“Bianca?” Niccolò chuckled softly. “Are you even listening to me? I’d hoped to spend the night with you, but maybe you’d rather be with Boccaccio….”
I dragged my eyes from the pages, feeling my lips quirk up into a half-smile. “Can’t I have you both?”
Over the next few days, Niccolò continued to smuggle more and more goods to me. And not just books. Paintings accumulated in my home. Small sculptures. Even more superficial things like extravagant cloth and jewels, all deemed sinful.
I felt as though I’d been allowed to cross through the gates of heaven. Hours would pass as I studied paintings and sculptures, marveling at the ingenuity of humans, jealous of a creativity I had never possessed, either as a mortal or immortal. That art filled me up with an indescribable joy, exquisite and sweet, almost reminding me of when my soul had been my own.
And the books…oh, the books. My clerks and associates soon found their hands full of extra work as I neglected them. Who cared about accounts and shipments with so much knowledge at my fingertips? I drank it up, savoring the words—words the Church condemned as heresy. A secret smugness filled me over the role I played, protecting these treasures. I would pass on humanity’s knowledge and thwart Heaven’s agenda. The light of genius and creativity would not fade from this world, and best of all, I would get to enjoy it along the way.
Things changed when Tavia showed up one day to check in. The demoness was pleased at the report of my conquests but puzzled when she noticed a small sculpture of Bacchus on a table. I hadn’t yet had a chance to hide the statue with my horde.
Tavia demanded an explanation, and I told her about my role in protecting the contraband. As always, her response took a long time in coming, and when it did, my heart nearly stopped.
“You need to cease this immediately.”
“I—what?”
“And you need to turn these items over to Father Betto.”
I studied her incredulously, waiting for the joke to reveal itself. Father Betto was my local priest. “You can’t…you can’t mean that. This stuff can’t be destroyed. We’d be supporting the Church. We’re supposed to go against them.”
Tavia raised a dark, pointed eyebrow. “We’re supposed to further evil in the world, my darling, which may or may not go along with the Church’s plans. In this case, it does.”
“How?” I cried.
“Because there is no greater evil than ignorance and the destruction of genius. Ignorance has been responsible for more death, more bigotry, and more sin than any other force. It is the destroyer of mankind.”
“But Eve sinned when she sought knowledge…”
The demoness smirked. “Are you sure? Do you truly know what is good and what is evil?”
“I…I don’t know,” I whispered. “They seem kind of indistinguishable from one another.” It was the first time since becoming a succubus that the lines had really and truly grown so blurred for me. After the loss of my mortal life had darkened me, I’d thrown myself into being a succubus, never questioning Hell’s role or the corrupting of men like Niccolò.
“Yes,” she agreed. “Sometimes they are.” Her smile vanished. “This isn’t up for debate. You will yield your stash immediately. And maybe try to seduce Father Betto while you’re at it. That’d be a nice perk.”
“But I—” The word “can’t” was on my lips, and I bit it off. Under the scrutiny of her stare and power, I felt very small and very weak. You don’t cross demons. I swallowed. “Yes, Tavia.”
The next time Niccolò and I made love, he managed a tired but happy attempt at conversation in his post-sex exhaustion. “Lenzo’s going to bring me one of his paintings tomorrow. Wait until you see it. It shows Venus and Adonis—”
“No.”
He lifted his head up. “Hmm?”
“No. Don’t bring me any more.” It was hard, oh God, it was so hard speaking to him in such a cold tone. I kept reminding myself of what I was and what I had to do.
A frown crossed his handsome face. “What are you talking about? You’ve already collected so much—”
“I don’t have them anymore. I gave them up to Savonarola.”
“You…you’re joking.”
I shook my head. “No. I contacted his Bands of Hope this morning. They came and took it all.”
Niccolò struggled to sit up. “Stop it. This isn’t funny.”
“It’s not a joke. They’re all gone. They’re going to the fire. They’re objects of sin. They need to be destroyed.”
“You’re lying. Stop this, Bianca. You don’t mean—”
My voice sharpened. “They’re wrong and heretical. They’re gone.”
Our eyes locked, and as he studied my face, I could see that he was starting to realize that maybe, just maybe, I spoke the truth. And I did. Sort of. I was very good at making people—especially men—believe what I wanted them to.
We dressed, and I took him to the storage room I’d previously hidden the objects in. He stared at the empty space, face pale and disbelieving. I stood nearby, arms crossed, maintaining a stiff and disapproving stance.
Eyes wide, he turned to me. “How could you? How could you do this to me?”
“I told you—”
“I trusted you! You said you’d keep them safe!”
“I was wrong. Satan clouded my judgment.”
He gripped my arm painfully and leaned close to me. “What have they done to you? Did they threaten you? You wouldn’t do this. What are they holding against you? Is it that priest you’re always visiting?”
“No one made me do this,” I replied bleakly. “It’s the right thing to do.”
He pulled back, like he couldn’t stand my touch, and my heart lurched painfully at the look in his eyes. “Do you know what you’ve done? Some of those can never be replaced.”
“I know. But it’s better this way.”
Niccolò stared at me for several more seconds and then stumbled for the door, uncaring of the curfew or his weakened state. I watched him go, feeling dead inside. He’s just another man, I thought. Let him go. I’d had so many in my life; I’d have so many more. What did he matter?
Swallowing tears, I crept downstairs to the lower level, careful not to wake the sleeping household. I’d made the same journey last night, painstakingly carrying part of the horde down here—a part that I didn’t give to the Church’s minions.
Splitting the art and books had been like choosing which of my children had to live or die. The silks and velvets had been mindless; all of them went to Fra Savonarola. But the rest…that had been difficult. I’d let most of Ovid go. His works were so widespread, I had to believe copies of them would survive—if not in Florence, then perhaps some other place untouched by this bigotry. Other authors, those whom I feared had a limited run, stayed with me.
The paintings and sculptures proved hardest of all. They were one of a kind. I couldn’t hope that other copies might exist. But I’d known I couldn’t keep them all either, not with Tavia checking in. And so, I’d chosen those which I thought most worth saving, protecting them from the Church. Niccolò couldn’t know that, though.
I didn’t see him for almost three weeks, until we ran into each other at Savonarola’s great burning. History would later know it as the Bonfire of the Vanities. It was a great pyramid stuffed with fuel and sin. The zealous threw more and more items in as it blazed, seeming to have a never ending supply. I watched as Botticelli himself tossed one of his paintings in.
Niccolò’s greeting was curt. “Bianca.”
“Hello, Niccolò.” I kept my voice cold and crisp. Uncaring.
He stood in front of me, gray eyes black in the flickering light. His face seemed to have aged since our last meeting. We both turned and silently observed the blaze again, watching as more and more of man’s finest things were sacrificed.
“You have killed progress,” Niccolò said at last. “You betrayed me.”
“I’ve delayed progress. And I had no obligations to you. Except for this.” Reaching into the folds of my dress, I handed over a purse heavy with florins. It was the last part in my plan. He took it, blinking at its weight.