“I have to.”
He paced the room, back and forth, his hands in fists.
“You’re confused. You say you’re leaving because of love, but really, you’re leaving because of who I am. Because of what I am.”
She opened her eyes. “That isn’t true.”
“This is the way the myth is always told. Psyche will not heed the warnings of Cupid and so she injures them both.”
“Did you warn me not to fall in love with you?” Raven reproached him.
“I told you the story of Allegra. That should have been warning enough.”
“I’m not going to fling myself off a bell tower, William. I’m just flinging my heart overboard, hoping you’ll want it.”
“I want it,” he hissed. “I want you. I will elevate you to consort. You will be a princess among my people. I will shower you with gifts, whatever you desire.”
Raven gave him an empty look.
“Your love would have been gift enough.”
He didn’t have a response for that. He looked around the room, desperate for something, anything that could persuade her.
“I care for you. Didn’t our evening at Teatro demonstrate that?”
“Yes, you loved me with your body.” She gazed at him sadly. “But not with your heart.”
“My heart is part of my body,” he whispered.
“Then love me.”
William met her eyes, then turned away.
He strode to the closet, withdrawing an armful of clothes.
“If you want to go, go. But know this.” He walked to the door. “You are the one who is ending what we shared. Not Aoibhe. Not another woman. And certainly not me.”
He opened the door and entered the hall, slamming the door behind him. The paintings and light fixtures rattled on the walls.
Raven sank onto the divan, burying her face in her hands.
Less than thirty minutes later, Marco was driving her home. She left the sketches on the bed and the bracelet on William’s nightstand.
Chapter Fifty-one
Raven grieved silently and privately.
It would have been embarrassing to confess the explanation for her sadness—that she’d had her universe expanded in a short period of time, tasted passion and affection, and fallen in love only to discover her love would never be reciprocated.
She tried to take consolation in the fact that she’d progressed from thinking that love was not for her to hoping that, someday, it might be. Even if the dream was never realized, the prospect remained.
She tried listening to music.
The first time “White Blank Page” by Mumford and Sons played on her laptop, she switched it off. Then she listened to it several times.
It was while listening to this song that she came to the momentous conclusion that what William believed about the nature of feeding and addiction was wrong.
She craved the experience. She craved him. But her desires for him, sexual and otherwise, were not enough to overthrow her reason. They were not enough to impel her to cast aside hope and crawl back to him.
She took this as an indication that she was stronger than she thought.
She threw herself into her work, volunteering for any and all overtime offered by Professor Urbano. She went on a few day trips with Patrick and Gina, visiting Lucca, Siena, and Pisa.
There were evenings when she thought she saw a dark figure moving in the shadows across the street. Or when she was sure he’d been in her apartment, while she was sleeping.
“You’re the shadow on my wall,” she whispered to the darkness one evening. But the darkness was always silent.
There were no signs of hunters, no more bodies found in the street or down by the river. Whatever battle the principality had waged, it seemed to have won.
Raven found herself relieved the Prince was safe. But beyond that recognition, she did not allow her mind to go.
Instead, she focused on work, on her friends, and on bringing flowers to Angelo’s favorite spot by the Ponte Santa Trinita, hoping that death had brought him peace.
Chapter Fifty-two
The Prince stood high atop the tower of the Palazzo Vecchio, staring down at the Uffizi Gallery. Tourists and locals congregated, sharing conversations and holding hands. Music could be heard in the distance. A few couples danced in the Piazza Signoria.
As his gaze flitted from figure to figure but failed to see the person he was looking for, his mood darkened. He tried to convince himself his longing was temporary—the result of sex and pleasure. But not even his coldest, harshest application of rationality could persuade him that he was unchanged by her.
“You’re brooding.” Aoibhe’s voice sounded at his elbow.
He’d scented her a moment or two earlier. Despite her advanced age and skill, he’d heard her land on the tower’s roof. He didn’t turn around, confident as he was in his assessment of her loyalty and threat level, especially now that he had saved her life.
“I never brood.” The Prince’s voice was cool as he continued to search in vain.
“Then why are you up here, glaring? The night is ours. There’s food and sport to be had, even for someone as dour as you,” Aoibhe said, gently mocking him. “From what I hear, the police have given up their investigation. They have no evidence, no prospects, and a shrinking list of suspects. You must be very pleased.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He scanned the grounds one last time before turning to face her.
“Come now, my prince. While I’ve never seen your vast art collection for myself, I’ve heard rumors. I just don’t understand why you chose to steal from the Uffizi now. Presumably, you already acquired the jewels of the Renaissance while you and Niccolò were enjoying the company of the Medici.”
William sniffed. “I moved in their circle for some time. Niccolò had a fraught relationship with them.”
“So I’ve heard. Could it be that he wrote The Prince for you?”
William offered her an indifferent look before gazing down at the gallery again. He saw a pair of lovers sitting on the steps of the loggia, kissing passionately.
“Where’s the Prince’s little pet this evening?”
“Out,” he rumbled.
“I’m surprised you let her out of your sight, given the way you were with her at Teatro.”
William opened his mouth to protest, but Aoibhe interrupted.
“Don’t bother lying. One might almost say you’re in love with her.”
“Love?” he scoffed. “You know our kind too little.”
“Ah, my prince. I know you only too well.” She moved closer to touch his face.
He sidestepped her. “What do you know of love?”
“Precious little. I’ve tried to forget my time as a human. It made immortality much easier. But there was a boy . . .” She smiled, a faraway look in her eyes. “After the English lord raped me, the boy didn’t want me anymore.”
“This is your account of love?” William strode to the crenellations, placing his hands on one.
“Maybe the boy didn’t love me. Maybe the ugliness of rape killed his love. I was young and unable to fathom such mysteries.”
She tilted her head, regarding the Prince thoughtfully.
“One might say we have shared love, you and I. Our evenings together were certainly pleasurable. That’s love enough for me.”
“It isn’t enough,” he muttered, leaning forward on the battlements.
She stood next to him, following his gaze to the lovers who were kissing at the loggia. “The kind of love of which you speak is dangerous. It makes one vulnerable.”
Satisfied that the woman entangled in the embrace below was not Raven, he tore his eyes from her.
“We are all vulnerable in some way.”
“Then be vulnerable to me and make me your consort.”
The Prince growled. “You have your answer, Aoibhe.”
“Ah, but circumstances have changed. We both know there are thos
e who are trying to overthrow you.”
“Who are they?” He crowded her.
Fear streaked across her face and she stepped back.
“I would tell you if I knew. I swear it. I think you know I have a fondness for you, my lord. I owe you my life. I pay my debts, which means I’m your ally, at least until I’ve repaid you in kind.”
“I am grateful for your allegiance.” He nodded stiffly.
“I suspect the traitors live among us, that they are intelligent and crafty but not necessarily powerful. They’ve been manipulating others into doing what they could not do—colluding with Venice to have you assassinated, using the ferals to breach the borders. You executed Ibarra, which was probably part of their plan.”
“Are you so sure Ibarra wasn’t a traitor? He’d never failed his tasks before.”
“Precisely. I took Ibarra to bed and questioned him in an intimate moment. He was loyal.”
“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.