Page 92 of A Dangerous Bargain

The meaning is clear: It’s time for me to pay up.

Breath stuttering, I reach into my pocket and take out a handkerchief. “Will this do?”

A clawed paw the size of a cooking pot shreds it to ribbons.

I stand slowly. The demon-cat is so big, its wings blot out the sky above. Its fangs have grown longer, each one the length of a knife. A dark red gleam flickers in its black pupils.

I swallow and lift my arms. “I said I would pay you, but you never named your price, and so I get to name it now. The bargain has already been sealed with blood.”

The demon lunges and roars. I wince as a wave of moist, rancid breath washes over me. Its teeth are inches from my face, saliva dripping down them in ropes. A drop lands wetly on my boot and soaks through the leather. I take shallow, steadying breaths, willing myself to stay calm. “How about the taste of freshly churned butter?”

The demon’s ears flatten. Its mouth opens wider.

Before I can scream, a rough scaly tongue licks my forehead. A starlike speck flashes on the demon’s tongue before it swallows.

I blink, and suddenly the demon is cat-sized again. With a final hiss, it beats its wings and zips off into the mist.

I pat my head where the cat licked me, but there’s nothing there. I think of butter, anticipate the delicious sweetness melting across my tongue, the richness as I take a bite of thickly slathered bread…

But I can’t. Each time I reach for the memory, it’s like digging in an empty jar, my fingers scraping the bottom for something I know was once there. I can think of all the composite parts of fresh butter, see it and feel it, but I can’t recall the moment the taste floods my mouth. It’s as if I’ve never tasted it at all.

The memory is a small price to pay, but what else will I be asked to give up on this journey? Does the demon-cat have kinsmen?

The warmth of Niccolo’s soul hangs just beside me, peaceful and quiet. A single candle left burning in the window to welcome me home.

Trembling, I touch his hand for the first time in years. “Volpone?”

His eyes open. “Volpacchiotto.”

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

His arms wrap around me. I fall into them like I always do. “It’s you.” Tears fill my eyes. “It’s really you.”

Niccolo flinches. He scrubs away my tears before they can fall. “Don’t cry. It’ll bring them closer.”

“Bring what closer?”

He touches a finger to his lips and motions for quiet. I try not to let it bother me, how we’re finally together and he’s already telling me what to do. “We’re not the only things here.”

He’s got the same black curls tumbling over his forehead, the same heart-shaped scar on his cheekbone. The gold gleam dances across his skin, growing livelier. It’s as if my being here has awakened his soul. As if he were a sleeping cinder until I touched him.

He grabs my wrist, forcing me to look him in the eyes. “I’m sorry. I’ve missed you for—” He swallows down the emotion. Takes a breath and adds more quietly, “For a very long time. But you can’t feel too deeply here. ’Tis dangerous.”

The fog writhes between us, an unnatural cold leaching warmth from under my surface. “The Medici told me you were desperate to escape your life. That’s why you became a host.” I don’t think it’s true—I don’t want it to be true—but I have to know.

Niccolo draws in a sharp gasp. Then he’s squeezing me so hard, I can’t breathe. “No. Life was hard, but not because of you. Never because of you.”

The words crawl into my chest, into my heart, where a crack I’ve carried for years finally fuses. I nod, unable to speak.

Not letting me go, Niccolo turns so we’re standing side by side, looking at up at the sky. Lightning crackles along the gray clouds, silent and unsettling. “The Medici lied. They said if I agreed to work with them for a few years, they’d give back Casa delle Volpi. I agreed because it seemed simple. A few years of my life for everyone’s else well-being. I didn’t realize they were lying until it was too late, and when I did… they threatened you all.”

“But why wouldn’t you tell me?” The old hurt squirms its way to the surface again. Second son. Second best. “I begged you to. I could’ve kept a secret.”

“They were working with demons,” Niccolo says. “I couldn’t let you face that too. When I came to the workshop, there was a guard around the corner. I said the meanest things I could to keep you away. I couldn’t risk you following me and running into him. I’ve regretted it ever since.” His gaze drops. “That’s why I asked the printmaker to create a new version of Dante’s Inferno. I thought you’d find the note and put it together.”

My hurt grows bigger, biting me with sharp teeth, refusing to let go. “You should’ve told me yourself, damn the guard!” If he had, everything would’ve been different. We could’ve fixed it together like we were meant to.

“Virgil—”