Love's Shadow (Brothers Maledetti Book 2)

by Nichole Van

  “I am living.”

  “No, you are not. You are existing. He would not want you to be like this—”

  “Enough, Mamma.” A pen fell to the tabletop. “I appreciate that you dislike seeing me suffer, but I cannot move past . . . him . . . in just a month or a year or possibly even ten years. He was my heart. My very life. Without him, I cannot live. Can you not understand? I drove him to this. Encouraged him. Urged him on—”

  “Sofia, he made his own choices—”

  “No! His blood stains my hands as surely as if I killed him myself.”

  “But you did not, dearest. He made his choices, too. Any minor sins you may have committed, God has long forgiven.”

  “It little matters, Mamma, for I cannot forgive myself. . . .”

  The scene faded out.

  I searched back farther into time but heard nothing else of interest.

  Sofia had to be talking about Jack, right? It seemed improbable that Sofia had buried another would-be lover, then agreed to marry Jack who promptly died, leaving Sofia to eventually marry this Antonio Perlucci fellow. No woman could be that unfortunate.

  Between this letter and their conversation in the Etruscan tomb, Sofia was clearly in love with Jack. When I had listened to the dented mantel in Lucy’s palazzo—was that really only three days ago?—Jack had been upset over a woman. Sofia? Had they fought, and Jack being distraught, had committed suicide? The plaque in the museum had stated that as one theory for Jack’s disappearance.

  This letter added to their story but was hardly the smoking gun we were searching for. Not to mention that this version of Jack and Sofia’s history didn’t involve Chucky, leaving our resident demon unexplained.

  Love will draw the shadow out.

  So . . . had Sofia and Jack had a fight and the resulting mix of love and anger attracted Chucky, causing Jack’s disappearance?

  “Well?” Lucy asked, leaning toward me.

  I reached for her hand with my ungloved one, tucking our hands together. No sound filtering in when touching skin-to-skin. I would never tire of holding her.

  We were safe for the moment, as I could still hear Chiara chatting with customers in the showroom.

  I leaned back into the desk and tugged Lucy closer, looping my gloved hand around her waist. I dropped a smoldering kiss on her forehead.

  Cuddling her, I caught Lucy up on what I had heard from Sofia.

  “So you think Sofia and her mother were talking about Jack?”

  “He seems a likely candidate.”

  Lucy shook her head. “We know so much about Jack and Sofia and, yet, so little.”

  “Agreed—” I stopped, cocking my ear toward the open door.

  I had heard something.

  Gently, I pulled away from Lucy and walked the few steps to the doorway, listening carefully.

  A man had just walked into the shop, asking a question.

  “Is this the store owned by the Conte del Maledetto?” the man repeated.

  I recognized his voice instantly.

  Finally! When we most needed a stroke of good fortune, it arrived.

  We hadn’t needed to find Roberto after all.

  He had come to us.

  Thirty Six

  Portland, Oregon

  Five years earlier

  Branwell

  You can’t do this, Tennyson.” I watched as he stuffed clothes into a huge duffel. “This is insanity. You could be killed.”

  “My life. My decision.” Tennyson turned away, continuing to pack.

  “Seriously, Tenn. A job as a military contractor and trip to Kabul are not going to help you get over Lucy any faster.” I scrubbed my beard in frustration.

  Three days.

  Just three days since Lucy had rejected his proposal and ended their relationship.

  I didn’t know exactly how or why it went down, but I had my suspicions. I had seen Lucy suppress her own emotions over and over to keep herself steady for Tennyson. And Tennyson, in return, lapping up the comfort she offered like a drug.

  That sort of relationship was many things . . . but romantic love was not one of them.

  Tennyson’s reaction to the break-up, however, was horrific. We had been arguing almost non-stop for the past twenty-four hours. He already had a contract in place and was catching his plane in less than two hours.

  “Tenn, how is this even legally possible? You can’t run off this quickly—”

  He gave a haunted, bitter laugh, lifting those impossibly blue eyes to mine. “I’m a damn psychic, Branwell. You think I haven’t seen this coming? Over and over, I could feel Lucy pulling away. Why do you think I held on to her so hard?”

  He ran a ragged hand over his hair, tugging at it.

  Oh Tennyson.

  “Promise me you’ll watch over Lucy for me while I’m gone.” His tone dead serious.

  Damn. Just when I thought this whole situation couldn’t get any worse—

  “No, Tenn. I won’t promise you because you’re not going anywhere.”

  “Promise me, Bran.”

  “No. Being upset over a breakup is normal.” I lifted a placating hand. “But—reality check—you don’t have to go to Afghanistan to get over a girl.”

  Tennyson snorted. “Yeah, but I think I do.”

  “How so?”

  He placed his hands on his hips, shaking his head. “I’m tired, Bran. So very, very, tired. Tired of everyone always focusing on me. Broken Tennyson, how can we fix him?”—he mimicked Chiara’s voice—“I’m tired of living a life narrowed down to this pinprick of daily coping.” He pinched his fingers together.

  He moved again, grabbing a stack of t-shirts and tossing them into the duffel on his bed. “It’s gonna happen. Someday. Just like Dad. Just like every other first born D’Angelo. I won’t be able to fight my demons anymore, and they’ll probably take me out. But until then—” He paused, clenching his jaw in determination. “—until then, why not use my GUT to save lives? I’m a psychic. I feel emotions into the future. I can’t think of a better use of my talents than as an advanced warning system for the military.”

  Frustration and despair ripped through me.

  “You could be killed.”

  “Death happens to everyone sooner or later, Branwell.” Tennyson braced his hands on his bed, his Caribbean blue eyes lasering through me. “I’m just stubborn enough to seek a method of exit that isn’t my own hand.”

  Thirty Seven

  Florence, Italy

  2016

  Lucy

  Three minutes later . . . the store sign had been flipped to Closed, and Chiara and I were sitting side-by-side on the leather couch in the office. Branwell paced around us.

  Roberto Moretti sat nervously in a chair opposite, rumpled and beaten.

  Not that we had roughed him up. Though the thought had certainly crossed my mind. I wanted to rattle his skull and scream, Where is my Gracie?! until he begged for mercy and told me all his secrets.

  Branwell said we couldn’t do that because, “Assault is illegal,” blah, blah.

  Roberto looked a mess all on his own. He wore a beat-up wind breaker over ratty jeans and clutched a leather satchel against his chest, both arms wrapped around it. Hair greasy and cheeks scruffy. Forehead sweating, glasses askew. Eyes haunted and, quite frankly, desperate.

  Running from the law definitely took a toll.

  He had been surprised to see me with the D’Angelos.

  Branwell pinched the bridge of his nose, continuing to pace back and forth. I had a tight hand on Chiara’s arm. She might be tiny and petite, but she was ready to tear Roberto limb from limb to get answers.

  To his credit, Roberto seemed as frantic to find Grace as we were.

  “I did nothing to harm little Grace. I do not know what has happened to her,” he pleaded for the fourth time in heavily accented English.

  “Truth.” Branwell stopped behind me. “It rings totally true.”

  “I still say he’s lying,” Chiara
hissed. “I mean, seriously. How could he not have something to do with Grace’s disappearance?” She gave a dramatically Italian wave of her hand.

  Roberto cringed. “You must believe me. I love Grace like my own. I only want good for her.”

  Chiara and I both looked back at Branwell. “Truth.” He shrugged, face baffled.

  Chiara threw her hands up in disgust. “No. I don’t believe it.” She turned to Roberto. “Where have you been? Where were you the night Grace disappeared? If you’re so innocent, why aren’t you cooperating with the police?”

  At the word police, Roberto held up his hands, panic evident. “I can explain. Give me a chance.”

  Chiara pursed her lips, eyes narrowed. “One more time. Tell us you had nothing to do with Grace’s disappearance.”

  “I swear it.” Roberto placed a hand over his heart, eyes sincere. “I swear on the Virgin Mary herself that I had nothing whatsoever to do with the disappearance of Grace Snow.”

  “Truth.” Branwell sighed. “He completely believes it.”

  My heart sank. Were we suddenly back to square one? If Roberto hadn’t taken Grace, then who had?

  “Thank you, Mr. D’Angelo.” Roberto sagged in relief.

  “We’ll believe you for now. But I’m guessing you wouldn’t be here if you didn’t have a hunch,” Branwell continued.

  “Yes, yes. I do have my suspicions. That is why I found you, the D’Angelos. I have heard things about your family. That you are . . . different.” That last bit very cautiously stated. As if Roberto was fearful he would startle something free.

  Branwell didn’t react. He just rolled a gloved hand. Go on.

  Roberto swallowed. “D-do you believe in i demoni?”

  “Demons?” Chiara translated.

  We all exchanged a loaded look.

  “Sure,” Branwell said.

  Roberto blinked, taken aback at our blasé reaction, our bland expressions. But seriously, after the week I’d had? Simply talking about demons was hardly going to phase me.

  Clearing his throat, Roberto continued, setting the leather satchel on the ground at his feet.

  “Francesca said Lucy had visited the museo with a bearded giant”—Roberto waved toward Branwell—“so you know about John Knight-Snow and his excavations. Lord Knight searched for a rumored Etruscan treasure. In 1818, he discovered a praenestine cista, a type of decorated bronze box. Lord Knight was convinced the box contained the treasure.”

  That’s what Gruncle Jack had said, right? I shot a glance at Branwell who nodded subtly.

  “The box itself said nothing about treasure. Instead, it was covered in warnings that begged the finder to leave the box closed because a powerful shadow named Hinthial was trapped inside,” Roberto said.

  “Hinthial, again.”

  “The Etruscan goddess of love, right?” Chiara asked.

  Roberto raise his shoulders in the universal Italian gesture for ‘maybe.’

  “Meh, it is hard to know exactly who Hinthial was to the Etruscans. The name means many things. As a female goddess, Hinthial had elements of love, but Hinthial was also considered to be the guardian of the shadow world. The problem occurs because hinthial can be translated as shadow and reflection.”

  My eyebrows disappeared into my hairline at the word reflection. Branwell shot me a grim look.

  “I think it was a play on words. Hinthial the goddess and hinthial the noun. Because her name meant shadow and reflections, her likeness was often placed on mirrors. Spettrale o spettro.”

  “Like the English words spectral and specter,” Chiara said. “All coming from the Latin spectrum, meaning shadow, ghost or vision.”

  “The idea, for the ancients, that your reflection was a shadow of yourself.” Branwell started pacing again.

  “Esatto,” Roberto said. “Exactly. A hinthial was a fantasma—”

  “A phantom. A ghost.” Chiara translated the word.

  Roberto brightened. “Yes. Ghost or demon. In this case, one who fed on love. The inscription on the box can easily be interpreted as . . .” Roberto frowned and said something in Italian.

  Chiara nodded. “‘Beware the hinthial—the demon or ghost—inside as it can steal you,’” she translated.

  Goosebumps skittered across my skin, raising to attention.

  Okay. Things were starting to make sense. In the creepiest way possible.

  Maybe.

  “Lord Knight found the bronze box but ignored the warnings, convinced they were lies meant to discourage grave robbers. He opened the box and found an ancient Etruscan mirror inside,” Roberto said. “Nothing more.”

  “The mirror that shows someone lifting Hinthial—or a demon-ghost thing—from the ground? Wasn’t that in the museum too?” Branwell asked.

  I looked at him, knowing full well he had seen the mirror on Roberto’s desk, not in a display case.

  Branwell gave the barest lift of his shoulders.

  “Sì. That is exactly the mirror. Though I would argue that the demon is dragging the figure into the ground, not the other way around. Though, again, it is hard to know what the mirror means.”

  Roberto sighed and rubbed his bloodshot eyes and continued, “This is what I have been trying so desperately to understand. When he opened the praenestine cista, Lord Knight released something . . . unnatural.”

  “Not Hinthial herself?”

  “No. I do not think it was the goddess herself. Rather, something the ancients begged the goddess to protect them from. Again, it is so confusing because the ancients would use the word hinthial to refer to any demon or ghost. But Hinthial was also the goddess of love. To them, I’m sure, it was a poetic play on words. Love can feel like a demon driving one insane, who knows? Here, let me—”

  Roberto stopped, debating, looking intently at each of us. And then nodded, as if reaching a decision.

  Bending over, he carefully opened his satchel and pulled out an oblong object wrapped in a velvet cloth. Carefully he unfolded it, revealing an ancient mirror. Given Branwell’s hissing breath, it had to be the one from Roberto’s office—the mirror that we were currently discussing.

  “So . . . how did you get this out of the museum?” Branwell asked.

  Roberto gave another Italian shrug. “My friend is a curator at the museum too and she . . .” He mimed shoving the mirror inside his jacket.

  “That’s a really nice friend,” Chiara dryly observed. “A girlfriend, perhaps?”

  Roberto shot her a decidedly wicked grin.

  Well.

  Roberto carefully spread out the velvet cloth and laid the mirror on the coffee table in front of him, engraved side up.

  Fascinated, I moved around the table along with Chiara to get a better look at it. Branwell held back, staring at the mirror like it was a bomb. Was the mirror Chucky’s place of origination?

  “So what are we seeing here?” Chiara asked, leaning over the mirror.

  Roberto perked up. “As I was saying, it is hard to know what ancient Etruscan means with any certainty, but this is the explanation that makes the most sense given the events surrounding this mirror. As you can see in the background”—Roberto pointed—“a priestess drips blood onto a scrying dish, perhaps cursing the bloodline. In this case, that could be those who disturb the demon, so Lord Knight and those related to him, like little Grace.”

  I nodded. So a demon—Chucky? Chucky’s friends?—had cursed the Snow bloodline. Not sure how that happened, but given everything I had experienced over the past couple days, I was willing to go along with it.

  “Here, we can see two figures embracing,” Roberto continued, pointing to figures opposite of the priestess. “Obviously, this is a reference to love and those in love. Rumors say that Lord Knight fell in love about the time he uncovered the mirror. So the embracing figures, perhaps, represent that as part of this situation. It is the front figure that ties the other two together. The text here says”—Roberto pointed at the etched letters at the top of the mirror—“ ‘The
one who loves will call the shadow.’ I believe Lord Knight translated it as, ‘Love will draw the shadow out.’ The text on the bottom here can be translated as, ‘The shadow fights for freedom.’ So if we look at the image in front, we see the seated bearded man being snared by the shadow coming out of the mirror. Some scholars interpret the male figure to be Tages, an Etruscan oracle.”

  “An oracle?” I asked, my goosebumps turning into skittering marbles tingling my skin.

  Roberto waved a hand. “He is thought to be the founder of the Etruscan religion. A human man with powers of divination—the Etruscan version of the Oracle of Delphi. Basically, a person capable of physically touching the shadow.”

  I shot a glance at Branwell. He was staring intently at the mirror, eyes wide. I wasn’t quite sure I followed it all, but it made a certain kind of sense.

  “What exactly are you saying?” Chiara asked.

  “I believe Lord Knight released a demon.” Roberto looked at us all. “A shadow that feeds on love and is desperate for freedom. It attacked Lord Knight, taking him for its own.”

  “So how does Grace fit in to all of this?” I asked. “She’s a little girl, not a lost lover. Why would she be involved in this at all?”

  Roberto sighed. “This is where the story becomes less clear. Those of Lord Knight’s blood have not interacted much with the mirror over the years. But Grace . . . she visited the museum. I showed her the mirror. The mirror had ‘seen’ her, so to speak. I did not think about it at the time, but I had the Little Mermaid music box at the museum too. The mirror ‘saw’ it—”

  “Which means it could have been keyed to Chucky . . .” I closed my eyes, a lump tight in my throat.

  “And if Chucky infected the music box, he easily could have snatched Grace,” Branwell concluded.

  “Uhm, are we seriously entertaining the idea that Chucky kidnapped Grace?” Chiara asked, eyes wide. “Cause even by my standards, that’s a little out there.”

  I had to agree. It seemed far-fetched, but I was ready to grasp at straws.

  “Who is this Chucky?” Roberto frowned in confusion.

  “That’s the question of the year,” Chiara muttered.