Kingdom of the Wicked (Kingdom of the Wicked, #1)(49)

Wrath and I settled against the building adjacent to the monastery, watching lights snuff out one by one. Soon the brotherhood would be asleep in their bedchambers. “What possessed you to swear a blood vow to me?”

“I wanted to offer a twig of trust.”

“You mean an olive branch.”

“Same concept, witch.” He tipped his face up at the moon. “Also, I might have wanted more of those . . . things you brought. If you died then I’d have to hunt them down. It would have been inconvenient.”

“The cannoli?” I asked, feigning incredulity at his attempt at humor. “You saved me in part for some sweetened ricotta?” Thank the goddess he didn’t seem to grasp how popular they were, or how widely they could be found in the city. “Do you think the Umbra demon is watching us?”

Tucked snugly between the shadows, it was too dark to see his features clearly, but I pictured his look of resignation anyway. “Are you scared?”

A perfect nonanswer to my question. I knew he was referencing the Umbra demon, but the truth was Wrath scared me, too. Anyone who wasn’t a little afraid to enter a chamber with the demon last seen with their murdered loved one would be an idiot.

A couple streets over, voices rumbled like distant thunder. Laughter followed, bold and boisterous. Palermo was a city that worshipped the night as much as it basked in the glory of the day. Festivals, feasts—there always seemed to be some occasion worth celebrating, especially with food and drink. I hoped to stop the monster bent on destroying that before it struck again.

Several minutes of quiet later, the last golden light inside went dark.

“All right. It’s time,” Wrath said, straightening. “If you’d prefer to stay here, then stay. I don’t coddle.”

I ignored him and slipped into the shadows, letting him talk to himself. He seemed to enjoy the sound of his own voice well enough. It felt rude to interrupt.

“I won’t comfort. Or tend to your wounds. Emotional or otherwise. I despise—”

When the door across the alley creaked open, his mouth snapped shut. I flashed him a scathing look as I pushed it wider in invitation. He stood there, scowling. I’d wager anything he hadn’t heard me move. I wondered how many people ever surprised him. Probably not many, given the way his annoyance seemed to build at the thought of being bested by a witch.

“Are you coming, or not, demon?”





Twenty-Three

Thankfully, there were no supernatural whispers waiting for me in the chamber where Vittoria died. No insistent summoning tug, or magical request from the Great Beyond. Only silence and the slight scrape of Wrath’s boots as he moved around in the dark. At his quiet but gruff request, I handed him my satchel of supplies, grateful for a few moments to collect myself while he searched inside of it for candles.

According to Wrath, we’d only have a few minutes for him to sense traces of any summoning magic. He warned me there might not be any hints since more than a month had passed. I hadn’t been back in this room since I first found my sister’s mutilated body. If I had a choice, I’d never set foot in this cursed monastery again. I knew Vittoria wasn’t here, but the ghost of that night haunted me all the same. I closed my eyes against the memory of her torn flesh. The utter stillness of death. And the blood.

I rubbed my hands over my arms, though the air was pleasantly warm. It was odd how unexpected life could be. A month ago, I never would’ve pictured returning with the very creature I’d first found licking my sister’s blood, yet here we were. Working together.

Suddenly, I was no longer lost in grief. With everything that had happened, I’d forgotten all about that morbid, blood-licking detail. I spun around, relishing the weight of the demon’s dagger as it bounced at my side. “Just to be clear; I permitted you to leave the containment circle tonight for my benefit alone. It doesn’t mean I like you.”

“And here I thought binding me for all eternity meant we were good friends.”

“You haven’t explained why you were licking my sister’s blood.”

He finished digging through my bag and struck a match. Light flared up, gilding the edges of his face. Shadows darkened his gaze, but didn’t hide the shimmering gold of his irises. His attention slid to the dagger and lingered. He stared at it often enough during our walk here, that I couldn’t help but think he was plotting creative ways of getting it back.

I fought a chill as the familiar feeling of danger returned. Sometimes, especially since he agreed to help me, it was easy to forget he was one of the Wicked. “You didn’t ask me to.”

“I most certainly did.”

“What you said was ‘You were standing over her body, licking her blood from your fingers, you revolting beast.’ ” Obviously, it made a lasting impression. He lit the candles and handed me one. I avoided his fingers and he replied in kind. “Don’t touch anything, witch. We don’t want to disturb any lingering scent.”

“Do I even want to know what you mean by ‘lingering scent,’ or is that some Hell creature fact best left to the imagination?”

“Tempting though it may be, it’s best not to imagine me at all.”

I rolled my eyes. If he didn’t want to elaborate, that was perfectly fine. I didn’t give a rat’s tail about his precious demon senses, but I did care about Vittoria.