heart. There are always ways to make death finale.”
And with that he departs.
“I guess if you want to hear the hunter’s story,” says León with a smile, “you’ll have to go to dinner upstairs. I’m sure he’ll be telling it from atop the table.”
A mixed set of emotions stir in my belly as I step toward the cage. It is nearly impossible to believe that this fragile-looking girl is the monster Emilio claims her to be. She looks more like one of the cadavers the grave robbers bring us than a girl who’s killed a dozen men. Her whiteish braids fall nearly to the floor, disheveled in a way that isn’t too different from the girls who scurry from Gabriel’s bedchamber in the middle of the night. Only her cheeks aren’t flushed; they are gaunt and sunken. In contrast, her eyes are crystal clear, pale like the glistening peaks of the Alps under the winter sun. Both sleeves have been torn from her dress, revealing skin silvery like a sardine. She struggles to hold herself upright. Her fingers, long and spindly, grasp the bars tightly.
I step closer to the cage, mesmerized. My heart races, thump-thumping even harder when I reach out to her face. My fingers gently graze her cheek.
Thump-thump.
Thump-thump.
“He’s a stupid boy who puts his finger next to the dragon’s mouth,” she says, her voice threatening and inviting at the same time. Her words
are Italian, despite her French name and her French accent.
“You don’t look like a dragon.”
She smirks. “A very stupid boy indeed.”
Thump-thump.
Light floods the laboratory.
What?
The lock drops with a loud clank, and the iron bars are cool to the touch as I open the door and enter the cage.
No, this is not what happened. Séraphine would have slaughtered me had I gone into her cage. She was on the brink of starvation.
“I need your blood,” I say, gently at first. Then I repeat it, over and over, each time with more rage as the monster cowers in the corner. “I need your blood!”
“Get out!” she yells. “Get out!”
The light becomes brighter, until I can’t see anything at all. I can only hear her yelling, over and over. “Get out!”
“Get out!”
Thump-thump.
Thump-thump.
“Get out!” I scream into the total darkness.
I can’t move—I’m trapped.
In the attic.
Adele is here. She’s so close. I knew she’d come for me.
The weight comes back. The heaviness. The slumber. No. No. Per piacere, no. I struggle violently in the cassette, but it doesn’t move.
Because I didn’t move.
Magic.
I fight the darkness, fight the break in the dream, but Nicco’s fighting too—fighting back. Fighting me. Hold on to him, Adele. Hold on. I wrap my arms around the dream and drift back to Florence before my consciousness is poked fully awake. Before I lose the sound of his heartbeat.
Thump-thump.
Knock-knock.
For hours León and I sit drinking wine, marveling at the possibilities Séraphine brings us. We are going to heal all of the ailing in Firenze—in all of Toscana!
Knock-knock.
We both look to the door in confusion. Neither Gabriel nor Emilio nor my father are the kind of men to knock before entering. And no one else knows the door exists.
The sound comes again.
“Is someone kicking the door?” I ask.
León stands, hand on the hilt of his sword, as I go to the door and unhitch the handle. The door swings open, and Emilio stumbles inside with another girl strewn across his shoulders—this one in a much fancier golden dress. Cascades of honey-colored curls obscure her face.
