Page 26

Alonso

THE INCENSE IN SECOND WORLD EMPORIUM IS NOT NORMAL.

Alonso lives in a house of witches, so he should be used to it. But the scents inside the store are layered, dancing around them to create confusion. Or maybe this is part of the security spell, because already, Alonso can’t remember why he walked inside, or why Milton let him walk inside.

Milton whispers a few words, and Alonso’s head clears. He closes his eyes as a headache starts to pound.

“I’ll be right back,” Milton says, locking the front door and disappearing behind the curtains.

When the Cozy Mystery Book Club is alone, Alonso feels their eyes on him. He can’t look at them, though. He doesn’t want to know what they thought of his personal rain cloud. He’s used to people being afraid of him, but if that’s what he sees in Penny’s face, it would be too much right now.

“You shouldn’t do this,” Penny says.

Alonso shrugs. “If I don’t do the blood oath, he’ll report me.”

“I think he’s right, Penny,” Corey says, running a hand over his hair.

A laugh bubbles up in Alonso’s throat. “Yeah, Golden Boy wants me to sign the blood oath even more than Milton.”

Penny starts to speak, but Milton appears through the curtains again, and whatever argument she wanted to make goes unsaid.

Milton plops onto the low-pile carpet and motions for the rest of them to do the same. He holds a scroll of thick paper that isn’t paper at all. It’s animal hide, because every part of a blood oath must be connected to something that was once alive.

Sweat beads on the back of Alonso’s neck. Knowing how a blood oath works is one thing. Being forced to do a blood oath…

“You’ll write what I tell you,” Milton says, handing Alonso the scroll and setting an inkpot and colorful feather in front of him.

Alonso unrolls the hide, and the lights in the room dim. It’s as if the magic all around them is alive, and it knows what’s about to happen. Like it’s bracing. If Alonso’s family knew what he was about to do, they’d probably lock him in a cage and never let him out. Because this spell doesn’t just take from a witch if they’re lying—it takes something no matter what. A few years of his life, probably.

Alonso could stop this. He could refuse and let the Pierres seal his magic. But when he glances up at Penny, all those thoughts leave his head.

Her blue eyes are wide. Unblinking. She’s not afraid of him; she’s afraid for him. She gives the tiniest shake of her head. Don’t go through with this , she’s trying to tell him. It’s not worth it. But if she was in Alonso’s place, she wouldn’t hesitate to make the blood oath, no matter what the cost.

Alonso dips the feather in the inkpot, which glows with a dark blue tint. Spider’s blood.

Milton glances at Penny and Corey, who sit tense as cats off to the side. “Keep a distance and keep quiet. This whole process requires a lot of concentration.”

“Try not to look,” Alonso says.

Then Milton begins.

“By the power of my blood, I will shine light on the truth. I intend no harm to the Barrion family or to those touched by this curse.” He nods at the scroll, and Alonso starts to write.

The first letters drain him like water from a faucet. He’s immediately out of breath, and by the end of the sentence, he’s starting to slump over the paper.

There’s movement in the corner of his eye. Penny has shifted onto her knees, her hands balled into fists on her lap.

Milton continues, “I want to break the Barrion curse to keep it from hurting anyone else.”

Lights flash before Alonso’s eyes. He’s holding himself up by his elbow as he writes, and his legs are going numb from the awkward angle, but moving would take more strength than he has left.

This was stupid. The worst idea he’s ever had. Alonso doesn’t even know Milton, and now Milton has the power to dictate whatever he wants him to write. What if this is some plan to kill him? What if Milton makes him write something he knows is false, and then Alonso turns into Calcifer the Fire Demon?

“I do not believe what Giovanni De Luca did was justified,” Milton continues. “I know nothing about the curse that I have not shared with my companions.”

Alonso is gasping for air as his pen scratches out the last letters. His heart beats against his rib cage like a hammer— clang clang clang. It shouldn’t hurt like that. Something is wrong.

Then Milton says something else. Something Alonso wasn’t expecting.

“If given the choice, I will give my life to save others from this curse.”

“Wait, what?” Corey says, but he sounds so far away. Alonso’s hand is barely his own anymore; he couldn’t resist, even if he wanted to. He writes the words, and as he does, his skin shrivels up until his hand looks like it belongs to an old man. Slowly, Alonso drags his eyes up.

Milton sits across from him, his face somber, the power of generations of the Pierre coven enveloping him like a wildfire. Behind him, the edges of the shop blur into something else—something Alonso saw a long time ago, when he found Nimble dead in the woods. It’s like the world Alonso knows, but the colors are off, and the air emanating from it is cold like wind from a deep winter.

It’s the Second World. Alonso can see it across the Veil. And standing in it, its form shimmering, is a shadow.

It’s amorphous, darkness corralled into the shape of limbs and torso and head. And even though it has no eyes—no face at all—Alonso feels it staring at him.

“Alonso!”

The voice breaks him from his trance. Penny is suddenly in front of him, blocking the shadow figure from view.

“It’s too late,” Milton says. “He needs to see this to the end.”

Alonso tunes them out. All he can do is stare at Penny—blue eyes, errant curls, a few freckles on her cheekbones.

“One letter at a time,” Penny says.

So Alonso writes one letter, then another, then another. Penny stays with him, and he measures time by her breaths as he writes the final sentence: If given the choice, I will give my life to save others from this curse.

Milton appears beside Penny, an ornate knife clutched in his hand. “I swear this on the moon, on my ancestors, and on my life.”

Alonso almost blacks out. The world in front of him is a blur, his hand no more than a strange animal shape moving across the scroll. But when his vision clears, the words are legible, though the blue-black ink drips in messy rivulets down the page.

Alonso gives Milton his left hand—it’s like lifting a car, it takes so much effort, but it’s nothing compared to the pain when Milton takes the knife and slashes Alonso across the palm. A sound lets loose from Alonso’s throat that’s somewhere between a scream and a sob, and Milton holds his hand over the animal hide, letting the cut drip and drip and drip, each bead of blood absorbed by the hide. After a moment, at the very bottom of the page, his name appears.

Alonso Pietro De Luca.

Alonso is almost at the finish line. Then he looks past Milton.

The Veil is still visible, its silken weft obscuring the Second World beyond. The Shadow is gone, but there’s somebody else there now. Someone who’s watching him with a careless, familiar grin.

It’s almost like looking into a mirror, even though the man staring back is a decade older, and there’s a scar along his chin.

But it’s his eyes that draw Alonso in. Eyes that are pure white.

“Grandpa?” Alonso gasps.

From across the Veil, Giovanni De Luca smiles. “You don’t even know how much power you have.”

The words surround Alonso like a tornado. Giovanni is staring at Alonso with hunger—hunger for his life. Hunger for his magic.

And Alonso doesn’t have the strength to fight him.

Arms wrap around Alonso and pull him back, away from the blood oath. Suddenly he’s lying face up on the floor of the emporium, and his body feels like his own. He lifts his hands; the left one is bloodied, but they aren’t old anymore. His lungs breathe easily. It’s like the blood oath never happened, except he feels hollowed out like a Roman candle, and there are spots in his vision.

But it did happen. He saw the Veil again.

He saw his grandfather.

There’s only one reason Giovanni De Luca would still be in the Second World. After almost fifty years, his spirit should’ve moved on by now, to whatever realm is next. If he’s there, he’s not a spirit anymore.

Giovanni is a poltergeist.