The Raven (The Florentine 1)

“Then why didn’t you oppose his execution?”

“I’m fond of my head, my prince. I’d like to keep it.”

William’s body relaxed slightly. “I welcome whatever information you have to offer, Aoibhe, now and in future.”

“I will make enquiries, discreetly, and report my findings to you. I think it’s clear someone has been whispering to the hunters.”

“See that you don’t take anyone else into your confidence. We don’t know how many of them there are.”

“Of course. I suspect Max but he isn’t intelligent enough to mastermind a plot. It’s possible the Venetians approached him, but I doubt it.” Aoibhe placed her hand on the Prince’s sleeve. “Whatever vulnerabilities you have, they are small in number. I saw you fight the hunters. Their weapons had no effect on you.”

He gave her a half smile. “I believe your perceptions at the time were somewhat altered.”

“I was immobilized, not unconscious.” She stared at him for a moment, challenging him with her eyes. “I pride myself in never underestimating others. I’ve known you a very long time and even I underestimated you.”

His smile bloomed disarmingly. “I am an old one, Aoibhe. You know this.”

She shook her head. “I’ve known old ones. I was the lover of one in Paris before I came here. He could not do what you do. No one can. Why would a vampyre with so much power content himself with the city of Florence when he could rule Europe, or the Americas, instead?”

He freed his arm from her grasp.

“Perhaps because I’m not as powerful as you think.”

Aoibhe gazed on him with admiration. “An old Medicean trick—appear humble before the people, so as not to arouse their anger or jealousy.”

He dismissed her remark with a wave of his hand. “Evil has its own logic.”

“I’ve yet to meet an evildoer who’s as concerned as you are with protecting the innocent.”

“Pure pragmatism. We learned our lesson during the Black Death. If we feed on children, we’ll destroy our food supply.”

“Evil doesn’t care about such things and we both know it.” She shivered, glancing over her shoulder. “Besides, that wasn’t the innocence I was referring to. Since you are without your pet for the evening, why don’t you join me at my residence? You look weary and in need of diversion.”

“I won’t return to your bed,” he rumbled.

“As you wish.” She tossed her hair. “I’m sure you’ll find me when you get lonely enough. While you’re brooding, you should reflect on the story of Faustus, the Prince of Sardinia. He elevated his pet to consort and the principality rose up against him and destroyed her. They delivered him to the Curia.”

“I have no intention of taking a consort, Aoibhe. You’d do well to recognize that.”

“I’m not likely to forget it.”

She bowed very low and leapt from the top of the building to the street behind the palazzo before disappearing into the shadows.

The Prince clenched and unclenched his fists before letting out a frustrated cry toward the heavens.

Chapter Fifty-three

Days turned into weeks, and soon it was July and Gina was making plans to throw a birthday party in Raven’s honor.

“Who shall we invite?” Gina sat with Raven on the loggia near the Uffizi after work one evening. Her pen was poised above a pad of paper, waiting.

“You and Patrick, of course.”

“What about friends from the restoration lab?”

Raven smiled. “Not Professor Urbano; I don’t think he’d join us. But everyone else, I suppose.”

“Even Anja?”

Raven sighed. “It wasn’t her fault I was gone for a week and she was chosen to replace me. Sure, invite her.”

“Anyone else? How about Bruno?”

“We aren’t really friends. His grandmother said he’s dating someone now.”

Gina squeezed her arm sympathetically. “Is there no one else? No one special?”

Raven ignored the implication and put William out of her mind.

“My sister and her boyfriend were supposed to be coming for a visit but they’ve postponed it. I’d invite my neighbor, Bruno’s grandmother, but she’s getting chemotherapy and wouldn’t feel up to it.”

“I’d like to invite my cousin Roberto.” Gina’s tone was hesitant.

“That’s cool.” Raven glanced down at the guest list. It was very short.

“I think you and he would get along well. He’s studying literature at the university. He’s very handsome.” Gina paused. “And he’s blind.”

Raven shifted her feet on the stone step, feeling very uncomfortable.

“Would it be all right if I introduced you to him?” Gina watched Raven’s reaction.

She shrugged. “Sure. I don’t want to be set up with anyone right now. But I’d like to meet him.”

“I know he’d be happy to meet you.” Gina changed the subject, asking Raven about the menu.

She gave polite but distant answers, her mind distracted by the subtext of Gina’s suggestion about her cousin.

Later, when Raven’s lunch break was over and she was walking the corridors of the Uffizi, she had time to reflect on Gina’s remark.

It was, perhaps, ungenerous to assume that Gina was trying to match her up with her cousin simply because he was blind and Raven walked with a cane.

But Raven couldn’t help but feel that Gina, like many others, assumed that disabled persons should be matched with other disabled persons. As if one’s disability defined one’s entire existence. As if a person who didn’t have a (visible) disability wouldn’t be interested in someone who did.

The thought angered her.

While she mused, Raven found herself drawn to the second floor, fighting the tourists to enter the Botticelli room. Once again she stood in front of Primavera, staring at the figure of Mercury.

She admired him, as she always did. But this time her admiration was tinged with sadness.

Her gaze moved to Zephyr. Zephyr the monster, floating among the trees. He’d seen her disability. He hadn’t insisted on fixing her. In fact, he’d said she wasn’t broken.

In their last conversation, he’d made it sound as if she were leaving him because of his own disability—vampyrism.

She stood, eyes unfocused, as she recalled the conversation she’d had with him on that very topic, while they were dancing at Teatro.

Was it fair for him to compare vampyrism to a disability?

As a disabled person, Raven bristled at the suggestion.

But if her worldview was correct and there was no such thing as normal—if all beings, human and otherwise, had disabilities in some sense—then she had to admit that William was disabled as well. Certainly, existing without the ability to love was a disability.

Raven began to suspect she should have treated William with more compassion and more understanding—the way she, herself, desired to be treated.

But compassion and understanding didn’t entail the denial of one’s own basic needs. Raven needed l

ove. She deserved love. All the compassion and understanding in the world would never substitute for it.

She sighed and took a step closer to the painting.

The difference between the Primavera in the Uffizi and the Primavera in William’s villa was striking. Botticelli had added Flora to the Uffizi version, while William’s painting featured only Zephyr grabbing a frightened Chloris.

William’s version didn’t portray a happy ending, perhaps because he hadn’t experienced one. He’d captured Allegra, without love but perhaps with affection, and once she realized who’d captured her heart she’d killed herself.

Hundreds of years later, he’d captured Raven. She loved him but she hadn’t stayed with him. She hadn’t become his Flora.

William’s happy ending still eluded him.

No doubt he’d find someone else in time—another Chloris—in the person of Aoibhe or a human being. And the cycle would repeat.

Forever.

What a miserable existence. To never love anyone.

Raven studied the painting.

She studied herself.

Her future looked a great deal like her past, filled with hard but rewarding work and a few good friends. There would be Brunos, perhaps, and Robertos. But there would never, ever be another William.

I could return to him.

The mere idea had her heart racing and the pain in her middle easing temporarily.

But the specter of despair haunted her whenever she thought of spending the rest of her life with someone who saw her only as a sexual partner with whom he shared a degree of affection, like a pet.

Maybe that’s all love is—sex and affection.

Even as she thought the words she knew there was more. There was the absolute nakedness of being vulnerable with one’s lover, trusting him or her to accept that vulnerability and not use it to destroy. There was the trust that came with sharing secrets, knowing that one would not be betrayed. There was the sacrifice of knowing one might be hurt, yet loving anyway.

All these things she hoped for, but he had not given them. Perhaps he would never give them. Perhaps he would one day find someone he could love.