GREECE

Thirty-two years ago

“This is cinquefoil, Papa?” Five-year-old Dante Sabanne frowned fiercely as he pointed to the dainty plant.

The man beside him smiled with pride. “Yes,” he murmured. “And what are its uses?”

“A de—”

“Decoction,” his father supplied.

“Decoction,” Dante repeated. “The root is for toothache and fever. The bark can stop nosebleeds. The tea…” He halted.

“Go on,” his father urged.

Dante’s mouth pursed. “I don’t like the part about scaring witches.” He craned his neck to look upward. “We are magos, Papa, and Light Walkers. You said we carry the blood of ancient sorcerers in us. Aren’t sorcerers and witches friends?”

A fond smile crossed his father’s face. “Often they have been.”

“Witches can be good, right?”

“Many of them are, yes. Healers and protectors.”

“Like the amulet,” Dante said. “Please, may I see it, Papa?”

His father reached inside his shirt for the unnaturally green stone set in a silver disc carved with runes so ancient that the original language had been lost to all but the fathers and sons chosen to guard it through countless generations. “Do you want to touch it?”

Dante nodded and brushed back the dark hair falling into his eyes. One finger uncurled from his palm. “The Eye of the Magos,” he whispered, closing his hand around the amulet.

The stone glowed. Power crackled.

He shuddered but held on, his eyes squeezed against the longing and grief and wild, reckless joy surging through his veins. Behind his eyes rushed a river of lights, all the colors of the rainbow and more…singing to him, a harmonic both terrifying and achingly sweet, power singing in his bones, his breath, his belly…calling to him, luring him—

“No, son.” His father reclaimed it.

The connection snapped. Dante’s eyes fluttered open. “Papa, not yet—”

His father’s eyes held both love and sorrow. He tucked the amulet back inside his shirt. “You are not yet strong enough to protect it.” He gentled his tone. “But one day you will be.” His eyes grew distant, but Dante was too caught up to notice, grieving for what had been taken from him.

“I am only small, not weak, Papa. I can Walk the Light. I hear the Song of the Soul Star.”

His father’s gaze warmed. “I know you can, and one day you will, my boy, but the amulet and its power would harm you now. To wield it requires a wisdom that comes only with time.

“The Eye of the Magos—” he began the chant. “—heals when honor defeats hate, when love vanquishes lies—”

Dante joined in, his childish voice twining with his father’s deeper one. “Love breeds Light. Light grants Power. Only in Darkness does the Eye lose the True Path.”

His father smiled and pressed him close. “For generations, we have guarded its might. Ours is a sacred duty. I will carry the burden for a while longer. Even a Protector is allowed to be a boy first. Play and laugh and grow, my son. Your time will come soon enough.”

Dante’s mother entered, her face gone stiff. He knew it meant his father was going away. “Your driver is outside.”

“Papa, why must you always leave?” He looked up to his tall father, but Papa was watching his mother.

He flicked a glance down at Dante, summoning a smile that did not reach his eyes. “I’ll be back, my son. Very soon.”

He knew he wasn’t supposed to ask, but it wasn’t fair. They could be so happy. His mother wouldn’t have to spend the rest of the day crying. “Why can’t you stay with us? I’ll be good, I promise.”

His mother’s eyes welled with tears. His father took his face in both hands. “You are already perfect. I wish…” His father sighed, then kissed his forehead before stepping away. “You are young yet. Someday I will be able to make you understand.”

“Liar.” Dante’s mother turned her back.

His father’s face looked scary. His mother’s shoulders were rigid. Dante longed to go back to the moment when his father was happy, telling him about the potions and magic.

He stood very straight. “When you return, Papa, I will show you that I know other plants as well.” He bit the inside of his cheek hard so he would not cry. Papa might not come back if he cried.

His father’s face was sad. He dropped his hand to the boy’s hair. “Son, I—”

Dante shook his head. “I understand,” he said, though he didn’t, not really. Mama had told him last time about the other family. Papa had another son, but Dante didn’t know why they couldn’t all live together. He would like to have a brother, but Mama told him he could never, ever ask or Papa might not return.

More than anything in the world, he wanted Papa to be with them, so he smiled and stepped away so that his father could leave.

As he thought about the spells his father had told him were in his blood, Dante wondered if there was a spell he could use to make his father stay.

But the only person he could ask was the man getting into the big black car to leave him behind.