The Raven (8 page)

“There are others in America, too.”

Raven dropped the crucifix and it crashed against her chest. “How can some silly superstition protect me from the Mafia?”

A growl emerged from the intruder’s chest and he grabbed the chain.

“Stupid humans don’t deserve to live. I’ll take back my gift and trouble you no more.”

Panicked, her hand closed over his. “No, please. I want it.”

He tightened his hold on the chain until it pulled against her neck.

“Perhaps when you have time to reflect on your situation, you’ll assume a posture of gratitude.”

“Thank you,” she offered quickly.

“This relic offers protection from those who would kill you. Or worse.”

“Will it protect me from you?”

She wished she could snatch back the words as soon as they left her mouth.

He dropped the chain.

“The relic has no effect on me. Best keep that in mind if you’re tempted to speak to the Carabinieri about the palazzo or our conversation.” His tone grew very sharp. “You don’t want me as an enemy.”

She clenched her teeth. “I won’t tell them anything. I promise.”

“You have two weeks. At the end of that time, if you’re still here, you’ll answer to me.”

She nodded.

He grunted once again and much of his anger seemed to cool.

“I shall regret this. But it’s far too late.”

Out of the darkness, she felt his hand cup her face. His touch was light and surprisingly gentle.

“Beauty is vain. It appears and, like the wind, it’s gone. Remember that.” His thumb traced the curve of her cheek. “Good-bye, Jane.”

Before Raven could react to the sound of her legal name coming from his lips, he’d withdrawn. His steps echoed in the apartment and she heard the sound of a window opening.

A few seconds later, the lights came on.

T
he Prince stood on a terrace at the Gallery Hotel Art, disturbed and angry. His evening had not gone as planned. Instead, he’d had to revisit one of his most recent, and serious, mistakes. She’d proved to be an even more attractive mistake than he’d remembered.

Cassita vulneratus
.

Now the wounded lark had been healed and he was the vulnerable one. He’d heard truth in her voice when she promised to keep secrets, but he knew how easily human beings could be tricked. Her mind was too strong to control without making her drink from him. And he was unwilling to make her his slave.

If Maximilian or Aoibhe came upon her . . .

He shuddered.

Jane’s scent was masked by what he’d fed her to save her life. Soon her true vintage would be detectable. He’d gifted her with one of his prized possessions, but he knew it would likely attract attention as well as repel it. He’d have to play guardian angel until she left the city, but from a distance.

Once again, a vision of a woman bloodied and abused burned before his eyes. And once again he resolved to stave off that outcome.

Whatever his commitment to Cassita, there remained the problem of the Emersons and Vitali. Emerson had received property stolen years before from the Prince’s home and made the collection public, insulting him and drawing international attention to the illustrations. Vitali was complicit in the installation of the collection in the Prince’s own city.

But Vitali’s mind was susceptible to influence and so his memory of parts of the exhibit opening had been erased easily. The Prince saw no reason to take his life, despite his involvement with the Emersons. Having the director of the Uffizi in his control had clear advantages.

The problem of the Emersons, however, remained. The name
William York
needed to be erased from their memories and from any connection with the Uffizi Gallery and the theft of the illustrations. But Emerson’s mind would not be controlled, nor would that of his wife.

Emerson would have to be killed and his wife would have to be traumatized into losing her memory.

The door that separated the terrace from their hotel room was ajar, in deference perhaps to their desire for fresh air. The Prince slipped into the darkened room.

The bed was only a few short steps from the door. Emerson was lying on his side, his back toward the Prince.

He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply.

Emerson’s scent was distinctive and yet, somehow, it had changed since their last encounter. Certainly he was far more desirable now than before.

The Prince wondered idly what had precipitated the improvement.

At that moment, two other human scents assailed his nostrils, one new and pleasant and one familiar and unpleasant. Mrs. Emerson’s scent had changed since he’d last been in her presence. Her aroma was noticeably sweeter, but there was still the undertone of disease. Whatever health problems she’d had before were still present. She gave the appearance of health, however. He could see her body visible in bed, curved into her husband’s embrace.

The Prince reflected on the fact that he’d never enjoyed such a position, which seemed to embody the quiet trust that came from intimacy and love. He’d never wanted such closeness with Aoibhe. As for the others . . .

He felt his anger rise as jealousy overtook him. There was a time when he would have done anything to have a wife and a child. That possibility had been stolen from him.

He bared his teeth, a growl escaping his chest. Emerson had riches enough. Why did he have to steal?

The Prince approached the bed and was surprised to see a small structure standing next to it on the far side. In it, a baby was sleeping beneath a pink blanket. This was the source of the new, pleasant scent.

The Prince recoiled, the way some humans recoil from eating veal.

Standing at the foot of the bed, he regarded the parents. Emerson’s wife had a light, floral scent that nearly masked the smell of her disease. Though he admired the virtues that gave rise to her fragrance, he found it cloying.

He craved the raven-haired beauty’s blood. Or rather, what her blood was before he’d polluted it. She smelled of old arrogance and darkness now; her true scent, masked.

What he craved most, however, was a lively mind and a noble soul. Someone with whom he could talk about art and beauty. A companion and lover.

He bristled as he recalled Aoibhe’s words. He’d been alone far too long. And he’d just persuaded the woman he wanted to flee the city, ensuring he would always be alone.

“Justice and mercy,” he whispered.

Gabriel stirred and the Prince fled to the terrace.

He watched Emerson sit up and look around the room. He saw him reach for the lamp next to the bed.

The Prince moved so that he could not be seen.

For several moments, the Prince waited while Emerson walked about the room. With a muttered curse, he closed the terrace doors, locking them from the inside.

Strictly speaking, locked doors would not keep the Prince out. But the existence and presence of the child had changed his calculus.

As he stood in the shadows, he thought back to the first time he’d met the Emersons. He’d been impressed with the wife’s virtues and decided not to kill her. Emerson, on the other hand, could be executed without misgivings. The fact that he’d procured stolen property meant a death sentence.

The Prince tried to persuade his feet to move in the direction of the door, but they wouldn’t.

He was stunned to discover he couldn’t kill Emerson in front of his child, even though the girl was an infant.

Something had happened to him. Something had changed.

Perhaps Jane had done it. She’d entered his life like a Trojan horse and brought mercy with her. He hated mercy, for it bespoke weakness.

What other explanation was there for his sudden change of heart? Just as he couldn’t bear the thought of killing the baby or her ill mother, now he seemed unable to take the few steps necessary to kill the baby’s father.

Emerson deserved it. He deserved death, if not for the sin of theft, then for the sin of pride, which still made his blood acrid and stark. And there was the small matter of William York . . .

The Prince would not tolerate weakness in himself. Neither would he pardon Gabriel Emerson.

As he dropped to the ground, he told himself he would spare the life of Emerson’s wife and child, concealing his identity through some other means. He would wait and kill Emerson after Cassita left the city, when he no longer feared to see revulsion in her green eyes.

Mercy be damned.

J
ust before sunrise, Raven sat on her bed, clutching a pillow to her mid-section. The entirety of her apartment was bathed in electric light. The door and windows were locked, as were the shutters that covered her windows. An old plush moose she’d had since childhood sat next to her, as if it were a sentry.

She’d slept, but not for long. Fear and anxiety crowded her mind, haunting her dreams.

When she’d recovered from her shock the night before, she’d considered contacting the police. A glance across the piazza had changed her mind. She’d seen the man who lurked nearby, just as the intruder said.

She wasn’t sure who the man who sat outside her apartment was. It was possible he was the intruder’s accomplice. She wasn’t going to court his attention by inviting a police visit.

The intruder, whoever he was, seemed to know her, or at least he’d spent the day following her. He knew she worked at the Uffizi. He knew she’d been interviewed by the Carabinieri. He knew she’d visited the orphanage and the Franciscan mission.

Somehow he knew about her visit to the palazzo. Whether he’d seen her or simply been told she’d been there, she didn’t know. In either case, he must have raced to her apartment in a car or on a Vespa, gaining precious minutes in order to break into her apartment, cut off the electricity, and wait for her.

He’d exited her second-floor apartment through one of her bedroom windows. She assumed he’d entered the same way. Perhaps he was a rock climber—that would explain how he was able to scale the building and climb to the ground without injury.

She’d always kept the windows locked when she wasn’t home. In her distracted state that morning, she must have forgotten. She wouldn’t make that mistake again.

If she closed her eyes, she could hear the intruder’s voice. Although it was familiar, she couldn’t identify him. She could recall his scent, however.

A lot of good that will do. What would I say to the police? Arrest a suspect and let me sniff him?

She opened her eyes and looked over at the dresser. The sketch she’d completed the previous evening was missing, which meant he must have taken it. But why?

Her laptop and simple pieces of jewelry were left behind, as if he couldn’t be bothered to steal them.

The reason could be pedestrian. Perhaps he’d stolen the sketch so he could dust it for fingerprints. He’d find her prints of little use. Patrick had told her that morning the investigators hadn’t found any fingerprints in the exhibition hall.

Her cane was leaning against the wall, by her dresser. She didn’t remember it being there earlier in the evening, but it was possible she hadn’t noticed it. Why would the intruder move her cane?

In addition to these anomalies, he’d left gifts.

He’d placed a stack of money on her kitchen table. When she’d composed herself enough to count them, she discovered he’d left several thousand euros.

And he’d given her something else.

Raven lifted the crucifix from her chest. It appeared to be made of gold; the metal was thin and had been hammered from the underside in order to form the raised figure of Jesus. The design was primitive, the facial features of Christ barely distinguishable, which led her to believe the piece was pre-Renaissance and probably medieval.

Each point of the cross had two round loops on it, as if it had been made to affix to something. The gold chain on which it was suspended looked much newer than the crucifix, and it also appeared to be made of gold.

She knew a little about relics. She’d had a Catholic education at Barry University, as an undergraduate. And there was Father Kavanaugh, the priest who’d intervened to help her and Carolyn when they were in trouble. Her love and respect for him didn’t extend to his beliefs and she certainly didn’t think there was anything efficacious about a piece of metal, no matter what shape had been hammered into it.

She couldn’t imagine why the intruder would believe that a hunk of gold would protect her against “the others,” whoever they were.

It won’t hurt to wear the cross, just in case. Perhaps it works because the others fear it, not because it has magical powers.

But I’m not leaving Florence, not after I’ve worked so hard to build a life here. I don’t care what he says.

She pulled her quilt around her shoulders.

The intruder was frightening and strangely strong. His command to leave the city was unambiguous, but she didn’t know why the two-week mark was so important.

Maybe he has a source in the police force and knows what’s happening with the investigation.

He’d recognized Dottor Vitali’s name, although he seemed surprised to hear it. But it seemed to be the person of William York that he was most interested in. Raven found that puzzling.

And there was his speech. He’d called the Franciscans Ordo Fratrum Minorum, which, she’d discovered through the Internet, was their Latin title. And he’d warned her about going out after dark.

Raven couldn’t imagine what the warning meant, or why, if he wanted her to leave, he’d given her the relic. His gift was strange enough. Then his disposition had changed and he’d touched her gently.

More puzzling, he’d called her Jane.

Raven’s legal name was found only on her passport, work visa, and
permesso di soggiorno
, or “permission to stay” form, all of which were still in her backpack. However the intruder had discovered her legal name, it wasn’t by searching her apartment.

Her legal name appeared in her employment file, so it was possible he’d learned it through the Uffizi. Raven dismissed that possibility, since everyone at the gallery called her by her chosen name, which was displayed on her security card. She hadn’t been known as Jane since she was twelve.

So he’s connected with either the gallery or the police
.

Batelli and Savola knew her legal name. But they’d seen her Uffizi identification card and knew she was called Raven.

The intruder seemed to want to steer clear of the police, for whatever reason. He certainly hadn’t learned her legal name through someone who knew her. At least, not someone who knew her in Italy. In Florida, it would be a different story.

Horror stabbed through her.

What if he talked to . . .

She couldn’t finish the thought.

No, there was no point in entertaining the possibility. Florida was far away and so was any trace of her former life. Even her diplomas displayed her chosen name. If he’d opened the bottom drawer to her dresser, he would have found them, still encased in protective sleeves.

Putting the pillow and quilt aside, she stood in the center of the bedroom and took stock of her surroundings. The drawers to her dresser were closed, as was the door to her closet. Nothing seemed amiss, with the exception of the missing sketch and . . .

Her gaze alighted on the nightstand, on which were stacked several of her favorite books. She noticed the volume of the collected works of Edgar Allan Poe had been moved from the bottom of the stack to the top.
The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe
had been demoted to second place.

Once again, she wondered if, in a moment of distraction, she’d moved the C. S. Lewis book herself. It didn’t occur to her to ask what, if anything, the intruder had against lions, witches, and/or wardrobes.

Raven rubbed her eyes in frustration. She had to report to work in a few hours, but she was too upset to go back to sleep.

With a sigh of resignation, she sat at her desk and opened her laptop. She’d catch up on her e-mail, which she’d been ignoring. When she logged in, she found a number of new messages, including one from her sister.

    Hi Rave,

I tried calling you through FaceTime, but you never answer. Are you avoiding me?

Mom’s wedding was beautiful. It’s too bad you missed it.

Stephen is really nice. He was a plastic surgeon before he retired. He and Mom just moved into a big house on the ocean.

Raven paused her reading to roll her eyes.

    Since you won’t respond to Mom’s e-mails, she asked me to ask you to come home for your birthday. She’ll pay for your ticket and you can stay with me and Dan. Did I mention that we moved in together? I can’t remember.

Mom wants to introduce you to Stephen and his kids. They’re older than us—married with kids of their own. His son is a doctor and his daughter is a dentist.

Come home for a visit. We miss you. We can celebrate your birthday and I’ll show you all the great hot spots in Miami.

You haven’t seen Mom in years and I think it’s time you two got over the past. I like Stephen a lot and he makes Mom happy. I think you’d like him, too, if you gave him a chance.

Dan is planning to take me to Europe to celebrate our two-year anniversary. I’m hoping we’ll be coming over in the middle of June. We’ll stay in a hotel, of course, but I’d like to visit you in Florence. Whether we visit Florence or not, I still want you to come to Miami.

Hey, what happened to that guy you had a crush on? I can’t remember his name. Did you ever ask him out?

Let’s talk soon.

Love,

Cara

XO

Raven sat back from her computer, resisting the urge to send a terse and angry reply.

She loved her sister more than anyone, but they had lived radically different lives. Carolyn was seven years younger, so she didn’t remember their father or the happy life they’d had as a family living in New Hampshire. She certainly didn’t remember the accident.

Raven took a moment to muse on the way her mind always attached a euphemism to the event that had disabled her. She flexed her feet beneath the desk, reminding herself that whatever she called it, its effects had disappeared. That fact alone made her more positively disposed to her mother, but barely.

When Carolyn was old enough, Raven had told her what had happened. Carolyn, to her credit, had listened carefully. But her memories were so at odds with Raven’s account, she had trouble believing it.

On one level, Raven viewed Carolyn’s lack of memory as a good thing, so she didn’t revisit the subject. She remained silent, even in the face of their mother’s revisionist history.

But she refused to see her mother, speak with her, or be in the same room as her until she acknowledged the truth. Which meant she hadn’t seen her mother since she’d left home for college over ten years earlier.

As for Carolyn’s question about her old crush on Bruno, who was her neighbor’s grandson, well, of course it had come to nothing. She’d almost forgotten about it, and him, given the previous day’s events.

    Hi Cara,

It’s good to hear from you.

I’ll think about coming to Miami, but if I do, I’ll pay my own way. I won’t be seeing Mom. She knows why. There’s no point in getting into it.

As for your visit, it would be great to see you. But things are really busy at the moment. Let’s talk later about this, okay? I’m swamped at work.

I love you,

Rave

Raven sent the e-mail and closed her laptop, not bothering to scroll through the rest of her in-box.

She walked to the bathroom, putting thoughts of her troubled family life aside.

She wondered why some unnamed group would take an interest in her. She wasn’t going to abandon everything she’d worked so hard for, just because a mysterious criminal with connections to a secret association told her to leave the city.

She bristled as she remembered what the intruder had said about her sleuthing skills. She was going to redouble her efforts at investigating William York and the Palazzo Riccardi and, hopefully, find something that would convince the police she was not an accomplice to the Uffizi robbery.

As she brushed her teeth, she began formulating a plan. She’d stuff the euros in a shoe box for now, then donate the money to the Franciscan mission.

She spat out her toothpaste and gazed at her appearance. It was still difficult to accept that the attractive woman staring back at her from the mirror was real.

Her gaze dropped to the relic around her neck. She was going to have to hide it under her clothes.

She muttered a few choice expletives and went to get dressed.