The Demon Catchers of Milan #2: The Halcyon Bird (7 page)

I parked my bike at one of the
stazioni
on the Viale Gorizia
and went to wait near Nonna’s favorite restaurant. Emilio had asked me to come early, and I was glad it hadn’t been too hard to find this place. I leaned against the wall, gazing at the shops on the other side of the canal, holding Laura’s present.

It was a pretty part of the city, and the evening was unusually warm. Everyone seemed to be taking advantage of the balmy air and the stillness. Voices echoed up the street from the far side. Couples held hands as they walked along the canal, or stood close together, looking down into the water.

I wanted to pretend, just for a moment, that I was alone only because I was waiting for someone to come hold my hand. In the last few months, I hadn’t had time or energy to be sad about the fact that I was going to be alone forever, because only a crazy Satanist like Lucifero would ever want to date me.

A nearby couple was kissing. He was handsome, with dark hair that could take a bit of ruffling. He held on to his girlfriend like she might fly off the bridge. I knew I probably shouldn’t watch them, but I couldn’t look away.

Then I reminded myself that I
was
waiting for someone. In fact, I was waiting for the most beautiful man in Milan, even if he wasn’t mine. I touched my hair and straightened the hem of my dress, just as Emilio turned the corner, walking up the street toward me. Every woman paused to look at him—probably trying to figure out who he was smiling at. Even the girl on the bridge stared over her boyfriend’s shoulder at him.

He was close to six feet tall and wore an open-necked white shirt and a cream blazer with a line so perfect it might have
been tailored for a god. He had high cheekbones and golden skin, and his blond hair caught the evening sun. His eyes were the same color as the storm that had passed over us in the afternoon, leaving rain in the gutters, washing the city clean for this clear almost-spring night.

I heard a thudding in my ears, and for a moment thought I heard the hearts of all the women on the street, not just my own, pounding away.

But, of course, it all was completely pointless: my pounding heart, the pristine evening, my pretty dress, the looks the women gave him. It was just Emilio. I sighed.

He came up to me and said, “
Buona sera
, Mia. Not waiting inside?”

“No, it’s too nice an evening,” I replied.

He nodded in agreement, kissed my cheeks, and held out his hand for my parcel.

“I’ve asked them for a table by the window. They don’t have outdoor seating, but the food’s worth staying inside for, even on an evening like this. Ah!” He looked up at the sky and took a deep breath. “Nights like this I want to flee our lovely, smoggy home. I want to go out to the country, or to the sea. Or just fly up into the sky,” he added, and smiled at me.

Sometimes I think that all I want in this world is for Emilio to go on smiling at me until we both grow old and die. But, aside from the fact that he’s my third cousin, he’s utterly out of my league
and
he’s taken. We crossed the street and went into the restaurant.

They had already set up a long table for us, with bowls of gardenias all along the center, and a view of the canal. Emilio thanked them.

“I love the light on the canal,” I said as we sat down.

“Dock,” Emilio corrected me. I rolled my eyes. A waiter lit candles, one by one. When he left, Emilio picked up one of the candles in its holder, tipping it this way and that, staring into the flame.

“Thanks for meeting me,” he said at last. “I think we’ve got at least a half an hour before the others arrive.”

“You never did say why you wanted me to come early,” I prompted.

He shrugged.

“I have a hunch,” he said.

“What kind of a hunch?” I asked.

“You look nice in that dress,” he said.

I rolled my eyes again.

“Wait and see,” he said. “And tell me what Tommaso Strozzi told my grandfather.”

I blinked. It still surprises me, the way such a big city can be so like a small town—at least if your family has lived there for centuries.

“How did you know he’d come by?” I asked. Emilio smiled.

“Bernardo Tedesco stopped in at the bank to deposit last week’s checks. He said he’d seen Tommaso with you and Nonno this afternoon.”

“Nobody else dropped in. I don’t know Bernardo.”

“He was just passing by. You’ll meet him sometime. His grandfather was friends with Nonno, his father was friends with my father, and so on.”

“And you guys are friends?”

“I’m friends with his older brother. Bernardo just followed us around and bugged us when he was little.”

“Like Anna Maria?”

He smiled.

“Like her and Francesco, both,” he agreed, but he seemed distracted, looking over my shoulder. I tried to catch his eye.

“What’s going on?” I asked.

“Don’t turn around,” he said.

“Okay.”

Now he looked directly at me, and I felt afraid. He leaned across the table and gently took my hand.

“They’re actually a bit late. I thought they’d be here sooner,” he said. “Lucifero and his friends.”

My hand convulsed under his; he tightened his grip.

“Don’t turn around! It’s all right, Mia. They’ve been following us on and off for some weeks. Mostly you or me, as far as we can tell. They think I don’t recognize them. Somebody generally knows where you are, so I felt no need to tell you. You keep on the alert anyway, which is good.”

“I do,” I agreed, but it was hard to speak.

He should have told me
, I thought.
He should have told me!
And worse, I hadn’t noticed on my own, except that once at the Biblioteca Ambrosiana.

I thought back to that peculiar first date with Lucifero: how I’d snuck out to meet him, walking part of the way with Francesca and Francesco, how looking at him had made my stomach quiver. Not anymore, not in a good way, anyway. Why would anyone ask for possession? Yet Lucifero had. “Power, quick power,” Nonno would say.

“Where is he sitting?” I asked, when I was sure I could control my voice.

“Over your right shoulder, two tables down.”

I knew I shouldn’t, but I had to look. I caught one short glimpse of him. At first, I couldn’t figure out exactly why he looked abnormal. He seemed brighter—not like Emilio, who seems to shine in the dark, but bright and flat like an advertisement that grabs the eye without filling the heart. It was bizarre. I felt sick.

“What do you think they’re planning?” I asked Emilio.

“I don’t know,” he said. “But I thought if we could give them a few moments where we seemed vulnerable, that might bring matters to a head. Nonno and Uncle Matteo will be here soon, and Anna Maria and Francesco, too, so we’ll have plenty of backup. Let’s just continue talking, and I’ll keep an eye on them.”

I couldn’t decide who I wanted to murder more, the serenely self-confident man in front of me, or the handsome Satanist at my back.

T
ake out your case, slowly,” Emilio advised. “Set it open in your lap. I’ll do the same if something distracts them.”

I reached in my jacket pocket and clasped the heavy, leather-bound case in my fingers. I slid it onto my lap and opened it, touching the mirror, the candle stub, the tiny brass bell, the fountain pen I’d wedged next to the new leather notebook.

“You have no idea what they’re going to do?” I repeated.

“None.”

I glared at him, and he laughed.

“Life’s not interesting if you always play it safe,” he counseled.

“Just how unsafe do you think this will be?” I grumbled, and then, still glaring at him, I recognized the ice-cold feeling between my shoulders, a telltale sign of a demon.

Emilio saw me flinch.

“Pick up the bell and mirror and set them on the table,” he went on in the same calm voice, never releasing my shaking hand. “Now.”

I could feel some power seeking a way in. The bell I wore around my neck, nesting in the hollow between my collarbones, began to shiver but did not ring. I had never even considered whether it would protect me against any demon aside from my own enemy.

The bell from my case tinkled, too, as I set it on the table. I nearly dropped the mirror. With his other hand, Emilio slid them across in front of him, around the place mats and silverware, the glasses and napkins. He held up the mirror, low, hidden more or less from the view of the tables around us, and aimed it over my shoulder.

“Look at yourself,” Emilio whispered, and I thought he was talking to me until I heard a low, guttural growl beside my ear. I was pretty sure that even if the demon roared, Emilio and I would be the only ones that could hear it.

“Know yourself,” Emilio whispered, and the demon growled again. I knew now it wasn’t my demon—it didn’t sound like him, more like some angry animal.

“Now,” he went on, looking into the space over my shoulder, “come to me.”

Something pounced at the table, blowing over glasses and flinging cutlery into the air. Emilio dropped my hand and leaped up at the same time—as if he’d been expecting this—then, grabbing the restaurant candle between us, he cupped it in both hands and murmured a singsong chant. I couldn’t quite understand the words; they sounded Italian, yet thicker and rougher.

He interrupted himself to say, “Ring the bell.”

I felt slow as I reached out and grasped the bell. I rang it, once, twice, three times, pausing carefully in between, even while something whirled above the table. On the third ring, I heard a sigh from among the spilled glasses, and the candle in Emilio’s hands flared wildly.

“Got it,” he said. I looked down at the ordinary restaurant candle between his fingers. All our weapons, hidden in plain sight …

One of the waiters arrived at the table now, and Emilio apologized to him for the mess. “I’m clumsy.” He shrugged.

The waiter laughed and tipped his head at me. “Don’t try so hard to impress her,” he advised, and we all laughed. For about the millionth time, I speculated what it would be like to be on a date with Emilio. I supposed I’d be the one spilling water everywhere, because I’d be so nervous. Or maybe I’d just be overjoyed and wouldn’t notice I was tipping glasses over.

“What are they doing now?” I asked in a low voice, once the waiter had left.

“They’re gone,” said Emilio. “That must have been their best shot, so far. Interesting … they must have learned quite a
bit, to be able to call up a being and direct it at us like that. I wonder who has the talent, and who has the skill, and if they are the same person … our Lucifero, perhaps?”

I glared at him and said nothing.

“What?” he said, looking genuinely surprised. “Upset about something?”

“You should have told me. I should have known they were following me and what we were getting into.”

He furrowed his brow. “What would you have done differently?” he asked finally.

I didn’t have an answer.

“Three months ago, we had to spend all our time protecting you. Now things are different. You can run risks you never could before. Isn’t that a good thing?”

“I’d still like to know I’m running them,” I countered, surprised that I could actually find the right words when I needed them. This kind of discussion isn’t my strong point.

He shrugged again. “Fair enough,” he said. But I wanted an apology, and I knew I wasn’t going to get one. Does being that good-looking mean never having to say you are sorry? I decided to ask Anna Maria, although I thought I knew what she would say.

I turned to look at the empty table where they had sat. “I hope they paid their bill, is all,” I said. Emilio laughed.

“Early!” cried Nonno, spotting us across the restaurant and leading Nonna Laura to us. We stood up to wish Nonna a
buon
compleanno
and receive her kisses. Then cousin after cousin arrived: Anna Maria, texting her way between the tables; Uncle Matteo, earnestly bickering with Aunt Brigida about which way to the restaurant was quickest, even though they had already arrived; Francesca, carrying a bright parcel wrapped in handprinted paper; Égide and Francesco talking and moving in hilarious contrast—the one all grace and dignity, the other knocking over some poor woman’s wineglass, and having to stop and apologize. The last to arrive was a stranger, a tall man with a triangular face, black hair shot with gray, and a goatee that made him look like the devil.

Everyone knew him but me, apparently, because they all called out,
“Dottore! Dottore!”
cheerfully across the restaurant, and Nonna smiled with genuine pleasure: “You came!”

“Of course, I came, Nonna Laura,” the man rebuked her, smiling, too. He handed her a box smaller than the palm of her hand, all done up in silver paper with a wide silver ribbon and the label of some fancy store.

“Dottore Komnenos, allow me to introduce our young American cousin, Mia Della Torre. Mia, this is our Venetian cousin, Dottore Augusto Komnenos.”

“Piacere,”
said Dottore Komnenos, holding out his hand. I took it, and my own shy
piacere
felt awkward on my tongue again, as if I hadn’t said it to every new person I was introduced to in Milan.

Nonno took charge of the menu, conferring with his wife.
Apparently, this wasn’t a meal we would get to choose.

“Venice?” I asked Dottore Komnenos while Nonno and Laura discussed antipasti as seriously as the coming election (more seriously, in fact).

“Sì.”
He smiled. “Is that so strange?”

I ducked my head.

“All the family I’ve met come from Milan.”

He laughed.

“We’re all over the world, under a number of different surnames. My mother was a Torriani, for example, another derivative of Della Torre. I like your own Dellatorri.”

He’d seen my name written? He seemed to guess the question.

“Yes, in e-mail. Of course your family talks of you.”

Of course. But not like an ordinary relative who has come to visit, I felt sure. Was he in the family business?

“I hope they said good things,” I said.

“Oh, yes,” he answered with a wry smile.