The Raven

  He caught it and tore the robe from his shoulders, lifting the sword high just as Ibarra lashed at his head.

  The clash of metal against metal echoed in the hall as the two supernatural beings did battle.

  The Prince had the advantage as he stood above Ibarra on the platform. But he advanced down the stairs, striking blow after blow.

  Ibarra was strong, but clearly no match for the Prince. Again and again he lunged, looking for an opening, while the Prince easily deflected every thrust.

  At once Ibarra swung at the Prince’s legs and the Prince jumped, somersaulting over his back. Before Ibarra knew what was happening, the Prince slashed at his head, the sword whistling as it sliced through the air.

  Ibarra’s head took flight from his shoulders and rolled across the floor. It came to rest at Aoibhe’s feet.

  She sighed as she looked down into her recent lover’s eyes.

  The Prince lifted his bloody sword, so that all could see it, and drove it deep into the stone at his feet.

  “Let this be a sign to traitors.”

  He returned to the platform and retrieved his robe, wiping his hands with it before tossing it away in contempt.

  “Lorenzo, take the traitor’s head and display it on a spike next to the sword. Parade the citizens in to look at it. Maximilian, you and Pierre take the body outside the city and burn it.”

  The Prince made eye contact with each of the remaining council members.

  “The next one who betrays me will not receive so swift a death.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Raven believed in science, the testimony of the senses, the power of human reason, and the veracity of her own perceptions. She did not believe in religion, sacred texts, the supernatural, or the afterlife.

  And that was why she believed the intruder was a member of an organized crime faction and that the so-called feral was someone who was in mental distress and in need of help.

  Three days after she gashed her forehead, the wound had healed, leaving only a pale, shiny scar. She was still struggling to formulate an adequate, scientific explanation for that fact, and for the piece of metal that was stuck in her bedroom wall like a dart in a dartboard.

  She knew enough Newtonian physics to conclude that the intruder must have incredible strength if he could hurl the cane at so great a force it would pierce the plaster and stone. But to have the cane embedded several inches into the stone . . .

  (Perhaps he took steroids.)

  And what of his words to her, in Latin?

  I am innocent of the blood.

  She had no idea what he meant, but it certainly frightened her. As did her reaction to the gentle way he’d touched her face.

  As she swung her legs over the side of her bed, she shivered, realizing she needed to develop a social life. If she was lonely enough to enjoy the touch of a stranger, then she must be in desperate need of human contact.

  Yet, there was something about him. There was something sincere in his distress over her injury. If he was worried she’d be upset about what she’d seen in the piazza, so much so that he would come to see if she was all right, and if he was upset when she injured herself, surely he couldn’t be a completely coldhearted criminal.

  He praised my eyes.

  Raven had been paid few compliments about her physical appearance in her life. She knew she ran the risk of attaching more importance than was prudent to the one the intruder had paid her.

  Thankfully, she had a date that evening.

  Bruno was Lidia DiFabio’s grandson. He was about Raven’s height, with dark, wavy hair and large brown eyes. He was athletic and intelligent, and Raven had nursed a secret crush on him almost from the moment they met, which was why her sister teased her.

  He visited his grandmother regularly, usually for a short breakfast before work. Until the day before, he’d always been polite but detached with Raven, despite his grandmother’s repeated matchmaking efforts.

  When he saw Raven exit her apartment Thursday morning, he hadn’t recognized her. She’d introduced herself (again) and he’d stared, open-mouthed, his dark eyes raking up and down her new yellow sundress.

  He’d liked what he’d seen and said so.

  Moments later, she was promising to go out with him for sushi Friday night and he was kissing her cheeks, murmuring how glad he was to have finally seen her.

  Raven e-mailed her sister about the surprising turn of events and had been pleased by her sister’s enthusiastic response. Of course, she didn’t tell Cara that Bruno’s change in demeanor had been precipitated by a marked change in her own physical appearance. She didn’t want to portray Bruno as shallow.

  Even if he only wants to go out with me because I’m pretty now, I don’t care. I deserve a little happiness.

  She placed her legs on the floor and found herself cringing. Pain shot through her right foot and up her leg.

  She sat back on the bed and the pain lessened to a dull ache. She was able to move her leg, even though it felt a bit stiff. Leaning over, she started massaging the tense muscles, moving down to gently manipulate her ankle.

  As she took a closer look at the exposed skin of her right leg, she noticed something.

  The scar that she’d had for years, ever since the accident, had returned. Oh, it was less visible than it had been before, the mark pale and shiny. But she was pretty sure it hadn’t been visible the day before, or any day since she’d woken up Monday morning without it.

  The realization made her stomach flip, especially when she compared the appearance with the scar on her forehead.

  She wasn’t delusional. She pinched her arm to prove that point.

  She reached for her cell phone and quickly scrolled through the photos she’d taken of herself that week. Comparing the photos with her leg, the changes were noticeable. The scar had reappeared and her foot had begun to turn out slightly. Still, it was a far cry from what her injured leg and foot had been before.

  Putting her phone aside, she placed both feet on the floor and stood. She found that she could walk without limping, but the pain flared during her first few steps.

  When she looked in the mirror in the bathroom, she was surprised at what she saw. Her face was a little fuller, her hair not quite as shiny, and dark circles lay beneath her eyes.

  She looked, she thought, as if she hadn’t been taking care of herself. Once again, the changes from her appearance the day before were dramatic, but not so much as to return her to her previous appearance.

  It was as if the physical transformation had been undone, but not completely.

  She readied herself for work, showering with her favorite rose-scented soap and washing and drying her hair. She struggled into her new green sundress, finding that the linen fabric pulled across her now slightly protruding abdomen and softly padded hips.

  She wondered how the dress had shrunk in her closet. She wondered how, in the space of a few hours, she’d gained enough weight to have a rounded belly.

  If someone is trying to make me think I’m crazy, they’re doing a hell of a good job.

  At least the photographs didn’t lie. She had pictures of what she looked like before she’d lost her memory, a few self-photos of what she looked like afterward, and now she took pictures of the most recent changes.

  There was no doubt about it. She’d changed.

  The pain in her leg could be explained by overexertion. Perhaps the exercise was catching up with her. But overexertion didn’t explain the reappearance of the scar.

  Raven had no scientific explanation for any of her early morning discoveries and so she ignored them, taking two pain pills with her breakfast.

  As an act of contempt for superstitions in general and the intruder’s superstitions in particular, she removed the relic from around her neck and placed it in her knapsack. She closed her eyes for a moment, trying to discern any noticeable change in her body or her emotions.

  She opened her eyes. She felt the same as she had a moment before. H
owever, she was unwilling to leave the relic behind, especially since every time she closed her eyes she could see the so-called feral standing a distance away from her, cursing. With dead bodies showing up near the Arno and in her piazza, she needed whatever help it could offer and so she brought the relic to work with her, hidden in her knapsack.

  Raven spent the day in the archives, completing menial tasks and trying not to draw attention to herself.

  Her doctor called, informing her that her blood test was inconclusive because the sample had been contaminated with at least two foreign substances of indeterminable origin. Unfortunately, the window to see if she’d been drugged was now closed. The doctor apologized on behalf of the lab, which had obviously made an egregious error in contaminating her sample, but said there was no point in repeating the test.

  The X-rays, however, were another matter. The films the doctor had received obviously belonged to another patient, because they showed no evidence of the break in her leg and ankle that had occurred when she was twelve. So the doctor suggested Raven be x-rayed again.

  Raven declined, citing a busy schedule. She said that she would follow up with the doctor when things at the gallery calmed down.

  She didn’t bother trying to explain that it was possible her injury had been spontaneously reversed. Certainly she didn’t want to have her doctor examine her leg only to see that the scar, which was absent on Tuesday, was once again visible.

  Given all the strange and unexplained events swirling in her head, she was grateful for the distraction work provided. She spent the afternoon compiling files on the digital database and staring from time to time at an image of Primavera.

  She wanted to ask Professor Urbano, who’d worked on the restoration of the painting, if he’d realized that Mercury’s appearance had been altered. But since, for the moment at least, she was not welcome in the restoration lab, she didn’t.

  She spent some time examining the images of Cupid and Venus, recalling the intruder’s reference to the myth of Cupid and Psyche. According to myth, Zephyr, who hovered in the orange grove at the right-hand side of Primavera, had helped Psyche when she was in distress.

  I am the monster, hiding in the darkness, the intruder had whispered.

  She wondered idly if he was like Zephyr.

  Raven was glad she’d studied Greek and Roman mythology as an undergraduate, for it helped her understand Botticelli’s work. She knew, for example, that Maia and Jove were the parents of Mercury and that Atlas was his grandfather.

  She knew that Chloris had been raped by Zephyr but that he’d repented of his violence and married her, renaming her Flora. Ovid, who told the story in his Fasti, quoted Flora as claiming she had no complaint in bed, which signified that her husband was kind to her after his former brutality.

  She wondered if the intruder was like that—a man who’d engaged in acts of violence, only to regret them later and repent.

  She gazed at Zephyr’s face and quivered, recalling how gentle the intruder’s touch had been.

  Raven closed the window on her computer and quickly logged in to her e-mail account. Scrolling through a few unopened messages, she found an e-mail from Father Jack Kavanaugh.

  Dear Raven,

  I hope this e-mail finds you well.

  I’ve been transferred to Rome, effective July 1st.

  It’s a long, Jesuitical story. The short of it is that I’ve had to resign my position at Covenant House in Orlando. Don’t worry, I’m leaving the house in good hands and I intend to continue helping them in any way I can.

  I’m hoping to visit Florence and hear about your good work at the Uffizi Gallery.

  How is your sister?

  How is your mother?

  I remember you and your family in my prayers, praying that you all will find peace, forgiveness, and hope in the extravagance of God’s love,

  Fr. Jack

  Raven sat back in her chair.

  This was an e-mail she had not expected to receive.

  She’d known Father Kavanaugh for years. He’d helped her and her sister when they were in crisis. Later, he’d helped her attend Barry University, finding scholarship money to pay for her tuition and residence. Even now, long after graduation, he was still trying to help her by praying to a god she didn’t believe in.

  Father Kavanaugh was a holy man. He was pious and he was good. He’d worked with Mother Teresa in Calcutta, and he’d founded orphanages and schools in Uganda.

  But more than that, he was the one person in Raven’s life who had never disappointed her. She knew without doubt that if she were in trouble and went to him, he would do everything in his power to help her and he would expect nothing in return.

  She wondered what he’d say when he saw her altered appearance. She wondered what miraculous account he would give of her experience wearing the relic.

  Although she respected him, loved him even, she was not looking forward to those conversations.

  It would be some time before he was settled in Rome and able to travel. She would have to work up the courage to listen to him and not blurt out cynical, offensive words.

  She sighed at the thought.

  “You don’t look so good.”

  Raven was jolted from her musings by Patrick’s voice. He was standing next to her desk in the archives, wearing a concerned expression.

  “Thanks a lot.” She grimaced.

  “I didn’t mean it that way.” He touched her shoulder. “Are you sick?”

  She shook her head.

  “Dark.” He pointed to the purple smudges below her eyes. “Aren’t you sleeping?”

  “Not really.” Her eyes moved in the direction of the archivist and back to her friend. “I can’t talk about it here.”

  “Fair enough. I need to make some photocopies and use the scanner. I probably need help. Join me?”

  “What about the archivist?”

  “I’ll speak to her. Hang on.”

  Patrick walked to the archivist’s desk. Raven closed her computer windows in anticipation and logged out of her computer.

  The archivist looked over at her and she offered a restrained smile.

  “So what’s up?” Patrick asked as they walked down the hall toward the photocopying room.

  “I’m still freaked out about the mugging in Santo Spirito.”

  Patrick grimaced. “I don’t blame you. Has there been any other trouble?”

  “No. But every time I close my eyes I see it.”

  Patrick shook his head. “I’m beginning to think the city isn’t as safe as it used to be.”

  “You can say that again.”

  They continued walking and Patrick looked down at her feet.

  “Are you limping?”

  “A little. My leg is stiff today.”

  “Do you need your cane?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  Patrick seemed suspicious. “I thought your leg was better.”

  “It is.” Raven straightened her leg and set her teeth against the pain.

  “Did you ever look at the radiographs of the figure of Mercury from Primavera?”

  “Not very closely. Why?”

  “It looks like Botticelli changed Mercury’s hair.”

  Patrick gave her a puzzled look. “Changed? How?”

  “He had short blond hair in the beginning. There’s a ghost underneath the figure.”

  “I don’t remember hearing about that.”

  “Me, neither. That’s why I saved the files to my flash drive. I wanted to look at them at home.”

  “Did you?”

  “I expanded them on my laptop, but the quality isn’t that good. Still, you can see the ghost.”

  Patrick whistled. “That’s a pretty incredible find. How did everyone miss it?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe I’m looking at it wrong. I need to ask Professor Urbano.”

  They entered the photocopying room and closed the door behind them.

  Patrick quickly set up his photocopy
ing jobs so they could continue talking.

  “How’s life in the archives?”

  Raven’s shoulders slumped. “Not that great. Hopefully, Urbano will let me come back on Monday. He said it depended on my replacement.”

  “What about Vitali?”

  Raven shook her head. “I was his resident gopher this week.”

  “I didn’t think Italy had gophers.”

  Raven rolled her eyes.

  “It does now.”

  On the way back to the archives, Patrick and Raven climbed the steps to the second floor and entered the Botticelli room. Patrick wanted a closer look at Primavera.

  “I can’t imagine why Botticelli would change the hair. Mercury is supposed to be modeled on Lorenzo, one of the Medici. He had long brown hair.” Patrick stepped closer to the painting.

  “Perhaps another patron commissioned the painting, then failed to pay. That kind of thing used to happen all the time.” Raven found herself gravitating to the figure of Zephyr, on the other side of the painting.

  “Maybe. I doubt Botticelli would start the painting without a large deposit and a contract. I suppose he could have had a falling-out with whoever commissioned it first.”

  Raven nodded.

  Neither of them noticed the figure of Ispettor Batelli, who stood at the entrance to the room, watching them.

  Chapter Nineteen

  When Raven exited the Uffizi after work, she found Bruno waiting for her, handsomely dressed in a gray suit and blue tie.

  She was tired and her leg was troubling her. But she pushed everything aside and walked to him, her knapsack on her shoulder and her head held high.

  Bruno greeted her with a smile.

  His smile faltered as she approached.

  Raven traced the scar on her forehead self-consciously before balling her hand into a fist and lowering it. Clearly he’d noticed the change in her appearance. From the looks of it, he was surprised, if not disappointed.

  “Hello.” He kissed each of her cheeks and motioned to her scar. “Are you all right?”

  “I fell, but I’m okay. How are you?”

  “Good. And your cane? Don’t you need it?” His gaze traveled to her legs, fixing momentarily on her scar.