Page 60 of The Slug Crystal
The wine makes my movements loose and free as I let him lead me into the swirl of dancers. His hand is warm at my waist, his other clasping mine with just the right amount of pressure. He moves with the natural grace of someone comfortable in their own skin, guiding me through the steps of what might be a traditional Italian folk dance or might be something he's inventing on the spot. Either way, I follow, laughing when I misstep, relaxing into the simple joy of movement and music.
Ben cuts in after one song, spinning me away from Luca with a theatrical flourish. "My turn," he announces, his hands finding my hips with casual familiarity. His style is completely different—playful, unpredictable, full of improvisations that make me laugh. He dips me unexpectedly, and I shriek, clutching his shoulders.
"I've got you," he says, his face close to mine as he holds me suspended. "Always."
Then it's Marco's turn. His approach is more measured and precise. He holds me like I'm made of something precious, his steps following the music's rhythm with mathematical precision. But there's nothing cold in his preciseness; his eyes remain warm, attentive to my every reaction, quick to react when I might miss a step, twirling us into an effortless dance.
Jake is the last to dance with me, and I feel the hesitation in his hands as they settle at my waist. We haven't been this close since our kiss in Venice, and the memory of it hums between us like electricity. His movements are less practiced than the others, but there's an honesty in them, a straightforwardness that's purely Jake. When he accidentally steps onmy toe, his mortified expression makes me laugh, breaking the tension.
"Sorry," he mutters, color rising to his cheeks.
"It's okay," I say, squeezing his hand. "I prefer enthusiasm to perfection anyway."
His smile in response makes my heart skip a beat.
The musicians shift to a slower melody, with the violin taking center stage and playing a wistful tune that seems to capture all the bittersweet beauty of the night. Luca appears at my side, smoothly reclaiming me from Jake with a nod that's both respectful and unyielding.
"One more," he says, and it's not really a question.
This time, he pulls me closer, his hand at the small of my back pressing me against him until I can feel the steady beat of his heart. We move less like dancers now, more like two parts of a single entity swaying to the music's pulse. His cheek brushes against my temple, his breath warm against my ear.
"You're beautiful when you're happy," he murmurs, the words vibrating against my skin. "Your whole face changes, like a flower opening to the sun."
The poetry of his words catches me off guard. Before I can respond, he shifts, drawing back just enough to look into my eyes. The lantern light catches in his gaze, turning it molten. His intent is clear, his head dipping slowly toward mine, giving me every chance to pull away.
I don't.
His lips find mine in the moonlight, gentle at first, a question rather than a demand. I answer by leaning into him, my hands sliding up to his shoulders. He tastes of wine and confidence, of adventure and possibility. The kiss deepens, his hand cradling the back of my head with surprising tenderness from someone so boldly self-assured. My body responds with a flood of warmth, a quickening pulse, a surrender to the moment that surprises me with its completeness.
When we finally break apart, breathless and slightly dazed, I become aware of our audience. The other three men stand at various points around the square, each watching with a different expression. Jake's face is complicated—not angry, exactly, but intense, conflicted, his jaw tight with something he's holding back. Ben raises his eyebrows, a half-smile playing on his lips that could be amusement or challenge or both. Marco observes with quiet intensity, his scholarly detachment momentarily absent, replaced by something more raw, more human.
The weight of their gazes makes me suddenly self-conscious, aware of how public this moment has been. I step back from Luca, my lips still tender from his kiss, my mind spinning with wine and moonlight and the impossible tangle of feelings I've developed for not one but four very different men.
"I should check on Alex," I say, the first coherent thought I can grasp.
Luca nods, releasing me with obvious reluctance. I cross to the stone bench where the terrarium sits, secure in its alcove. The blue snail is active, exploring the far corner of his glass home, apparently untroubled by his surroundings or his caretaker's romantic entanglements.
The others join me, our strange quintet reforming as we prepare to walk back to our hotel. Luca's arm slides around my waist, a casual claim that feels both thrilling and complicated. Jake walks slightly ahead, his posture betraying tension despite his attempts at nonchalance. Ben falls in beside Marco, their conversation a low murmur punctuated by occasional laughter.
Florence surrounds us, ancient and knowing, its streets having witnessed countless romantic entanglements over the centuries. My lips still tingle from Luca's kiss as we wind our way through the medieval streets. Alex's terrarium is clutched against my chest, and my heart is a confused jumbleof guilt and happiness and anticipation for whatever comes next.
Tomorrow, we search for Sarah. Tomorrow, we face the possibility of undoing the spell, and returning Alex to human form. But tonight, beneath the Italian moon, I let myself exist in this impossible moment, the girl who cast a spell and found herself enchanted in return.
15WHERE IN THE WORLD IS SARAH DEMARCO?
Saturday,9:08AM. The bell above La Notte di Strega announces our arrival with an ominous jingle that makes me flinch. Daylight struggles to penetrate the narrow shop's grimy windows, leaving us in a twilight haze that smells of dust, dried herbs, and something deeper. Like the concentrated scent of centuries of mystical pursuit.
I step forward cautiously, clutching Alex's terrarium to my chest as if the very air might transform him further, my eyes slowly adjusting to the dimness. I wonder if we made a mistake by coming to this shop that Jake found through an intensive Google search late last night. The shelves loom around us, they’re packed with labeled jars containing things I don't want to identify. At the same time, bundles of dried plants hang from the ceiling like petrified upside-down gardens.
"This place takes 'authentic witch aesthetic' to a whole new level," Ben whispers, his breath warm against my ear as he crowds close behind me. "Think they sell eye of newt by the pound?"
"Show some respect," Marco murmurs, his scholarly gaze already scanning the shelves with thinly veiled fascination. "Many of these preparations have genuine ethnobotanical significance."
Jake remains silent beside me, but I feel his protective presence shift closer as we venture deeper into the shop. His hand hovers near my elbow, not quite touching but ready to steady me if needed. The floorboards creak, each step announcing our intrusion into this occult sanctuary.
The shopkeeper emerges from behind a curtain of wooden beads, an elderly woman with silver hair pulled into a tight bun and eyes so dark they seem to absorb what little light fills the shop. Her gaze lands immediately on Alex's terrarium, narrowing with suspicion.
"Buongiorno," she says, her voice surprisingly strong for her frail appearance. "What brings tourists to my humble shop? The tourist district is three streets that way." She gestures vaguely with a hand adorned with silver rings on every finger.
