Текст книги "The Raven"
Автор книги: Sylvain Reynard
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Chapter Seven
After nightfall, Aoibhe sat in Teatro drinking from a glass specially designed to keep its contents warm and liquid.
Teatro was a secret club, located in the city center. It had been founded by the Prince in the seventeenth century as a kind of salon or meeting place. Over time, it had evolved into something far less intellectual. Now it was owned by the Consilium of Florence, although it hid its ownership behind the name of a Swiss corporation.
Florence and the other secret principalities in Europe predated the Romans. Shadow rulers and their advisers controlled the supernatural population within specific boundaries, usually cities. In the Middle Ages¸ the principalities in Italy had been organized under the ultimate rule of the King, in Rome.
Within the borders of Florence, the Prince had absolute power. In his wisdom, he’d put in place a Consilium, or ruling council, of which he was an honorary member. The Consilium functioned like a court and would punish or banish lawbreakers. It also oversaw the organization of the underworld society and its protection, particularly against incursions from other cities or territories.
When the Prince tired of dealing with Teatro, the Consilium took control, using it as a means of entertainment and nourishment.
The club contained a large central space with a dance floor and a bar; two sides of the area were dotted with tables and low couches. The walls and ceiling were painted a purplish black, the lighting was sensual and sparse, and the furniture was upholstered in velvet—black or red.
There was a stage on the other side of the dance floor that was hung with heavy red velvet curtains. The walls displayed large flat-screens, which cycled through projections of artwork and paintings in a variety of styles—all of the subjects profane, many of them sexual. From the central space, hallways led to private rooms, curving into the darkness like a spider’s web.
The spiders of this web were the inhabitants of the underworld, with the exception of the Prince. It had been years since he’d crossed its threshold. Consequently, it was an excellent place for Aoibhe to recover her injured pride and contemplate how to change his mind.
Her dark eyes passed over the writhing bodies on the dance floor, her mind blocking out the loud, pounding music. Her kind were sensitive to sound and she always found industrial and gothic music dissonant. It was what attracted humans, so it was what the disc jockey played. (Aoibhe would have preferred Irish minstrel music but had no success in persuading the dj to play it. Next time, she was determined to bring earplugs.)
The bar served alcohol to the humans and drugs were freely available. Inebriated victims were easier to manipulate and confuse, but the substances affected the taste. Older, more powerful ones eschewed the usage, choosing rather to seduce or hypnotize their prey, rather than sedate.
Some couples and small groups were engaged in various sexual activities on the couches. Blood and sex went together for Aoibhe’s kind, which meant there was a healthy amount of feeding going on as well. Her nose was filled with the various scents of individual bloods, the aroma heady and unbalancing.
She surveyed the activities with bored detachment. She’d seen it all before and for the moment, at least, nothing interested her. Actual intercourse and certain fetishes were reserved for the private rooms, in deference to the queasiness and social mores of some of the humans. The spiders needed the humans to come in droves every night, without fear and without disclosure.
Aoibhe didn’t care what the others did with their human pets or what they did with one another. As one of the six members of the Consilium, she was obliged to follow the rules of Teatro and see that they were enforced.
No killing.
No transformations.
Feeding must be consensual but mind control and the use of alcohol and drugs are permitted.
The last rule was a puzzle to many, but it served to maintain the seductive atmosphere. Humans were unlikely to come and offer themselves night after night if they saw another human wrestled to the ground, raped, and drained of blood.
Mind control was ineffective on some humans. The strong-minded could not be swayed, nor could the particularly pious or those who wore certain talismans. But members of the latter two categories were not allowed entrance, even if they begged.
Aoibhe sighed. The rules must have been made by the Prince himself, despite his contempt for the club. They smacked of his temperance and control and the humanity that lurked just below the surface of his skin.
She smiled.
He’d let his body rule that morning. Those were the moments she enjoyed most; when the uptight, carefully controlled Prince gave and took pleasure. He was magnificent. He was powerful. He was dangerous.
She wanted him. He’d proved himself an excellent lover, despite his disdain for long-term affairs. Aoibhe felt not a small bit of longing for him and even some affection.
Even more, she wanted his city. As consort, they would share power, and when the eventual fate of their kind seized him, she would have control of the city.
Aoibhe drained her drink and signaled to one of the waitresses to bring her another.
She actively avoided André, the bartender and club manager, because he had a blood disease. His illness made him the ideal middleman between her kind and the humans. No one would touch him unless they were feral because his scent was sickening. She could only imagine how revolting his taste would be.
At that moment, a girl stumbled at Aoibhe’s feet.
“Mercy,” the girl begged, raising terrified blue eyes to Aoibhe’s face.
She put down her drink.
She lifted the girl’s chin, noting blood at the corner of her mouth and flowing from a wound on her neck. The girl was shaking in terror and began clutching Aoibhe’s stilettos.
“Mercy,” she repeated. “I don’t want to die.”
Aoibhe closed her eyes and inhaled.
Humans didn’t realize their actions and emotions affected their scent. Just as a dog could sense anger or fear in a human being, or smell disease, so, too, could the members of Aoibhe’s kind. They’d evolved to the point where they could scent a person’s character. Certain vices, such as rape and murder, made their doers most repulsive, while those who were decent and good smelled—and, more important, tasted—delicious.
This girl smelled sweet enough. Not exceptional, like the one the Prince had found, but certainly tempting. She was clean and, by all signs, good. Aoibhe wondered what had possessed such goodness to come to Teatro.
A large hand reached out to grab the girl’s curly blond hair, jerking her head back.
“For that, you’ll pay.”
“Mercy,” the girl cried, wrapping her arms around Aoibhe’s lower legs. “Please.”
Aoibhe gave Maximilian an impatient look. “If you’re going to flout the rules, do it elsewhere. Or I’ll be forced to report you.”
“Go fornicate yourself, Aoibhe. I’m a member of the Consilium, too. This is none of your concern.”
He pulled the girl to her feet and she began screaming hysterically, thrashing about and trying to crawl into Aoibhe’s lap.
Aoibhe scowled, noting that a group of humans and their nonhuman counterparts had begun to stare in their direction. “You’re making a scene. Get her under control or let her go.”
“No, no!” The girl screamed louder.
Maximilian appeared to be enjoying the spectacle. He wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her against his body, grinding his groin against her backside. He placed his mouth to the wound on her neck and snaked out his tongue, lapping at the blood like a dog.
Aoibhe huffed before reaching out a single finger, forcing the girl to look into her eyes.
“Silence,” she commanded.
The girl stopped moving, despite the man assaulting her neck. Her eyes widened as they fixed on Aoibhe, who spoke in soothing tones.
“You are not afraid. Not anymore. Look into my eyes and focus on the sound of my voice. I am your mistress now.”
The girl nodded almost imperceptibly.
“Inhale deeply and feel your heart slow. That’s a good girl.”
“Aoibhe, stop it.” Max lifted his head, tightening his grip on his prey.
Without breaking eye contact, Aoibhe spoke. “Too late. I told you to get her under control.”
She lifted her hand, signaling to the bouncers, who stood by the door.
Max bellowed in anger and tried to wrench the girl backward. But he was stopped by the arrival of two large men. They functioned as a kind of security for the club and were of the same kind as he and Aoibhe.
She blinked, and the girl closed her eyes and sagged against Max.
“Tomas, Francesco. Be so kind as to escort Sir Maximilian to the exit. He has broken the rules.” Aoibhe glanced at him in distaste.
“You can’t do this! You can’t evict me.” Max leaned forward but Aoibhe held out her hand.
“One more step and I’ll take you outside myself. I’m older than you by at least a century. Do you really want to challenge me?”
Max snorted derisively but didn’t move. He knew, as did Aoibhe, that the older the supernatural being, the more powerful he or she was. Certainly her strength and agility were well-known. If she wanted Max dead, she could kill him. But not within the city—at least, not without cause.
The larger of the two bouncers glanced at the unconscious girl. “What about the human?”
Aoibhe waved a dismissive hand. “He can have her.”
Max’s head jerked in surprise.
She smiled slowly. “Think of her as a final gift. You are no longer welcome here. If you return, I’ll report you to the Consilium and you’ll lose your position.”
Max spat in her direction but she turned her head swiftly, his spittle landing on the wall behind her.
She turned her head and gave him a long, slow smile. “Enjoy your takeaway.”
He lifted the unconscious girl into his arms and the men escorted him from the club.
Those who had paused their activities to watch the clash between the supernatural beings quickly found themselves distracted by other pursuits.
Aoibhe straightened her dress. Dealing with Max and the other masculine egos of her kind was exhausting. Why the devil couldn’t he follow the rules?
The Prince didn’t make public spectacles, even when he happened upon an extraordinary vintage as he’d done recently. He’d simply taken the human and fed on her privately, discreetly disposing of the corpse or having Gregor dispose of it for him.
“You look in want of company.” A smooth voice sounded in her ear.
“Ibarra.” She smiled warmly at the tall Basque who leaned over her.
He kissed her cheeks and signaled to a waitress to bring him a drink.
“How is the fair Aoibhe this evening?” He sat next to her on the sofa, placing his arm around her shoulder.
“Annoyed, at the moment. I’ve just had to have Max thrown out.” She sighed dramatically.
“I’m sure he deserved it.”
“He did. Insolent fool.”
When their drinks arrived, they clinked their glasses before drinking.
Ibarra placed his glass on one of the tables nearby. “We’ll need more recruits if we’re going to oust troublemakers like Max.”
“Just kill him and get it over with.”
“Not within the city.” He winked at her and she laughed.
“Take him outside the city, then. I’ll give you whatever you want if you rid me of him. I’ve had trouble with him twice in as many weeks.”
“Anything I want?” He ran the back of his hand over her neck.
She leaned into his touch. “Within reason, Ibarra. Although I’m sorely tempted to offer you carte blanche at the moment.”
He gave her a hungry look. “I’ll remember that. Rumor says that Max’s trouble was with the Prince.”
“Trouble with the Prince is trouble with me.” Aoibhe’s tone was sharp.
Ibarra smiled sadly. “Alas, I’m too late.”
“You aren’t too late.” She kissed him eagerly but pulled away before he was able to reciprocate. “How go the patrols?”
He groaned, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
“Give me a bit of warning before you do that. Now look at me.” He gestured at his lap in frustration.
“I can arrange to have you serviced while we speak.” Aoibhe turned in the direction of a group of young women seated nearby.
Ibarra placed his hand over her wrist. “I’d prefer you to service me.”
“I’m too old to kneel in public.” She gave him a frosty look and withdrew her hand.
“Who said anything about kneeling? Sit here and I’ll pleasure you.” He gestured to his groin.
She paused, her eyes darting to his lap. Certainly Ibarra was very attractive. And the Prince had always been indifferent to her romantic activities.
“Another time perhaps.” She licked her lips. “Tell me about the patrols.”
“I’ll hold you to that promise.”
“Please do.”
He groaned again, muttering a Basque curse.
“The patrols are good enough. Our borders are secure.”
She arched an eyebrow at him.
He frowned. “What? I speak the truth.”
“A feral slipped past your patrols a few days ago. Pierre happened upon it but the creature got away.”
“An isolated incident. We’re already hunting it and will find it shortly.”
“There are rumors that some of the ferals have banded together. I wouldn’t be in a hurry to fight a war with them. They’re animals.”
Ibarra laughed. “With respect, Aoibhe, we’re animals, too.”
“Hardly.” She sniffed. “And there’s what happened two years ago. The Prince had to fight off a group of assassins by himself. They jumped him by a hotel.”
Ibarra chuckled. “He’s an old one. He can handle himself.”
“A herd of ferals could take down an old one.” She looked off into space for a moment. “How old do you think he is?”
“I’m newer to Florence than you are. You tell me.”
She looked at his dark eyes curiously. “If you had to venture a guess?”
Ibarra ran his fingers through his thick black hair.
“Even if I knew nothing of his history, I’d guess he was an old one, given his strength and discipline. Old ones are at least seven hundred. Since he’s been in possession of this principality since the fourteenth century, he’s much older than that.”
“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.”
Chapter Eight
Raven’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.
