The Prince

by Sylvain Reynard

  “Do you still believe in justice, now that you’ve seen behind the veil?”

  He moved a step closer, regarding the crown and scepter that she carried, noting that the scepter was extended toward the figure he was addressing.

  He turned away, shaking his head.

  “Of course not. What am I saying? To question God in Paradise is to ensure expulsion.”

  The Prince chuckled to himself and lifted his helmet. “Know that you have a home with me in hell, should you ever choose to fall.”

  One more look at the image’s grave face and the Prince grew quiet, all amusement gone.

  “Florence is under siege, or will be shortly. The Venetians are planning to attack. But that isn’t why I’m here.”

  He began to pace, taking his eyes from the familiar figure and focusing on the movement of his boots.

  “Would you believe I came here to make my confession? No? Would that you were still alive and I could speak to you in person. I think you would grant me an audience, no matter what the brothers say.”

  He turned, avoiding the image as if he could feel its painted eyes burning on his body.

  “Tonight, I am the agent of vengeance. Someone stole from me some time ago. I told you of this as you may recall. After many years my treasures have returned to the city and soon they will hang in my home once again. But tonight I will punish the man who stole them and in so doing, I will also exact revenge on his wife, who was complicit in the theft. But I won’t kill her.”

  His eyes lifted to the impassive face of the man featured in the fresco.

  “You knew little of women in life. I’m sure you’re better acquainted with them now, even if only in Paradise.

  “You’d have liked this one. She’s sweet, too sweet for my taste, and virtuous. You would have appreciated her goodness.”

  His gaze moved once again to the virtues that floated in the air at the top of the fresco.

  He waited, as if for a response. A response that would never come.

  “What, no reproach? No censure? I’ve just told you I’m going to injure a virtuous woman by killing her husband right in front of her. Surely that would motivate you to speak, after all these years.”

  At the silence the Prince cursed, his eyes moving from one fresco to another.

  “Still no answer? I stand before you confessing my sin before the fact, like Guido da Montefeltro. Unlike him, I know the folly of trying to receive absolution while still intending to sin.”

  The Prince rumbled in his chest. “He sided with Pisa against Florence, you know. I would have killed him for sport except he fled to Assisi. At least he had Francis as a companion in his death. Even if his companion was worthless against the demons.”

  The Prince lifted his eyes to the image.

  “Who is my companion, Brother? Who is my saint, sent to comfort me in death?”

  The Prince scoffed. “Yes, old friend, I know. I may as well be a demon. Perhaps that’s what I am, dragging souls off to hell.”

  He stared at the image’s eyes.

  “No, I don’t want your God’s forgiveness. I don’t want his atonement or absolution. Just yours.

  “But I know better.”

  He turned his back on the fresco and lifted his helmet, as if to place it on his head.

  Then, he changed his mind and walked toward the image until he was barely a foot away.

  “For almost eight hundred years I’ve cursed God because of you. How does that feel? How does it feel to be an occasion to sin?

  “Yours wasn’t the only death that night so long ago. Hope died with you.”

  With another curse, the Prince spat on the floor. “You serve a monster.”

  The fresco gazed back at him reproachfully.

  “Yes, I’m a monster as well. But unlike the capricious tyrant you serve, I uphold justice.”

  The Prince looked once again at the personification of hope. Then he looked at justice, as if he were giving the image time to formulate an answer.

  But the painted wall remained silent.

  “Farewell, old friend. I bid you peace, if there is such a thing. I apologize for disturbing your rest.”

  The Prince put on his helmet and stormed out of the chapter house, his boots thumping angrily against the aged floors. He crossed the courtyard and made his way toward the street. But before he approached his motorcycle, he scanned the area to see if any others of his kind were nearby.

  Fortunately for him, there weren’t.

  He jogged to his roadster and threw a leg over it. The machine roared to life, echoing his fury and frustration. Without thought of the consequences, he gave the motorcycle free rein to fly through the narrow streets.

  The Prince would have his revenge and not even the saintly memory of his beloved mentor could deter him from it.

  Chapter 14

  As the Prince approached the Gallery Hotel Art, he was careful to mute his anger. He’d spent centuries managing his rage and was practiced at doing so.

  Darkness shrouded the city he loved, like a blanket. He felt it wrap tightly around him, feeding his pride.

  It was easy enough to park his motorcycle around the corner from the hotel and stride down the street (unhelmeted) like a human. He scaled the back wall of the hotel and climbed onto the roof, taking a moment to enjoy the view.

  If he could be said to have a lover, her name would be Florence. He adored the city and would do anything for her. In return, she pleased and comforted him like a devoted mistress.

  He looked up at the stars and the slip of moon that shone above him. And he remembered Mrs. Emerson’s words about the stars. Words he’d remember forever, if he lived that long. Words he’d have to fight to forget after he’d had his revenge, just like the sound of her happy laughter.

  Without remorse, he continued on the path he’d chosen, lowering himself to the terrace that opened from the penthouse. The Emersons had closed the doors that led to their bedroom.

  He tried the door and found it locked, but with a sudden wrench, he removed the doorknob, effectively unlocking it.

  He entered the bedroom soundlessly, stepping into the darkened room and closing the door behind him. He closed his eyes and inhaled.

  And stopped short.

  There was a combination of scents in the air but the two he was most eager to locate were noticeably absent.

  In a flash, the Prince stood next to the large white bed, which was carefully made. And empty.

  He scanned the room in the darkness, his gifted senses enabling him to see everything despite the absence of light.

  When he didn’t find what he wanted, he toppled chairs as he strode to the walk-in closet, throwing the doors open.

  It was empty of clothes.

  He tore the room apart, tossing lamps and objects of art aside. He withdrew drawers from their dressers and cabinets, dumping them on the floor.

  The room was empty, not just of human beings but of all personal effects. The Emersons had fled.

  With a roar, he lifted the bed on one side and threw it against the wall. A lamp fell to the marble floor with a crash, shards of crystal skating across the cold marble surface.

  The angry, malignant being leapt from the terrace to the ground below.

  Without reflection, he entered the front door of the hotel and followed his nose to the front desk.

  A man in a suit stood behind the counter.

  At the sight of the Prince, the man trembled, trying desperately to keep control of his bladder. He pushed his glasses up his nose, not even bothering to fake a smile.

  “Good evening, sir.” His voice cracked. “How may I assist you?”

  “Where are the Emersons?” the Prince snarled in Italian, placing his fists on top of the counter.

  “Um, I’m sorry, sir, but I cannot give away any information about our guests.”

  The Prince gripped the man by his expensive tie and lifted him bodily off the floor.

  The Prince’s gray eyes blazed, star
ing unblinkingly into the eyes of his victim.

  “I am your Master. You will tell me what I wish to know.”

  The man choked, his hands trying to slacken the forceful pull of the tie.

  The Prince lowered his voice to a threatening, silken whisper. “Tell me where the Emersons are.”

  The man stared back into the Prince’s eyes, his mouth falling slack as he stopped struggling.

  The Prince placed the man back on his feet and released his tie.

  The man continued to stare into the Prince’s eyes with a glazed look on his face, then his fingers moved to the keyboard of his computer.

  He looked at the screen and tapped a few keys. “Professor and Mrs. Gabriel Emerson departed yesterday.”

  The Prince’s eyes narrowed. “That’s impossible. They were scheduled to leave tomorrow.”

  “Master, the computer says they checked out early for personal reasons.”

  “Sard,” the Prince cursed, pounding his fist on the counter.

  The wood split beneath his hand.

  The man seemed unfazed by the destruction of hotel property and simply continued to stare into the Prince’s eyes, his expression and demeanor surprisingly placid.

  The Prince growled. “Where is Emerson now?”

  The man’s gaze dropped to the computer screen.

  “They did not leave a forwarding address.”

  “What addresses did they leave?” The Prince’s voice morphed into a bark.

  “Three addresses, Master. One in Umbria, at a house near Todi. And two in America—in Cambridge, Massachusetts, and Selinsgrove, Pennsylvania.”

  The locations sounded familiar to the Prince, as they matched the intelligence report he’d been given. But he didn’t know which residence the Emersons had departed for upon leaving Florence.

  “Give me the addresses.”

  The man tapped a few keys and the printer to his left came to life. He withdrew a single sheet of paper from the tray and placed it on top of the counter, where the wood was split.

  “Look at me,” the Prince breathed.

  The man’s eyes moved to his again.

  “You will remember nothing of this exchange. You will go upstairs to the penthouse and enter the room. You will discover that a vandal has broken into the penthouse and destroyed it. You will not call the police. You will have the room repaired immediately and will tell no one about the matter.”

  “Yes, Master.”

  The Prince held his eyes before storming out of the lobby and through the front door, clutching the paper in his fist.

  The Emersons may have escaped him this evening, but they would not escape him for long. He would hunt them until he found them and then they would pay.

  The professor would pay with his life and the woman at his side would pay with her heart, by watching her husband die. In killing the professor and the professor’s wife’s happiness, the Prince would have his revenge.

  He was a few steps from his motorcycle when a figure emerged from across the street. He scented her before he could see her.

  “Niccolò sent me with an urgent message.” Aoibhe stepped into the light that shone from the hotel doorway.

  “And?” the Prince clipped.

  “Venice is on the move. Our spies inside the city report that Marcus has sent his army by sea. They intend to land at Rimini.”

  “Send word to the Princess of Rimini immediately, informing her of the impending invasion. Then summon the Consilium. We’ll amass our army to make ready for their attack.” The Prince shoved the piece of paper he was holding into his jacket pocket.

  Aoibhe eyed his pocket curiously.

  “Have I interrupted you, my lord?”

  “The security of the principality is my primary concern. Now go,” he ordered, ending their conversation.

  Aoibhe bowed and disappeared while the Prince returned to his motorcycle.

  “You may have escaped for now, Emerson. But you won’t escape me forever.”

  The Prince of Florence climbed aboard his machine and sped off into the night.

  Fin.

  If you enjoyed this story, please consider leaving a review at Goodreads or any reader site or blog you frequent.

  The Prince’s adventures continue in THE RAVEN, coming in February from Penguin!

  Keep reading for a special preview.

  A lone figure stood high atop Brunelleschi’s dome, under the shade of the gold globe and cross. His black clothing faded into the encroaching darkness, rendering him invisible to the people below.

  Not that they would have seen him.

  From his vantage point, they looked like ants. And ants they were to him, an irritating, if necessary, presence in his city.

  The city of Florence had been his for almost seven hundred years. When he was in residence, he spent the moments before sunset in the same place, surveying his kingdom with Lucifer-like pride. This was the work of his hands, the fruit of his labor, and he wielded his power without mercy.

  His considerable strength was magnified by his intellect and his patience. Centuries had passed before his eyes, yet he remained constant. Time was a luxury he owned in abundance, and he was never hasty in his pursuit of revenge. Over a hundred years had come and gone since he’d been robbed of some of his most prized possessions. He’d waited for them to resurface and they had. On this night, he’d restored the illustrations to his personal collection, the sophisticated security of the Uffizi Gallery causing him only the most trifling of inconveniences.

  So it was that he stood in triumph against the darkening sky, like a Medici prince, looking out over Florence. He smelled rain on the warm air as he contemplated the fate of those responsible for acquiring his stolen illustrations. He’d intended to kill them two years previous, but had been thwarted by a tiresome assassination attempt. The war that ensued between the underworlds of Florence and Venice had kept him occupied since then. He’d won the war, successfully annexing Venice and all its territories. And his prey had finally returned to the city. Now was the time to have his revenge.

  He had time enough to plan the killings and so he stood, enjoying his success, as a warm, persistent rain began to fall. The ants below scattered, scurrying for shelter. Soon the streets emptied of human beings.

  He clutched the case under his arm more closely, realizing that his illustrations were in need of a dry space. In the blink of an eye, he traveled down the red tiles to a lower half dome before leaping to the ground and sprinting across the square. Soon he was climbing to the roof of the Arciconfraternita della Misericordia, an adjacent, aged building.

  There was a time when he would have served the Arciconfraternita, joining in their mission of mercy, rather than treating them as a hurdle. But he hadn’t been merciful since 1274. In his new form, the concept never entered his consciousness.

  Some hours later, he flew across the tiled roofs at great speed, dodging raindrops and heading toward the Ponte Vecchio. The smell of blood filled his nostrils. There was more than one vintage, but the scent that attracted his attention was young and unaccountably sweet. It resurrected in him memories forgotten, images of love and loss.

  Other monsters moved in the darkness, from all parts of the city, racing toward the place where innocent blood cried out from the ground.

  He changed direction and increased his speed, moving toward the Ponte Santa Trinita. His black form blurred against the night sky as he leapt from rooftop to rooftop.

  As he ran, the question uppermost in his mind was: Who will reach her first?

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  I would like to thank my readers, with special gratitude to those who read and supported the Gabriel series. As you can see in this novella, I’m not finished with the professor and Julianne just yet.

  (Nor is the Prince.)

  I am indebted to Sandro Botticelli and the incomparable space that is the Uffizi Gallery. I’m also indebted to the citizens of Florence, who gifted me with hospitality and inspiration.

>   I am grateful to Kris, who read an early draft and offered invaluable constructive criticism. I am also thankful to Jennifer and to Nina for their feedback and support.

  I’ve been very pleased to work with Cindy Hwang, my editor. Thanks are also due to Tom Guida for his wisdom and energy. And thanks to the copyediting, art, and design teams who worked on the novella and its cover at various stages.

  My publicist, Nina Bocci, works tirelessly to promote my writing and to help me with social media, which enables me to stay in touch with readers. I’m honored to be part of her team.

  I would also like to thank those who have offered support, especially the Muses, Erika, Argyle Empire, and the readers from around the world who operate the SRFans social media accounts.

  Finally, I would like to thank my friends and my family. Your continued support is inestimable.

  Glossary of Terms and Proper Names

  (NB: This list contains spoilers.)

  Aoibhe—Pronounced “A-vuh.” An Irish member of the Consilium.

  The Consilium—The ruling council of the principality of Florence. It consists of six members. The Prince is an ex-officio member.

  The Curia—The enemy of the supernatural beings.

  Ferals—Supernatural beings who live and hunt alone. They display brutal, animalistic behavior.

  Professor Gabriel Emerson—The Professor is a Dante specialist, who teaches at Boston University. He is the owner of a famed set of Botticelli illustrations. The illustrations are of Dante’s Divine Comedy and were lent to the Uffizi Gallery in 2011. His story is told in the Gabriel Trilogy: Gabriel’s Inferno, Gabriel’s Rapture, and Gabriel’s Redemption.

  Julia Emerson—A graduate student in a doctoral program at Harvard University. She is married to Gabriel and the co-owner of the Botticelli illustrations.

  Gregor—Personal assistant to the Prince.

  Human Intelligence Network—A group of human beings who are contracted to provide information to the supernatural beings. They also provide security and perform specific tasks.

  Ibarra—A Basque member of the Consilium.