The Raven by Sylvain Reynard
“Precisely. They appeared in Switzerland after they were stolen from me.”
“Before the turn of the nineteenth century?” Raven laughed. “But that would make you—”
“Yes.”
She rolled her eyes in disbelief. “What’s your connection with Palazzo Riccardi?”
“None of your business.”
“The painting in your room upstairs, who’s the artist?”
William stopped, pinning her to the chair with a look so sharp, she felt it. “You know who the artist is.”
“I’ve never seen that painting before.”
“You have, actually, when I brought you here to save your life. The artist, of course, is Botticelli.”
“Impossible.”
“Why?”
“Because of Mercury and Zephyr. Their faces . . .” She stopped, confused.
“It isn’t impossible. Use your powers of inference.”
“I am. I’m familiar with all of Botticelli’s works. I’ve never seen that painting before.”
He smiled. “Because I’ve owned it for years and I’ve never let anyone see it.”
“How long have you owned it?”
William clenched his jaw. “Since it was painted.”
Raven erupted in a scoffing laugh. “Nice try, ancient one. Botticelli died in 1510.”
“He nearly died earlier. When I discovered he’d painted my likeness in a work, I decided to kill him. He offered me a few things and I changed my mind.”
Raven stood and began walking toward the door. “I don’t find your delusions funny. I find them pitiable. You need to get help and I need to go home.”
William blurred past her and stood at the door, barring her way.
Raven’s eyes widened in shock. “How did you do that?”
“I’m quick.” He moved away from the door and stalked toward her.
She retreated, holding her hand up as if to keep him away.
“You’re disturbed. Let me go.”
He approached her determinedly.
“If I let you go, all my striving will be for naught. Someone like Max will come upon you and kill you. Or worse.”
She froze. “Like what?”
William stopped when their feet were almost touching.
“Like keeping you as a pet until he tires of you.”
William stood so close she could feel his breath on her face.
She focused on the door, willing herself not to be distracted by his nearness.
Realization suddenly dawned on her.
“You traffic in humans.” Her gaze moved to his face. “You sell them as sex slaves.”
William’s expression quickly morphed from anger to surprise to amusement.
“Not quite.”
“Who else keeps human beings as pets?” she demanded.
“Those who feed on them.”
“Feed?” Raven began backing away, keeping her gaze fixed on William. “You’re a cannibal.”
William drew himself up to his full height.
“Hardly.
“I am a vampyre.”
Chapter Twenty-four
If time could be measured by grains of sand flowing through an hourglass, there would have been enough sand to form a small sand castle in the bottom of the glass. That was how long it took for Raven to process William’s declaration and react to it.
“You’re sick.”
(She had difficulty coming up with a more descriptive response, given the fantastic nature of his claim.)
“No, I am not.” William was visibly irritated. “I am perfectly well.”
“I think cannibalism counts as a mental illness. I don’t mean to make light of it, because clearly you need help. And a dietician.”
Raven was not trying to be funny, but found herself giggling out of nervousness.
William was not amused.
He walked past her and circled his desk, opening one of the side drawers.
Raven should have taken that opportunity to flee the library, but she was curious about what he was doing. Until she realized he was withdrawing a dagger.
It was old-fashioned and far from small, boasting a gold handle.
“What’s that for?” She started backing away from him.
“I’m going to challenge your view of the supernatural. I’d advise you to stay. You’ll want to see this.”
Raven continued moving toward the door, but she kept her eyes on him.
He went to one of the bookshelves and withdrew a large, heavy volume. Raven noticed that it was a copy of Dante’s Divine Comedy.
William placed it on the center of his desk. He glanced in her direction as the music swelled.
Raven’s hand found the doorknob and she twisted, eager to leave.
Unfortunately, the doorknob wouldn’t move.
She tried it again. The door was locked.
“Jane,” he called to her.
She was about to pound on the door and scream for Lucia, when she saw William put his left hand on top of the book.
Staring at her, he lifted the dagger and plunged it into the back of his hand.
Raven screamed.
“Oh, my God! Oh, my God. Oh, my God. What are you doing?”
Without thought for her safety, she raced forward, ignoring the pain in her leg.
She saw a blackish fluid pouring from the wound in his hand. She wondered if it could be blood.
“You’re okay, William. You’re going to be okay. It’s just a cut,” she lied as she pulled her white cardigan from her shoulders. “We’ll take you to the hospital.” She tried to press the sweater around the dagger, which was still sticking out of his hand, pinning him to the heavy book.
William’s face was impassive.
He hadn’t cried out. He hadn’t even flinched.
Calmly, he pushed her cardigan aside and, with a great wrench, pulled the dagger out.
The sound was sickening.
“Why did you do that? You’re going to bleed to death!” Raven pushed the sweater toward his hand.
Once again he waved her aside. With a handkerchief, he swiped the blackish substance from the center of his hand and held it in front of her face, palm toward her.
The hole in his hand was so large, Raven could see through it.
He must have shattered bone with the dagger, or perhaps he’d missed the bones entirely. She couldn’t be certain.
She dropped her cardigan to the floor. “Holy shit.”
William came around the side of the desk to stand in front of her.
“Watch carefully.” His tone was ominous.
A moment later, the wound in his hand began to close. Raven watched as a milky film formed over the hole. Sinew and skin seemed to grow over the film before her eyes.
He moved his hand, displaying the back as well as the front. The wound had disappeared.
Thinking it was an illusion, Raven grabbed his hand, peering at it closely.
She traced the palm with her finger. It felt like flesh and not a prosthetic. She couldn’t even see a scar.
On his desk was the book with a large, deep incision still visible.
She lifted her face. “How did you do that?”
“I could repeat the experiment, if you like. I could do it a thousand times, but the outcome will always be the same. I’m not human; I am a vampyre.”
Raven dropped his hand and tried to race for the exit.
He cut her off.
He lifted his hands, palms toward her.
“Jane.”
She retreated to the metal staircase and scrambled to the top, shouting as she climbed. “Help! Help!”
“No one will come to your aid. Lucia, Ambrogio, and the others do exactly as I tell them, without exception.” William stood at the bottom of the staircase. He did not look pleased. “Climb down from there before you fall.”
“Don’t come near me!” She reached over and pulled a very heavy atlas from one of the shelves.
“Sard,” he
“Let me go.”
He straightened his shoulders. “I can’t do that.”
“Yes, you can. I’ve done nothing to you. Just let me go.”
William regarded her, his face taking on a contemplative expression.
“You thought I was a cannibal and yet you came to my aid. You sacrificed your white sweater for my wound.”
“You were bleeding, for God’s sake! Of course I tried to help.”
“Not of course. Few have ever lifted a finger to help me in the past few centuries. When they did, it was always with an agenda. You’ve not only surprised me, you’ve impressed me. And I am not easily impressed.”
He stepped to a table nearby and poured a deep purplish liquid into a goblet.
“You need a drink.” He lifted the glass.
“No, I don’t.” She shifted the atlas to her other hand. “I need to get out of here and away from you.”
“Finally you’re making sense.”
William approached the staircase. He was unhurried in his movements, almost relaxed. He placed a hand on the railing.
“If you’d come down from your perch, little bird, I’ll tell you more.”
“You’re a bunch of sick people.”
“Strictly speaking, we aren’t people. We’re vampyres.”
“Whatever.”
William smiled, revealing an array of straight white teeth.
“You’ve already met several vampyres, including me.”
Raven felt unsteady. “Who?”
“The feral. And Maximilian and Aoibhe.”
“Who’s Aoibhe?”
“The female who chased you to the Duomo.”
“So there are three of you?”
William pressed his lips together. “‘Our name is Legion, for we are many.’”
“How many?” Raven’s eyes widened.
“We exist worldwide, usually congregating in cities. Some of our kind live as ferals, alone and in rural locations.”
Raven gripped the railing. “I saw the feral kill the policeman. Is that what you do?”
“No. Ferals abandon reason and live like animals. The civilized ones among us feed on humans, but try not to kill them. Humans are a renewable resource.”
“Like trees,” she said weakly.
“What’s that?”
She closed her eyes. “The feral said I was a pedophile’s whore. He told me he’d fuck me until I died. Are you a pedophile?”
She opened her eyes and saw William’s expression change. A wave of fury passed over his features.
With a roar, he lifted the wine bottle and threw it against the heavy wooden doors. The bottle broke on impact, the top quarter of it embedding in the wood.
Raven clutched the atlas to her chest, clinging to the staircase rail with all her strength.
William rubbed his face with his hands. After a moment’s silence, he turned to her.
“I didn’t know that it spoke to you. I hope you never encounter one again, but if you do, you mustn’t listen to what it says. They’re devoid of reason and entirely dark.”
“Dark?”
He shifted his feet. “Something dark animates us. In a feral, the darkness overtakes it completely and the result is what you saw with the policeman.
“They aren’t without perception, however. It realized you had a relic and it must have divined where it came from, which is why it insulted the former owner and you.”
“You gave me a relic from a pedophile?”
“He was not a pedophile,” William snarled, baring his teeth. “He was a saint. Only a feral would suggest otherwise.”
Raven shrank from his anger. But after a minute her curiosity got the better of her.
“Which saint?”
William gestured to the chair she’d sat in previously. “You need to sit down before you fall down.”
When Raven made no movement, he told her, “I shall keep my distance and stand by the door.”
“Not until you tell me what you gave me.”
William did as he’d offered, stepping carefully between the shards of broken glass and pools of Chianti to the door. “In order to save your life, I fed you vampyre blood.”
“You what?” she shrieked.
He lifted his hands as if to calm her. “It has certain properties that can keep a human being alive.”
“This is impossible.” She swayed on the staircase, switching the atlas back to her other hand. “This must be a nightmare.”
Before she was aware of what was happening, William was at her side. He’d flown across the room and ascended the staircase.
He lifted the atlas from her shaking hand and reshelved it.
“Cassita.” He spoke firmly, looping an arm around her waist. “Stay with me.”
Her eyes focused on his. “I didn’t see you move. How did you do that?”
“Speed and agility are two of our talents. Now come down.”
She tried to push him away.
He was immovable.
“Look at me.” When their eyes met, he spoke in a low voice. “I won’t harm you. I—I swear by the relic.”
His voice and expression seemed sincere. Certainly he was superstitious about the relic, whatever its power or lack thereof. Would he swear by it and lie intentionally?
She wasn’t sure.
Raven considered her options and realized she couldn’t remain on the staircase forever. The only exit from the room was the door. At least if she descended the staircase, she’d be closer to the exit.
William took her hand and patiently led her to the chair.
“Drink this. It will settle your nerves.” He handed her the glass that held the remaining Chianti.
She eyed the contents.
“It isn’t blood, is it?”
He seemed offended. “Of course not. It’s wine.”
She sniffed the liquid before draining it. The wine was good but she barely tasted it. She closed her eyes as she willed the alcohol to give her strength.
“I thought vampyres were supposed to be cold.” She handed him the glass and he placed it on the desk. “Your skin is cooler than mine, but I wouldn’t call it cold.”
“Some of our mythology was propagated by our enemies. Some we circulated, hoping to confuse them.”
“I can’t imagine Bram Stoker as someone’s enemy.”
“Probably because he was a paid propagandist.”
Raven peered at his mouth.
“You don’t have fangs.”
William frowned. “Our teeth are sharp enough, I assure you.”
“So you have enemies?”
“Every predator is prey to something.”
“What would prey on you?”
“Not what—whom. And that is a story for a different day.” He appeared impatient.
“You look human.”
“I was human once. My body has been perfected. I’m faster, stronger, and I don’t age. I still feed and breathe but can go a long time without air. As you saw, I heal quickly.”
She lifted her hands before dropping them to her lap. “How can this be?”
“Your mistake is in assuming that the supernatural springs into existence uncaused. It doesn’t. It obeys certain rules; it follows certain patterns. In summary, a vampyre’s supernatural properties come from the darkness.”
She rubbed at her eyes. “Metaphorical explanations are useless. If you aren’t human, why do you look human? Why don’t you have a different kind of body?”
“Why do the elements of the Eucharist retain their physical properties after transubstantiation in the Mass?” Once again William sounded impatient.
Raven made a face.
“They didn’t quite cover the transubstantiation from human to vampyre in my catechism class, but perhaps my paris
William’s features softened into a smile.
He chuckled.
“It’s been a long time since I’ve laughed.” He gave her an admiring look.
Raven tried very hard not to roll her eyes. Then something perilous, something terrible, occurred to her.
She regarded him with a worried expression. “If you gave me vampyre blood, does that mean I’ll become a vampyre, too?”
“Not from that, no. The blood I gave you was harvested from two vampyres who are no longer alive. You have to be changed by a living vampyre in order to become one.”
“I thought vampyres were supposed to be immortal.”
“Not quite.”
“How can they be killed?”
William’s smile disappeared. “We don’t discuss those things.”
“The man who approached me last night—he mentioned the term masters. What was he talking about?”
William muttered something under his breath.
“You still have vampyre blood in your system. Max must have assumed you’d been kept by two vampyres as a pet and they’d let you feed from them as a reward.”
“That doesn’t sound rewarding.” Her lip curled in disgust.
“It is when you’re dying.” He spoke sharply. “Vampyre blood reverses the aging process and modifies nature, which is why it changed your appearance and healed your head injury.
“Your leg injury is obviously old, which is why it’s coming back. The older the injury, the greater the amount of blood it takes to heal it, but the less permanent the change. How did you break your leg?”
“That’s a story for a different day.” Raven directed her own sharp tone toward him before focusing on her hands, which were clenched in her lap. “So my leg will be like it was before?”
“Yes. In order to heal your leg permanently, you’d have to become a vampyre. But you could heal it temporarily by continuing to ingest vampyre blood.”
His expression changed. He seemed thoughtful, searching.
Raven felt more than a tinge of regret. She’d enjoyed the changes to her appearance. She enjoyed being pretty and thin. Most important, she enjoyed having a functional leg that worked properly and without pain.
She enjoyed it so much she was almost ready to ask William to give her whatever it would take to heal her.
The realization made her cold.
“What happened to the man who attacked Bruno?”