The Roman

by Sylvain Reynard

  Raven’s grip on him tightened as she drew comfort from his nearness. “This is what we have to hold on to.”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  “DANIEL WAS A GOOD MAN.”

  Father Kavanaugh looked down into the blue eyes of Raven and Cara’s mother, Linda. He nodded but made no movement to shake her hand or embrace her.

  “Why didn’t Raven come with you?”

  Father started at her question. His hand went into his pocket and closed on the relic he carried. “Raven is recovering from the attack. She isn’t well enough to travel.”

  Linda gave him a pained look. “Do you think she will come home?”

  “I can’t answer that.”

  “But you are close to her,” Linda pressed. “She trusts you. Maybe you could talk to her about coming home? She could stay with us. We have plenty of room.”

  “Mrs. Shannon, I can’t repair your relationship with your daughter. Only you and Raven can do that.”

  “But my family is in shambles.” Linda placed her hand on his arm. “We need your help.”

  On instinct, Father pulled his arm away. “Your family was in shambles a long time ago, Mrs. Shannon.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Linda raised her voice.

  Father noticed that the few remaining mourners, including Linda’s new husband, had turned their attention in his direction.

  His hand went to his forehead, and he rubbed at the creases. “Forgive me. I’m sorry for your loss.”

  He tried to walk away but she stepped in front of him. “I demand to know what you meant.”

  His eyes moved to hers. “I’m talking about what happened to Raven and Cara when they were children.”

  Linda reddened. “Raven is unbalanced. She doesn’t know what she’s talking about.”

  “Why would you dismiss her claims before I told you what she said?”

  Linda mumbled a vague response.

  The priest’s expression grew severe. “Your ex-husband’s recent arrest in California for child molestation corroborates Raven’s account of what happened to Cara.”

  Mrs. Shannon began to protest vehemently, but he lifted his hand. “You can lie to yourself, and you can lie to everyone else, including your children. But you cannot lie to me. You knew.”

  Something in her eyes shifted.

  She adjusted her very expensive handbag. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  He leaned closer. “You know exactly what I’m talking about. You knew what was going on, and you did nothing. So Jane, your twelve-year-old daughter, took matters into her own hands. And she paid for it with her leg.”

  “You don’t know what he was like!” she shouted. “You don’t understand.”

  “Then tell me.” His voice grew quiet once again. “I’m listening.”

  The woman hesitated, something working behind her eyes.

  She glanced around and saw the remaining mourners watching the exchange.

  “Thank you for performing the service, Father. Please tell Raven I hope she feels better soon.” Linda spun on her heel, and marched away.

  Father Kavanaugh watched her departing form. He watched her take the arm of her husband and walk toward the long black limousine that waited nearby.

  He lifted his eyes heavenward.

  He’d tried to help Raven and her family for many years. Cracking Linda’s denial for the first time should have felt like a victory. But he felt far from victorious.

  She needed healing and love as much as her daughters. And he’d been harsh with her.

  “Forgive me,” he whispered.

  His thoughts strayed to Raven, and he reflected on her character and intelligence, her bravery and compassion.

  Standing in the cemetery, with the hot Miami sun streaming down on him, the Jesuit felt something move in his heart.

  He knew what Raven encountered at the hands of the fiend who claimed to own her. He would not turn a blind eye. He wouldn’t abandon her to her fate as a vampyre’s pet, even if that meant the sin of disobedience and expulsion from the Curia.

  The infinite worth of one soul far outweighed any responsibility he had to the Curia or to the Jesuits. He knew in his heart that God agreed.

  “Help me,” he prayed. “Show me what to do.”

  As if in a whisper, a germ of an idea took root in his mind.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  LATE ONE EVENING the following week, William and Raven exited the Mercedes under the cover of darkness and entered the Accademia Gallery.

  “How did you manage this?” Raven peered past the security guard into an empty hall.

  William smiled, his gray eyes gleaming. “The Gallery is available for private tours after hours. At a price.”

  He led her downstairs to a private garden that opened out from the Gallery’s book shop. The garden was lit with candles and small lamps. A table shrouded in linen stood with a champagne bucket atop it.

  Raven covered her mouth in surprise. “This is so beautiful. I don’t think I’ve ever been out here.”

  William’s hand spanned her lower back as he whispered, “Your beauty puts the garden to shame.”

  Raven lowered her head and fussed with her gown. It was black and overlaid with crimson roses, almost reaching her knees. The dress dipped low in the front, drawing attention to her generous cleavage, and bared most of her back, as well as her arms.

  Her cheeks flushed under William’s unabashed appraisal.

  For his part, William had shocked her by donning a white shirt, rather than his usual black, with a black suit. He’d shunned a tie and unbuttoned the top two buttons of his shirt, exposing his chest to great effect.

  “This dress is short.” She pulled at the hem, vainly attempting to lengthen it.

  William retreated a few feet in order to gaze at her. “I have observed you in much, much less.”

  “In bed, yes.”

  “Not just in bed.” He smiled. “In the shower, in my library, on the terrace, in my garden—”

  “Point taken,” she interrupted, the flush heightening in her cheeks.

  He stood in front of her and looped his arms around her waist. “I wanted to see you happy.”

  “Thank you.”

  He squeezed her backside. “My pleasure.”

  He offered her his arm, and she took it. They explored the garden briefly before William led Raven to a low stone bench so she could rest her leg.

  She patted the space next to her. “Do you mind if I ask you a few questions about the Renaissance?”

  William joined her on the bench. “Not at all.”

  “What was Beatrice like?”

  William looked off into space. “She was beautiful. She was regal. She had many admirers, but Dante was probably the most obsessive.”

  “You didn’t like him?”

  William made what could politely be called a disgusted face. “He was proud, arrogant, and wily. He used many contrivances to get her attention. And he was already married.”

  Raven looked at the garden, at the glass windows that divided the interior of the gallery from the outside space. “Dante made her immortal. Because of his love, people have been reading about her for centuries.”

  “I could make you immortal.” William’s gray eyes lasered into hers.

  “Art is the only thing that lasts.”

  “I disagree. Let me change you.”

  She looked away. “We’ve talked about this.”

  William shuddered a sigh. “Yes, we have. I thought perhaps you’d change your mind.”

  Raven hastily changed the subject. “It’s sad that more people can’t enjoy your Botticelli illustrations of Dante and Beatrice.”

  William bristled. “They have copies. That must be enough.”

  He rested his hand on h
er shoulder before moving to the table. He lifted a bottle from the ice bucket.

  Raven recognized the label. Dom Pérignon.

  She’d never tasted it before.

  She watched in anticipation as William removed the cork.

  “What are we celebrating?” Raven took the proffered glass, once it was filled.

  “You. To your happiness.” He lifted his glass and tapped it against hers.

  “To our happiness, William.”

  She tasted the champagne—cool and dry, with the smallest bubbles. It was crisp and fresh and absolutely nothing like anything she’d tasted before.

  They sipped in silence for a few moments. William watched her over the rim of his glass.

  When she’d finished her champagne, he placed her glass along with his on the table.

  He lifted her hand to his lips. “Unlike the rest of the humans who pine after vampyres, you don’t dream of being immortal. Tell me what you dream about.”

  “I dream of living with you in peace. I’d like to travel with you, someday.”

  “Where?”

  “I’d like you to show me York. I’d like to visit my sister and make sure she’s all right.”

  “Other dreams? Things you would like to accomplish?”

  “I want to continue volunteering at the orphanage. I’m grateful I was able to go back this week.

  “I enjoy my work at the Uffizi. We will be starting work on one of Artemesia Gentileschi’s paintings in September. I’d like to continue being part of that team.”

  “I shall do everything in my power to ensure you are safe enough to do that.”

  Raven smiled, for the thought made her happy. “I’d like to continue working on your collection as well, especially the Michelangelo.”

  “Everything I own is at your disposal.” He kissed her fingertips, one by one. “Peace will come to my city, and I shall be able to take you abroad.”

  “You would take me to see my sister?”

  “I was in America over a century ago. I should probably pay another visit.”

  “Thank you.” She drew him down to sit next to her and leaned her head against his shoulder. “What are your dreams?”

  He placed his arm around her.

  “To spend as much time inside you as possible.” He gave her a meaningful look before taking her mouth.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  ISPETTOR BATELLI SMOKED a lonely cigarette around the corner from the underground club. He’d spent the last few days working on the new case he’d been assigned, while continuing his surveillance of the club after hours.

  He was tired, he was frustrated, but he was determined.

  Tonight was the night. He was going to find a way inside the building.

  He’d already noticed the comings and goings of men and women of various ages. He’d marked the bouncer who stood in the alley outside the only visible entrance to the entire building.

  He had to admit, the bouncers were exceptional. They were large, they were intimidating, and they never, ever took a break. Batelli wondered about the size of their bladders.

  He extinguished his cigarette and moved into position, standing across the street. From this shadowed vantage point, he could see the bouncer and the door, but hopefully, the bouncer couldn’t see him.

  Batelli had only been in his new position ten minutes when the door to the club swung outward.

  “Never return,” an ominous voice warned.

  A man of medium height held two larger men by the scruff of their necks. With a strength that belied his slim stature, the man threw them past the bouncer and toward the opposite wall.

  They crashed into the wall and fell to the ground, motionless.

  “Banned for life,” the man ordered, speaking to the bouncer. “They insulted Lady Aoibhe.”

  Batelli’s ears pricked up at the unfamiliar name.

  With a nod, the man retreated into the club, closing the door behind him.

  The bouncer walked over to the two men, who appeared conscious but dazed.

  He lifted them, one on each side of his large body, and dragged them out of the alley and down the street.

  Batelli wasted no time in sprinting toward the club’s door. He tried prying it open, but to no avail.

  He looked around for a security panel or keypad, but could find nothing.

  He glanced over his shoulder. The alley was still empty.

  But time was short.

  He curled his fingers around the edge of the door, groping for some kind of latch.

  “What do we have here?”

  Batelli jerked away from the door.

  A hooded figure stood at the closed end of the alley, having materialized out of the darkness.

  Batelli took a step back. He’d checked the alley only a moment before. It had been empty.

  The figure cocked its head to one side. “And you are?”

  “Lorenzo,” Batelli lied. “I’m just meeting a friend.”

  “I knew someone named Lorenzo. He didn’t have any friends.” The figure paused. “And neither do you.”

  Without warning, the figure flew toward Batelli and grabbed him, before scaling the side of Teatro and climbing to the roof.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  JUST BEFORE SUNRISE, Patrick Wong and Gina Molinari wandered into the Piazza Signoria, near the Loggia dei Lanzi.

  It had been one of those restless, hot summer nights. They’d had a late dinner and gone to a bar with friends. One drink turned into several, and they’d moved to a dance club. Then they’d proceeded to another bar.

  They hadn’t stayed out this late in a very long time. Even though they were exhausted and intoxicated, they decided to take a detour to the piazza and walk around a little.

  The piazza was empty—a rare occurrence—as if the beautiful space had been reserved simply for the pair of lovers.

  They wandered over to the Loggia and began to kiss, their bodies backing against one of the stone pillars. A carved lion stared down at them.

  Patrick smiled at his beloved, his fingers playing with her hair.

  She hugged him, and he reciprocated, his eyes closing.

  When they opened, he found himself gazing up at the statue of Menelaus and Patroclus, which stood at the center of the Loggia. It was not a particularly romantic scene.

  Patrick stared drunkenly at Menelaus’ helmet. Then he lifted his eyes to look above it.

  Suspended from the ceiling was a long, iron chain. At the end of the chain was a hook, which had been embedded in the abdomen of a naked body.

  Patrick pulled away from Gina and stumbled up the stairs. He rubbed his eyes, fearing he was hallucinating.

  But no, at the end of the iron chain that hung from the top of the Loggia was suspended a dead man—limbs outstretched, head back. He was naked and covered in blood.

  Gina screamed.

  Patrick stumbled to her side. He leaned against a pillar and retched, the contents of his stomach splashing on the ground.

  He retched again.

  Gina supported him at the waist, murmuring worriedly in his ear.

  When he’d finished, he wiped his mouth with his shirtsleeve and stared out at the piazza.

  It was empty.

  He took Gina’s hand and led her away from the Loggia, to the center of the piazza.. He retrieved his cell phone and shakily dialed the police.

  “I found a body,” he stammered, staring up at the corpse that hung from the Loggia.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  A KNOCKING SOUND woke Raven from a very sound sleep. William, who lay naked beside her, rose from the bed and wrapped himself in an antiquated dressing gown.

  She rolled to her side, unwilling to open her eyes.

  She heard the door open.

  “What is it?” William�
��s tone was curt.

  “Forgive the interruption, my Lord.” Ambrogio was almost stuttering. “There’s been an incident.”

  “What kind of incident?”

  Raven opened her eyes to see William move into the hallway, closing the door on his conversation.

  She heard murmurs from the hall but couldn’t make out the words, until William swore, loudly.

  He re-entered the bedroom and strode to one of the closets, removing a set of clothes.

  Raven sat up. “What is it?”

  “Ispettor Batelli’s body is hanging from a meat hook in the Loggia dei Lanzi.” William tossed his dressing gown to the floor and began to pull on his trousers.

  “What?”

  “Photographs of the scene have been made public. The Curia will have learned of it by now.”

  “Are you in danger?”

  William turned his head.

  His expression softened. “No, my lark. But I must act immediately.”

  He continued dressing as she blinked away sleep. “Why would someone kill Batelli?”

  William buttoned his shirt. “It’s the posing of the body that is more telling. He was positioned in a public place, just as the sun was rising. Whoever did it knew our attempts at covering up the kill would be hampered by the sun.”

  “You don’t think the Curia did this?”

  “It’s possible. But it’s more likely this was a vampyre, looking to attack me personally.”

  “How?”

  “By exposing my connection to the illustrations and those cursed Emersons. By exposing my connection to you.” He moved to her side and kissed her deeply. “Be careful. Be alert. I’d prefer you didn’t leave the villa today, but if you do, please have Ambrogio inform me. Be sure to take the security guards with you.”

  He disappeared through the door.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  “WHAT THE FUCK?” Gabriel Emerson clasped his head with both hands as he stared in shock at the image on his laptop.

  He was seated at the kitchen table in his house in Harvard Square, keeping Julia company. Clare had an ear infection and had spent most of the evening crying. Julia held the child in her arms, pacing the kitchen floor in an attempt to soothe her.