Kingdom of the Wicked (Kingdom of the Wicked, #1)(56)

He caught me staring and raised a brow. “Enjoying what you see, witch?”

“Only if I had a death wish.”

“Do you?”

“Not even a little one.”

His eyes glittered with dark amusement. Of course the topic of death would appeal to him. “Which vendor do you believe knows about the murder location?”

I nodded toward the center of the marketplace where the apparel section began. Booths with fabrics and silks rustled in the slight breeze, beckoning us over.

“Salvatore is one of the best gossips in the city. If anyone has reliable information about Giulia, it’s him.” I glanced down at Wrath’s shirt. “He’s also the vendor who sold me that.”

“I see. You brought me here to commit murder while we investigate one.”

The good humor promptly left Wrath’s face. I hid my grin as his nostrils flared. For a vengeful prince of Hell, he certainly was touchy about clothing. And I was pretty sure he was only teasing about killing the vendor. I hoped.

In fact, I was surprised he was joking at all. After I left the monastery, I went straight to him and delivered the news. I’d been convinced he’d lay waste to the whole city. Instead, he calmly reported everything he knew about the potential bride. Her name was Giulia Santorini, and he hadn’t been able to get a message to her last night. I’d taken a second to digest this latest revelation.

I thought over everything again now. I knew her family. They sold spices in the Kalsa District, and Vittoria used to volunteer to stop by their shop to pick up orders for Sea & Vine when Uncle Nino or my father couldn’t. Giulia’s grandmother Sofia was the witch whose mind had gotten trapped between realms, shifting between realities so swiftly she no longer knew what was real and what was a vision.

As far as I knew, after what happened to Sofia, the Santorinis never dabbled in the dark arts again. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe Giulia decided to invoke the dark arts like her grandma. And maybe she was the one who’d given my sister those mysterious grimoire pages.

That thought stopped me cold.

If Giulia had somehow given my sister a spell to summon a demon, it made sense that she’d taken it from her grandmother’s grimoire since Sofia was known to use the dark arts. Maybe the grimoire was the missing link . . . I thought again about the first book of spells. About the magic binding my sister’s diary. Was that the connection between the murders? Maybe not the dark arts, but the source material?

“What’s wrong?” Wrath asked, breaking into my thoughts. “You look strange.”

“Are you sure you didn’t tell Giulia to meet you last night?” I asked. Wrath shot me a look that silently communicated he might strangle me if we went over this again. To be fair, I might have already asked him half a dozen times on our walk into the city. And half a dozen more once we were here. “Maybe you’re double-crossing Pride and killed her.”

He let out a long sigh. “I assure you that is still not the case. I have no reason to kill anyone. As I said before, my message never made it to her.”

I knew he wasn’t double-crossing anyone, but liked hearing him get flustered. “Do you think one of your brothers killed her?”

“No.”

“And we’re back to one-word answers.”

“Careful, witch, or I might think you’re interested in having a civil conversation.” The barest hint of a smile ghosted across his lips as I rolled my eyes. “Simple answers don’t require padding.”

“Why don’t you think one of your brothers did it?”

“What reason would they have?”

“Let me count the ways, oh, wicked one.” I ticked off motivations on my fingers. “Greed might be interested in taking the throne. Maybe Envy is jealous and wants more power. If Pride doesn’t marry, then he remains cursed and can’t leave Hell. Which is a pretty decent motivation if one of your brothers wants to rule this realm. Shall I go on?”

Wrath glared at me, but didn’t respond. Apparently he didn’t like my accusations, but couldn’t find a way to discredit them as foolish theories. We turned the corner, stepped around a pile of precariously towering wooden crates, and narrowly avoided getting speared by a swordfish head. Wrath took in all the sights and colors silently. I wondered if he had anything like it where he was from, but didn’t ask.

A sea of people standing in line for gelato parted for us as we crossed the road and entered the clothing section. Salvatore was in the middle of arguing with someone over another threadbare tunic when Wrath stopped at his table, emanating that quiet menace he was so good at. Conversations ceased. The other patron took one look at the expression on the demon’s face and bolted into the crowd, the clothing in question discarded and forgotten.

“You and I have business, vendor.”

“I don’t believe we . . .” Sal’s attention shifted to the shirt Wrath wore, then shot to me. I gave him a little finger wave. I’d tried warning him about the condition and cost. Now he could deal with an angry demon. I felt the not-so-subtle rattling of Wrath’s namesake emotion as it slithered toward Sal and wound around him.

The vendor’s hand trembled as he pushed it through his dark hair. “Signore, h-how nice. The shirt is—”

“Being exchanged for that one.”

Wrath jerked his chin toward the row of clothing hanging behind the stall; the most expensive pieces judging from the drape of them. Sal opened his mouth, took in the set of Wrath’s shoulders, then closed it and plastered on a big false smile. Smart man.