How someone had snuck an enchanted skull in without Anir or me noticing was almost as troubling as the magic used to power it. I’d never heard of a spell that commanded the bones of the dead. Sure, there was necromancy, but that’s not what powered the skull. This wasn’t even il Proibito. This was something other, something more terrifying than the Forbidden.
I left the skull where it was, plopped onto the glass chair, and took a healthy sip of wine, my mind racing. I thought about Nonna’s lessons on dark magic, specifically spells using objects touched by death—how both should be avoided at all costs. Never, not once, did she ever tell us a story about a witch who could manipulate life into something long dead. If that was even what happened. It had to be demon magic. Which meant the sender was likely a prince of Hell.
The question was which one and why.
I replayed the message in my mind. The angel of death lives. Fury. Almost free. Maiden, Mother, Crone. Past, present, future, find.
To simplify, and to keep from panicking over the macabre messenger, I decided to pick it apart line by line, starting with the angel of death.
Claudia, my best friend and a witch whose family openly practiced the dark arts, used a black mirror and human bones in her last scrying session, and her mind had been taunted with the voices of the dead. She’d also mentioned something about the angel of death.
I did not believe in coincidences.
I got up and paced around the room, struggling to recall more from Claudia’s scrying. That night was filled with terror, and the details were fuzzy. I’d found her on her knees in the courtyard outside the monastery, her nails broken to the quick, as she recited nonsensical messages from the cursed and the damned. She told me to run, but there was no way I’d leave her with the superstitious holy brotherhood. She’d said something about a cunning thief stealing the stars and drinking them dry. That he was coming and going.
That it should have been impossible…
I knew at least four demon princes who were roaming Sicily at that time. Wrath, Envy, Greed, and Lust. One of them had to be the angel of death. Maybe not in the literal sense, but it could certainly be a nickname. I stopped dead in my tracks, heart pounding.
Only one demon fit that description. I’d even called him Samael one night—the angel of death and prince of Rome—thinking it a clever description of him. He’d given me a bemused look, right before he’d warned me to never call him that again. Wrath.
He didn’t hide the fact that he was the general of war. He excelled in violence. If he was Death, maybe he hadn’t been chosen to solve the murders; perhaps he was furious someone sullied his title and involved him without the devil’s consent. That would explain why Pride didn’t want to invite him into his circle. The devil was punishing Wrath for disobedience.
Which, if true, threw into question every last bit of information I’d wrung from him. If Wrath omitted basic truths about his involvement, there was no telling how far his deception stretched.
I rubbed my temples. Wrath was my top suspect for both the angel of death and the fury portion of the riddle. Next came the Maiden, Mother, and Crone. That part was harder to connect to the murders. According to our history, the Maiden, the Mother, and the Crone were three goddesses who ruled the heavens, the earth, and the underworld.
Old witch legends claimed they’d given birth to the goddesses we prayed to, and one of them—the goddess of the heavens and sun—was La Prima Strega’s mother. The Maiden, Mother, and Crone were to our goddesses what Titans were to the gods in mortal mythologies.
If she was real and not a fable, the goddess of the underworld—or any of the goddesses birthed to her realm—would likely possess the kind of magic that animated bones, but why she’d send a cryptic message to me remained a mystery. Goddesses had never shown interest in involving themselves with witches before. I doubted they’d start now.
However the Maiden, Mother, and Crone fit, it wasn’t through a legend I’d been taught. It wasn’t a stretch to think demons had their own stories and histories about them.
Answers weren’t going to present themselves by staying locked away in my chamber.
I removed a scarf from the wardrobe and picked up the skull, careful to avoid touching it without cloth. If Vittoria were here, she’d have plucked it up and danced it across the room without a moment’s hesitation, fueling Nonna’s worry about her affinity with the dead. A smile almost tugged at my lips before I banished it. I glanced around, searching for a hiding place, then knelt down and shoved the skull deep inside the wardrobe and shut its doors.
Situation resolved, I dusted off my hands and went to search House Wrath.
I stopped counting how many stone staircases I’d descended somewhere around a dozen. Each magnificent landing ended on a floor that spanned what seemed like thousands of meters. Which must have been deception magic—Wrath’s castle couldn’t be that large.
On the next landing, I stopped to look out a trio of arched windows. A large body of merlot-colored water pooled at the bottom of a valley, smoke rising in lazy tendrils from its surface. A branch from a nearby tree fell into the water, immediately bursting into flames.
I made a mental note to never get near the cursed lake unless I wanted my flesh to burn off my bones. I left the windows and wandered down the corridor.
The castle was mostly built from pale stone, similar to limestone, and there were some wings that had been richly fitted with large, colorful tapestries. This particular wing had an image of angels in battle with monstrous creatures.
It reminded me of art created during the Renaissance; the colors deep and dark against the pale walls and columns. Doors carved from bone opened to ballrooms, and unused bedrooms, and sitting rooms. I stopped outside a towering set of double doors and traced the delicate carving. A tangle of vines with flowers and stars crawled up the edges and top, while the same vines twisted into roots that plunged into the bowels of the earth at the bottom of the doors.
Skeletons and skulls and things left to rot and ruin adorned the lower portion.
I pushed the door open and swallowed a gasp. Inside was a library unlike anything I’d ever dreamed of. Excitement rushed through me as I stepped into the room and stared at rows and rows of glass shelves. They went on for an eternity.
My face split into a wide grin. The goddesses must have been smiling down on me; this was the perfect place to research magic and myths. I marveled at the jewel-toned vellum spines of thousands of books. Someone had arranged them by color, their bindings ranging from the most brilliant shades of yellow to the palest butter creams and pure snow-whites. Reds, purples, blues, greens, and oranges; it was a rainbow of beauty set against a backdrop of ice.
I couldn’t picture Wrath being serene enough for a quiet night of reading, and if he did, I never would have guessed he’d do it with a riot of color surrounding him. Maybe ebonies and gold—dark gleaming wood and leather. Masculine elegance at its finest. This was…
“Haven. Close to Heaven but not quite as boring.”
I spun around, a hand pressed against my pounding heart. “Sneaking up on people is rude. I thought demon princes were supposed to have impeccable manners.”
“We do. Mostly.” Wrath’s gaze traveled unapologetically over my strapless gown, and I became excruciatingly aware of each place the silky fabric slid across my skin. I suspected his perusal had more to do with ensuring I’d dressed the part of future queen, and would not embarrass myself in front of any members of his court, rather than anything else. “My personal library is one level down.”