Текст книги "The Raven"

Автор книги: Sylvain Reynard

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Текущая страница: 6 (всего у книги 26 страниц)

Chapter Nine

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

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

Nothing happened.

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

Nothing happened.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She startled.

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

“I am waiting,” he growled.

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

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

“I don’t have any money.”

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

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

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

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

She wondered why he was hiding his appearance.

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

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

“What were you looking for?”

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

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

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

“Silly, right? It was a mistake.”

“Who were you looking for?”

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

“William York.”

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

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

“No. I’ve never met him.”

“Then why were you looking for him?”

“No reason.”

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

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

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

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

The hand flexed again.

“Um, I work at the Uffizi and—”

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

“You know that?” she repeated.

“I know a great many things. Continue.”

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

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

The hand lifted from her shoulder.

Raven strained her ears, listening for any movement.

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

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

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

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

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

“Who said this?”

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

Raven cringed.

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

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

“Emerson was talking to Dottor Vitali.”

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

“Yes.”

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

“No.”

The intruder was silent.

Raven waited for him to do something.

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

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

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

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

Raven froze.

“You followed me?”

“Answer my question. And tell the truth.”

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

“A homeless man?”

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

She heard the man move, almost imperceptibly.

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

“Had Ordo Fratrum Minorum seen him?”

“Ordo Fratrum Minorum?” she repeated.

“The Franciscans,” he clarified impatiently.

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

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

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

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

She frowned. “Of course.”

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

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

The man hummed, as if her answer displeased him.

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

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

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

“Mercy,” she whispered.

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

She hesitated, and he laughed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Leave Florence and never return.”

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

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

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

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

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

The intruder laughed darkly.

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

Raven’s body tensed. “Why?”

“The less you know, the better.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Silence!” he hissed.

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

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

He loosened his hold but still held her aloft.

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

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

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

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

“How do you know so much about them?”

“Because I am one of them.”

Raven stilled.

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

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

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

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

She nodded, trying to catch her breath once again.

“Good.”

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

“Do you have night-vision glasses?”

“I am the darkness made visible.”

Raven shivered.

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

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

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

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

She sat very still. “Why?”

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

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

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

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

“What’s this?”

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

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

“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.

Chapter Ten

The 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.