The Mosaic

Chapter 40 | Wrong Witches

Florence was on a witch hunt.

The streets were alive, bodies twisting, crowing curses, heads craning to catch a glimpse.

They scrambled out the gate just in time to hear wood bursting and splintering. Alessandro's head whipped around. The door of the inn just a few paces down the streets flew out of its hinges. A hiss of swords. A thunder of boots as soldiers stormed the building. A cheer roaring towards the sky. The crowd was mad with glee.

This lust for tragedy, this delight in suffering, this craving for sensations. Alessandro felt rage and disgust swell inside of him. Animalistic was nothing compared to human.

Alessandro had to close his eyes, trying to drown out the shouts for fire. Foggy memories reached for him with their cold fingers. He had been eight when the shouts had yanked him from sleep. He had pressed his nose to the window, trying to peer outside. Torches had turned the canals into fiery rivers of hell. There was a herd of people being shoved down the streets. No matter what his parents later tried telling him -- he knew it was Jews. Just like him.

"Are you alright, Inspector?" Lorenzo's voice was low.

Alessandro opened his eyes again. The other's gaze was soft, eyebrows furrowed. How weak he must look. Get a grip. He drew the walls back up around his heart, turnt his skin to iron until he was invulnerable as Achilles. He was in control. He clenched his fists, willing the shudder in his core away. "Of course."

Lorenzo looked at him for a moment longer, then turned away again. "As you say." His voice was flat.

The shouts grew louder again, a flood rushing in. The soldiers reappeared, two of them dragging an unconscious woman by her arms, feet limply jolting on the cobble stone. The others had formed a tight circle around them, jaws hard, hands on their swords. Two were bleeding. One had a swollen eye. One was missing.

It had been twelve soldiers. Alessandro narrowed his eyes. He counted them again. Eleven. His eyes flickered to the woman. Her skin was dark like ebony, wild black curls a lion's mane around her head. Her robes were wide, in the fashion of middle eastern palaces, with the tips of her boots curling upward. They were speckled with blood. Had she...?

The soldiers started pushing forward through the crowd. "Burn the witch!" A shout rose from somewhere within the crowd, suddenly echoing back tenfold. "Burn the witch! Burn the witch! Burn the witch!"

A scuffle of boots next to him snapped his eyes away from the soldiers. Giacinto was wrestling Laelia back. The girl thrashed against him. "Let me go!" She flailed her arms.

Giacinto flinched, pain flashing across his face. The cut on his arm must be splitting open again -- but he didn't let go. "Stay still!" He growled. "They'll throw you on the pyre next to her. We can't help her."

"That's evil! You're evil!"

Giacinto stumbled back as if she had struck him. Before Laelia could dash down the stairs, Alessandro reached her, trapping her in a rough embrace. "Ssh. You need to be quiet. It's alright."

She hit his chest and Alessandro's heart ached for her. She had never seen this world. And now it came crashing down on her. No matter how much Giacinto would threaten reality itself, no matter how much Alessandro tried shielding her, it ripped her off her feet and threw her against the cliffs of truth. "Ssh. We might be able to testify for her. You need to be strong now."

Lorenzo was pretending not to notice their impropriety as Laelia clung to Alessandro. That man was a saint. Alessandro focused back on the soldiers. He'd talk to Lorenzo later.