Текст книги "The Raven"
Автор книги: Sylvain Reynard
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Текущая страница: 2 (всего у книги 26 страниц)
Chapter Two
Cassita vulneratus.
Raven awoke with a start.
She’d heard a strange voice whispering in her ear. Of course, there was no one else in her small bedroom. She couldn’t remember what the voice said or if it spoke to her in English or Italian. Something told her the language was neither, but it was a dream, after all. She’d been known to dream in Latin on occasion.
She blinked against the streaming sunlight. It was unusual for the shutters on her bedroom window to be open, but open they were. (Not that Raven focused on the anomaly.)
She’d had the strangest dream, but all she could remember was a vortex of swirling emotions and colors. As an artist, it was not surprising for her to think and dream in color. But it was strange that her memory, which was usually as sharp as a knife, was amorphous.
Yawning, she swung her legs over the side of the bed¸ its narrowness a testament to her single status, and walked to her laptop. She opened her music application and began playing her favorite Mumford and Sons album.
When she entered the bathroom, she didn’t bother looking in the mirror suspended over the vanity. The mirror was only large enough to show her best feature—her face. Even looking at that feature was something Raven avoided.
After her morning ablutions, she wandered into the tiny kitchen of her one-bedroom apartment and began making coffee.
It felt like a Saturday or Sunday, but she was pretty sure she needed to go to work. Seized by a sudden anxiety, she took a few steps to the left, peering into her bedroom. When she caught sight of her knapsack sitting next to the small table that she used as a desk, she breathed a sigh of relief.
She’d drink her coffee and check her e-mail, as was her custom, and figure out what day it was. According to the clock on the wall, it was seven in the morning.
She leaned against the counter. That was when she noticed something had changed.
The old-fashioned nightgown she was wearing should have attracted her attention, since it wasn’t hers. But it didn’t. Instead, she focused on what was visible beneath the hem of her gown. Her right foot, which was normally turned to the side, was symmetrical with the left, something it had not been for over a decade.
She froze. She shouldn’t have been able to walk from her bedroom to the bathroom and to the kitchen without her cane. She shouldn’t have been able to stand on both feet without pain. Yet that was exactly what she’d done.
Raven almost sank to the floor in shock, but she was too busy lifting her formerly injured foot, experimentally rotating the ankle. She repeated the movement with her left. Each foot moved with perfect ease and without discomfort.
She walked into the bedroom and back again. She held her breath and jumped.
Arms held wide, she ran in place, footfall after footfall a mad, enthusiastic triumph over what she knew to be impossible.
It was a miracle.
Raven didn’t believe in miracles, or in any deity or deities who could possibly produce them. She closed her eyes, trying to remember anything from the night before—anything that might serve as a clue for this sudden, momentous transformation. Apart from the whispered voice whose words she could not make out, there was nothing she could hold on to.
Maybe I’m still asleep.
As if to test her hypothesis, she stretched her lower limbs and positioned herself into a wobbly, amateurish arabesque. She held the position as long as she could, revelling in muscle memories long since forgotten. When she finally lost her balance and placed both feet on the floor, she almost wept. Her right foot and leg had done what she’d asked them to, finally. All the damage that had been done to her that terrible, terrible night had been healed.
She heard the Moka espresso maker humming and spitting on the stovetop and rushed to switch off the gas. Opening the small fridge, she withdrew a container of milk.
She glanced at the label, reading it easily. Her eyes widened. She turned the container in her hands, reading the fine print. She blinked, feeling on her face to see if she was wearing her reading glasses.
She wasn’t.
Without her reading glasses, she shouldn’t have been able to make out the words printed beneath the label. But they were clearly visible.
This can’t be happening. I’m delusional.
Raven put the milk on the counter and jogged to the bathroom.
In the mirror, she caught sight of a strange woman and shrieked.
The woman had long, shiny black hair. Her eyes were a sparkling green and she had a lovely oval face with high cheekbones. It was the kind of face, Raven thought, that deserved to be painted. In fact, the image reminded her of the actress Vivien Leigh.
She jumped back in fright.
So did the woman.
She moved to the right.
So did the woman.
It took a moment for her to realize the woman in the mirror was her reflection.
In amazement, she touched her face, her cheekbones, her mouth, with its full lower lip.
Raven knew how she was supposed to look—plain, overweight, and with a leg that didn’t work right. Yet her appearance was that of a beautiful young woman with two completely functional legs.
Was she hallucinating?
But my senses seem to be working. I can hear, touch, see, and smell.
Was her previous appearance and injury a nightmare? She stepped into the hall and peered into her bedroom, which was decorated with framed prints of Botticelli’s Primavera and the Birth of Venus, along with personal photographs. Pictures of herself and her sister, Carolyn, gazed at her from her bookcase, confirming her previous appearance.
She didn’t believe in miracles, the supernatural, or anything that couldn’t be investigated by science. She had to be hallucinating. There was no other scientific explanation.
She tried to remember what she’d done the day before. She recalled going to work, but she couldn’t remember anything afterward. What if she’d been drugged?
Perhaps if she returned to work, her friends could help her. If she was ill, they could take her to a doctor. And if she’d been drugged…
Raven pulled the nightgown over her head, pausing to examine the material. It appeared to be made of cotton that had once been white but was now yellowed. The neckline was trimmed with ornate lace and a faded pink ribbon. A row of antique pearl buttons dotted the front from neckline to waist. In short, not only was the nightgown a stranger to her, it appeared to be from the previous century.
Now she was naked, next to the mirror.
She retrieved a small footstool from the kitchen and stood on top of it.
Raven never looked at herself naked. That was a sight she studiously avoided. But this morning she cursed the fact that her only mirror was so small.
Her skin was creamy and perfect, its surface unblemished by scars or stretch marks. Her breasts were firmer, sitting high on her chest. Her figure was an hourglass, her waist tiny, her hips gently flaring out.
She contorted herself atop the stool so that she could get a better view of her hips and backside. Cellulite was noticeably absent from her thighs.
I don’t know what they gave me, but it must have been a very strong drug.
Worried she might have been assaulted, Raven examined her skin for any signs of trauma. She found nothing.
She cautiously parted her legs, slipping her hand between them in order to check for any tenderness. She breathed a sigh of relief when all seemed normal.
Of course, if I’m hallucinating my appearance, I could be hallucinating the absence of trauma.
Raven wondered if all victims of hallucination were so reasonable, and once again, she attributed both effects to the drug she’d no doubt been given.
She pulled on her bathrobe, though it dwarfed her now smaller size, and picked up her cell phone, quickly realizing that it was out of power. She moved to her desk with the intention of picking up the cord to charge her phone. A glance at her computer screen revealed that it was Monday morning. She didn’t know how she’d forgotten her entire weekend, but she needed to skip checking her e-mail and get moving if she was going to make it to her job at the Uffizi by eight o’clock.
She gulped her coffee and dressed, pulling on an old pair of yoga pants and a T-shirt because they were the only items in her limited wardrobe that wouldn’t be ridiculously oversized. Hurriedly, she brushed her hair and her teeth, switching off her music and tossing her cell phone and charger cord into her knapsack.
She tried to find her favorite sneakers, but gave up after a few moments, thrusting her feet into a pair of casual black shoes that had been carelessly tossed into her closet. She’d search for the sneakers under the bed later.
Consequently, she didn’t see the unfamiliar box that was hidden below where she slept, just out of sight.
As she locked the door to her flat and stepped onto the landing, she saw Dolcezza, her neighbor’s cat.
“Buongiorno, Dolcezza.” Raven smiled at the animal and reached out a hand to pet her.
The cat withdrew, hissing and arching its back.
“Dolcezza, what’s the matter?” Raven crouched, making another attempt to approach the cat, but it continued hissing, thrashing its tail wildly and lashing out with its paws.
At that moment, Signora Lidia DiFabio opened the door to her apartment and called for the cat, who raced past her legs as if a demon from hell were chasing it.
“Good morning.” Raven waved to her neighbor, wondering how she would react to her change in appearance.
“Good morning, my dear.” Lidia smiled.
“How are you this morning?”
Lidia rubbed at her temple. “Oh, a little tired. I just haven’t been feeling well these past few days.”
Raven came a few steps closer. “Can I help?”
“Oh, no. Bruno will be here later. I’m just going to go and lie down. Enjoy your day.”
Raven waved good-bye to her neighbor and clambered down the stairs. She was surprised that Lidia hadn’t seemed to notice her appearance or new, slimmer figure. Perhaps it was because Lidia wasn’t wearing her glasses.
Raven was even more surprised by the cat’s sudden change of temper. She’d always been on affectionate terms with Dolcezza and had frequently fed and cuddled the animal. Their relationship had never been anything but friendly.
Normally she descended the flight of stairs in her building like a turtle, moving slowly with the aid of her cane. On this morning, she ran.
It was liberating to be able to move without the burden of added weight or the pain she normally experienced. Without thinking much about it, she jogged all the way from her flat in Santo Spirito and across the Ponte Santa Trinita.
Then she stopped.
Angelo, the homeless man who was usually seated next to the bridge, was absent.
Raven took a moment to look for him, wondering if he’d merely changed location, but he was nowhere to be found. His belongings, which were normally placed next to the bridge in one favorite spot, were also gone.
She felt a prickly feeling on the back of her neck. In all the time she’d lived in Santo Spirito, Angelo was seated next to the bridge morning and evening.
She made a mental note to stop by the Franciscan mission, which he sometimes visited, in order to check on him.
Glancing at her watch and seeing she had mere moments before she was supposed to start work, Raven continued running to the Uffizi, a distance of one and a half kilometers. The sensation of her feet hitting the pavement, the jarring of her lower legs and knees—all these feelings were eagerly embraced.
A gentle breeze caressed her cheek and hair as it spilled over her shoulders and knapsack. She felt stronger, bolder, more confident. She felt as if she’d been given a new body and a new outlook.
With every step, she grew less and less concerned about what had caused such a dramatic reversal of her bad fortune.
Consequently, she was unaware of the mysterious figure who’d been shadowing her since she left her building.
It was the happiest morning of her life.
Chapter Three
The Prince climbed the stairs to his bedroom in the Palazzo Riccardi, an old Medici palace. He’d returned the wounded lark to her world. Now he returned to his.
And what a world it was—dark, violent, destructive.
As he entered the room, he caught sight of his reflection and pushed a few wayward strands of blond hair from his forehead. He never spent long looking at himself, despite the fact that his body was far more attractive now than it had been in life.
Favor is deceitful, and beauty is vain.
Funny how he could still quote Scripture. Funny how he, who had once been a servant of God, was now counted among the Church’s enemies.
He frowned, thinking of a beautiful face with green eyes.
He pushed her image aside. He’d recklessly interfered in human affairs because of a centuries-old memory. Because of another beautiful face with haunting eyes…
He scrubbed his face with both hands. His body never tired but his mind needed rest. On this morning, he wanted nothing other than to spend hours in quiet meditation. But that would not be possible. He’d scented Aoibhe the moment he’d entered the palace, and she was behind him.
“You’ve been hiding.” She spoke to her erstwhile lover in English, rolling to her side on the large bed and absolutely neglecting to cover her naked body.
(She had few virtues. Modesty was not among them.)
Dawn was just peeking over the horizon. In a few hours the lark, no longer wounded, would awake in her apartment. But at this moment, the Prince forced himself to forget her and gazed hungrily at Aoibhe’s naked form, her firm, full breasts and long, tempting red hair.
He licked his lips. “Good morning to you, too. How did you know I’d be here?”
“I guessed. You’ve been in that impenetrable fortress of yours for days. I knew you’d have to feed eventually. Then you’d come here.”
“I thought I changed the locks.” He pulled the blackout shades over the windows. The action was for her comfort, not his.
Unbeknownst to the others, he could brave the sunlight.
Aoibhe rested her head on an upturned hand, looking remarkably like a Renaissance painting.
“You did. I wandered into the museum and persuaded one of the servants to allow me upstairs. I would have come to you at the fortress, but as you know, I can’t pass through the gates.”
The Prince ignored her pout, his gray eyes narrowing. “Is the servant dead?”
“Of course not. Merely—indisposed.” She lifted a pillow and threw it at him. “I wouldn’t kill one of your humans. At least, not without asking.”
He cursed, batting the pillow aside. His memory was drawn to the green-eyed girl, cowering in an alley while Aoibhe begged him to share the “exceptional vintage.” The memory, like the feelings that accompanied it, made him uneasy.
He turned his back. “Servants are easily replaced, but it’s inconvenient to do so every time a guest gets hungry.”
Aoibhe paused, for she’d seen the discomfort that flitted across his face a moment before. “You never used to care about them. I can recall when you executed your entire staff on a whim.”
Her comment hung in the air as he crossed over to the aged wardrobe opposite the bed.
“I don’t have whims, Aoibhe. I executed them for good reason, I assure you. Servants are like clothes. As long as they remain useful, I’ll keep them. When they outlive their usefulness, I dispose of them. Perhaps it’s more correct to say that I mourn the departure of a nice garment. A servant? Not so much.”
The Prince removed his black jacket and hung it up before retreating to a chair and attending to his boots.
Aoibhe continued to watch him. “This is what I find so curious about you. You’re the most human of any of us in some ways, but the least human in others.”
“I’m sure there’s a compliment in there somewhere,” he said wryly.
“You’re our prince, but no one knows how you keep your fortress secure or who your maker was.” She lowered her voice. “Not even I know when you were brought across, although I surmise it was a few hundred years before me.”
“Is there a question?” His tone was gruff as he placed his boots next to the wardrobe, avoiding her probing gaze.
She lowered her voice to a soft, seductive whisper. “We’re lovers. Tell me your secrets.”
He gave her a pointed look. “We aren’t lovers, Aoibhe. We simply fornicate on occasion.” As if to emphasize the point, he stood and removed his shirt.
She closed her eyes and inhaled as his scent swirled in the room. “You killed a human this evening, but fed on another. I smell someone’s blood on you and a different one in you.”
“A fool surprised me while I was feeding.”
She opened her eyes. “Then why not enjoy dessert?”
“You’re losing your sense of smell. I don’t have a taste for rapists.” He removed a man’s silver Baume et Mercier watch from his pocket and tossed it to her.
She caught it and admired its elegant simplicity in the lamplight before dropping it on the nightstand. “A pity you were the one to end him, since you’re so indifferent to human affairs. I would have made him suffer.”
“He suffered well enough.” The Prince’s gray eyes twinkled. “You would have enjoyed it. He begged for his life, confessing his most secret sins. He even soiled himself.” The Prince smiled, exposing white and perfect teeth. “He said his name was Professor Pacciani.”
“The Paccianis produced a professor? I can hardly believe it.”
(The name Pacciani was shared by a famous serial killer who had haunted Florence for decades. Of course, the humans didn’t know that a number of the killer’s alleged victims had been contributed by Aoibhe herself, and the others of her kind.)
“You killed a rapist. You ended three men last week in order to feed on that girl. This is strange behavior. Why the sudden interest in humans? You let the serial killer prey on the city for years.”
He busied himself with his socks. “I interfere when it’s in my interest.”
Aoibhe rolled onto her stomach, exposing her beautiful back and backside. She tossed her hair over her shoulder.
“It wasn’t in your interest to dismember the men in an alley and leave the pieces to rot.”
The Prince’s gaze flew to hers. “Gregor disposed of the corpses.”
“You could have frightened them away or used mind control.” She gazed at him curiously. “Max isn’t the only one who found your actions peculiar. There’s been talk among the Consilium members.”
He leveled cold eyes on her, his expression menacing. “If Maximilian wishes to talk, he knows where to find me. He won’t like how that conversation ends.”
She shivered and looked away. “I spoke in your favor, of course. I would have done whatever it took to secure the girl, even if it meant dispatching the men. She was exquisite. And they were going to waste it.”
The Prince said nothing but stood, removing his leather belt with a resounding snap.
Aoibhe toyed with the sheet, watching him. “How did it taste?”
He coiled the belt in his hand before placing it carefully on the wardrobe shelf. “My appetite is never quenched.”
Once again, Aoibhe laughed. “You need to take a lover—a human pet to fulfill your needs, day and night. There are beautiful women and men at Teatro. You’d have your choice.”
He hid his grimace by closing the wardrobe door.
The muscles of his naked chest and arms rippled with every movement, and Aoibhe admired them, wetting her lips with her tongue.
“In all the years I’ve known you, you’ve never had a woman for an extended period of time. Why?”
He turned his head minutely, spearing her with his gaze. “Humans aren’t meant to be enjoyed for an extended period. They lack resilience. Besides, I had you.”
“Our coupling has not been frequent.”
The Prince pressed a fist to the wardrobe door and clenched his teeth. “You took a new human lover less than a month ago. Where is he this morning? Dusting your palace on his knees, naked?”
She rolled to her back, breasts exposed, staring up at the ornate canopy overhead. “Human lovers lack stamina. I nearly killed him within a week. And he has to sleep, on occasion.”
“Ah, yes. Humans have to sleep.” The Prince removed his black trousers and tossed them over the chair. “So you’ve enjoyed his body for the evening and now arrive to enjoy mine for the day. How flattering.”
She turned her face toward him. “Nothing compares to our kind. And you’ve always been… attentive.” Her dark eyes lingered on his muscled, lean frame before resting on the firmness of his backside. “I’m sure you were never in want of female company when you were human. There must have been a legion of sweet young virgins outside your home, begging to be seduced.”
The Prince turned so quickly the movement was a blur, his eyes darkening and almost pinning her to the bed. “Cave, Aoibhe,” he growled.
She lifted her hands in apology. “I beg pardon. I forgot you were a priest.”
“I was no priest,” he spat out. He crossed the room, planting his fists on the mattress and leaning over her. “I was a novice. Do you intend to talk all day or did you plant yourself in my bed for some other purpose?”
She reached out a hand and wrapped it around his wrist, her touch soft and sensuous. “You’ve been in Florence so much longer than the rest of us and you’ve guarded your past securely. Can you blame me for a lapse in memory? I know so little about you.”
He gave her a heated look. “You know enough, it would seem, in order to bed me. You’ve entered my home, you’ve taken off your clothes, and you’ve deposited yourself between my sheets. Shall we get on with it?”
“Just a moment, my prince.” She gave him a patient smile. “You served the Church. You lived in an age in which women were supposed to remain virgins until they married. Perhaps that’s all you can countenance. Tell me, is that why you haven’t chosen a consort?”
The Prince disentangled himself from her grasp.
“Precious few of our kind survive the change with virginity intact.”
“I was a virgin once.” Her tone was almost wistful. “Before my father insulted one of the English lords. My maker had a surprise when he took me. He favored virgins, too, but misread my scent.”
“I’m sure you had other virtues that more than made up for it.”
Aoibhe squinted, trying to read his expression. She shook her head.
“No human lover, no assignations at Teatro, and no consort. Of course you’re angry and in need of release. Man cannot live by blood alone.”
“If you’re so concerned about my sexual needs, then you’d best do something about them.” He spoke sharply. “I’m going to put something in your mouth to silence you if you don’t stop talking.”
“I’m trying to help. We are friends, are we not? After so many years?” She smiled prettily, sliding over so there was room beside her.
He stood naked and proud, his erection straining toward her. His hands clasped into fists at his sides and the tendons in his arms rippled.
“Friends? No. But you’ve certainly been a welcome ally.” His gaze traveled the length of her body and up again, resting on her breasts.
She sighed and rolled her eyes heavenward. “I suppose that’s the most I can hope for from an Englishman. It’s a good thing I gave up killing your countrymen in the nineteenth century.”
“Enough.” He moved quickly, stretching his body over hers.
“Finally,” she whispered, pressing her red lips to his neck.
His hands moved up and down her sides, digging into her perfect skin.
She purred like a cat at his touch and lifted her right breast to his open and eager mouth.
He licked it, encircling the nipple several times before drawing it between his teeth. She arched off the bed at the sensation, lifting her other breast for his attention.
He repeated the movement before closing his mouth and sucking.
Aoibhe moaned, thrashing her head from side to side. He raised her thigh, pulling her leg around his hip before entering her. She groaned heavily as he began to move.
Their coupling was active and frenetic, as was typical of their kind. The Prince’s strength was such that he could hold himself over her with one arm, while he drove into her again and again.
Aoibhe lifted her hips to meet his thrusts before rolling him and climbing on top. With a triumphal cry, she rode him vigorously, head thrown back.
His hands explored her bouncing breasts before he sat up and replaced his hands with his mouth.
Aoibhe groaned her pleasure, trying to capture his mouth in a kiss, but he lifted her bodily and sprang out of bed, pressing her back against the wall.
She tried to kiss him again, but again he spurned her, whispering his lips up and down the column of her throat.
He felt her begin to orgasm and thrust into her more deeply. As was the case with their kind, her orgasm lasted several minutes.
When she had finished, she dragged him back to the bed and climbed atop him again, moving so quickly her body shimmered in the air.
With a cry, he thrust up his hips, emptying himself in her.
Aoibhe growled and bared her teeth, bending to sink them into his neck.
In an instant, he pushed her to her back, pinning her arms over her head. His body continued to shudder with his orgasm, his breathing almost labored.
“No,” he snarled, his gray eyes flashing with anger.
She had no choice but to nod as he continued moving within her. They were almost matched in height and in size, but he was older and far more powerful. He could end her handily and take her body out of the city to burn it beyond recognition. No one would ever be the wiser.
She stared up with wide, panicked eyes, holding her breath.
When he was spent, he hung his head, a few locks of his hair skimming her breasts.
“Let me be your consort,” she whispered, as her womb fluttered from the aftershocks, the pleasure continuing to flow through her. “We’ll rule Florence together. Drink from me and I’ll drink from you.”
She exposed her neck and what lay below the surface of her skin.
The Prince opened his eyes slowly, like a gray-eyed dragon, and growled.
“Please,” she begged.
He dislodged himself from her and walked naked toward the wardrobe.
She sat up, fanning a shaking hand over her throat.
“What are you afraid of, my love? The connection that comes from the exchange of blood?”
He glared. “Don’t use appellations you don’t mean. Your honesty is one of the few things I’ve always admired about you.”
She pressed her lips together, but said nothing.
The Prince retrieved a clean set of black clothes from the wardrobe and approached the bed. “The palace is at your disposal until sundown. I’ll instruct the servants. See to it you leave me with the full complement.”
She studied him, her hair a riot of red curls around her lovely oval face.
“I thought we’d progressed a little over the past centuries. I was mistaken.”
He clenched his jaw. “Don’t lie to me. Everything you do is calculated.”
“I don’t deny it, but in this case I’m doing you a favor. We won the war with the Venetians, but how long will the peace last? And what about the attempt on your life? We still haven’t discovered who helped the Venetians breach our borders. You must take a consort, if only to strengthen and protect your position. I’m one of your oldest friends. I’m the obvious choice.”
He regarded her, studying her face and expression with restrained hostility.
She threw back the bedclothes and stood before him.
“You have to be thinking of the future. How old are you? Who knows how long you have before the—”
“Enough,” he interrupted. “Our coupling has not been frequent, as you mentioned, but it has been fair. Until today.”
He took a moment to admire her body, the creamy cast of her skin, her gentle curves and long legs. He shook his head.
“Your performance was unnecessary. I would have given you the same answer had you approached me in the street. We’re allies, Aoibhe, not lovers. And from now on, that is all we shall be. Don’t come here again.”
And with that, he swept from the room.
