The Raven (7 page)

“His time is almost up,” she murmured.

“I’m not so sure. I don’t see any signs of madness. Do you?”

“No, but I’m told the madness creeps in slowly.”

Ibarra waved his hand in the air. “If it truly is a curse, how could it affect all of us? Wouldn’t
they
have to be aware of each of us and curse us individually?”

Aoibhe shivered, as she always did when their enemy was mentioned. “Don’t speak of them.”

“As you wish. But I don’t think they are as powerful as everyone thinks.”

“How is Venice?” She changed the subject.

“The Venetians seem remarkably placid, given their history. They tell me they prefer to be under our prince rather than Marcus. They think he was a tyrant.”

“An extremely intelligent tyrant. I can’t understand why he would have attempted such a sloppy coup when he knew the power of our prince.”

Ibarra shrugged. “Our city is very desirable. Marcus wanted to expand his territory.”

“The Roman would never permit that.”

“Who knows if the Roman still exists? He’d be long past his thousand years, if he did. I think he was destroyed years ago but they kept his name alive, referring to whoever’s in charge as ‘the Roman’ in order to keep everyone in line.”

Aoibhe watched him for a moment to see if he was serious. Then she laughed.

“You spin fictions.”

“I’ve never met anyone, or heard of anyone who is still alive, who has met the Roman. He’s a figurehead for whoever assumed control of the kingdom of Italy.”

She smiled. “I’ve lived in Italy a long time. I would have heard if the Roman had been deposed. We’ll agree to disagree.

“Since Pierre’s encounter with the feral, I’ve been meaning to call for a meeting. We need to increase the border patrols in order to protect against incursions. That means we’ll need new recruits to fill the lower ranks so we can promote the young ones.”

Ibarra stroked Aoibhe’s cheek with a single finger. “I have no idea why you aren’t the Prince’s lieutenant.”

She rolled her eyes. “Because Lorenzo
the magnificent
is a Medici. He was born here, while I merely arrived.”

“The Prince is a fool.”

“I won’t argue with that.”

Ibarra lifted his glass. “To your health, Aoibhe. May you live forever.”

She lifted her glass as well.

“May I live longer than that.”

R
aven’s kitchen table was littered with charcoal pencils, erasers, pencil shavings, cotton swabs, and paper. Two fingers on her right hand were black from blending and she’d taken to chewing the end of a pencil as she surveyed her most recent sketch.

It was a portrait of a man with haunted eyes and a square jaw. His short hair fell across his forehead carelessly, partially masking the creases above strong brows. His nose was straight, his mouth full and unsmiling.

There was something lacking in his expression. Raven didn’t know what it was.

After a disastrous day at work, she’d gone to the orphanage where she volunteered. The children and workers were understandably confused by Raven’s change in appearance, which she explained as the result of a crash diet and physiotherapy.

Raven confided in Elena, her friend and the orphanage director’s assistant, about her troubles at the gallery. Elena had been alarmed and given her the name and address of one of her many cousins, who was a lawyer. Raven pocketed the information, promising to contact the cousin before she spoke to the police again.

Later, she walked to the Franciscan mission, looking for Angelo.

He wasn’t there. No one had seen him in days.

She persuaded the director of the mission to file a missing persons report with the police, wisely deciding it was not in her interest to do so herself. Then she walked home.

Her apartment was a small one-bedroom unit that overlooked Piazza Santo Spirito. The green-shuttered windows of her room opened onto the square, affording an excellent view of the central fountain and the church that stood nearby.

Her kitchen was windowless and marked the entryway into the apartment. A simple table with four chairs was pushed close to one wall, while the counter and appliances ran the length of the other two.

She cooked well, if simply, her weight a constant concern. Her fondness for pasta, cheese, and desserts, and her disability’s constraints on exercise, made weight loss seem almost impossible. She accepted the fact just as she accepted her solitude—with quiet resignation.

On this evening, she found little to work with in the cupboard or small fridge. She should have gone shopping after work, but she’d had more pressing concerns.

It was almost nine o’clock when she sat down to a modest dinner of pasta with pesto from a jar and a small salad made with wilted lettuce. She opened a bottle of Chianti, pouring herself a full glass before corking the bottle. The currant-colored liquid cheered her, but she only picked at her dinner, worried as she was about the theft of the illustrations, her sudden change in appearance, and Angelo.

Afterward, she cleared the table and spread her drawing materials across it, eager to draw Angelo’s likeness. But something stopped her. Her hand froze, as if it were unwilling to commit him to posterity. As if it would be a sin against hope to relegate him to a drawing.

Instead, she put on some music and began to sketch a stranger’s face.

When she was finished, Raven poured herself a second glass of wine, absolutely ignoring her discarded dishes. This was anomalous, since she normally washed the dishes after every meal. On this evening, she felt the need for fortitude rather than cleanliness and so she sipped her wine and stared at the sketch once again.

The face was handsome and symmetrical, with high cheekbones. Its almost feminine beauty was counterbalanced by the masculine jaw and brows. Apart from a slight resemblance to photographs of a young Sting, the man in the portrait was a stranger to her. She didn’t know where his image came from or why she’d felt compelled to draw him.

Sometimes the Muses spoke in foreign tongues and she was ignorant of their meaning.

She was modestly pleased with the sketch, even though she knew there was something missing. On a whim, she signed and dated it and placed it on top of her dresser, at the foot of her bed.

Then, as if one of the Muses were whispering in her ear, she opened her laptop, taking note that it was now past eleven, and Googled the name
William York
.

She found several entries, one of which was to a story about a ten-year-old who’d murdered a little girl. Raven shuddered and moved past that link.

She skimmed through several pages of results, but nothing caught her attention. Certainly, if there were a William York living in Florence, he wasn’t much of a public figure. There weren’t any entries on him at all.

Raven hastily finished her second glass of wine, recalling what she’d overheard Professor Emerson say to Dottor Vitali. He’d described William York as a recluse who’d donated money to help restore the Palazzo Medici Riccardi.

When Raven clicked on the website for the palazzo, she found that the major restorations had been done long ago. There were restorations in 1874 when the building was taken over by the province. There were additional restorations from 1911 to 1929. The most recent modifications to the property began in 1992.

It was unlikely if not impossible that William York financed the restorations before 1929. That meant he had to be one of the patrons of the 1992 restoration. Dottor Vitali was already working at the Uffizi by then. Certainly he knew everyone of importance in the city. Since he didn’t recognize the name, Professor Emerson must have been mistaken.

But he’d sounded so sure. And he’d been indignant when Vitali claimed not to know who he was talking about.

Stranger still, the professor had identified William York as a patron of the Uffizi. Raven was certain that his name hadn’t appeared on the list Ispettor Batelli had shown her earlier that day.

The palazzo itself wasn’t far. It was mere steps from the Duomo on Via Cavour. She could walk to the building, look around, and be back in bed in an hour and a half. Of course, it would be preferable to do so during the day or perhaps after work, but she’d draw attention to herself by visiting the palazzo during the day. And there was the matter of her work schedule.

It was possible, she thought, as she put on a hooded sweatshirt, that she could speak with a security guard about the building’s patrons, since the guard would likely be unoccupied and perhaps bored at this late hour. The security guards at the Uffizi were a wealth of information and Raven had always found them to be extremely forthcoming, if one took the time to speak with them.

Perhaps the second glass of wine had made her bold. Perhaps it was simply her suspicion that she wouldn’t be able to sleep without expending some energy. But whatever the true reason, she exited her apartment with her knapsack, hoping she would uncover something that would put her back into the good graces of Dottor Vitali.

Despite the late hour, the streets were alive with pedestrians and people visiting with one another. Raven passed a few young families on the piazza, wheeling sleeping children in strollers. She always found it surprising that Florentine parents were so lax with bedtimes.

When she approached the bridge, she took a deep breath and began to run. As she had that morning, she felt joy in every step, her body bursting with happiness.

She was so captivated by her experience she didn’t notice the man who followed her at a distance on a black Vespa. He was dressed in black and helmeted.

She jogged to the Duomo, pausing to look up at the red-tiled dome. She could not have known this, but the Prince, who spent almost every sunset high atop the edifice, had not done so that evening. Instead, he’d spent hours on other, more important pursuits.

Not surprisingly, the palazzo was closed when she reached its double doors. Looking to the upper floors of the building, she saw light emanating from the windows. Someone was working, even at this late hour.

On a whim, she turned on Via de’ Gori, following the exterior wall of the palazzo, and made a right on Via de’ Ginori. Here she found the back entrance, its heavy wooden doors located inside an elaborate stone arch. Enormous black iron rings flanked the doors and Raven guessed they’d been used to tether horses at one time.

At the right of the arch, set into the palazzo wall, was a small white box. Raven recognized it as part of a security system. Certainly whoever guarded the palazzo at night would be monitoring the door. It would only take a moment to ask him or her a few questions.

She pressed the call button and waited.

And waited.

She waited for what seemed like an age, watching pedestrians and the occasional car pass. She did not see the black Vespa at the corner, or the driver, who was pretending to check his cell phone. She did not see the mysterious figure that looked down on her from the rooftop of the building opposite.

With a sigh, she turned to leave, but static emerged from the speaker and she heard a voice.

“State your business.”

She leaned forward, closer to the speaker. “Good evening.”

“State your business,” the man repeated, his tone bland and indifferent.

“I’m sorry to bother you,” she stammered, wondering what she should say. “I should have visited during the day, but I was delayed. I’m looking for—um—Signor William York. Can you tell me how I can contact him?”

Raven waited for a response, regretting the impulse to use the recluse’s name. But it was far too late for discretion.

Internally, she made an attempt to formulate an explanation for why she wanted to see William York. But the voice didn’t ask her that question.

In fact, the voice asked her nothing at all. There was a long, pregnant silence.

“Just a moment.”

Raven was shocked. She’d barely hoped to wheedle a little background information from one of the security guards. She hadn’t expected them to recognize the name of William York, let alone to provide her with contact information. Could it be that Professor Emerson was correct and that William York was a patron of the palazzo?

And if Emerson had learned of William York from Vitali, why was Vitali denying it?

Raven grew very nervous. If there were such a person as William York and he’d taken care to protect his identity, how would he feel about her showing up and asking about him? What if he was connected with the robbery at the Uffizi?

She took a few careful steps backward, looking to see if anyone suspicious was nearby. For the moment, at least, she appeared to be alone.

She decided it would be safer if she left and left quickly. As she moved, she caught sight of a small black camera, located at the top of the stone arch and pointing in her direction.

Great
.
Now they know what I look like.

Static emerged from the speaker again and Raven started.

“There’s no one here by that name. Leave now.” Someone else was speaking. His voice was more melodic, it was true, but it was also hostile.

She moved in the direction of the speaker. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to bother you and—”

Raven was swiftly interrupted. “It’s time for you to leave.”

She didn’t need to be asked twice. She began running in the direction of the Duomo, as fast as her legs could carry her. A black Vespa took off from where it had been idling around the corner, driving in the opposite direction.

Raven was too anxious to notice the man and his machine, or the fact that, by the time she passed the Duomo, he was following her.

Of course, she didn’t realize she’d captured the attention of the decidedly nonhuman being standing on top of the building across the street as well.

B
y the time Raven returned to her building, her heart was beating furiously. Something momentous had occurred, she was sure of it, and she was fearful of the consequences.

She opened the door to her apartment and pressed the light switch on the wall.

Nothing happened.

Cursing, she closed the door behind her and blindly locked it, dropping her knapsack to the floor. She groped along the wall to the bathroom, reaching in to press the other light switch.

Nothing happened.

Muttering to herself about what she was going to say to the landlord the next time she saw him, she felt her way to the bedroom. She was just about to step through the doorway when she stumbled over something; something that felt suspiciously like a pair of feet. She flailed as she fell but before she hit the floor, a pair of strong arms came around her waist, catching her.

As soon as the intruder made contact with her body, she screamed and pulled away, falling on her backside. In the dim light that shone from outside the bedroom windows, she could almost see the outline of a figure lurking in the doorway. She scrambled backward like a crab, heading toward the only exit.

She felt the figure speed past her. Her hands collided with his feet as she approached the apartment door.

“If you scream again, I’ll silence you.” An angry voice, soft as silk, sliced through the darkness.

“What do you want?” Raven attempted to keep her voice steady. But she failed.

“I want you to answer some questions. Sit here.”

Raven heard a chair scrape across the floor and felt one of its legs press against her hip.

She could try to crawl to her knapsack and retrieve her cell phone. The chance of success seemed remote. He’d probably grab her.

Her heart stuttered. “Did you shut off the electricity?”

“Don’t give me a reason to hurt you.” He thumped the chair on the floor, as if for emphasis.

She startled.

She could scream for help but her closest neighbor, Lidia, was hard of hearing and probably asleep. There was usually so much noise emanating from the Vespa traffic in and around the piazza, she wasn’t sure her cries would be heard by anyone else.

“I am waiting,” he growled.

Whoever the man was, he sounded young, but his fluid Italian was decidedly old-fashioned.

She moved slowly, placing a tentative hand on the chair and pulling herself up. She slid onto the seat.

“I don’t have any money.”

“A better question is whether you have any sense.” He moved behind her.

She twisted, following the sound of his voice. “Who are you? What do you want?”

“I’m asking the questions. What were you doing at the Palazzo Riccardi?”

Raven’s stomach dropped. Perhaps he’d followed her or perhaps he’d seen her at the palazzo. In either case he must be fleet of foot or he’d driven in order to arrive before her.

She wondered why he was hiding his appearance.

“You’ve been a stupid, stupid girl. Don’t magnify your stupidity by trying my patience.” His tone grew menacing.

She drew a deep breath, forcing the tension out of her voice. “It was a mistake. I shouldn’t have gone there.”

“What were you looking for?”

“Someone who works at the palazzo. I thought I’d stop by.”

“At night? After hours?” the man said, pressing.

She forced a laugh, which sounded more like a strangled cough.

“Silly, right? It was a mistake.”

“Who were you looking for?”

She hesitated and the man brought his face to within inches of hers. She could smell him—a scent of citrus and the woods. It was not unpleasant.

“William York.”

If the intruder recognized the name or was surprised by it, he gave no indication.

“That’s an odd name for an Italian.” The man’s tone grew conversational. “Is he a friend of yours?”

“No. I’ve never met him.”

“Then why were you looking for him?”

“No reason.”

A heavy hand rested on her shoulder. “That is not an acceptable answer.”

The hand flexed minutely and Raven clamped her mouth shut to keep from screaming.

A myriad of old anxieties and fears swirled in her mind. She was terrified that the intruder was going to rape or kill her once he’d secured the information he sought.

She thought about her younger sister, Carolyn, and not being able to tell her one last time that she loved her.

The hand flexed again.

“Um, I work at the Uffizi and—”

“I know that,” the intruder said, interrupting.

“You know that?” she repeated.

“I know a great many things. Continue.”

She shifted in the darkness, wondering why, all of a sudden, his voice seemed familiar. He wasn’t Agent Savola or Ispettor Batelli, she was sure. But somewhere in the recesses of her memory, she knew she’d heard his voice before. She couldn’t remember when.

“While I was at work I heard that this man, William York, was associated with the Palazzo Riccardi. That’s all I heard.”

The hand lifted from her shoulder.

Raven strained her ears, listening for any movement.

The man leaned over her, bringing his nose to her neck. She jumped at the contact, for his nose, like his hand, was cool.

The intruder inhaled slowly and deeply. Raven angled away from him, desperately trying to tamp down the nausea that was climbing the back of her throat.

He grunted and stepped back, as if he’d smelled something revolting.

“I can tell when you’re lying. What else did you hear?”

“Uh, that Mr. York donated money to the Uffizi in order to be invited to the opening of a special exhibit a couple of years ago.”

“Who said this?”

When she didn’t respond, a single finger made contact with her neck, sliding down her throat.

Raven cringed.

“Someone named Emerson. I didn’t see who he was talking to.”

He brought his lips to her ear. “Try again.”

“Emerson was talking to Dottor Vitali.”

At this, the man straightened. “Vitali? Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“Did you mention this conversation to anyone? A friend or the Carabinieri?”

“No.”

The intruder was silent.

Raven waited for him to do something.

But he did nothing. He didn’t move. He didn’t sigh. She couldn’t even hear him breathe.

She fidgeted, tapping her feet against the floor. She wondered if she could use the chair as a weapon, swinging it in the direction of his head and giving herself enough time to make it to the door. No doubt he’d be faster than her, and if she missed, he’d respond in kind.

She tapped her feet more quickly, wondering if she dared make a move.

Then the intruder’s voice sounded near her ear. “You went to an orphanage and a mission today. Why?”

Raven froze.

“You followed me?”

“Answer my question. And tell the truth.”

“I volunteer at the orphanage after work sometimes. A friend of mine, a homeless man, is missing. I went to the Franciscan mission to see if he was there. But he wasn’t.”

“A homeless man?”

“He’s the one who sits by the Ponte Santa Trinita, on the other side of the river. He’s disabled, like me.”

She heard the man move, almost imperceptibly.

“Um, that is, I used to be disabled. I’m not anymore.”

“Had Ordo Fratrum Minorum seen him?”

“Ordo Fratrum Minorum?” she repeated.

“The Franciscans,” he clarified impatiently.

“No, they hadn’t. I’m worried something happened to him.”

“You care for this creature?” The intruder sounded incredulous.

“Don’t call him that.” Raven bristled. “Yes, I care for him. Most people ignore him. Some people, like you, ridicule him. But he’s a beautiful person.”

“I suppose you care for the orphans as well?” The man was contemptuous.

She frowned. “Of course.”

“If someone attacked your precious homeless man and tried to kill him, would you intervene?”

Raven hesitated. “I’d be afraid to intervene, but I couldn’t stand there and do nothing. I’d call for help.”

The man hummed, as if her answer displeased him.

“I couldn’t do nothing,” she repeated, her voice breaking on the last word. An old memory tried to overtake her, but she stubbornly placed it aside.

She heard something then, as if he were rattling change in his pocket.

“If you had to choose between justice and mercy, what would you choose?”

“Mercy,” she whispered.

“And if you were brought face-to-face with those who abused your homeless man, would you offer them mercy?”

She hesitated, and he laughed.

“I expected as much. Even the most magnanimous want mercy only for those who deserve it.”

“No one deserves mercy. Not deserving it is what makes it mercy.”

The man was quiet for so long, she wondered if he’d left. She looked behind her, scanning the darkness for any sign of him.

“What am I to do with you?” he wondered softly.

“Let me go. I answered your questions. I don’t know anything.”

“I made a grave mistake with you. Now it seems I’m destined to pay for it.” The man’s tone changed; it was low and ached with resignation.

“Please let me go,” she repeated. “I won’t be any trouble.”

“I’m afraid that trouble is not what you do. Trouble is what you are.”

The man sighed and Raven heard movement that sounded like he was rubbing his face.

“Leave Florence and never return.”

“But this is my home,” she protested. “My life is here. My friends—”

“Friends are of no consequence if you’re in jail or dead,” he snapped.

“Dead?” She shifted forward on the chair, preparing to run.

“You’ve attracted the attention of a group far more dangerous than the Carabinieri. For the moment, at least, you’re safe. When they realize who you are, they will hunt you.”

“But I didn’t take the illustrations, I swear!”

The intruder laughed darkly.

“They care little enough about art, I assure you. No, their interest in you will be personal.”

Raven’s body tensed. “Why?”

“The less you know, the better.”

Her spine stiffened. “I don’t understand what they would want with me. I’m no one special.”

“That’s where you’re wrong.” The intruder grasped her wrist, plucking it out of the darkness as if it were low-hanging fruit. He placed two of his fingers across her pulse point and pressed.

Raven was seized with a sudden vision of being restrained in a hospital bed, an intravenous tube transferring blood to her body. Except the blood flowing through the tubes was black.

With a cry, she leapt to her feet. She lifted the kitchen chair, swinging in the direction of his voice, before turning toward what she thought was the door. She took only two steps before he caught her from behind.

She struggled, kicking and screaming, but his arms were like bands of steel. He pulled her flush against his front, lifting her so her feet dangled above the floor.

“Silence!” he hissed.

Raven’s heartbeat was erratic. She tried to inhale but his arms squeezed too tightly.

“Can’t—
breathe
,” she managed to whisper hoarsely, twisting and squirming.

He loosened his hold but still held her aloft.

She gulped the air, her mind frantically assessing her predicament. She was not light, even in her new form. Still, he held her five-foot-seven-inch frame above the floor as if she were a doll. And he didn’t seem to be exerting very much effort.

“I came here to help you,” he whispered. “This is how you repay me?”

“You broke into my apartment. You’re holding me against my will!” She scratched at his arms, but her fingernails met the fabric of what felt like a suit jacket.

“The others would have killed you, except they would have played with you first.”

“How do you know so much about them?”

“Because I am one of them.”

Raven stilled.

Her heart skipped a beat and began to thump loudly in her chest. She wondered if he was going to kill her.

With a curse, the intruder deposited her roughly on another chair, which he then slid across the floor to the wall.

He leaned over her, his voice dropping to a menacing whisper.

“Whether you believe me or not, I am your ally. Now sit still, be quiet, or I’ll leave you to them. Do you understand?”

She nodded, trying to catch her breath once again.

“Good.”

It occurred to her at that moment he must have seen her move, despite the lack of light.

“Do you have night-vision glasses?”

“I am the darkness made visible.”

Raven shivered.

She heard the intruder begin to pace across her kitchen floor.

“Even if you avoid the others, you still aren’t safe. The Carabinieri will be looking for a scapegoat in their investigation and you’re the obvious choice.”

She wrapped her arms around her middle. “I didn’t take the illustrations. I don’t know what happened to me last week. I think someone is trying to frame me.”

The intruder stopped. “I can provide you with enough money to get home. Leave the city by train and travel south. Take a ship to Greece. Immigration at the Piraeus near Athens is very lax. From there you can get a flight back to America. You must leave Florence before two weeks have expired. In the interim, you’re safe in this flat but I’d avoid venturing out at night.”

She sat very still. “Why?”

“Partly because you’re a terrible sleuth. Someone followed you to the palazzo and now he’s sitting across the piazza, watching. Partly because the others will notice you. You don’t want their attention.”

Raven didn’t respond, for leaving was the one thing she didn’t want to do.

She heard him rattle something and take a few steps toward her. “I can see you’re stubborn, if nothing else.”

He placed something metallic and cool around her neck, from which was suspended something heavy. She reached up and felt a metal crucifix resting below her breasts.

“What’s this?”

“It’s a relic. From now on, you must always wear this. Never take it off.”

“I thought I was safe so long as I left Florence.”