“I am your person too,” said Kat quietly. “And I’m scared for you, Marco. I don’t understand any of this—and—and—it sounds like a sacrifice!”
He leaned forward and—for the first time—kissed her cheek, gently. “It’ll be all right. And . . . if we don’t do something it won’t matter. The city is burning. Caesare and Count Badoero’s men are winning.”
Somehow, she composed her face, stilled her trembling, drew herself up, and stood like the daughter of Montescue that she was. “I love you, Marco Valdosta.”
His heart swelled with pride for her. “And I love you too, Katerina Montescue.”
Luciano stamped his foot impatiently. “Come on! There are auspicious times for doing these things. And one of them is dawn. It’s hard to tell in this fog, but that must be soon. Step inside the circle and let me close it behind you. This is a great spell and it will tax me to my utmost.”
* * *
Kat was left standing, head bowed, disconsolate, his kiss still warm on her cheek, to watch as the ward-fires flared. A tear trickled down her nose. This was dangerous, horribly dangerous. She felt it in her bones, no matter that Marco didn’t seem to think anything of it. A Strega mage practicing a Christian version of a pagan spell? It was crazy—how much could go wrong, or had gone wrong in the transliteration? Luciano was taking on more than he should ever have dared and he had dragged Marco in after him. Or was she just getting overprotective about Marco? She fumbled out her talisman and took comfort from the fact that at least the medal was cool.
The door opened, and Kat whirled, one hand on her Saint Hypatia medal, the other on her dagger. The medal flared with heat.
Lucrezia Brunelli stood there, smiling in triumph. “Crying for your lover, little Montescue?” she asked smirking cruelly. “It’s a waste of time and tears.”
Kat gasped. “You’re supposed to have left!” Then, as the words themselves penetrated: “And damn you! I’m crying for a good man.”
Lucrezia laughed, throwing her handsome head back. “There’s no such thing, girl. Believe me—I’ve tried them all, from Capuletti to my brother Ricardo.”
Kat gaped, for a long moment, as Lucrezia waited for the sense of that to penetrate, unable to believe what she had actually heard. “Your b—your brother!?”
Lucrezia smiled lazily, but the smile had a nasty edge. “Cleopatra slept with hers. He did crawl into my bed when he thought I was too young to understand, but in the end, he was just a man. And I did have my revenge, after all. I’ve had him killed for it.”
The words, so cool, so unemotional, chilled Kat to the bone.
“And now,” Lucrezia continued, “I need to kill these two while I still have the strength. Weather magic is wearisome.”
“B–b–but—” Kat was trying to ask why, but the words wouldn’t come. By now the Hypatia medal was almost burning her hand. But was that caused by what Luciano was doing, or was it Lucrezia’s presence? Or both?
Lucrezia obviously understood what she meant to ask. “Oh, for many reasons—but among others, it’s enough that they are two of the three who ever turned me down. Strange. Those potions you brought me from Ascalon were very effective, you know, and to have them fail so significantly on two occasions, your sweet little boy and that upright priest . . .”
Priest? “Dottore Marina isn’t—”
“I wasn’t talking about him. Unfortunately, Luciano disappeared before I had access to those philters. If I’d had them—” she licked her lips, as if she tasted something bitter “—perhaps we wouldn’t be having this discussion now.”
Rafael, who had been standing ignored on the other side of the room, chose this moment to try to deal with her in a rush. He stopped as if he had hit a wall, paralyzed. Kat’s medal enveloped her in warmth.
At Lucrezia’s gesture, Rafael dropped the knife and folded, to sprawl before her feet.
Lucrezia shook her head. “I am far too powerful for little Strega with their little knives. Lie there, little Strega, and watch as your friends die—for I believe that I will allow you to die last of all.”