The Raven (11 page)

She bought a floral silk scarf and wound it around her neck in such a way as to cover the chain and cross, hoping no one would notice it.

Looking very chic and feeling more confident than she had ever felt, she bought a few groceries and a bottle of wine to take to dinner. Having deposited her purchases safely in her apartment, she drove the Vespa to Gina’s, very much looking forward to a relaxing evening with friends.

By the time Raven left her friends, it was after eleven. Their dinner had extended to drinks and dessert and an evening of conversation and music.

The skies had opened, pouring rain. As usual, there were still a few pedestrians and drivers on the slick streets. Everyone else had retreated indoors.

Or so it seemed.

Raven was glad she kept a long raincoat under the seat of her Vespa. She wore it as she drove, wincing at every drop of water that fell on her new sandals.

When she arrived at Santo Spirito, she discovered the piazza was empty.

Usually patrons sat outside the bar across from her apartment or at one of the cafés. The square itself was often filled with students. Several American universities had study-abroad programs that were housed nearby. But since the rain was falling heavily, the emptiness of the piazza was unsurprising.

She parked her Vespa and had just returned her helmet to the storage space beneath the seat when she heard something. The sound itself was strange, a cross between a growl and a roar.

She whirled around and saw something move at the far end of the piazza.

The falling rain partially obscured her vision and the dimness made it difficult to see. She could discern something large and black moving toward her.

As the figure approached, she realized it was too large to be a dog. It was moving quickly, its outline a blur against the rain.

She turned and tried to run, but her sandals slid on the slick cobble-stones and she fell. Hard.

When she came to her senses, she saw that the animal, which was now running on two legs, was bearing down on her. Snarls and growls echoed across the piazza as it drew nearer.

She tried to stand, her new shoes slipping beneath her. She could hear the animal approaching, its footfalls heavy in her ears.

She scrambled to her feet and was about to sprint toward her building, when she dropped her keys.

“Shit!” She bent to retrieve them just as the creature roared.

R
aven expected the worst. She expected the thing—whatever it was—to crash into her.

She glared at the relic that swung from her neck. She didn’t have time to indulge herself in an “I told you so,” directed at the absent intruder. Silly superstitions had never done her or anyone else any good. They certainly weren’t helping her now.

She braced herself for impact, knowing it was too slippery to run.

There’s nothing I can do.

It’s going to kill me.

She heard sliding and scuffing, as if something had tried to come to a sudden and abrupt halt.

She turned her head just as the dark creature came to a stop several feet away. It roared and lunged toward her with its arms, but its feet did not move.

“Take that fucking thing off! Take it off!” it bellowed, in Italian.

Raven peered through the falling rain at what she realized was a man. He was dressed in dark and dirty clothing, his hair long and matted. A stench filled her nostrils as he moved, as if he hadn’t been washed in a very, very long time.

What she noticed most were his eyes. They were very dark, as if the pupils had expanded to obliterate the whites of his eyes, giving him a strange, insectlike appearance. When he opened his mouth, he exposed a pair of fangs among broken, yellowed teeth.

She moved to run, and once again her ridiculous shoes slipped out from beneath her, landing her hard on her bottom.

The creature roared expletives, waving his arms and pacing back and forth. But he maintained his distance.

“You whore. Take that fucking thing off,” he shouted. “I’ll rip your head off and drain your blood. I’ll fuck you until you die. Take it off!”

Raven moved back, placing more distance between them as he continued to rant almost incoherently.

He started shrieking Latin profanities, which she barely understood. He described someone, a man, as a pedophile and a deviant. He said she was the deviant’s whore and that he was going to kill her.

But, strangely and inexplicably, he came no closer. He simply paced back and forth, like a lion in a cage, roaring and gnashing his teeth.

Raven righted herself and was prepared to flee into the house, when she heard footsteps. Someone was approaching from the direction of the church, which stood to their right.

“Police!” a man called. “Put your hands on your head.”

Raven saw someone dressed in black run toward them, pointing a gun at the madman. It was dark and still raining, so she couldn’t make out the policeman’s features.

In an instant, the madman leapt, knocking the gun out of the other man’s hand. He pulled the policeman’s head back by his hair, baring his neck, and bent over him.

Raven heard a ripping sound and saw blood spurt.

She looked away in horror as the madman bent his mouth to the wound in the policeman’s neck.

Without a backward glance, she skidded to the door of her building, her hands shaking as she fumbled with her keys. She slammed the door behind her, climbing the stairs as fast as she could.

It was only when she was in her apartment, with the door locked and every light on, that she sank to the floor, clutching the gold she wore around her neck.

Aoibhe closed her eyes and inhaled.

“Blood.” She drew her lips back, exposing her fangs. “Let’s go, Ibarra. It smells delicious.”

Together, they leapt from roof to roof, racing from where they’d been conversing, under the loggia near the Uffizi, to Santo Spirito. As they dropped to street level and crossed the bridge, Aoibhe stopped.

“Do you smell that?” She grabbed Ibarra’s hand, rain pouring down on them.

He inhaled and his expression shifted. “A feral.”

“Hurry,” she cried.

The two beings climbed a nearby building, continuing their course across the roofs. When they arrived at the piazza, they stopped, their eyes scanning the space below.

They located the feral easily. It was feeding from a human in full view of the buildings. Based on the strength of the scent, they inferred the human had almost been drained.

“How did it get past the patrols?” Aoibhe cast a furious gaze on her companion.

“This must be the one Pierre spoke of.”

She surveyed the apartment windows that lined the piazza on both sides. Many of them were illuminated.

“No doubt it’s been seen.”

“It’s too late to worry about that. There are too many witnesses.” Ibarra glanced in her direction. “Can you tell how old it is?”

Aoibhe wrinkled her nose. “It isn’t old enough to be a challenge. We can take it, if there’s only one. How much faith do you have in your patrols?”

“I have absolute faith in them.” He met her gaze.

“Good. I’ll approach from the front and you, from behind. We’ll attack and drag it into one of the alleys.”

They nodded to one another and Ibarra raced across the roofs to get behind the feral, while Aoibhe landed on the wet cobblestones.

She approached him slowly.

Ferals were unpredictable, as well as strong. They were outcasts, eschewing covens and living and hunting in the countryside. Many were mad and behaved like animals, although some of them maintained vestiges of rationality.

Aoibhe begun running toward the feral as soon as her feet hit the ground. Whether it saw her or merely scented her, it dropped its prey immediately.

Its blood-smeared mouth snarled and it bared its teeth, lowering into a crouch.

Aoibhe changed direction, but it was too fast. The feral came at her with speed, its fingers stretched like claws toward her head.

She vaulted over its shoulder, surprising it. She placed a knee to its back and grasped its head with both hands. With a twist and a crunching sound, she wrenched the head from the body and dropped back to the ground.

The feral continued moving, its arms and legs shaking, black blood oozing from its neck.

Aoibhe held the head out to her side, taking care not to be bitten by its snapping mouth. She scowled in disgust as the stench filled the air.

“I was going to do that.” Ibarra appeared at her side.

She laughed. “Next time. But you’ll have to be faster.”

She shook the head by its hair, the way a cat shakes a mouse, until the eyes closed and it stopped moving.

“What a nasty piece of filth.” She tossed the head aside and picked up her skirts, wiping her hands carefully on the white slip she wore underneath. “And the smell. Good hell.”

Ibarra coughed, as if in agreement.

“What now?”

“You take the human; I’ll take the feral and its head. We’ll meet in the alley.” She nodded across the piazza.

Ibarra did as he was told, grabbing the human, and his gun, and lifting him over his shoulder. He ran between the raindrops to the alley, then dumped his burden on the ground. Something fell from one of the human’s pockets.

It was a black leather wallet.

Ibarra almost threw it away. Money in small amounts was uninteresting to him. But when he picked it up, he caught sight of something that gave him pause.

“What’s that?” Aoibhe looked over his shoulder curiously.

He pointed at the identification in the wallet. “Interpol.”

“Damnation!” Aoibhe kicked at the feral’s beheaded corpse. “Not only does it trespass on our city, but it feeds in public on a damn policeman!”

Ibarra tossed the wallet to the ground. “What now?”

Aoibhe turned furious brown eyes in his direction. “What now? I’ll tell you what now. You and your border patrols are appearing before the Consilium. If you don’t have an explanation as to why our borders were breached, I’ll kill the lot of you.”

Ibarra took a step backward, lifting his hands. “Aoibhe, stay calm. Let’s find out what happened before we involve the Consilium.”

“It’s too late! The humans are probably reporting what they’ve seen, including our little maneuver, to the police. The feral spilled blood on the ground. The piazza will be crawling with policemen in minutes. Don’t you understand what this means?”

He dropped his hands and his black eyes narrowed. “Don’t patronize me, Aoibhe. I know exactly what it means.”

She gave him a furious look.

“Then help me clean up this mess before they arrive.”

Ibarra cursed and did as he was ordered.

T
he Prince was restless.

His network of spies informed him that the Emersons had left the city for Umbria. On the whole, their departure mattered little. There was nowhere in the world that was beyond his reach, only places that were more inconvenient than others.

Umbria was not inconvenient.

He would have to apply to the Princess of that region for permission to hunt on her territory, but they’d been on good terms for years. He doubted she’d withhold her assent. It was possible she’d request a sexual favor, as she had in the past.

She was beautiful and very desirable, but the Prince found himself indifferent to the possibility as his thoughts shifted to a raven-haired woman with large green eyes.

His quest for revenge against the professor would have to wait. He had more pressing concerns.

He’d watched the woman from afar, hoping she’d obey him and flee.

She didn’t.

She went to work. She went to the doctor’s office. She went shopping.

The Prince cursed.

Yes, he’d given her two weeks, but that had been a concession. She needed proper motivation. She needed to be shown what true danger was.

He’d fed himself in his villa, indulging in human blood followed by one of the rare, bottled vintages he’d procured in centuries past. This was one of his secrets.

Over time, he ingested the blood of old ones; blood he’d carefully extracted and saved or acquired through various means. His economy in not ingesting the blood of an old one all at once was rewarded every time he took a drink. He felt himself renewed in strength, his intellect sharper, his senses heightened.

Ingesting blood sated one desire but aroused another. On this evening, he wanted a human woman—young and soft. He wanted to kiss her mouth and thrust inside her. He wanted to look into her eyes and see trust, not fear, and to have her sleep in his arms the way Emerson’s wife slept in his.

He wanted Cassita.

For various reasons, he couldn’t have her. This meant he needed to go in search of a convenient substitute.

On a rainy evening, when the streets were almost empty, it would be difficult to find a woman who met his standards.

That was how he found himself outside Teatro, a place he had not visited in over a century.

When he entered the club, those who recognized him fell silent. He was greeted enthusiastically, if carefully, by the bartender and his citizens, who bowed deferentially, offering their seats.

The music played on and he found himself grimacing. Surely,
music
was used equivocally when applied to the pulsing dissonance that resonated from the sound system. He didn’t find it entertaining. He didn’t find it enjoyable.

In fact, it made his already impatient and aroused mood that much more dangerous.

Luckily, the humans ignored him. To them, he was one among many. Handsome, it was true, but not obviously powerful or as large as some of the others.

He took a proffered seat and goblet of warmed blood and sat in silence, scanning the crowd. If he couldn’t have Cassita, at least he could have someone who looked like her. He doubted anyone would smell as sweet.

Within minutes he found an olive-skinned, dark-haired woman who boasted an hourglass figure and bright blue eyes.

Close enough
.

“Good evening, my lord.”

The Prince’s musings were interrupted by a female who bowed before him. She was dressed in red satin, her sandy-colored hair pinned up, exposing pale shoulders and an elegant neck.

He tamped down his annoyance at being interrupted and nodded at her curtly, putting his drink aside.

“May I service you, my lord?” Her hazel eyes lifted to his.

He stared at her.

“Service me, how?”

“In any way you wish.” She knelt before him and placed her hands on his knees.

He undid her hair, wrapping it around his wrist.

“Your name?”

“Svetlana, my lord.” She searched his eyes for permission.

His expression did not change.

“Your age?”

“I was changed fifty years ago, my lord. I was visiting from Russia.” She parted her red lips in anticipation.

“A youngling,” he muttered. He released her hair and pushed her hands aside. “Stand up.”

Her face registered her surprise as she stood.

He tugged impatiently on the cuffs of his black shirt.

“Since you’re a youngling, I’ll forgive this impertinence. But in future, know that I am the hunter, not the hunted.” His gray eyes narrowed.

She bowed her head. “Forgive me. Your presence is a great honor. I merely meant to show my respect.”

The Prince lifted a skeptical eyebrow.

“I’m sure some of the members of the Consilium would welcome your . . . generosity,” he said. “Not all of us are the same. If you wish to reach old age, you’ll remember that.”

With a nod, he dismissed her.

She bowed again and retreated, disappearing into the crowd.

The Prince scowled.

He hadn’t always behaved thusly. When he was newly turned, he’d indulged in the pleasures of the body. But the chains he’d worn in life were difficult to break. Even now, he wore them. He was, perhaps, the only one of his kind who still had sexual compunctions.

He took great care to hide them, which was why, among other reasons, he avoided Teatro as one might avoid plague.

Aoibhe spoke the truth. He could have his choice, as Prince. But what he desired was a human female, not a succubus.

He rubbed his face. Perhaps he should go home.

But home held memories of Cassita, of her broken body sliding perilously close to death. It was not a place to go in order to forget her.

Anger began to build in his chest. He finished his drink in one swallow, determined to have the satisfaction he craved.

He searched the crowd and eventually located the dark-haired woman he’d been admiring. Surely she was reason enough for him to court a little guilt.

He stood, adjusting the sleeves of his jacket. Eyes on the woman, he walked toward her.

Humans and supernatural beings alike parted in front of him. Soon he was at the center of the dance floor. Her back was toward him.

He leaned forward, his lips brushing her ear. “Good evening.”

She shuddered. “Hi.”

She turned her head and he was disappointed momentarily at how different her facial features were from Jane’s. This woman was more beautiful, but the fact that she was not who he really wanted diminished her appeal. Greatly.

He closed his eyes and inhaled. Her scent was enticing.

And she was willing. Her heartbeat quickened, as did her breathing, as soon as he made eye contact.

The Prince placed a hand on her hip, drawing her to his body. Ignoring the pounding music, he began to sway, moving with her to his own sensual rhythm.

She lifted her hands and slipped them between the lapels of his jacket, tracing the planes of his pectorals with pink-tipped fingers.

“You’re very strong. Are you an athlete?” She raised her voice so she could be heard, but she needn’t have bothered. His hearing was excellent.

“Of a sort. What brings you here?” He smiled, watching her reaction.

She returned his smile and moved nearer. “I came in search of pleasure.”

His grip on her hip tightened. “And have you found it?”

She shook her head.

He spanned her waist with his hands, bringing their lower bodies together. Her breasts brushed across his chest and he felt the stirrings of desire.

“You’re attractive.”

Her smile widened. “Thank you. So are you.”

He laughed and she joined him.

He moved her hair behind her shoulder and stroked her cheek with his thumb. Then he brought his lips to her neck.

Instantly, he could hear her heartbeat speed, the blood pumping through her veins. She slid her hands up his chest and brought them to his hair, gently scratching at his scalp.

He brushed his nose against her throat and kissed her intently, careful not to let his teeth puncture her skin. There would be time enough for that. Satisfaction was always sweeter when delayed. And he had always prided himself in being a master of satisfaction.

She sighed in his arms, pulling him closer.

He continued to kiss her, enjoying her enthusiastic moans. When the scent of her arousal became too much, he pulled back.

She opened her eyes. “Why did you stop?”

He stroked his thumb across her lower lip. “I want to be the only one to hear your cries when I taste you.”

She nipped at his thumb, her eyes sparkling. “Yes, please.”

He took her hand in his. “Come.”

He led her from the dance floor and toward one of the halls. A youngling, who acted as a guard, bowed to the Prince and stood aside so they could pass.

At that moment, someone moved to stand in front of them.

“Lorenzo.” The Prince nodded at his second in command, gripping the woman’s hand more tightly.

Lorenzo was Italian by birth and a distant cousin of the Medici family. Born in the sixteenth century, he had transformed when he was twenty years old. His dark hair was curly and hung to his shoulders, while his eyes were a light brown. In size, he matched the Prince, but he was younger and far less powerful.

“Forgive the intrusion, my prince.” Lorenzo’s eyes flickered to the woman’s and back again. “But there’s a situation that requires your attention.”

The Prince swore. “Can’t it wait?”

Lorenzo lifted his hand, revealing a cell phone. “I’m afraid not.”

The Prince scowled at the device. He despised them. They weren’t permitted in Teatro for security reasons.

If Lorenzo was using one, something must have happened.

He turned to the guard.

“Escort the woman to one of the rooms and see she is not disturbed.”

He lifted her hand and pressed his lips to the back of it. “I’ll be with you momentarily. There are drinks in the room. Please enjoy yourself while you wait.”

She smiled up at him and nodded, following the guard down the hall.

The Prince watched the curve of her backside as it swayed in her tight blue dress.

“What is so important as to interrupt my entertainment?” The Prince turned angry eyes on his lieutenant.

“An incident at Santo Spirito.”

At the very mention of the name, the Prince stilled.

Cassita
.

“What kind of incident?”

“Perhaps we should move this conversation somewhere private.”

Angrily, the Prince stormed toward the exit of the club, pushing beings and humans aside as he crossed the dance floor. He threw the door open and stepped into the alley. It was raining.

Lorenzo followed, closing the door carefully behind him.

“We need privacy,” he said to the security guard.

The guard nodded and moved to the far end of the alley.

“What happened?” The Prince placed his hands on his hips, his voice low.

“A feral appeared in Santo Spirito. It killed an Interpol agent.”

The Prince pressed his lips together. “Witnesses?”

“I’m told there are a few. Fortunately for us, the agent was not in uniform.”

“Other casualties?”

“Just the feral. Ibarra and Aoibhe killed it and gathered a few younglings to help them remove the corpses and attend to the scene.”

“What about the border patrols?”

Lorenzo shook his head. “No one reported a breach.”

The Prince scowled. “Double the border patrols immediately and call a meeting of the Consilium after sunrise.”

“The local police received reports by telephone. Officers are at the scene, but our contact has delayed the face-to-face questioning.”

“Exactly what was reported?”

“Witnesses saw a man dressed in black threatening a woman. She escaped into one of the apartment buildings. Then the man attacked another man, killing him. There were reports about Ibarra and Aoibhe, but those reports have mysteriously disappeared.”

Lorenzo smiled.

The Prince took a moment to process the report. “The woman was threatened by the feral?”

“So I’ve inferred.”

The Prince’s eyebrows knitted together. “Why isn’t she dead?”

“Witnesses claimed it didn’t approach her. She must have been wearing a talisman.”

The Prince rubbed at his chin thoughtfully. “Do we have names for these witnesses?”

“Yes.”

“We cannot erase the event without arousing more suspicion. Have our contact see to the interviews personally. Remind him to check for cameras or telephones that might have taken photographs. He can amend the reports, if need be.”

Lorenzo bowed. “Yes, my lord. And the woman?”

The Prince forced himself not to react. “If she’s wearing a talisman, no one will be able to approach her. I’ll investigate the matter personally.”

The lieutenant gazed at him curiously.

“What about the dead agent?”

“Aoibhe has probably burned the corpse by now. Tell our contact to focus everyone’s attention on the missing person investigation that will no doubt ensue and to plant evidence that links the scene to organized crime. That’s plausible enough. The witness reports and physical evidence should support a knife attack, rather than a feeding. If an unruly witness were to disappear . . .” He gave Lorenzo a meaningful look.

“And the other woman?”

“What other woman?”

“The woman you left in the club.” Lorenzo gestured toward the door.

The Prince startled, for he’d forgotten her.

“Find out her name and address and ask one of the guards to escort her home. She is not to be touched by anyone.”

“As you wish.”

The Prince dismissed his lieutenant and instructed the security guard to return to his post. Then he ran in the direction of Santo Spirito, as if the very forces of hell were chasing him.