The sound like wishbones snapping over their spell books a warning in its own right. Vittoria’s charms were rushed and Emilia stumbled over hers, trying to keep up.Ī twig popped in the fire, quickly followed by another. One that spoke of unseen trouble to come. Like the churning Tyrrhenian Sea, there was a restlessness about them tonight. One didn’t steal from the devil and go unpunished. It was only a matter of time before they came looking. The area between her shoulders prickled as if their midnight eyes were upon her, watching from the shadows. Nonna Maria never would their legends were burned into her mind, branding her with a bone-deep sense of dread. Now adults laughed at the old folktales, all but forgetting the seven ruling princes of Hell. Hardly anyone spoke of the Wicked anymore, except in stories told to frighten children into staying in their beds at night. It had been an age since the last sighting of the Malvagi. Or one of his wicked brothers was.Ī sliver of worry slid in as quick and smooth as one of her paring knives, lodging itself near Nonna’s heart.
Had she been alive, her own human grandmother would have called it an omen and spent the evening on her knees in the cathedral, rosary clutched close, praying to saints. As much as she tried ignoring it, sulfur snuck in through the cracks along with the familiar plumeria-and-orange-scented breeze, raising the graying hair she’d swept up from her neck. It had little to do with the temperature outside. She pulled her shawl closer, unable to ward off chills in the small kitchen. It was the start of their eighth year and Nonna tried not to worry over how quickly they were growing. “By earth, moon, and stone, bless this hearth, bless this home.” Pushing the howling gusts from her mind, she listened closely to the words Vittoria and Emilia whispered over the horn-shaped amulets, their matching dark heads bent in concentration.
It wasn’t the first time he’d be cursed by witches, nor would it be the last.įrom her rocking chair near the fire, Nonna Maria monitored the twins while they chanted protection charms she’d taught them, a cornicello clutched tightly in each of their little fists. Next, thunder would roll in quicker than the tide with lightning cracking electric whips across an unforgiving sky. On this date-for nearly a decade now-the storm followed the same pattern. In the distance, waves crashed against the shore the frantic whispers of water growing louder as if the sea was a mage summoning violence. Outside, wind rattled the wooden chimes in warning.
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