The Demon Catchers of Milan by Kat Beyer Read Free Book Online Page A

man standing next to her kissed her on the cheek and took her arm in his as we started to walk away.
    I caught up with Emilio and whispered, “I know I met all these people last night, but …”
    He smiled.
    “My sister,” he said in a low voice, jerking his head toward the woman with the chignon. “Francesca.”
    “A model? She’s so cool-looking.”
    “A model?” He seemed to think the question was hilarious. “No. A lawyer. The first woman in her firm. Do not tell her she looks like a model; she won’t like that. The man walking with her is Égide.”
    I tried out the name in my mind, the way Emilio pronounced it: Eh-gheed , with a very soft G sound; it seemed kind of romantic. Later I learned that it was a French word for shield .
    He paused.
    “Our grandparents weren’t very happy about him when he appeared,” said Emilio. “We have some friends who still don’t approve. But my sister doesn’t care. And she always gets her way.”
    “My sister always gets her way, too,” I told him.
    “She looks like the type. It’s impressive, but irritating, isn’t it?”
    “Yes!”
    “But, Égide. A good man: Francesca doesn’t choose any other kind. We had a good father.” He paused and then added, “And a mother more than wise enough to pick him.”
    The way his voice softened and warmed made me want to ask him about his parents, but I didn’t want to upset him. I could see there was a story there, and somehow, even before Emilio mentioned them, I had known I wouldn’t be meeting them tonight.
    Behind Francesca and Égide was a gawky guy with a huge nose and frizzy curls, whom I recognized as the driver from the night before. He was walking with a girl who was obviously his sister—a fascinating example of how the same features can be goofy or gorgeous, since on her the huge nose looked aristocratic, and the same gene that made him skinny made her slender and graceful. I really wanted to talk to her, since she looked almost my own age, but she obviously didn’t want to be here, and ignored her brother and everyone else while texting rapidly on her phone, her perfect nails flashing.
    “Anna Maria is the model,” Emilio added, pointing a thumb at the girl on the phone. “She’s only three years older than you, you know. That’s her brother, Francesco, next to her.”
    Giuliano followed them, deep in conversation with a younger copy of himself—a man with dark hair starting to go gray, but just as sturdy and energetic. Beside this Giuliano-copy was a slender, big-nosed woman, who also whipped out her cell phone the moment we began walking.
    “Those people walking with Grandfather are Uncle Matteo and Aunt Brigida. They are actually my great-uncle and great-aunt; Uncle Matteo is Grandfather’s youngest brother.”
    “So was my grandfather the middle brother?” I asked.
    “No, actually not. Your grandfather is—was—my grandfather’s first cousin. Your grandfather’s father died early in World War Two, and his mother, she died of grief afterward. He was raised by his uncle and aunt, Nonno’s parents. We were all neighbors; the kids were already growing up like brothers.”
    This family seemed complicated. Back home, things weresimple: father, mother, sister, grandfather, and grandmother. Oh, and a few uncles and aunts. And their kids. And … oh.
    Emilio started to tell me about my grandfather’s family, who had lived a couple of streets away, actually in an apartment downstairs from the one he, Emilio, rented with Francesco. My great-grandfather had inherited the whole building, but the family had had to sell it in order to support his orphaned son.
    Looking at these people, I thought how strange it was that I shared genes with all of them and had never met or even heard of them before. I noticed, too, that my grandfather seemed to flicker like a shadow from face to face. Uncle Matteo had his dark, thick eyebrows, and even drew them together in exactly the same way when he was thinking;