The Raven (The Florentine 1)

“Precisely. They appeared in Switzerland after they were stolen from me.”

“Before the turn of the nineteenth century?” Raven laughed. “But that would make you—”

“Yes.”

She rolled her eyes in disbelief. “What’s your connection with Palazzo Riccardi?”

“None of your business.”

“The painting in your room upstairs, who’s the artist?”

William stopped, pinning her to the chair with a look so sharp, she felt it. “You know who the artist is.”

“I’ve never seen that painting before.”

“You have, actually, when I brought you here to save your life. The artist, of course, is Botticelli.”

“Impossible.”

“Why?”

“Because of Mercury and Zephyr. Their faces . . .” She stopped, confused.

“It isn’t impossible. Use your powers of inference.”

“I am. I’m familiar with all of Botticelli’s works. I’ve never seen that painting before.”

He smiled. “Because I’ve owned it for years and I’ve never let anyone see it.”

“How long have you owned it?”

William clenched his jaw. “Since it was painted.”

Raven erupted in a scoffing laugh. “Nice try, ancient one. Botticelli died in 1510.”

“He nearly died earlier. When I discovered he’d painted my likeness in a work, I decided to kill him. He offered me a few things and I changed my mind.”

Raven stood and began walking toward the door. “I don’t find your delusions funny. I find them pitiable. You need to get help and I need to go home.”

William blurred past her and stood at the door, barring her way.

Raven’s eyes widened in shock. “How did you do that?”

“I’m quick.” He moved away from the door and stalked toward her.

She retreated, holding her hand up as if to keep him away.

“You’re disturbed. Let me go.”

He approached her determinedly.

“If I let you go, all my striving will be for naught. Someone like Max will come upon you and kill you. Or worse.”

She froze. “Like what?”

William stopped when their feet were almost touching.

“Like keeping you as a pet until he tires of you.”

William stood so close she could feel his breath on her face.

She focused on the door, willing herself not to be distracted by his nearness.

Realization suddenly dawned on her.

“You traffic in humans.” Her gaze moved to his face. “You sell them as sex slaves.”

William’s expression quickly morphed from anger to surprise to amusement.

“Not quite.”

“Who else keeps human beings as pets?” she demanded.

“Those who feed on them.”

“Feed?” Raven began backing away, keeping her gaze fixed on William. “You’re a cannibal.”

William drew himself up to his full height.

“Hardly.

“I am a vampyre.”

Chapter Twenty-four

If time could be measured by grains of sand flowing through an hourglass, there would have been enough sand to form a small sand castle in the bottom of the glass. That was how long it took for Raven to process William’s declaration and react to it.

“You’re sick.”

(She had difficulty coming up with a more descriptive response, given the fantastic nature of his claim.)

“No, I am not.” William was visibly irritated. “I am perfectly well.”

“I think cannibalism counts as a mental illness. I don’t mean to make light of it, because clearly you need help. And a dietician.”

Raven was not trying to be funny, but found herself giggling out of nervousness.

William was not amused.

He walked past her and circled his desk, opening one of the side drawers.

Raven should have taken that opportunity to flee the library, but she was curious about what he was doing. Until she realized he was withdrawing a dagger.

It was old-fashioned and far from small, boasting a gold handle.

“What’s that for?” She started backing away from him.

“I’m going to challenge your view of the supernatural. I’d advise you to stay. You’ll want to see this.”

Raven continued moving toward the door, but she kept her eyes on him.

He went to one of the bookshelves and withdrew a large, heavy volume. Raven noticed that it was a copy of Dante’s Divine Comedy.

William placed it on the center of his desk. He glanced in her direction as the music swelled.

Raven’s hand found the doorknob and she twisted, eager to leave.

Unfortunately, the doorknob wouldn’t move.

She tried it again. The door was locked.

“Jane,” he called to her.

She was about to pound on the door and scream for Lucia, when she saw William put his left hand on top of the book.

Staring at her, he lifted the dagger and plunged it into the back of his hand.

Raven screamed.

“Oh, my God! Oh, my God. Oh, my God. What are you doing?”

Without thought for her safety, she raced forward, ignoring the pain in her leg.

She saw a blackish fluid pouring from the wound in his hand. She wondered if it could be blood.

“You’re okay, William. You’re going to be okay. It’s just a cut,” she lied as she pulled her white cardigan from her shoulders. “We’ll take you to the hospital.” She tried to press the sweater around the dagger, which was still sticking out of his hand, pinning him to the heavy book.

William’s face was impassive.

He hadn’t cried out. He hadn’t even flinched.

Calmly, he pushed her cardigan aside and, with a great wrench, pulled the dagger out.

The sound was sickening.

“Why did you do that? You’re going to bleed to death!” Raven pushed the sweater toward his hand.

Once again he waved her aside. With a handkerchief, he swiped the blackish substance from the center of his hand and held it in front of her face, palm toward her.

The hole in his hand was so large, Raven could see through it.

He must have shattered bone with the dagger, or perhaps he’d missed the bones entirely. She couldn’t be certain.

She dropped her cardigan to the floor. “Holy shit.”

William came around the side of the desk to stand in front of her.

“Watch carefully.” His tone was ominous.

A moment later, the wound in his hand began to close. Raven watched as a milky film formed over the hole. Sinew and skin seemed to grow over the film before her eyes.

He moved his hand, displaying the back as well as the front. The wound had disappeared.

Thinking it was an illusion, Raven grabbed his hand, peering at it closely.

She traced the palm with her finger. It felt like flesh and not a prosthetic. She couldn’t even see a scar.

On his desk was the book with a large, deep incision still visible.

She lifted her face. “How did you do that?”

“I could repeat the experiment, if you like. I could do it a thousand times, but the outcome will always be the same. I’m not human; I am a vampyre.”

Raven dropped his hand and tried to race for the exit.

He cut her off.

He lifted his hands, palms toward her.

“Jane.”

She retreated to the metal staircase and scrambled to the top, shouting as she climbed. “Help! Help!”

“No one will come to your aid. Lucia, Ambrogio, and the others do exactly as I tell them, without exception.” William stood at the bottom of the staircase. He did not look pleased. “Climb down from there before you fall.”

“Don’t come near me!” She reached over and pulled a very heavy atlas from one of the shelves.

“Sard,” he

swore, throwing the bloodstained handkerchief on the floor next to her cardigan. “I’m sure the revelation comes as a shock, given your preconceived notions. But you should remember that I’ve done nothing but help you.”

“Let me go.”

He straightened his shoulders. “I can’t do that.”

“Yes, you can. I’ve done nothing to you. Just let me go.”

William regarded her, his face taking on a contemplative expression.

“You thought I was a cannibal and yet you came to my aid. You sacrificed your white sweater for my wound.”

“You were bleeding, for God’s sake! Of course I tried to help.”

“Not of course. Few have ever lifted a finger to help me in the past few centuries. When they did, it was always with an agenda. You’ve not only surprised me, you’ve impressed me. And I am not easily impressed.”

He stepped to a table nearby and poured a deep purplish liquid into a goblet.