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Raven heard the door open and close.
She collapsed on the lowest rung of the staircase and placed her face in her hands. Her black hair fell forward, partially covering her arms and flowing over the shoulders of her raspberry-colored sundress.
She did not cry. But her heart ached.
She pushed aside thoughts of herself and her fate to think about her neighbor, Lidia.
She loved her. And she was very, very sick.
Raven exhaled in anguish.
Chapter Twenty-six
William took three steps outside the library and realized he’d forgotten the letter Ambrogio had delivered earlier. He returned to the library to retrieve it.
As soon as he entered the room, he saw Cassita huddled on the staircase, her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking. She was crying.
Something twisted in his chest.
No doubt she was overwrought. She’d said herself that she’d left America and come to Florence in order to find happiness. She’d told him she’d found happiness here.
Now she was giving up that happiness and the work that delighted her so he would save the lives of her friends. And he wouldn’t agree even to that. He’d promised only to help the boy.
The sensation in his chest increased, feeling a great deal like pain.
It was a foreign feeling.
He picked up the letter and put it in his jacket pocket, with the intention of leaving her to her tears. His gaze dropped to the floor, alighting on two items resting a short distance away: her simple white cardigan and his handkerchief.
The cardigan was no longer pristine. Like his handkerchief, droplets of vampyre blood blackened its appearance.
His eyes traveled from the cardigan to its owner, who was huddled into a defensive ball.
He found that the sight of her in that posture displeased him. Greatly.
It had been a long time since he’d concerned himself with the feelings of a human being. Because of the nature of vampyric transformation, many of his human feelings and memories were gone.
But he remembered loss. He remembered the pain that accompanied anxiety for someone you loved, even though he’d not loved anyone for centuries. Truthfully, he believed himself and his kind incapable of love.
Although he wasn’t practiced in empathy, he felt it at that moment, watching the beautiful, brave Cassita weep for her friends. And perhaps, for herself.
More than that, he was able to discern the central aspect of her character.
Cassita was a protector.
She was the kind of person who cared so deeply for others—even homeless men and neighbors—that she would do anything to help them, including sacrificing herself.
He hadn’t recognized this quality in her before but as soon as the thought occurred to him, he knew it to be true. He also knew that this trait of her character went very deep, to the core of her being.
In this respect, as in several others, she resembled the young woman whose image he kept carefully concealed in his desk. He’d failed her, many, many years ago, and she’d paid the ultimate price.
His regret and anger over what had happened to her were what propelled him to make an exception and save Cassita’s life. Now he’d taken the wounded lark and manipulated what made her noble and good, and for what? For his own selfish purposes? For sexual intercourse?
He looked down at the white cardigan she’d used to try to stem his bleeding and despised the blood that fouled it. She’d come to his aid, knowing he was a vampyre. Now she sat in his library, crying, because he’d forced her to trade herself for her friends’ lives.
William despised himself.
“Cassita,” he whispered.
When she lifted her head, he expected to see cheeks streaked with tears, but they were merely blotchy and red. Her green eyes were watery and she looked miserable. Miserable and contrite.
The pain in his chest increased.
“I changed my mind.”
“No,” she cried, panic overtaking her. She scrambled from the steps to stand in front of him. “Please don’t go back on your word. Please.”
He shook his head, lifting his hand to quiet her.
“I’ve decided to let you go.”
“You can’t! We had an agreement. You said you’d help him.”
“I did.” He fixed his eyes on her and gave her what he thought was his most sincere expression. “I will honor that promise and help the boy. I will instruct Ambrogio to find medical help for your neighbor as well. That’s the best I can do for her.”
Raven’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “What’s the catch?”
He shook his head. “No catch. I offer these things to you as a gift.”
“You brought me here as your prisoner. Now you’re going to let me go and give me what I asked for? I don’t believe you.” She wrapped her arms around herself.
His face grew pensive.
“You shamed me by offering yourself for the lives of others. I am regaining my honor.”
She eyed him skeptically, but said nothing.
He lifted his hand, touching her face. “A bird in a cage is never as beautiful as a bird that is free, Cassita. You’ve been wounded enough. I won’t add to your wounds.”
He bowed stiffly and turned to go.
She grasped his arm. “Can I go home?”
His gaze traveled from where she was touching him to her eyes, which looked hopeful.
He felt her hope like a brand on his skin.
“You’d be safest here, with me. But I won’t keep you.”
She released his arm and placed a hand to her mouth, relief washing over her.
He lifted his hand in caution. “But you must promise me something.”
“What?”
“That you will accept my protection. It’s for your safety, I assure you.”
“As long as I can go home.”
He dropped his hand. “When I return, I want to introduce you to my brethren.”
Raven opened her mouth to protest, but William interrupted.
“Maximilian and Aoibhe have seen you. If they see you a second time, they’ll take you. Once I’ve asserted my protection and put a few measures in place, no one will dare touch you. Then I will take you home.”
“I’d rather go home now.”
His expression grew momentarily severe. “My condition is inflexible.
You either agree or not.”
“I agree,” she said quickly.
“Good.” He pushed a lock of hair back from her face, an ancient sadness visible in his eyes. “Enjoy your day, Jane.”
He turned toward the door.
She watched him walk a few steps before she called to him.
“My name is Raven.”
Chapter Twenty-seven
Raven’s view of the world had been transformed. It was, she thought, much like the switch from a geocentric view of the universe to a heliocentric one. Except her heliocentric universe included supernatural creatures that healed from knife wounds in minutes and fed on human beings.
She’d experienced a myriad of emotions—fear, wonder, relief, anger, and even, at some moments, desire. Raven was exhausted by the time William left her and so she ventured upstairs to the master bedroom and curled up on the bed. Within a few minutes she was asleep.
When she awoke, she felt much better. William had promised he would let her go and he’d also promised protection from the other vampyres.
He’d protected her in the past, but she worried what his future protection might include. He’d already revealed his plan to take her to meet Maximilian and Aoibhe. She did not relish a formal introduction.
If she were to be honest, she’d have to admit she was attracted to him. His eyes, his appearance, his mouth . . . he was handsome and magnetic in many ways. He kissed with such focus she almost believed he felt more than just attraction to her.
Almost.
She’d changed his mind, at least. That was no small victory.
Sh
e was relieved to be able to focus on William’s art collection, rather than the events that had transpired between them and the looming danger of her forthcoming meeting with William’s associates.
After a late lunch she engaged Lucia and Ambrogio in the task of helping her to examine two pieces—the Michelangelo in the front hall and the version of Primavera in the master bedroom.
They removed the works from the walls and placed them carefully on the dining room table, which had been shrouded in a white sheet.
Raven was careful to touch the paintings only while wearing white cotton gloves, obligingly provided by Ambrogio. She examined every inch of the works with a magnifying glass, dictating any damage or wear to Lucia, who made copious notes.
Without testing the age of the paint and using much more sophisticated equipment than was available in the villa, Raven had to guess at the dates of the paintings. By her estimation, both pieces seemed genuine.
She wished she could ask Professor Urbano’s opinion, especially of the purported Michelangelo. If authentic, that work would change art history.
Michelangelo was thought to have completed only one painting in his lifetime. He’d sketched in chalk and ink and painted on wood, but had focused much attention on sculpture and, of course, the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel.
Throughout the afternoon, Raven tried from time to time to engage Lucia or Ambrogio in conversation. They were polite but distant and entirely mirthless.
She asked questions about William, but most of her inquiries were met with either silence or a change in subject. His staff gave a respectable account of his membership in British aristocracy and his love for the city of Florence. They avoided any hint of impropriety.
She wondered if they knew anything about his supernatural activities. She wondered if they’d enrolled in a Stepford-style training program for domestic servants.
In any case, Raven was certain that William’s staff would never disclose any of his secrets, nor would they ever, ever disobey his orders.
