The Raven (The Florentine #1)(17)
Author: Sylvain Reynard

Chapter Seven

After nightfall, Aoibhe sat in Teatro drinking from a glass specially designed to keep its contents warm and liquid.

Teatro was a secret club, located in the city center. It had been founded by the Prince in the seventeenth century as a kind of salon or meeting place. Over time, it had evolved into something far less intellectual. Now it was owned by the Consilium of Florence, although it hid its ownership behind the name of a Swiss corporation.

Florence and the other secret principalities in Europe predated the Romans. Shadow rulers and their advisers controlled the supernatural population within specific boundaries, usually cities. In the Middle Ages¸ the principalities in Italy had been organized under the ultimate rule of the King, in Rome.

Within the borders of Florence, the Prince had absolute power. In his wisdom, he’d put in place a Consilium, or ruling council, of which he was an honorary member. The Consilium functioned like a court and would punish or banish lawbreakers. It also oversaw the organization of the underworld society and its protection, particularly against incursions from other cities or territories.

When the Prince tired of dealing with Teatro, the Consilium took control, using it as a means of entertainment and nourishment.

The club contained a large central space with a dance floor and a bar; two sides of the area were dotted with tables and low couches. The walls and ceiling were painted a purplish black, the lighting was sensual and sparse, and the furniture was upholstered in velvet—black or red.

There was a stage on the other side of the dance floor that was hung with heavy red velvet curtains. The walls displayed large flat-screens, which cycled through projections of artwork and paintings in a variety of styles—all of the subjects profane, many of them sexual. From the central space, hallways led to private rooms, curving into the darkness like a spider’s web.

The spiders of this web were the inhabitants of the underworld, with the exception of the Prince. It had been years since he’d crossed its threshold. Consequently, it was an excellent place for Aoibhe to recover her injured pride and contemplate how to change his mind.

Her dark eyes passed over the writhing bodies on the dance floor, her mind blocking out the loud, pounding music. Her kind were sensitive to sound and she always found industrial and gothic music dissonant. It was what attracted humans, so it was what the disc jockey played. (Aoibhe would have preferred Irish minstrel music but had no success in persuading the dj to play it. Next time, she was determined to bring earplugs.)

The bar served alcohol to the humans and drugs were freely available. Inebriated victims were easier to manipulate and confuse, but the substances affected the taste. Older, more powerful ones eschewed the usage, choosing rather to seduce or hypnotize their prey, rather than sedate.

Some couples and small groups were engaged in various sexual activities on the couches. Blood and sex went together for Aoibhe’s kind, which meant there was a healthy amount of feeding going on as well. Her nose was filled with the various scents of individual bloods, the aroma heady and unbalancing.

She surveyed the activities with bored detachment. She’d seen it all before and for the moment, at least, nothing interested her. Actual intercourse and certain fetishes were reserved for the private rooms, in deference to the queasiness and social mores of some of the humans. The spiders needed the humans to come in droves every night, without fear and without disclosure.

Aoibhe didn’t care what the others did with their human pets or what they did with one another. As one of the six members of the Consilium, she was obliged to follow the rules of Teatro and see that they were enforced.

No killing.

No transformations.

Feeding must be consensual but mind control and the use of alcohol and drugs are permitted.

The last rule was a puzzle to many, but it served to maintain the seductive atmosphere. Humans were unlikely to come and offer themselves night after night if they saw another human wrestled to the ground, raped, and drained of blood.

Mind control was ineffective on some humans. The strong-minded could not be swayed, nor could the particularly pious or those who wore certain talismans. But members of the latter two categories were not allowed entrance, even if they begged.

Aoibhe sighed. The rules must have been made by the Prince himself, despite his contempt for the club. They smacked of his temperance and control and the humanity that lurked just below the surface of his skin.

She smiled.

He’d let his body rule that morning. Those were the moments she enjoyed most; when the uptight, carefully controlled Prince gave and took pleasure. He was magnificent. He was powerful. He was dangerous.

She wanted him. He’d proved himself an excellent lover, despite his disdain for long-term affairs. Aoibhe felt not a small bit of longing for him and even some affection.

Even more, she wanted his city. As consort, they would share power, and when the eventual fate of their kind seized him, she would have control of the city.

Aoibhe drained her drink and signaled to one of the waitresses to bring her another.

She actively avoided André, the bartender and club manager, because he had a blood disease. His illness made him the ideal middleman between her kind and the humans. No one would touch him unless they were feral because his scent was sickening. She could only imagine how revolting his taste would be.

At that moment, a girl stumbled at Aoibhe’s feet.

“Mercy,” the girl begged, raising terrified blue eyes to Aoibhe’s face.

She put down her drink.

She lifted the girl’s chin, noting blood at the corner of her mouth and flowing from a wound on her neck. The girl was shaking in terror and began clutching Aoibhe’s stilettos.

“Mercy,” she repeated. “I don’t want to die.”

Aoibhe closed her eyes and inhaled.

Humans didn’t realize their actions and emotions affected their scent. Just as a dog could sense anger or fear in a human being, or smell disease, so, too, could the members of Aoibhe’s kind. They’d evolved to the point where they could scent a person’s character. Certain vices, such as rape and murder, made their doers most repulsive, while those who were decent and good smelled—and, more important, tasted—delicious.

This girl smelled sweet enough. Not exceptional, like the one the Prince had found, but certainly tempting. She was clean and, by all signs, good. Aoibhe wondered what had possessed such goodness to come to Teatro.

A large hand reached out to grab the girl’s curly blond hair, jerking her head back.

“For that, you’ll pay.”