by Nichole Van
Roberto opened his mouth, clearly set to launch into some professor-ish follow-up questions.
Branwell silenced him with a cutting look. “Why us?” he asked. “Why are you running from the police and lying in wait for the D’Angelos? If you are innocent, then why not talk to the police?”
“The polizia, they think I am guilty.” Roberto sat up. “If they find me, I will be locked away. If I am in jail, I cannot research how to save Grace.”
“So you did visit the excavation sites?” Branwell asked.
“Yes. I needed to look at the inscriptions again where Lord Knight found the mirror and praenestine cista. I had to make sure I hadn’t missed something—”
“Did you find anything new?”
“No, unfortunately, which is why I am here. There is much talk nelle comunità metafisiche . . .” He rolled his hand.
“Metaphysical communities.”
“Yes! Esatto. In the metaphysical communities, they say that the D’Angelo family is cursed. They are the maledetti. ”
Branwell and Chiara exchanged a glance. Obviously, they had heard this rumor.
But Roberto wasn’t done. He continued, “They say that a demon like the one originally trapped in Lord Knight’s mirror haunts your family line, granting visions and dangerous powers but demanding a large price in return. The D’Angelo men”—a flicked glance at Branwell—“they die young and tragically. Perhaps a hinthial with ties to the ancient blood of Tages is present in you, too.”
Every hair on my body flared to attention.
Given how still Branwell went behind me, Roberto’s words had struck a nerve.
Chiara whistled, low and impressed.
“That is very . . . plausible,” she murmured.
Branwell let out a low breath. “What kind of deal did my ancestor really make?”
Silence.
A clock ticked somewhere in the room. Traffic rumbled on the street outside, thumping along the enormous flagstone pavers.
“So our Chucky isn’t Jack’s Chucky?” I finally asked, glancing behind me at Branwell.
Chiara and Branwell exchanged an I-have-no-clue look.
“Probably not initially. That said, the D’Angelos were involved with Jack’s excavations. Maybe some kind of connection happened then?” Chiara suggested.
“Like the D’Angelo curse primed the mirror for Chucky?” Branwell mused.
“Yeah,” Chiara nodded, “or drew him out for the first time. Jack’s demon being attracted to our demon? Perhaps Sofia’s brother, Lorenzo D’Angelo, was around when the mirror was uncovered?”
“Good suggestion, sis. Archaeologists did do reveal parties, where they would open ancient artifacts in front of an aristocratic audience—”
“Like unwrapping mummies,” I chimed in.
“Exactly.”
“And if Lorenzo D’Angelo happened to be present . . .” Chiara’s voice trailed off.
“Something in our cursed bloodline could have called the demon and Jack, being the one who opened the box and probably first touched the mirror, cursed his own bloodline as a result.” Branwell leaned over the back of the couch.
Whew. My mind reeled.
“It would explain why Chucky is so eager for your blood, Branwell.”
Roberto looked between Chiara and Branwell, obviously not having completely followed their discussion.
I pressed both hands into my eyes. “But what does this have to do with Grace?”
A beat.
“I have researched demons for the past several years.” Roberto jumped into the conversation. “I know more about them than anyone. However, I cannot attract one. The demons . . . they won’t visit me.”
Ah. All the lights went on in my head.
“And that’s a bad thing?” Chiara muttered.
“I hoped that maybe the D’Angelos would know how to draw out the demon from the mirror so I could trap it.” Roberto leaned forward, eyes lit with what I could only describe as glee.
The man had clearly never tangled with Chucky.
Another beat.
“You think I’m some sort of Italian ghostbuster?” Branwell deadpanned.
Roberto gave an apologetic shrug. If the shoe fits . . .
“Wait.” I held up a hand. “The mirror says ‘Love will draw the shadow out—”
“Yes. Love is part of it,” Roberto said. “But it is more than that. We need the right bloodline too.”
“So if someone with the right bloodline loves enough . . .” Branwell’s voice drifted off.
“Then the demon will come,” Roberto finished the thought.
“And once you trap the demon?” Chiara asked.
“We get it to release Grace.” Roberto nodded emphatically.
Alright. This was about as crazy a conversation as I’d had all year. And I had obviously already had some doozies.
But if it saved Grace . . .
“How? And when?” Branwell asked.
“Can you do it? Draw out the shadow?” Roberto asked, perhaps a little too eager.
Down, boy.
Branwell pulled up his sleeve, showing the healing scabs raking down his arm. “Chucky has a taste for my blood.”
Roberto hissed and crossed himself, though he seemed more impressed than worried. “We must bring Grace back. In two days, it will be the solstizio d’estate—”
“Summer solstice,” Branwell said.
“Yes. The longest day of the year, when the light is brightest and the shadows weakest. The time when light and love shine strongest in the shadow world. It will be the best day to prepare our trap.” Roberto suddenly grinned, eyes wild and crazed at the edges.
I wasn’t sure how I felt about trusting my Gracie’s safety to this wackadoodle . . . but desperate times did make for strange bedfellows . . . or something like that.
Gah. I was so bad with quotes.
But Roberto could wear yak skins and howl at the moon, as long as he brought my Gracie back to me.
Thirty Eight
Florence, Italy
2016
Branwell
We talked for several more hours in the office, Roberto outlining what needed to happen. It mostly involved the Etruscan mirror, pentagrams, a water trap and some specific prayers.
Though definitely esoteric, everything he said made sense. Well, sorta. I was still fuzzy on some of the finer details, but Roberto clearly understood what needed to happen. I had no trouble believing Chucky was involved, linking between objects, perhaps sucking Grace in his web.
I just hoped that once we captured him, Chucky would cooperate and release Grace.
Roberto asked us to keep the ancient mirror. If anything happened to him—translation, if he were arrested—we could use the mirror to trap Chucky without him. Though given Roberto’s exuberant enthusiasm for the process, he would find a way to be there.
We planned to meet in two days time at the last archaeological site Lucy and I had visited, the place where the mirror had been originally found. Roberto would lead us in the ritual. I would draw out Chucky, Roberto would trap him and use prayers to get the demon to release Grace.
I thanked Roberto and securely stowed the ancient mirror in the office safe.
When asked where he was staying, Roberto got cagey.
“Uh, with a . . . friend,” was all he said.
“Your girlfriend?” I asked, thinking of the unknown woman I had heard in his office.
Roberto shrugged. “I cannot say she is my girlfriend, as the museum has strict rules about office relationships . . .” His voice trailed off into innuendo and a not-so-subtle wink.
“Is this the same woman who specializes in smuggling ancient mirrors out of museums?”
“My girlfriend is a person of many talents.”
“Wait. Does your mother know about your girlfriend?” Lucy asked.
Roberto paled. “No, Mamma does not know and she cannot know. She will talk and talk and if the museum finds out, we could both lose our j
obs. Please don’t say anything.”
As if. Roberto’s illicit office romance was way down the list of my current concerns. But as potential blackmail ammo, it was worth remembering.
Lucy left to show Roberto out a discreet side door and then retreated upstairs. She had gotten several texts from family members she needed to respond to.
Chiara caught my arm and cornered me before I could follow Lucy.
“Branwell, I’m not stupid,” she hissed in Italian. “I would have to be completely blind to miss how you and Lucy are looking at each other. The cat’s out of the bag, so to speak.” She held out a staying hand. “And before you rake me over the coals, let me remind you of the brother languishing down in Volterra, heartsick and heartbroken, because of this woman.”
“I block Tennyson, remember? We’ve already had this conversation—”
“Ugh! Just because he can’t feel your emotions, doesn’t give you carte blanche to essentially betray him.”
“Spending time with Lucy hardly constitutes betrayal—”
“Pah-lease! You’re doing more than just ‘spending time’ with her.”
Her words were a bullseye hit. I gritted my teeth.
“Seeing you with Lucy would destroy Tennyson,” she continued. “He is teetering above an abyss labeled Suicidal Depression, and this could easily be the thing to send him catapulting over the edge. Don’t do this to him. Don’t do this to our family.”
I turned my back on Chiara. Unable to meet the accusation in her eyes.
“I love her,” I whispered, hating the whining tone of my voice. “I love her more than . . .”
“More than Tennyson’s life?”
Silence.
“No.” A long pause. “Never more than that.”
Chiara shifted. A chair creaked.
“I’m not saying give up Lucy forever. Just give her up for now. For a year. Maybe two. Let Tennyson heal more, find a better emotional place. I know you, Branwell. If you felt in any way responsible for your brother’s death . . .”
“I would never forgive myself. Don’t you think I know that?” I tilted my head back, staring at the dark beamed ceiling, blinking hard. “Why do you think I resisted these feelings for so long?”
I snorted. A sad, unamused sound.
“I wanted one day, Chiara.” My voice drifted through the quiet room. “A few hours of happiness with her. One day of bliss. Of pretending that this could be the rest of my life. And in the end, I couldn’t even have twenty-four hours.”
Chiara made a choked sigh. “I’m so sorry, Branwell. Really, I am. I love Lucy too. We all do. But sometimes we have to give up something we want for the greater good.”
She was right. I hated it, but she was right.
I nodded at my sister and turned to leave the room. I wasn’t sure I could resist saying something petty and mean.
Her voice caught me anyway. “Let her go, Branwell.”
It was easy for her to say. It was easy for them all. They weren’t being asked to sacrifice their happiness on the altar of the family.
No.
The offering was all mine.
Thirty Nine
Florence, Italy
Two years earlier
Lucy
Thanks for coming.” Branwell walked up the white hospital hallway to greet me, face tired and drawn.
“Sure.” I pulled my purse tighter against my body, telling my wayward heart to stop cataloging every last little detail of him. Same shirts, same jeans, same gloves. But older. More weight in his gaze. More authority. More man, less boy.
They had called me, the D’Angelo family, after nearly three years of intermittent contact. The words roadside bomb, wounded and amputation still rattled around my brain. I had hopped the first plane to Florence.
Branwell looked me up and down and shoved his hands into his pockets. He opened his mouth, as if to say something, and then changed his mind. Instead, he motioned for me to follow him back down the hall.
I stared from behind as we walked, drinking in every last inch of his broad shoulders and silently praying I was up to this task.
Branwell paused, turning back to me, his hazel eyes hesitant.
“Tennyson’s not in a good place,” he said.
“I gathered that from Judith’s phone call.”
He nodded.
“He was doing well in Kabul.” Branwell shifted his weight. “Weird as it is to say, Afghanistan agreed with him. Using his gifts like that . . . helped. At least, he sounded up every time we talked . . . ”
A beat.
“And now this,” I prompted.
“And now this.”
It hung there between us. His quiet request for my help, asking me to keep Tennyson together for them.
Like I always had.
Only . . . I wasn’t that girl anymore.
“I told Judith I’d come for a visit,” I said. “I’ll stay as long as I can, but no strings attached. I can’t . . . I can’t do this again, Branwell. I won’t lead him on. It’s not fair to Tennyson.”
Or to me . . . I silently added.
Silence.
“We appreciate you coming at all.” He looked through the open door and then turned back to me. “We’ll take every last minute of time you can give.”
Forty
Florence, Italy
2016
Lucy
Chiara had obviously given Branwell an earful, their terse, staccato Italian drifting up the stairwell.
I loved Chiara but, honestly. Branwell and I had to sort this out ourselves.
Not that we had the time.
Jeff and Jen had called. They had finally landed in Florence. I caught them up on what I knew, not mentioning the whole thing with Roberto. I wasn’t sure how my brother would react to his daughter being captured by a demon. Besides, I had let a potential suspect walk out the door.
Jeff and Jen were heading to the police station right now for an update. They wanted to see me; I wanted to see them. Which meant I needed to leave for Prato in less than an hour.
Family first, right?
After their phone call, I had decided to wait for Branwell on his own turf in Nonna’s apartment. I was sitting on a chair in the dark central hallway, waiting. Sunlight streamed from every door, painting the long corridor in zebra stripes.
I liked the small pool of darkness I had claimed for myself, fitting to my mood.
Branwell entered, a taut rubber band of emotion on the verge of snapping. He stopped just inside the door, gloved hands in his hair. Knowing I was there but not looking at me.
I stared, memorizing every line of him. The way his tall body filled the space. His shoulders stretching underneath his shirt. The dark slash of his beard and hair against his skin. That sense of calm and rightness that radiated from him.
I tucked every detail away like a squirrel storing nuts. Understanding, intuitively, that I would need them for a long winter without him.
He let out a long breath.
“Jeff and Jen called,” I said. “They’re back and want me to meet them in an hour.”
He nodded.
Nothing more.
“You wanna talk about it?” My voice hung in the gloom.
He shook his head. A single sideways jerk.
Nope.
“What is there to say?” His voice a husky whisper. “We both knew how this would end.”
Truth.
My heart still plunged about a thousand feet.
Tennyson stood between us. That hadn’t changed.
“He’s stronger than you think.” I had to say it.
I knew Tennyson . . . as well as anyone did. You didn’t survive what he had without being a fighter.
“For you.” Branwell stared into the living room to his right, light washing his face. “He fought for you. It has always been you for him.”
My breath hitched.
“And it’s always been you for me,” I said.
Silence.
“I had hoped we could at least have a day,” I continued, biting my lip. Ordering the tightness in my throat to stay put. “Just one day.”
Branwell shoved a hand in his jeans and slumped against the closed door. He finally met my gaze.
“We’re always off with the timing, aren’t we?” His mouth curled into a humorless smile. “Meet each other too late, admit our feelings too late . . . just always too damn late.”
My eyes stung. He locked his gaze with mine and extended a hand to me. Asking.
I ran to him, arms around his neck almost as fast as my lips found his. He pulled me off my feet, kissing me like a man drowning. Desperate.
The ache in my chest threatened to swallow me. So much sorrow and heartache. I clutched the back of his head tighter, willing myself not to cry.
Branwell pulled back to press his forehead against mine.
“This isn’t over.” Voice low and intense. “Me and you. This is not goodbye.”
“Not goodbye,” I repeated, stifling a sniffle.
“I can’t say goodbye when I only barely said hello.” His voice a whisper against my lips.
“Y-yeah,” was my hiccuppy reply.
“The timing is simply off right now.”
I nodded. “I need to focus on Grace, and you need to concentrate on Tennyson.”
He kissed my nose. My cheeks. Brushed softly over my lips.
“Chiara said we should wait,” he said. “Give Tennyson a year. Maybe two. Rekindle our romance when he has healed more.”
I hated the thought of waiting.
“Why does the sacrifice always have to be yours?” Selfish of me, but I had to ask it, to pick the scab off an old wound. “Why isn’t your family worried about your emotional state?”
Branwell sighed, tucking my head under his chin.
“I’m stronger,” he whispered. “It’s that simple.”
“Tennyson survived me leaving him. He could survive this too.”
“But could he? You didn’t see him after you left two years ago. It was . . . bad. Very bad. Close.”
“Worse than trying to get himself killed in Afghanistan?”
“Much worse.”
A beat.
“I didn’t know that,” I said.
A shrug. “Why would we tell you?”
