Page 81 of Florescentia

It was a truly creative idea, if I were dim enough to fall for such a rudimentary attempt.

“You’re creative, I won’t downplay your ingenuity. I suppose that’s where she gets it from.” I pointed to him. “But just because the human body is mostly water, doesn’t mean your skin will hold me in if I fall for that cheap trick.”

“Don’t hurt her”—the words of a defeated man—“please.”

“The thing about you people is, you think moving from one world to the next is a bad thing,” I scoffed. “Change isn’t bad, nor is it difficult. It will all be painless.”

The man’s lip trembled, his shaky hands barely able to set the cup down in front of him.

I glanced back toward the kitchen; the Iris had yet to make an appearance.

When my eyes returned to Salvatore, he looked like he was bracing himself, his wits held together by silk threads.

“She turned out beautifully,” I told him. “Do you like my contribution? It looks rather nice,” I said, signing a cross over my chest.

His face grew red, sweat beading at his temples. He was sweltering as hot as the flash of anger that lit his blood afire.

“Leave!” he shouted with full lungs. “Go!” He tossed the cup at me, the shatter disturbing the stillness of the room.

“What’s going on?”

His wife turned the corner. As she came to his side, I looked back.

Lucia stood in the doorway. She studied the scene, her brows creasing in concern. Her face was so expressive, even when quiet. The muscle in her jaw twitched, her chest rapidly drew and released shallow breaths, rising and falling in rhythm.

Her eyes turned my way, and her pupils constricted at the sight of me.

What vile honesty. She didn’t even have to say a word. But the message was potent.

“I have to talk to Lucia!” he cried. “Where is she?”

She didn’t move. As still as an idol, solid and immovable, as hard as her facade.

He looked directly at his daughter with glassy, forgetful eyes. “Where is she?” he asked, his voice strained, then he looked around him. “My journal, my journal!”

When I moved, he locked eyes on me again, this time in a panicked sort of fog. “Dorian, you have to give it to her. Please, my good man, promise me you will.”

Calling me by his name made even my own human muscles clench, sensing the eyes on me. As if by guilt, I looked at Lucia.

Unlike her father, instead of cursing me, screaming to the stars, letting her rage out like an arrow to hit me straight in the chest . . .

She left.

The only noises from her were the retreating footsteps that disappeared up the stairs.

Salvatore wailed behind me; he was inconsolable and incoherent. I believed he’d worked himself into forgetting what he’d been upset about in the first place.

His wife, Nina, looked at me, her stare much like her daughter’s—direct, concise. She brushed her fingers through his hair, tucking his head close to her shoulder. Her eyes pointed to the top of the stairs before returning to me: a command, not a question.

Her message was clear: Handle it.

I squinted at her.

Then she threw a stare that could have cut the pavement.

I retreated from the room immediately, not risking any more silent communication with the iron-willed woman.

The disruptive eruption from the floor below dissipated as I ventured up the gloomy staircase. The only light came from a door left ajar on the second floor.