When we entered the monastery, I wasn’t thinking about the devil. Or the wicked, soul-snatching demons Nonna swore were roaming the earth again. And while Antonio was undeniably pleasant to look at, I wasn’t distracted by the slight curve of his mouth. Or the flop of brown hair that fell across his brow whenever he glanced at me then quickly looked away.
Of all things, I was thinking about olive oil.
For some reason the corridor smelled faintly of burnt thyme, which made me wonder what thyme-infused olive oil might taste like lightly brushed across crostini. I started daydreaming about my own restaurant again—about the menu I’d perfect. The crostini would make a fantastic antipasto. I’d top the toast off with some sliced mushrooms sautéed with a pad of butter, garlic, and a splash of white wine. Maybe I’d even sprinkle a bit of pecorino and parsley to round out the flavors . . .
We entered the room where kitchen supplies were kept, and I tucked those thoughts into my mental recipe folder and focused on the task at hand. I removed two cutting boards and a large bowl from the cupboard, and laid everything out on the tiny table.
“I’ll dice the tomatoes, you cube the mozzarella.”
“As you command, signorina.” We both reached inside the basket I’d brought and Antonio’s fingers brushed mine. I quickly yanked the tomatoes out and pretended a little thrill hadn’t shot through me at the unexpected contact.
Cooking alone with Antonio—in a darkened chamber in a near-forgotten section of the building—was not a bad way to pass the time. If he hadn’t turned his life over to the lord, this might have been the beginning of something between us.
Now, unbeknownst to him, we were enemies.
He belonged to the church and I was a witch. And not just a human strega using folk magic against the evil eye and praying to Catholic saints. My family was something other, something not entirely human. Our power was feared, not respected. Along with twelve other witch families living secretly in Palermo, we were true Daughters of the Moon. Descendants of an actual goddess. There were more families scattered across the island, but for everyone’s safety, we didn’t interact with each other.
Our magic was a peculiar thing. While it only passed down the matriarchal line, it didn’t manifest in all women. My witch-born mother didn’t possess any supernatural abilities. Unless her baking could be counted, which I fully believed it could. Only someone goddess-blessed could craft desserts the way my mother did.
At one time there’d been a council made up of the eldest member of each witch family. Nonna had been the leader in Palermo, but the coven disbanded soon after Vittoria and I were born. Stories were a little murky on the exact cause of the coven’s collapse, but from what I’d gathered, old Sofia Santorini had invoked the dark arts and something went very wrong, leaving her mind fragmented. Some said she used a human skull during a scrying session. Others claimed it was a black mirror. All agreed on the end result: her mind was now trapped between realms.
Humans grew suspicious of what they deemed sudden madness. Whispers of the devil followed. Soon our world became too dangerous for real witches to meet, even secretly after that. So the thirteen families of Palermo adopted a strict code of silence and stuck to themselves.
Man had a funny way of blaming the devil for things he didn’t like. It was strange that we were called evil when humans were the ones who enjoyed watching us burn.
“So aside from the demons invading our city, how are you?” Antonio didn’t even try to hide his grin. “Good thing you’ve got a member of the holy brotherhood watching out for your trembling soul.”
“You’re terrible.”
“True, but you don’t really think so.” His dark eyes glittered as I tossed a diced tomato at him, my face flaming. He dodged it with ease. “Or, at least I hope you don’t.”
“I’ll never tell.” I dropped my attention to the plump tomato I was dicing. Once, when we were younger, I’d used a truth spell on him to see if he’d returned my feelings. Much to my delight, he had and it felt like the world rejoiced with the discovery. When I told Nonna what I’d done, she made me scrub the kitchen from top to bottom by myself for a month.
It hadn’t exactly been the reaction I’d expected.
Nonna said truth spells—while not explicitly part of the dark arts—should never be used on humans because they were part of Il Proibito. The Forbidden were few, but held severe consequences.
Free will was one of the most basic laws of nature in this world, beyond notions of light or dark magic, and should never be trifled with, which was why truth spells were off-limits. She used old Sofia Santorini as a cautionary tale whenever we questioned her strict rules.
Not every witch in our community shared the same views as Nonna, though. When the coven disbanded, some families—like my friend Claudia’s—openly turned to the dark arts. They believed magic was magic and could—and should—be used however a witch wanted to use it. Blood, bones; practitioners of the dark arts said all were viable tools. Vittoria tried using that logic on Nonna when we were fifteen, and ended up being the toilet chambermaid for a solid week.
“Are you planning on sneaking away from the restaurant to celebrate tomorrow?” Antonio finished cubing the mozzarella and dutifully started chopping fresh basil.
“Maybe. It depends on how many customers we have and how late it gets. Honestly, I might just go home and try out some new recipes, or read.”
“Ah. Such a pious young woman, reading the Good Book.”
“Mmh.” I smiled down at my cutting board. The novel I was in the middle of was a good book, it just wasn’t the Good Book. I refrained from telling him about the last chapter I read—the one where the hero expressed his love in many colorful and physically astounding ways. I supposed, technically, his stamina could be considered miraculous. I’d certainly become a believer of impossible expectations. “Do you have any fun activities planned with the brotherhood?”
“Fun is subjective. We’ll probably be somewhere near the float, doing very serious and holy things.”
I didn’t doubt that. After Antonio’s mother died suddenly last summer, he’d surprised everyone when he left home and started his religious life. Focusing on strict rules helped him grieve. He was doing much better now, and I was glad for him, even if it meant we would never be.
“Here.” I handed him the loaf of bread. “You slice this and I’ll season the food.”
I scraped the diced tomatoes into a bowl and added the mozzarella and basil. A hit of olive oil, some minced garlic, and a pinch of sea salt all followed in rapid succession. Since the bread wasn’t toasted and the brotherhood wouldn’t be eating right away, I added a tiny bit of my balsamic and stirred everything together. It wasn’t exactly the presentation I’d choose, but it was more important for the food to taste good and not let the bread get soggy.
“How was your trip?” I asked. “I heard you had to quell rumors of shape-shifters.”
“Ah yes, the heretics who came here from the Friuli district after the Inquisition are telling some interesting tales. Mighty warriors—whose spirits leave their bodies in animal form—to protect crops from malevolent forces have indeed returned.” He snorted. “At least that’s the story we were told in the village I was assigned to. They’re convinced there’s a spirit assembly where a goddess is teaching them ways to protect themselves from evil. It’s hard breaking old beliefs.” He met my gaze and a world of trouble brewed in his eyes. “Your nonna isn’t the only one who thinks demons have arrived.”
“I—”
A voice sounded in the corridor, too low to make out words clearly. Antonio held a finger to his lips. Whoever it was spoke again, a little louder. I still couldn’t understand what they’d said, but they did not sound friendly. I fumbled for a knife. A hooded figure stepped into the chamber from the shadows, and slowly extended its arms toward us. “Heathens-s-s.”
Goose bumps rose like an army of the undead across my body. Nonna’s cries of demons were replaced by my true fear of witch hunters. They’d found me. And there was no way I could use magic in front of them, or Antonio, without giving myself away.
I jumped back so quickly, I tripped over my skirts and crashed into the basket of supplies. Silverware clattered to the ground. The bottle of my special balsamic shattered.
Antonio clutched a wooden rosary that had been hidden under his robes, and stepped forward, placing himself between me and the intruder. “In the name of Jesus Christ, I command you to be gone, demon.”
Suddenly, the figure doubled over and . . . giggled. Terror stopped coursing through me, and was swiftly replaced with anger. I pushed myself away from the wall and glared. “Vittoria.”
My twin stopped laughing and tossed her hood back. “Don’t mind me. I’m picturing the expression on your face again, and it’s even more hilarious the second time.”
Antonio slowly moved away, frowning down at the mess of glass and vinegar. I took a deep breath and silently counted to ten. “That wasn’t funny. And you made me break my balsamic.”
Vittoria winced at the bits of glass scattered across the floor. “Oh, Emilia. I’m really sorry.” She crossed the small room and crushed me against her in a giant hug. “When we get home you can break my favorite white sage and lavender perfume as retribution.”
I blew out a long breath. I knew she sincerely meant it; she’d happily hand over her bottle and watch me smash it to bits, but I would never choose revenge. “I’ll settle for a glass of the limoncello wine concoction you make instead.”
“I’ll make an entire pitcher.” She kissed each of my cheeks loudly, then nodded to Antonio. “You’re very intimidating with the whole lord’s command, brother Antonio. If I were a demon, I’m sure I would’ve definitely been banished back to Hell.”
“Next time I’ll brandish holy water. Burn the devil right out of you.”
“Hmm. You might need to bring a jug for that to work, especially if I summon him here.”
He shook his head, then turned to me. “I should be going; the brotherhood needs my help preparing for tomorrow. Don’t worry about the spilled vinegar—I’ll come back later to clean it up. Thank you again for the food, Emilia. After the festival, I’ll be traveling for a little while to dispel more superstitious rumors, but I hope to see you when I return.”
Not two breaths after he left the chamber, my stupid sister started dancing around the room, pretending to passionately kiss what I could only assume was Antonio. “Oh, Emilia. I hope to see you when I return. Preferably naked, in my bed, screaming the lord’s name.”
“Stop that!” I swatted at her, mortified. “He can probably still hear you!”
“Good.” She wiggled her hips suggestively. “Maybe it’ll give him some ideas. It’s not too late for him to leave the brotherhood. There’s no law or decree that says once he’s accepted orders he needs to stay forever. There are plenty more interesting ways for a man to find religion. Maybe you can bathe in holy water and show him.”
“You’re impossibly blasphemous.”
“And you are cherry red. Why not tell him how you feel? Or maybe you should just kiss him. Judging by the way he looks at you, I doubt he’d mind. Plus, the worst that can happen is he’ll wax poetic on his religious orders, and you’ll have to strangle him with his rosary.”
“Come on, Venus. You’ve had enough matchmaking for one day.”
I grabbed her hand and hurried out of the room, relieved to find the corridor empty.
No Antonio. Or any other member of the holy brotherhood. Thank the goddess. We rushed down the shadowy halls, and didn’t stop running until the monastery was a speck in the night.
From the comfort of our home kitchen, Vittoria gathered blood oranges, limoncello, red wine, and a bottle of prosecco. I watched from the island as she methodically added everything to a pitcher. A cup of this, a splash of that, a few sugared peels—potions and perfumes were where her magic shined brightest, and it often translated to drinks. It was one of the few times she was entirely serious, and I loved watching her get lost in pure happiness.
My mouth watered as she sliced oranges. This was my favorite drink by far—Vittoria was inspired by sangria, which in recent years had also become quite popular in France and England. Some English families who’d moved to Palermo brought their recipes with them, adding to our already eclectic history. Nonna said the Spanish had actually been influenced by an Ancient Roman spiced wine called hippocras. No matter where it originated, I simply loved the taste of orange juice mixed with the wine and the fizzy bubbles created from the prosecco.
Vittoria dipped a spoon into the mixture, stirred vigorously, then tasted it before pouring a generous glass for me. She swiped the bottle of limoncello and motioned us up the stairs.
“Hurry, Emilia, before anyone wakes up.”
“Where were you earlier?” I quietly shut the bedroom door behind us. “Nonna was one step away from using all of our olive oil to see if evil entered Sea & Vine, and probably the rest of the island if she could.”
Vittoria collapsed onto her mattress, bottle of limoncello in hand, and grinned. “I was summoning the devil. An ancient book whispered its secrets to me, and I’ve decided to take him as my husband. I’d invite you to the wedding, but I’m pretty sure the ceremony takes place in Hell.”
I gave her a sharp look. If she didn’t want to tell me the truth, fine. She could keep her secret romance with Domenico to herself for however long she liked. “You need to stop drawing so much attention to yourself.”
“Or else what? The Malvagi will come and steal my soul? Maybe I’ll just sell it to them.”
“Or else things will end badly for our family. Two girls were murdered last week. Both were witches. Antonio said people in the last town he visited were talking about shape-shifters. Now isn’t the time to be joking about the devil. You know how humans get. First it’s shape-shifters, then demons, and then it’s only a matter of time before witches are targeted.”
“I know.” Vittoria swallowed hard and looked away. I opened my mouth to ask what she’d been doing at the monastery, but when she turned back around, her gaze sparkled with mischief. “So. Have you had any special wine or spirits lately?”
I let my interrogation go. “Special wine or spirits” was her code for “supernatural witch sense.” She often used code to discuss topics we wanted to hide from humans, or nosy grandmothers. I nestled against my pillow and drew my knees up. Before I told my story, I whispered a spell of silence to cover the sound of our voices. “Well, the other night I dreamed about a ghost . . .”
“Wait!” Vittoria set her limoncello down and grabbed her diary, pen in hand and ink pot at the ready. “Tell me everything. Every last detail. What did the ghost look like? Did you see any shimmering outline or shadow, or was it more like a thing you sensed? Did it speak to you? When did this happen, right as you fell asleep, or later in the night?”
“It was closer to the morning. I thought I was awake at first.”
I sipped my drink and told her about the strange dream—the disembodied voice whispering too low to hear anything other than what sounded like the nonsensical language of dreams—believing it had only been my overactive imagination at work, and not the first signs of the horror to come.
