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V erona was not Verona tonight. Shutters covered the windows of each house. I clutched my cape closer, kept my head down, tried to move swiftly and softly, to silence the rustle of my skirts and the sound of my breathing.

All was hushed, as if a snowstorm blanketed the city. The wind held its breath, and a sliver of moon had risen above the horizon.

Our citizens remained behind locked doors. Not even in the distance could I hear the clash of battle. No fires lit the skies, and if the disciplinati were out, they’d changed their strategy.

What was it Cal had said? I fear the group includes local warriors and soldiers without a war. They’re too good at battle.

And: They believe a messiah walks among them, a man called Baal, a false god who tells them when they take down our beloved Verona, they will own its women and riches, and he will be their lord that favors them.

I imagined Cal and his men, hunting while the flagellants waited in ambush, their whips, knives, and poles in hand.

In the empty market square, boards had been nailed across the shop doors, and we skittered along the perimeter, ducking from shadow to shadow.

When we entered the narrow streets on the other side, I sighed in relief.

Not too much farther to go and I would be with Mamma and help her deliver the babe who arrived before his time.

Please, our dear Lord in heaven, and with the help of His Blessed Mother, Mary, my own mamma would be delivered safely of the child . . .

Perhaps I should never have allowed my focus to waver, to worry about Mamma rather than our surroundings, for as we turned onto a dark, narrow street, not far from Casa Montague, a man’s voice broke the silence. “There she is! The prince’s whore!”

The crowd surged out of doorways and darkness, stampeding toward us like wild wolves, sharp teeth bared.

To remain unseen, the flagellants had discarded their costumes, but not their poles and whips, and before we had done more than turn to run, they overwhelmed us in a swirling wind of howls and fury.

Tommaso laid about him with his knives and fists, and more than one flagellant screamed in pain, but they took him down to the ground, fighting and kicking.

Nurse and I stood, back-to-back, using our blades to widen a circle around us. We circled and moved toward the end of the street, but the sullen crowd grew larger.

Silence fell, a silence of anticipation. They enjoyed our fear, tasting it with flickering tongues and black-toothed grins, and they waited for . . . something.

Or someone.

When he stepped forward, I knew him. Baal. The man with the flame-red eyes. He reached for me—

Nurse slashed his outstretched arm with her knife. “Get away from her, demon!”

In the stunned silence, he held up his wound and stared as if he couldn’t believe the gash in his skin and the gush of blood. With the howl of a lead wolf, he let loose the pack.

Nurse disappeared as Tommaso had done, fighting, bringing them down with her knife, her fists, her kicks, and yet inevitably overwhelmed by the sheer numbers.

When the pack would have closed on me, the demon waved them away.

In the feeble moonlight, I could see his outline.

He looked like a man: hair, teeth, eyes (two), nose and mouth (one of each).

He stood a little taller than me, broad at the shoulder, ignoring the blood that dripped from his arm.

A mercenary and, perhaps, a minor nobleman from the south, for when he spoke, his crisp diction sounded clean to my ears.

His words did not. “I’ve never raped a prince’s whore before.”

I didn’t wait. I whirled and used my knife to carve a path through the remnants of the crowd, fighting to get to the crossroads. What would I find there? No safety, yet it seemed in my panic to be a station of safety, a place where I could escape.

The flagellants could have overwhelmed me, but the demon shouted orders and they fell back on his command.

No matter. I stood no chance.

He put his hand on my shoulder.

I whirled and slashed.

He knocked the blade out of my hand. “The prince’s whore!” He laughed in triumph, and he grabbed my arm.

“I’m not a whore!” I shouted. “I am Prince Escalus’s betrothed!”

“Even better. The prince’s virgin. Your fall will signal the fall of Verona, and you will burn. On the flames we set here, we’ll build a new world for us !”

A cheer went up—and a light flashed on.

Every head turned to look into the sky. On the top of the tower, a flame burned white and pure.

Lysander’s lamp.