Free The Demon Catchers of Milan by Kat Beyer

like.”
    At the door, he stopped, turned, and came back.
    “Mia. Something very important.”
    I was still standing in the middle of the room, arms dangling at my sides.
    “Yes?”
    “You must not blow out any of these candles. In fact, don’t breathe on any of them or try to touch the melted wax or the flame. Do you understand?” he asked urgently. “Tell me what I have said in English, so that I know you understand.”
    I repeated the warning back, haltingly but correctly.
    “Good,” he said. “But the books, you can touch.”
    After he was gone, I took a look at the books. They were mostly history, in very dense Italian. Oh, good. I walked around the room, looking at the candles from a cautious distance. They were very beautiful in all their varieties of shape, color of wax, number of wicks, and so on, but they looked like nothing more than candles. They smelled of honey, mostly, so I guessed they were made of beeswax, though I had never seen it in such a range of colors, from pale white to deep, dirty gold.
    As I paced, I started to notice odd things about the candles. Like how one flame wavered as if it were in a high wind, while the one next to it burned straight and still, pointing perfectly upward. Or how two candles made of the same yellowwax burned with different colors—one with a blue flame, one orange with a green heart. When I stared at one, I thought I could hear music. Another one burned slowly down, the flame drowning in a sea of wax, and went out with a sigh. I heard it: a sigh.
    Emilio came back with a tray loaded with glasses, little sandwiches, canapés, olives, and other pickled vegetables that I didn’t recognize.
    “Help yourself,” he said. I tried the Prosecco but liked the other drink better: aranciata amara , bitter orange, a soft drink with a bite to it. I thought about drinking coffee, and how I drank wine at dinner now, way more than the two or three sips I was ever allowed at home. I felt guilty again.
    A man came into the shop, moving so quietly that he startled me while I had an olive in my mouth. I sat up, the olive going one way and the pit going the other. The man looked at me as if he would rather not speak in front of a stranger. I asked Emilio, “Should I go?”
    “What?” he said, startled. “No, no, you are fine where you are.” He gave me a hard look. To the man, he said, “Don’t worry. She’s family.”
    The man gave me a searching glance, then sat down at the table. I was surprised Emilio didn’t offer him anything from our very full tray, because up until that point, I had never seen anyone visit the Della Torres without being fed. His guest didn’t seem bothered, though. He was a small man, with black, greased-back hair and fine, pale features. There was hardly any red in his cheeks.
    “What is it?” Emilio prompted him gently.
    “I have come from the street of Signora Galeazzo. You asked me to watch. I mean, your grandfather did.”
    “Yes, I know. What have you seen?”
    “He told me the signs were already starting to show, your grandfather did.”
    The man was still looking at me while he spoke.
    “I tell you: she’s all right. Now, the signs are starting to show. And we have had signals here,” Emilio added, gesturing to the room.
    “Ah,” said the man, lifting his eyes to the candles. Somehow I felt sure he didn’t like them. “You asked me to watch,” he continued. Then his voice changed, becoming sharper. “She’s coming home. Soon. You need to know this. She’s very angry.”
    “We thought she might be,” Emilio nodded. “I would be.”
    “You know nothing about it,” said the man.
    Emilio shrugged, not put off by his strange manner. “Probably I don’t.”
    “I could hear her, in the night. She’s not far off, maybe only a few streets away. You don’t have a lot of time.”
    “She has taken years to get here, so we may have weeks,” Emilio said.
    “I don’t care about time,” said the man, but he sounded sad.
    “I