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“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.
