The Raven (2 page)

Revenge.

His appetite for food was swiftly replaced by a greater appetite, one that had been quietly fed over the centuries by anger and regret. The illustrations he’d taken great care to steal dropped from his hands unheeded as he leapt from the roof.

“What the—” The man was dead before he could finish his sentence, his head ripped from his body and casually tossed aside like a football.

The other men released the woman and attempted to run, but the Prince caught them handily, sending them to hell with a few swift movements.

When he turned to claim his prize, he found she’d fallen to the ground, the sweet scent of her blood heavy in the air. She seemed unconscious, her eyes tightly shut, her face battered.

“Cassita vulneratus,”
he whispered, crouching next to her.

She opened large green eyes and stared up at him through the raindrops.

“A girl. How disappointing.” A woman’s voice broke the silence. “From the scent of her I thought she was a child.”

The Prince turned to find four of his citizens standing nearby—Aoibhe, a tall woman with long red hair, and three men, Maximilian, Lorenzo, and Gregor. All had pale faces and all stared hungrily in Raven’s direction, but not before bowing to their prince.

“How did such a delicacy go unnoticed? If I’d smelled her in the street, I’d have taken her.” Aoibhe moved closer, her posture regal and elegant. “Come, then. She’s old enough and easily shared. I’ve not drunk a vintage that sweet since I fed on English children.”

“No.” The Prince’s voice was low. He moved almost imperceptibly, standing between the girl and the others, obscuring her from sight.

“Surely, Prince, you would not deny us.” Maximilian, the largest man, gestured in the direction of the various body parts of the three dead men. “The others are dead and reek of vice.”

“There’s an unspoiled corpse by the bridge. You can have it, with my compliments. But I have first rights to the girl.” The Prince’s voice was quiet, but it held an undercurrent of steel.

“Your prize is almost a corpse,” Aoibhe spat out. “I can hear her heart stuttering.”

In response to the woman’s words, the Prince turned in the girl’s direction. Her eyes were closed and her breathing was labored.

“What a mess!” one of the other men exclaimed, his Italian accented with Russian. He stepped forward, examining the bodies of her attackers, coming perilously near their victim.

A growl escaped the Prince’s throat.

The Russian stopped abruptly.

“Pardon, my lord.” He took a cautious step back. “I meant no disrespect.”

“See to the perimeter, Gregor. If no one wants the other corpse, remove it.”

The young assistant scurried off into the street.

“Not even a feral would want to drink from them.” Everyone turned to look at Maximilian, his focus on the mutilated men.

His eyes moved to his ruler and narrowed. “I thought the Prince didn’t kill for sport.”

“
Cave
, Maximilian.” The Prince’s voice was threatening.

“Are you challenging the kill?” Lorenzo, the Prince’s lieutenant, stepped forward.

A noticeable tension hung in the air at the sound of his words. Everyone stared at Maximilian, awaiting his response.

He glanced from the Prince to the bleeding girl and back again, his blue eyes calculating.

“If the Prince never kills for sport, why are these men dead? He could have stolen her easily.”

“Enough!” Aoibhe sounded impatient. “She’s dying and you’re wasting time.”

“The Prince is the one who enacted the laws against indiscriminate killing.” Maximilian stepped forward. His eyes flickered almost imperceptibly to Lorenzo’s, then fixed on the Prince.

Aoibhe stood in front of him, her tall form appearing slight in comparison to his great size. “You’d challenge the Prince of the city over this? Are you mad?”

Maximilian moved, as if to shove her aside.

In a flash, the redheaded woman caught hold of his left arm, wrenching it high behind his back and dislocating his shoulder with a sickening snap.

“Never lift your hand to me again. Or you’ll lose it.” She forced him to his knees, placing a velvet-clad foot to his lower back.

Maximilian gritted his teeth. “Would someone get this fork-tongued harpy off my back?”

“Aoibhe.” The Prince’s voice was low, but commanding.

“I just want to ensure this Prussian knight understands what I’m saying. His Italian is severely . . . lacking.”

“Get off, you miserable wench!” he snarled, trying to shake her off.

“With pleasure.” Aoibhe released her colleague with a string of Irish profanity and more than a few threats.

Max stood, popping his shoulder back into place with a groan and rotating his arm.

“Since I appear to be the only one interested in the laws of the city, I withdraw the challenge.” He paused, as if expecting someone else to speak.

All were silent.

“Finally.” Aoibhe turned her attention back to the Prince, who had moved closer to his prey, his back against the wall. “Your exceptional vintage is on her final breath. If she’s to be had, it must be now. Will you share?”

On impulse, the Prince pulled the girl into his arms and in one quick motion leapt to the roof, leaving his fellow citizens behind.

C
assita
vulneratus.

Raven awoke with a start.

She’d heard a strange voice whispering in her ear. Of course, there was no one else in her small bedroom. She couldn’t remember what the voice said or if it spoke to her in English or Italian. Something told her the language was neither, but it was a dream, after all. She’d been known to dream in Latin on occasion.

She blinked against the streaming sunlight. It was unusual for the shutters on her bedroom window to be open, but open they were. (Not that Raven focused on the anomaly.)

She’d had the strangest dream, but all she could remember was a vortex of swirling emotions and colors. As an artist, it was not surprising for her to think and dream in color. But it was strange that her memory, which was usually as sharp as a knife, was amorphous.

Yawning, she swung her legs over the side of the bed¸ its narrowness a testament to her single status, and walked to her laptop. She opened her music application and began playing her favorite Mumford and Sons album.

When she entered the bathroom, she didn’t bother looking in the mirror suspended over the vanity. The mirror was only large enough to show her best feature—her face. Even looking at that feature was something Raven avoided.

After her morning ablutions, she wandered into the tiny kitchen of her one-bedroom apartment and began making coffee.

It felt like a Saturday or Sunday, but she was pretty sure she needed to go to work. Seized by a sudden anxiety, she took a few steps to the left, peering into her bedroom. When she caught sight of her knapsack sitting next to the small table that she used as a desk, she breathed a sigh of relief.

She’d drink her coffee and check her e-mail, as was her custom, and figure out what day it was. According to the clock on the wall, it was seven in the morning.

She leaned against the counter. That was when she noticed something had changed.

The old-fashioned nightgown she was wearing should have attracted her attention, since it wasn’t hers. But it didn’t. Instead, she focused on what was visible beneath the hem of her gown. Her right foot, which was normally turned to the side, was symmetrical with the left, something it had not been for over a decade.

She froze. She shouldn’t have been able to walk from her bedroom to the bathroom and to the kitchen without her cane. She shouldn’t have been able to stand on both feet without pain. Yet that was exactly what she’d done.

Raven almost sank to the floor in shock, but she was too busy lifting her formerly injured foot, experimentally rotating the ankle. She repeated the movement with her left. Each foot moved with perfect ease and without discomfort.

She walked into the bedroom and back again. She held her breath and jumped.

Arms held wide, she ran in place, footfall after footfall a mad, enthusiastic triumph over what she knew to be impossible.

It was a miracle.

Raven didn’t believe in miracles, or in any deity or deities who could possibly produce them. She closed her eyes, trying to remember anything from the night before—anything that might serve as a clue for this sudden, momentous transformation. Apart from the whispered voice whose words she could not make out, there was nothing she could hold on to.

Maybe I’m still asleep.

As if to test her hypothesis, she stretched her lower limbs and positioned herself into a wobbly, amateurish arabesque. She held the position as long as she could, revelling in muscle memories long since forgotten. When she finally lost her balance and placed both feet on the floor, she almost wept. Her right foot and leg had done what she’d asked them to, finally. All the damage that had been done to her that terrible, terrible night had been healed.

She heard the Moka espresso maker humming and spitting on the stovetop and rushed to switch off the gas. Opening the small fridge, she withdrew a container of milk.

She glanced at the label, reading it easily. Her eyes widened. She turned the container in her hands, reading the fine print. She blinked, feeling on her face to see if she was wearing her reading glasses.

She wasn’t.

Without her reading glasses, she shouldn’t have been able to make out the words printed beneath the label. But they were clearly visible.

This can’t be happening. I’m delusional.

Raven put the milk on the counter and jogged to the bathroom.

In the mirror, she caught sight of a strange woman and shrieked.

The woman had long, shiny black hair. Her eyes were a sparkling green and she had a lovely oval face with high cheekbones. It was the kind of face, Raven thought, that deserved to be painted. In fact, the image reminded her of the actress Vivien Leigh.

She jumped back in fright.

So did the woman.

She moved to the right.

So did the woman.

It took a moment for her to realize the woman in the mirror was her reflection.

In amazement, she touched her face, her cheekbones, her mouth, with its full lower lip.

Raven knew how she was supposed to look—plain, overweight, and with a leg that didn’t work right. Yet her appearance was that of a beautiful young woman with two completely functional legs.

Was she hallucinating?

But my senses seem to be working. I can hear, touch, see, and smell.

Was her previous appearance and injury a nightmare? She stepped into the hall and peered into her bedroom, which was decorated with framed prints of Botticelli’s
Primavera
and the
Birth of Venus
, along with personal photographs. Pictures of herself and her sister, Carolyn, gazed at her from her bookcase, confirming her previous appearance.

She didn’t believe in miracles, the supernatural, or anything that couldn’t be investigated by science. She had to be hallucinating. There was no other scientific explanation.

She tried to remember what she’d done the day before. She recalled going to work, but she couldn’t remember anything afterward. What if she’d been drugged?

Perhaps if she returned to work, her friends could help her. If she was ill, they could take her to a doctor. And if she’d been drugged . . .

Raven pulled the nightgown over her head, pausing to examine the material. It appeared to be made of cotton that had once been white but was now yellowed. The neckline was trimmed with ornate lace and a faded pink ribbon. A row of antique pearl buttons dotted the front from neckline to waist. In short, not only was the nightgown a stranger to her, it appeared to be from the previous century.

Now she was naked, next to the mirror.

She retrieved a small footstool from the kitchen and stood on top of it.

Raven never looked at herself naked. That was a sight she studiously avoided. But this morning she cursed the fact that her only mirror was so small.

Her skin was creamy and perfect, its surface unblemished by scars or stretch marks. Her breasts were firmer, sitting high on her chest. Her figure was an hourglass, her waist tiny, her hips gently flaring out.

She contorted herself atop the stool so that she could get a better view of her hips and backside. Cellulite was noticeably absent from her thighs.

I don’t know what they gave me, but it must have been a very strong drug.

Worried she might have been assaulted, Raven examined her skin for any signs of trauma. She found nothing.

She cautiously parted her legs, slipping her hand between them in order to check for any tenderness. She breathed a sigh of relief when all seemed normal.

Of course, if I’m hallucinating my appearance, I could be hallucinating the absence of trauma.

Raven wondered if all victims of hallucination were so reasonable, and once again, she attributed both effects to the drug she’d no doubt been given.

She pulled on her bathrobe, though it dwarfed her now smaller size, and picked up her cell phone, quickly realizing that it was out of power. She moved to her desk with the intention of picking up the cord to charge her phone. A glance at her computer screen revealed that it was Monday morning. She didn’t know how she’d forgotten her entire weekend, but she needed to skip checking her e-mail and get moving if she was going to make it to her job at the Uffizi by eight o’clock.

She gulped her coffee and dressed, pulling on an old pair of yoga pants and a T-shirt because they were the only items in her limited wardrobe that wouldn’t be ridiculously oversized. Hurriedly, she brushed her hair and her teeth, switching off her music and tossing her cell phone and charger cord into her knapsack.

She tried to find her favorite sneakers, but gave up after a few moments, thrusting her feet into a pair of casual black shoes that had been carelessly tossed into her closet. She’d search for the sneakers under the bed later.

Consequently, she didn’t see the unfamiliar box that was hidden below where she slept, just out of sight.

As she locked the door to her flat and stepped onto the landing, she saw Dolcezza, her neighbor’s cat.

“
Buongiorno
, Dolcezza.” Raven smiled at the animal and reached out a hand to pet her.

The cat withdrew, hissing and arching its back.

“Dolcezza, what’s the matter?” Raven crouched, making another attempt to approach the cat, but it continued hissing, thrashing its tail wildly and lashing out with its paws.

At that moment, Signora Lidia DiFabio opened the door to her apartment and called for the cat, who raced past her legs as if a demon from hell were chasing it.

“Good morning.” Raven waved to her neighbor, wondering how she would react to her change in appearance.

“Good morning, my dear.” Lidia smiled.

“How are you this morning?”

Lidia rubbed at her temple. “Oh, a little tired. I just haven’t been feeling well these past few days.”

Raven came a few steps closer. “Can I help?”

“Oh, no. Bruno will be here later. I’m just going to go and lie down. Enjoy your day.”

Raven waved good-bye to her neighbor and clambered down the stairs. She was surprised that Lidia hadn’t seemed to notice her appearance or new, slimmer figure. Perhaps it was because Lidia wasn’t wearing her glasses.

Raven was even more surprised by the cat’s sudden change of temper. She’d always been on affectionate terms with Dolcezza and had frequently fed and cuddled the animal. Their relationship had never been anything but friendly.

Normally she descended the flight of stairs in her building like a turtle, moving slowly with the aid of her cane. On this morning, she ran.

It was liberating to be able to move without the burden of added weight or the pain she normally experienced. Without thinking much about it, she jogged all the way from her flat in Santo Spirito and across the Ponte Santa Trinita.

Then she stopped.

Angelo, the homeless man who was usually seated next to the bridge, was absent.

Raven took a moment to look for him, wondering if he’d merely changed location, but he was nowhere to be found. His belongings, which were normally placed next to the bridge in one favorite spot, were also gone.

She felt a prickly feeling on the back of her neck. In all the time she’d lived in Santo Spirito, Angelo was seated next to the bridge morning and evening.

She made a mental note to stop by the Franciscan mission, which he sometimes visited, in order to check on him.

Glancing at her watch and seeing she had mere moments before she was supposed to start work, Raven continued running to the Uffizi, a distance of one and a half kilometers. The sensation of her feet hitting the pavement, the jarring of her lower legs and knees—all these feelings were eagerly embraced.

A gentle breeze caressed her cheek and hair as it spilled over her shoulders and knapsack. She felt stronger, bolder, more confident. She felt as if she’d been given a new body and a new outlook.

With every step, she grew less and less concerned about what had caused such a dramatic reversal of her bad fortune.

Consequently, she was unaware of the mysterious figure who’d been shadowing her since she left her building.

It was the happiest morning of her life.