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The imagery was not lost on him.
It would have been a simple thing for the Prince to steal the victim from her attackers and spirit her away, descending to another darkened alley in order to drain her of her prize.
He closed his eyes for a moment, inhaling deeply, and was seized by recollection: a half-naked woman lying at the foot of a stone wall, her body broken, her innocence taken, her blood crying out to him from the ground . . .
Revenge.
His appetite for food was swiftly replaced by a greater appetite, one that had been quietly fed over the centuries by anger and regret. The illustrations he’d taken great care to steal dropped from his hands unheeded as he leapt from the roof.
“What the—” The man was dead before he could finish his sentence, his head ripped from his body and casually tossed aside like a football.
The other men released the woman and attempted to run, but the Prince caught them handily, sending them to hell with a few swift movements.
When he turned to claim his prize, he found she’d fallen to the ground, the sweet scent of her blood heavy in the air. She seemed unconscious, her eyes tightly shut, her face battered.
“Cassita vulneratus,” he whispered, crouching next to her.
She opened large green eyes and stared up at him through the raindrops.
“A girl. How disappointing.” A woman’s voice broke the silence. “From the scent of her I thought she was a child.”
The Prince turned to find four of his citizens standing nearby—Aoibhe, a tall woman with long red hair, and three men, Maximilian, Lorenzo, and Gregor. All had pale faces and all stared hungrily in Raven’s direction, but not before bowing to their prince.
“How did such a delicacy go unnoticed? If I’d smelled her in the street, I’d have taken her.” Aoibhe moved closer, her posture regal and elegant. “Come, then. She’s old enough and easily shared. I’ve not drunk a vintage that sweet since I fed on English children.”
“No.” The Prince’s voice was low. He moved almost imperceptibly, standing between the girl and the others, obscuring her from sight.
“Surely, Prince, you would not deny us.” Maximilian, the largest man, gestured in the direction of the various body parts of the three dead men. “The others are dead and reek of vice.”
“There’s an unspoiled corpse by the bridge. You can have it, with my compliments. But I have first rights to the girl.” The Prince’s voice was quiet, but it held an undercurrent of steel.
“Your prize is almost a corpse,” Aoibhe spat out. “I can hear her heart stuttering.”
In response to the woman’s words, the Prince turned in the girl’s direction. Her eyes were closed and her breathing was labored.
“What a mess!” one of the other men exclaimed, his Italian accented with Russian. He stepped forward, examining the bodies of her attackers, coming perilously near their victim.
A growl escaped the Prince’s throat.
The Russian stopped abruptly.
“Pardon, my lord.” He took a cautious step back. “I meant no disrespect.”
“See to the perimeter, Gregor. If no one wants the other corpse, remove it.”
The young assistant scurried off into the street.
“Not even a feral would want to drink from them.” Everyone turned to look at Maximilian, his focus on the mutilated men.
His eyes moved to his ruler and narrowed. “I thought the Prince didn’t kill for sport.”
“Cave, Maximilian.” The Prince’s voice was threatening.
“Are you challenging the kill?” Lorenzo, the Prince’s lieutenant, stepped forward.
A noticeable tension hung in the air at the sound of his words. Everyone stared at Maximilian, awaiting his response.
He glanced from the Prince to the bleeding girl and back again, his blue eyes calculating.
“If the Prince never kills for sport, why are these men dead? He could have stolen her easily.”
“Enough!” Aoibhe sounded impatient. “She’s dying and you’re wasting time.”
“The Prince is the one who enacted the laws against indiscriminate killing.” Maximilian stepped forward. His eyes flickered almost imperceptibly to Lorenzo’s, then fixed on the Prince.
Aoibhe stood in front of him, her tall form appearing slight in comparison to his great size. “You’d challenge the Prince of the city over this? Are you mad?”
Maximilian moved, as if to shove her aside.
In a flash, the redheaded woman caught hold of his left arm, wrenching it high behind his back and dislocating his shoulder with a sickening snap.
“Never lift your hand to me again. Or you’ll lose it.” She forced him to his knees, placing a velvet-clad foot to his lower back.
Maximilian gritted his teeth. “Would someone get this fork-tongued harpy off my back?”
“Aoibhe.” The Prince’s voice was low, but commanding.
“I just want to ensure this Prussian knight understands what I’m saying. His Italian is severely . . . lacking.”
“Get off, you miserable wench!” he snarled, trying to shake her off.
“With pleasure.” Aoibhe released her colleague with a string of Irish profanity and more than a few threats.
Max stood, popping his shoulder back into place with a groan and rotating his arm.
“Since I appear to be the only one interested in the laws of the city, I withdraw the challenge.” He paused, as if expecting someone else to speak.
All were silent.
“Finally.” Aoibhe turned her attention back to the Prince, who had moved closer to his prey, his back against the wall. “Your exceptional vintage is on her final breath. If she’s to be had, it must be now. Will you share?”
On impulse, the Prince pulled the girl into his arms and in one quick motion leapt to the roof, leaving his fellow citizens behind.
Chapter Two
Cassita vulneratus.
Raven awoke with a start.
She’d heard a strange voice whispering in her ear. Of course, there was no one else in her small bedroom. She couldn’t remember what the voice said or if it spoke to her in English or Italian. Something told her the language was neither, but it was a dream, after all. She’d been known to dream in Latin on occasion.
She blinked against the streaming sunlight. It was unusual for the shutters on her bedroom window to be open, but open they were. (Not that Raven focused on the anomaly.)
She’d had the strangest dream, but all she could remember was a vortex of swirling emotions and colors. As an artist, it was not surprising for her to think and dream in color. But it was strange that her memory, which was usually as sharp as a knife, was amorphous.
Yawning, she swung her legs over the side of the bed¸ its narrowness a testament to her single status, and walked to her laptop. She opened her music application and began playing her favorite Mumford and Sons album.
When she entered the bathroom, she didn’t bother looking in the mirror suspended over the vanity. The mirror was only large enough to show her best feature—her face. Even looking at that feature was something Raven avoided.
After her morning ablutions, she wandered into the tiny kitchen of her one-bedroom apartment and began making coffee.
It felt like a Saturday or Sunday, but she was pretty sure she needed to go to work. Seized by a sudden anxiety, she took a few steps to the left, peering into her bedroom. When she caught sight of her knapsack sitting next to the small table that she used as a desk, she breathed a sigh of relief.
She’d drink her coffee and check her e-mail, as was her custom, and figure out what day it was. According to the clock on the wall, it was seven in the morning.
She leaned against the counter. That was when she noticed something had changed.
The old-fashioned nightgown she was wearing should have attracted her attention, since it wasn’t hers. But it didn’t. Instead, she focused on what was visible beneath the hem of her gown. Her right foot, which was normal
ly turned to the side, was symmetrical with the left, something it had not been for over a decade.
She froze. She shouldn’t have been able to walk from her bedroom to the bathroom and to the kitchen without her cane. She shouldn’t have been able to stand on both feet without pain. Yet that was exactly what she’d done.
Raven almost sank to the floor in shock, but she was too busy lifting her formerly injured foot, experimentally rotating the ankle. She repeated the movement with her left. Each foot moved with perfect ease and without discomfort.
She walked into the bedroom and back again. She held her breath and jumped.
Arms held wide, she ran in place, footfall after footfall a mad, enthusiastic triumph over what she knew to be impossible.
It was a miracle.
Raven didn’t believe in miracles, or in any deity or deities who could possibly produce them. She closed her eyes, trying to remember anything from the night before—anything that might serve as a clue for this sudden, momentous transformation. Apart from the whispered voice whose words she could not make out, there was nothing she could hold on to.
