The Raven (6 page)

“I hope so, too. You sound American.” Julia looked at her with interest.

“I’m from New Hampshire. I lived in Florida so long I lost my accent.”

“I’m from Pennsylvania, but we live in Cambridge.” Julia grinned. “I don’t think I’ll ever sound as if I’m from Boston. What part of the gallery do you work in?”

“Restoration and conservation. I’m part of the team working on the
Birth of Venus
.”

Julia’s brown eyes lit up. “That’s one of my favorite paintings. I don’t suppose you let guests view the restoration? I promise not to get in the way.”

“I’m sure Dottor Vitali can arrange something. I’d be happy to show you what we’re doing but Professor Urbano is the one in charge. He worked on the restoration of
Primavera
under Umberto Baldini.”

“That’s another of my favorites. I’ve always loved Botticelli.” Julia’s tone was wistful. “That’s why we wanted to lend the illustrations. We wanted other people to enjoy them.”

Raven stopped, turning to face her. “Let me tell you how happy I was to be able to see them. I visited them almost every day. We were all so glad when you and your husband decided to extend the exhibit beyond a few months.”

“Thank you.” Julia’s smile faded. “I can’t help but think this is my fault. I persuaded Gabriel to let the gallery keep the illustrations while we were on leave with Clare. Now they’re gone.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“So am I.”

Raven regarded her curiously.

“You and Professor Emerson are both on leave? Are you a professor as well?”

“I’m a professor in training. I’m in the middle of a Ph.D. on Dante.”

“Where are you studying?”

Julia smiled. “Harvard. I’m still finishing coursework.”

“Professor Emerson is a Dante specialist, isn’t that right?”

“Yes. Clare’s godmother is a retired Dante specialist as well. Apparently, it takes three Dante specialists to look after one baby.”

Raven laughed, opening the door to the conference room. She gestured for Julia to enter before her, and she changed the sign on the door to indicate that a meeting was in progress.

“No one will bother you here. Do you need anything?” She placed the diaper bag on the long table that dominated the space.

Julia quickly sat down and began rummaging in the bag. She removed a large bottle of sparkling water.

“If you have a glass, that would be great. I try to drink a lot of water while I’m breastfeeding.” She removed her iPhone from her purse, placing it on the table in front of her. “If I need anything else, I’ll just call Gabriel.”

Raven retrieved a water glass from one of the cabinets on the far wall and handed it to Julia. She looked at the child, who had large blue eyes like her father and an abundance of fine, dark hair.

“How old is Clare?”

“She was born last September. She’s almost nine months.”

“She’s beautiful.” Raven touched the child’s head gently.

“Thank you. I think she looks like her daddy. But everyone says she has my mouth. Do you have children?”

“No.” Raven stiffened, looking from the child to her mother. “If you need anything, I’ll be in Dottor Vitali’s office.”

Julia poured water into a glass. “We’ll be fine.”

“I hope they find the illustrations.” Raven’s voice was quiet.

Julia looked up at her.

“I hope so, too. Losing them is much more than losing art.” Julia looked down at her daughter. “It’s like losing family.”

Raven nodded and exited the conference room, shutting the door firmly behind her.

Mrs. Emerson was not what she had expected. She was younger and much nicer than many of the important patrons and donors who visited the gallery on occasion.

Raven felt sorry for her, recalling the expression of sadness she’d worn when talking about the loss of the artwork. It sounded as if the Emersons truly loved those objects. Now they’d lost them.

As Raven approached Dottor Vitali’s office, she noticed that the door was open.

Professor Emerson was speaking loudly in Italian, his voice trailing down the corridor.

“So the Carabinieri have interviewed all the local patrons and they’ve made attempts to speak to everyone who attended the gala when the exhibit opened. What did they think of William York?”

“Who?” Dottor Vitali sounded confused.

“The young man who accosted me at the exhibit opening. I pointed him out to you and you said he was a local recluse who’d given a substantial donation to the gallery in order to be invited.”

“I don’t know anyone by that name.”

Raven approached the doorway, taking care to remain out of sight.

“Massimo, you recognized the man and had your assistant look up his name. Remember? He’s shorter than me; about five foot eleven, with blond hair. He’s English, from Oxford, I think. You said something about his patronage of the restoration of the Palazzo Medici Riccardi.”

“Gabriel, my friend, I don’t know anyone called William York.”

Raven heard the sound of papers shuffling.

“Here is the guest list for the gala. His name isn’t on the list. Certainly I know of no connection between an Englishman and the Medici palaces. Palazzo Riccardi is owned by the province. They financed the restoration, along with a select group of Italian patrons.”

Professor Emerson swore in frustration and Raven heard the sound of a chair toppling over.

Without reflecting on her actions, she moved to stand in the doorway. “Dottor Vitali?”

She looked in anxiety from the administrator of the gallery to the professor, who was standing over the fallen chair with clenched fists.

“Signorina.” Vitali gestured to her to enter before turning his attention to the professor. “My friend, please remain calm. Join your wife and your child and let me worry about this.”

“I’m worrying about this, Massimo, because someone has stolen what is precious to me.” The professor spoke between clenched teeth. “I will make it my life’s mission to see that those illustrations are returned.

“I swear I met William York. He behaved very strangely at the exhibit, and you and I spoke about him afterward. He seemed resentful about the illustrations and, although he’s young, he’s a man with deep pockets. Someone needs to go through the donor records and find his donation. You told me he gave several thousand euros to the gallery.”

Professor Emerson placed his fists on the top of Vitali’s desk, leaning toward him.

“And if you or the Carabinieri won’t see to this, I will personally hire agents who will complete this investigation.”

A long look passed between the two friends.

Raven shifted uncomfortably, glancing back at the open door. She wished she could disappear.

“Va bene,”
said Vitali at last, waving at his friend. “Speak to Ispettor Batelli. He’s in charge.”

“Thank you.” Professor Emerson straightened and, without another word, walked out.

Raven waited, watching as Dottor Vitali closed his eyes and bent forward, almost as if he were praying.

At last he opened his eyes and gestured to a chair. “Signorina Wood. Explain your sudden change in appearance. And tell me where you were last week.”

Raven sat down, took a deep breath, and began her story.

On leaving Vitali’s office, Raven walked, deep in thought, down the corridor.

He hadn’t suspended her. He’d asked pointed questions about her appearance, her absence, and her interview with the police. His cool demeanor seemed to warm with her answers. By the time their conversation concluded, Raven believed she’d convinced him she had nothing to do with the robbery.

He’d sent her back to her job, informing her that the weeklong absence would be deducted from her vacation days. She was relieved she hadn’t been suspended or fired.

She walked down the hall, reflecting on Botticelli’s original illustrations of
The Divine Comedy
. They’d been prepared for Lorenzo di Pierfrancesco de’ Medici, who also owned
Primavera
.

She wondered if the thieves knew that. She wondered if the thieves were particularly devoted to Botticelli or simply opportunist.

She imagined a group of hardened criminals, dumping the priceless illustrations into plastic bags and shoving them into backpacks. They wouldn’t treat the artwork properly. They wouldn’t protect it.

They’ve probably spread them on a kitchen table somewhere and are eating breakfast on top of them right now.

She shuddered, imagining drops of milk or coffee marring the beautiful ink and the rare, brilliant colors. She imagined the thieves smoking, perhaps flicking pieces of ash over the faces of Dante and Beatrice.

Assholes.

If the thieves were devotees of Botticelli, small wonder they stole the illustrations. The size and weight of
Primavera
was so great, the painting couldn’t have been removed from the Uffizi without a team of men and the use of heavy equipment.

The thieves were probably unaware that the
Birth of Venus
was housed in the restoration lab on the lower floor. The lab was secure, but its security was not as elaborate or sophisticated as that of the exhibition halls. However, like
Primavera
, the painting was large and heavy and would require several people to carry it. It wasn’t exactly a piece someone could pass through a window.

With such thoughts in mind, Raven found herself entering the Botticelli room. Immediately, she walked over to stand in front of
Primavera
.

The room felt off center. The large and imposing painting was usually balanced by the
Birth of Venus
, but it had been taken down almost a year before. It would be a few more months before it could be returned to its rightful place.

Raven stepped close to
Primavera
, her eyes alighting on the lone male figure on the left. She was drawn to his hands, the muscles and shape of his arms, and his perfect skin. She admired his chest and neck and, finally, his face. He possessed pale eyes and a straight nose, his lips full, his hair long.

Something about his hair displeased her, as if it were incongruous with the rest of him. But his face . . .

She heard a voice whispering in her ear, but she couldn’t quite make out the words.

She whirled around. There was no one behind her.

She took a moment to close her eyes and focus on her breathing, trying with all her might to stave off the anxiety that plagued her.

With one last glance at the painted figure of Mercury, she walked to the door, bracing herself for her meeting with Professor Urbano.

A
fter nightfall, Aoibhe sat in Teatro drinking from a glass specially designed to keep its contents warm and liquid.

Teatro was a secret club, located in the city center. It had been founded by the Prince in the seventeenth century as a kind of salon or meeting place. Over time, it had evolved into something far less intellectual. Now it was owned by the Consilium of Florence, although it hid its ownership behind the name of a Swiss corporation.

Florence and the other secret principalities in Europe predated the Romans. Shadow rulers and their advisers controlled the supernatural population within specific boundaries, usually cities. In the Middle Ages¸ the principalities in Italy had been organized under the ultimate rule of the King, in Rome.

Within the borders of Florence, the Prince had absolute power. In his wisdom, he’d put in place a Consilium, or ruling council, of which he was an honorary member. The Consilium functioned like a court and would punish or banish lawbreakers. It also oversaw the organization of the underworld society and its protection, particularly against incursions from other cities or territories.

When the Prince tired of dealing with Teatro, the Consilium took control, using it as a means of entertainment and nourishment.

The club contained a large central space with a dance floor and a bar; two sides of the area were dotted with tables and low couches. The walls and ceiling were painted a purplish black, the lighting was sensual and sparse, and the furniture was upholstered in velvet—black or red.

There was a stage on the other side of the dance floor that was hung with heavy red velvet curtains. The walls displayed large flat-screens, which cycled through projections of artwork and paintings in a variety of styles—all of the subjects profane, many of them sexual. From the central space, hallways led to private rooms, curving into the darkness like a spider’s web.

The spiders of this web were the inhabitants of the underworld, with the exception of the Prince. It had been years since he’d crossed its threshold. Consequently, it was an excellent place for Aoibhe to recover her injured pride and contemplate how to change his mind.

Her dark eyes passed over the writhing bodies on the dance floor, her mind blocking out the loud, pounding music. Her kind were sensitive to sound and she always found industrial and gothic music dissonant. It was what attracted humans, so it was what the disc jockey played. (Aoibhe would have preferred Irish minstrel music but had no success in persuading the dj to play it. Next time, she was determined to bring earplugs.)

The bar served alcohol to the humans and drugs were freely available. Inebriated victims were easier to manipulate and confuse, but the substances affected the taste. Older, more powerful ones eschewed the usage, choosing rather to seduce or hypnotize their prey, rather than sedate.

Some couples and small groups were engaged in various sexual activities on the couches. Blood and sex went together for Aoibhe’s kind, which meant there was a healthy amount of feeding going on as well. Her nose was filled with the various scents of individual bloods, the aroma heady and unbalancing.

She surveyed the activities with bored detachment. She’d seen it all before and for the moment, at least, nothing interested her. Actual intercourse and certain fetishes were reserved for the private rooms, in deference to the queasiness and social mores of some of the humans. The spiders needed the humans to come in droves every night, without fear and without disclosure.

Aoibhe didn’t care what the others did with their human pets or what they did with one another. As one of the six members of the Consilium, she was obliged to follow the rules of Teatro and see that they were enforced.

No killing.

No transformations.

Feeding must be consensual but mind control and the use of alcohol and drugs are permitted.

The last rule was a puzzle to many, but it served to maintain the seductive atmosphere. Humans were unlikely to come and offer themselves night after night if they saw another human wrestled to the ground, raped, and drained of blood.

Mind control was ineffective on some humans. The strong-minded could not be swayed, nor could the particularly pious or those who wore certain talismans. But members of the latter two categories were not allowed entrance, even if they begged.

Aoibhe sighed. The rules must have been made by the Prince himself, despite his contempt for the club. They smacked of his temperance and control and the humanity that lurked just below the surface of his skin.

She smiled.

He’d let his body rule that morning. Those were the moments she enjoyed most; when the uptight, carefully controlled Prince gave and took pleasure. He was magnificent. He was powerful. He was dangerous.

She wanted him. He’d proved himself an excellent lover, despite his disdain for long-term affairs. Aoibhe felt not a small bit of longing for him and even some affection.

Even more, she wanted his city. As consort, they would share power, and when the eventual fate of their kind seized him, she would have control of the city.

Aoibhe drained her drink and signaled to one of the waitresses to bring her another.

She actively avoided André, the bartender and club manager, because he had a blood disease. His illness made him the ideal middleman between her kind and the humans. No one would touch him unless they were feral because his scent was sickening. She could only imagine how revolting his taste would be.

At that moment, a girl stumbled at Aoibhe’s feet.

“Mercy,” the girl begged, raising terrified blue eyes to Aoibhe’s face.

She put down her drink.

She lifted the girl’s chin, noting blood at the corner of her mouth and flowing from a wound on her neck. The girl was shaking in terror and began clutching Aoibhe’s stilettos.

“Mercy,” she repeated. “I don’t want to die.”

Aoibhe closed her eyes and inhaled.

Humans didn’t realize their actions and emotions affected their scent. Just as a dog could sense anger or fear in a human being, or smell disease, so, too, could the members of Aoibhe’s kind. They’d evolved to the point where they could scent a person’s character. Certain vices, such as rape and murder, made their doers most repulsive, while those who were decent and good smelled—and, more important, tasted—delicious.

This girl smelled sweet enough. Not exceptional, like the one the Prince had found, but certainly tempting. She was clean and, by all signs, good. Aoibhe wondered what had possessed such goodness to come to Teatro.

A large hand reached out to grab the girl’s curly blond hair, jerking her head back.

“For that, you’ll pay.”

“Mercy,” the girl cried, wrapping her arms around Aoibhe’s lower legs. “Please.”

Aoibhe gave Maximilian an impatient look. “If you’re going to flout the rules, do it elsewhere. Or I’ll be forced to report you.”

“Go fornicate yourself, Aoibhe. I’m a member of the Consilium, too. This is none of your concern.”

He pulled the girl to her feet and she began screaming hysterically, thrashing about and trying to crawl into Aoibhe’s lap.

Aoibhe scowled, noting that a group of humans and their nonhuman counterparts had begun to stare in their direction. “You’re making a scene. Get her under control or let her go.”

“No, no!” The girl screamed louder.

Maximilian appeared to be enjoying the spectacle. He wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her against his body, grinding his groin against her backside. He placed his mouth to the wound on her neck and snaked out his tongue, lapping at the blood like a dog.

Aoibhe huffed before reaching out a single finger, forcing the girl to look into her eyes.

“Silence,” she commanded.

The girl stopped moving, despite the man assaulting her neck. Her eyes widened as they fixed on Aoibhe, who spoke in soothing tones.

“You are not afraid. Not anymore. Look into my eyes and focus on the sound of my voice. I am your mistress now.”

The girl nodded almost imperceptibly.

“Inhale deeply and feel your heart slow. That’s a good girl.”

“Aoibhe, stop it.” Max lifted his head, tightening his grip on his prey.

Without breaking eye contact, Aoibhe spoke. “Too late. I told you to get her under control.”

She lifted her hand, signaling to the bouncers, who stood by the door.

Max bellowed in anger and tried to wrench the girl backward. But he was stopped by the arrival of two large men. They functioned as a kind of security for the club and were of the same kind as he and Aoibhe.

She blinked, and the girl closed her eyes and sagged against Max.

“Tomas, Francesco. Be so kind as to escort Sir Maximilian to the exit. He has broken the rules.” Aoibhe glanced at him in distaste.

“You can’t do this! You can’t evict me.” Max leaned forward but Aoibhe held out her hand.

“One more step and I’ll take you outside myself. I’m older than you by at least a century. Do you really want to challenge me?”

Max snorted derisively but didn’t move. He knew, as did Aoibhe, that the older the supernatural being, the more powerful he or she was. Certainly her strength and agility were well-known. If she wanted Max dead, she could kill him. But not within the city—at least, not without cause.

The larger of the two bouncers glanced at the unconscious girl. “What about the human?”

Aoibhe waved a dismissive hand. “He can have her.”

Max’s head jerked in surprise.

She smiled slowly. “Think of her as a final gift. You are no longer welcome here. If you return, I’ll report you to the Consilium and you’ll lose your position.”

Max spat in her direction but she turned her head swiftly, his spittle landing on the wall behind her.

She turned her head and gave him a long, slow smile. “Enjoy your takeaway.”

He lifted the unconscious girl into his arms and the men escorted him from the club.

Those who had paused their activities to watch the clash between the supernatural beings quickly found themselves distracted by other pursuits.

Aoibhe straightened her dress. Dealing with Max and the other masculine egos of her kind was exhausting. Why the devil couldn’t he follow the rules?

The Prince didn’t make public spectacles, even when he happened upon an extraordinary vintage as he’d done recently. He’d simply taken the human and fed on her privately, discreetly disposing of the corpse or having Gregor dispose of it for him.

“You look in want of company.” A smooth voice sounded in her ear.

“Ibarra.” She smiled warmly at the tall Basque who leaned over her.

He kissed her cheeks and signaled to a waitress to bring him a drink.

“How is the fair Aoibhe this evening?” He sat next to her on the sofa, placing his arm around her shoulder.

“Annoyed, at the moment. I’ve just had to have Max thrown out.” She sighed dramatically.

“I’m sure he deserved it.”

“He did. Insolent fool.”

When their drinks arrived, they clinked their glasses before drinking.

Ibarra placed his glass on one of the tables nearby. “We’ll need more recruits if we’re going to oust troublemakers like Max.”

“Just kill him and get it over with.”

“Not within the city.” He winked at her and she laughed.

“Take him outside the city, then. I’ll give you whatever you want if you rid me of him. I’ve had trouble with him twice in as many weeks.”

“Anything I want?” He ran the back of his hand over her neck.

She leaned into his touch. “Within reason, Ibarra. Although I’m sorely tempted to offer you carte blanche at the moment.”

He gave her a hungry look. “I’ll remember that. Rumor says that Max’s trouble was with the Prince.”

“Trouble with the Prince is trouble with me.” Aoibhe’s tone was sharp.

Ibarra smiled sadly. “Alas, I’m too late.”

“You aren’t too late.” She kissed him eagerly but pulled away before he was able to reciprocate. “How go the patrols?”

He groaned, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Give me a bit of warning before you do that. Now look at me.” He gestured at his lap in frustration.

“I can arrange to have you serviced while we speak.” Aoibhe turned in the direction of a group of young women seated nearby.

Ibarra placed his hand over her wrist. “I’d prefer you to service me.”

“I’m too old to kneel in public.” She gave him a frosty look and withdrew her hand.

“Who said anything about kneeling? Sit here and I’ll pleasure you.” He gestured to his groin.

She paused, her eyes darting to his lap. Certainly Ibarra was very attractive. And the Prince had always been indifferent to her romantic activities.

“Another time perhaps.” She licked her lips. “Tell me about the patrols.”

“I’ll hold you to that promise.”

“Please do.”

He groaned again, muttering a Basque curse.

“The patrols are good enough. Our borders are secure.”

She arched an eyebrow at him.

He frowned. “What? I speak the truth.”

“A feral slipped past your patrols a few days ago. Pierre happened upon it but the creature got away.”

“An isolated incident. We’re already hunting it and will find it shortly.”

“There are rumors that some of the ferals have banded together. I wouldn’t be in a hurry to fight a war with them. They’re animals.”

Ibarra laughed. “With respect, Aoibhe, we’re animals, too.”

“Hardly.” She sniffed. “And there’s what happened two years ago. The Prince had to fight off a group of assassins by himself. They jumped him by a hotel.”

Ibarra chuckled. “He’s an old one. He can handle himself.”

“A herd of ferals could take down an old one.” She looked off into space for a moment. “How old do you think he is?”

“I’m newer to Florence than you are. You tell me.”

She looked at his dark eyes curiously. “If you had to venture a guess?”

Ibarra ran his fingers through his thick black hair.

“Even if I knew nothing of his history, I’d guess he was an old one, given his strength and discipline. Old ones are at least seven hundred. Since he’s been in possession of this principality since the fourteenth century, he’s much older than that.”