The Shadow

by Sylvain Reynard

  He touched the apple of her cheek with his finger. “You didn’t need me. You were brave and fierce on your own. I have seen a great many things during the centuries I’ve been alive. I’ve met a great many people. None have resisted my understanding the way you have.”

  “I’m hardly a mystery. I’m just an average girl from Portsmouth, New Hampshire.”

  “You let him go.”

  Raven’s body stiffened. She turned away, looking out over the extensive gardens that bordered the villa, and at the lights that shone dimly over them.

  “I didn’t let him go. We sent him to the police.”

  “Human justice is flawed.”

  “Is vampyre justice better?” Her eyes sought his, challenging him.

  “Vampyres know little enough about justice. They know vengeance and revenge, instead.”

  “Then kill him. Bring him to me and kill him now.”

  William moved so quickly he was almost a blur. He placed her in his chair and stood before her. “Finally,” he said, turning toward the door.

  “And when he’s dead and we’re standing over his corpse, what will we have accomplished?”

  He faced her. “He would be dead and his soul would be in hell.”

  “I don’t believe in an afterlife. So he’s dead. Then what?”

  William peered down at her. “Your life continues, content in the knowledge he paid for his sins and will trouble you no more.”

  “My life didn’t end because of him. That idea grants him too much power.”

  William’s gaze fell to her injured leg, which was peeking out from under the bedsheet.

  “He deserves to pay.”

  “Yes, he does. Can a dead man heal my leg? Can a corpse erase my memories or end my nightmares?”

  William clenched his jaw so tightly Raven almost heard the bones creak. “I should think you would achieve satisfaction from his suffering. And yes, I think your nightmares would end.”

  “Only to be replaced by different ones—nightmares in which I’m forced to look at a man whose death I caused.” Raven stood on unsteady feet, clutching the sheet to her chest. “He stole from me. What he stole I can’t get back, even if I kill him.”

  “That’s rubbish,” William exclaimed. “He stole from you. You steal his life from him. Since what you steal is greater, you win.”

  “Winning?” She laughed bitterly. “What would I win? Money, power, my family? His death gives me nothing, but it would take away what I want most—to live a life where I can sleep at night, knowing I’ve done the best I could with what I have. That’s the life I deserve. I won’t let him steal it from me as well.”

  William pressed his lips together, as if he were resisting the urge to argue.

  She gestured to herself. “I am not a killer. I won’t let him turn me into one. He doesn’t have that power.”

  “All humans have the potential to be killers.” William’s tone was glacial. “They simply need sufficient motivation.”

  Raven’s green eyes flashed and she stood toe to toe with him. “How’s this for motivation? I hate him. With every atom of my being, I hate him. If I had a soul, I’d hate him with that, too. But I love myself more.”

  “Forgiveness doesn’t entail the negation of justice.”

  “I haven’t forgiven him. I don’t have it in me.”

  “Then leave him to me,” William hissed, his face inches from hers. “I won’t tell you what becomes of him. You can forget he ever existed.”

  Raven looked down at her injured leg. “You don’t understand. I’ll never be able to forget him.”

  William cursed, a string of profanities Raven did not understand.

  She placed her palm over his heart. “Will you hunt everyone who ever troubled me? Will you kill my ex-boyfriend, who humiliated me and broke my heart? Will you kill my friend Gina because she hurt my feelings the other day?”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t need you to be my angel of death.” Raven withdrew her hand.

  William was quiet for so long, Raven worried he’d gone into a trance. Pain flamed in her injured leg, driving her back to the chair.

  He stood over her, his expression conflicted. “I was like you once.”

  “Before you became a vampyre?”

  He nodded.

  “What happened?”

  His face hardened. “I watched goodness die, not once, but twice. And I lost hope.”

  She reached for him, closing her hand over his cool fingers. “You told me once that I was hope, dancing in your arms.”

  He stared at their hands, then slowly skimmed his lips over her forehead.

  “Would that you had enough hope for both of us.”

  Her grip on him tightened.

  “You remind me of someone,” he whispered.

  “Who?”

  “A saint.”

  A laugh escaped Raven’s throat. “I think in order to become a saint, you need to believe in God.”

  “I believe. I simply think God is a monster.”

  “I don’t understand why you still believe in him if you hate him so much.”

  “Some things can’t be disbelieved.” He bowed his head. “But you—you’ve changed me.”

  “How?”

  “Before we met, I wouldn’t have thought twice about taking a life had I decided the life was worthless.”

  “And now?”

  William covered their connection with his other hand. “Even though I desperately wish to end him, I would rather please you.”

  She brought her lips to his fingers and kissed them. “Now I know why you need to spend the daylight hours in solitude and meditation. No one could spend centuries making decisions like this and not need time to think and find peace.”

  He lifted her hand, lacing their fingers together. “We are susceptible to a kind of madness because of our longevity. Resting the mind keeps it at bay.”

  Raven’s eyes widened. “Madness?”

  “The madness that turns a vampyre into a feral.”

  She gazed up at him in horror. William continued. “I’m afraid that’s not the worst of it. In addition to the possibility of madness, there’s the curse.”

  “What curse?”

  “During the war with the Curia, they cursed us with a life span of only a thousand years. When a vampyre approaches that age, he begins to go mad. I suppose it’s like the senility of old age in a human. Then, on or around the one-thousandth year, the vampyre dies.”

  “I thought vampyres were immortal.”

  “They were once. But their immortality was taken away by the Curia. One more reason why we hate and fear them.”

  “How old are you, William?”

  “I was turned in 1274. But this is a secret, Cassita. Even those closest to me in the Consilium don’t know my true age.”

  “Why not?”

  “Several of them are already covetous of my throne. I don’t wish them to be able to pinpoint my weakness.”

  She forced a smile. “I knew you’d outlive me.”

  “That is one of life’s greatest tragedies.” He hesitated. “Unless you become like me.”

  She disentangled herself from his grasp. “I don’t want to live that long.”

  “I won’t let such beauty die,” he whispered.

  “But you’ll have to, someday.” Raven smiled sadly. “Art is the only beauty that never dies.”

  He kissed her, until she opened to him. With a growl, he plunged into her mouth. She wrapped her arms around his neck, anchoring him to her.

  Without warning, he swung her into his arms and strode inside toward the bed.

  Within moments, they were both unclothed and he was kneeling between her legs.

  He rained soft kisses down the center of her body, pausing to pay homage to her breasts. Then his face descended between her legs.

  His tongue was cool as it fluttered over her. She closed her eyes, her hands fisting the sheets at either side of her body.

  William
kept an unhurried pace, tasting and licking from side to side. He nuzzled the inside of her thigh with his nose before drawing the flesh into his mouth and sucking.

  His palm slid up her side to cup her right breast, holding the weight in his hand. She murmured her approval, and he nipped at her thigh.

  “I am going to feed from you. Here.” He bit at the flesh again, if only to give her a warning.

  She lifted her head, gazing down at the powerful creature that worshipped between her legs.

  She nodded.

  He looked up at her through his eyebrows and smiled a slow, sensual smile. “Prepare to be pleasured.”

  Raven watched as his head descended. But with the first touch of his mouth, she closed her eyes. He kept his slow pace, teasing and tasting her with lips and tongue.

  At the crest of her orgasm, he released her, turning his head to her uninjured leg. He gripped her thigh tightly and then he was sucking the flesh into his mouth and tearing into the skin with his teeth.

  Raven soared, her body shaking with mindless pleasure.

  William drank and swallowed and drank some more, his grip on her thigh ever tightening. When her body finally relaxed, he released her, pressing the coolness of his tongue to the wound on her leg.

  “I could drink you dry and never be satisfied.” He rested his chin on her opposite leg.

  Raven lifted her head but found the task too great and rested back on the pillow, her mind floating on a wave of ecstasy.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Professor Gabriel Emerson was like a man possessed.

  William York had frightened him—not by threatening his safety, but by threatening Julia and Clare. Gabriel didn’t know if what the mysterious being said about Julia’s health was true. Nevertheless, he was determined to find out.

  He made arrangements for his family (and Katherine Picton) to return to Boston, escorting them to Rome and waiting at the airport until they were successfully in flight. Then he returned to Florence.

  He knew better than to stay at the Gallery Hotel Art. It would be easy, too easy, for the fiend to find him there. Instead, Gabriel booked a room at a convent operated by the Suore Oblate dell’Assunzione. He believed it would give him a measure of security against the agent of darkness.

  On Monday morning, he was given the latest edition of La Nazione, the Florentine newspaper, to read alongside his modest breakfast.

  He stared at the front page in shock.

  His old nemesis, Professor Giuseppe Pacciani of the Università degli Studi di Firenze, was missing. According to the article, the Dante specialist had disappeared shortly after the theft of the illustrations of Dante’s Divine Comedy from the Uffizi. The journalist suggested a connection between the two seemingly disparate events, hypothesizing that someone in Florence seemed to dislike Dante.

  The article painted a dark picture of Florence and the crimes that had plagued it since the robbery. Pacciani’s wife was interviewed, bemoaning the fact that the Carabinieri were unwilling to investigate her husband’s disappearance, claiming there was no evidence of foul play and arguing the man had simply tired of his family and abandoned them. Signora Pacciani admitted her husband had been unfaithful, but she insisted he would never have left their children. Nor would he have left behind his rare editions of Dante, which still sat on a bookshelf in their apartment.

  Gabriel dropped the paper on the table.

  He was not a man given to believing in coincidences. Nor was he a strong skeptic. He couldn’t express how he knew the theft and Pacciani’s disappearance were related, or how he knew that William York was behind both of them, but he knew. He would have staked his life on it. And that, in itself, gave him all the more reason to distance himself from the search for his lost illustrations.

  As he packed his bag and made his way to the Uffizi, he wondered why William York had caused Pacciani to disappear. He wondered why the dangerous and malevolent being had offered him mercy, instead, even gifting him with the knowledge that Julia was ill.

  Gabriel Emerson had no answers to his questions, except his belief that a higher power was somehow watching over him and his beloved Julianne and that this power was greater than any darkness.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Later that same morning, Raven exited the elevator on the second floor of the Uffizi Gallery.

  She’d stayed with William at his villa the night before. After their conversation about her decision, she’d taken comfort in William’s body, taking what she needed and hoping she was giving something in return. By all accounts, William was very, very satisfied.

  Returning to work Monday morning was a relief. The restoration of the famous Birth of Venus was almost complete. Soon the year-long project would come to an end and the beautiful painting would be returned to its rightful place on the wall of the Botticelli room.

  Raven had been tasked with giving an update of the team’s progress to Dottor Vitali, the director of the Uffizi. In truth, it was an honor to be sent on such an errand, with a folder of digital photographs and a seemingly infinite series of reports, but Raven would have preferred to stay in the restoration lab, continuing to coat the surface of the painting with protective varnish.

  She sighed at the thought, the rhythmic tapping of her cane echoing down the corridor. The tapping was soon drowned out by the sound of a familiar voice speaking Italian.

  “It’s already done, Massimo. I’ve fired the private firm I’d engaged to assist in the investigation and I’ve already spoken with Interpol. I don’t expect the illustrations to be recovered and I want no part of this futile exercise.”

  Raven stopped. Professor Gabriel Emerson had returned to the Uffizi. And what he was saying was more than surprising.

  “Gabriel, my friend, it’s only been a few months. These things take time. Your illustrations will be found once the thieves try to sell them. They’d be foolish to try to take them to market so soon after the robbery.” The voice of Dottor Vitali wafted down the hall.

  Quietly, Raven approached the open door of his office.

  “It’s too late.” The professor sounded agitated. “Did you know that one of the Interpol agents investigating the robbery was killed?”

  “Yes, I was sorry to hear that.”

  “Did you see the cover of La Nazione this morning?”

  “Not yet.”

  Raven heard the shuffling of papers, surmising that the director was looking for his newspaper. She stopped outside the door, straining her ears.

  “There,” said the professor. “See the front page? It’s an article about Pacciani. He went missing shortly after the robbery. No one, not even his wife, knows where he is.”

  “Are you suggesting he stole them?”

  “No. And I’m not suggesting—I’m asserting. Agent Savola was killed. Pacciani is missing. Both of them were connected to the illustrations in some way. And both men were also connected to me.”

  “My friend, surely you don’t think—”

  The professor interrupted him. “I will do what I deem necessary to protect my family. The streets of Florence are dangerous. The bodies of three men were found near the Arno a short time ago, and the police seem to have no clue who killed them. I’m finished with the investigation; I’m leaving Italy and returning to Cambridge. I’m not planning to return anytime soon.”

  “Gabriel, this is too hasty. Speak with Ispettor Batelli. He says he has several promising leads.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of,” Gabriel muttered.

  Sensing a break in the conversation, and worried about being surprised as she was eavesdropping, Raven knocked on Vitali’s door.

  He invited her to enter and she stepped across the threshold.

  “I’m sorry, Dottor Vitali. Professor Urbano sent me to give a report about the Birth of Venus.” Raven eyed the director and Professor Emerson cautiously. “I can come back later.”

  “I was just leaving.” The professor retrieved a piece of luggage from nearby. “Good-bye, Mas
simo. Let me know when you’re in Cambridge.”

  Vitali stood and the men shook hands, but the director was reluctant to let his friend go.

  “Stay. We can discuss this.”

  “Julianne is ill,” the professor announced, ignoring Raven’s presence. “She’s already returned home and has appointments scheduled for some tests. I need to rejoin her as soon as possible. The thief can have the illustrations.”

  Raven flinched at his final remark, but said nothing. Gabriel nodded at his friend and at Raven before marching toward the door, his expression pained.

  “Professor Emerson.” The sound of Raven’s voice surprised even herself.

  He turned toward her, lifting his eyebrows expectantly.

  “I’m so sorry to hear that Mrs. Emerson is ill.”

  The professor’s eyes narrowed suspiciously and Raven clutched her cane, stumbling over her words.

  “I met her. I gave her a tour of the restoration lab. She was very nice to me.”

  The professor glanced at Raven’s cane. “I didn’t recognize you.”

  “I hope your wife will be all right.” Raven rummaged in her jacket pocket and retrieved a small card. “This is my e-mail address. Please let her know I was asking about her. If there’s anything I can do, anything at all, please let me know.”

  A muscle jumped in the professor’s jaw. He took the card from her hand and perused it. His expression softened.

  “Thank you.” His sapphire eyes met hers, but only for a moment. Then he exited the office without a backward glance.

  With a groan, Vitali slumped in his chair and removed his glasses, passing a hand over his face. He was quiet for some time.

  “Well, Miss Wood. Tell me about the Birth of Venus.”

  Raven limped to an obliging chair and began her report, but her thoughts were fixed on the professor and his wife, and their infant daughter, Clare.

  Chapter Seventeen

  “The news is all over the gallery. Emerson is pulling his support from the investigation.” Patrick Wong looked over both shoulders before leaning across the table toward Raven. “I wonder what that asshole Batelli thinks.”