The Raven (The Florentine #1)(31)
Author: Sylvain Reynard

She tried to stand, her new shoes slipping beneath her. She could hear the animal approaching, its footfalls heavy in her ears.

She scrambled to her feet and was about to sprint toward her building, when she dropped her keys.

“Shit!” She bent to retrieve them just as the creature roared.

Chapter Fourteen

Raven expected the worst. She expected the thing—whatever it was—to crash into her.

She glared at the relic that swung from her neck. She didn’t have time to indulge herself in an “I told you so,” directed at the absent intruder. Silly superstitions had never done her or anyone else any good. They certainly weren’t helping her now.

She braced herself for impact, knowing it was too slippery to run.

There’s nothing I can do.

It’s going to kill me.

She heard sliding and scuffing, as if something had tried to come to a sudden and abrupt halt.

She turned her head just as the dark creature came to a stop several feet away. It roared and lunged toward her with its arms, but its feet did not move.

“Take that fucking thing off! Take it off!” it bellowed, in Italian.

Raven peered through the falling rain at what she realized was a man. He was dressed in dark and dirty clothing, his hair long and matted. A stench filled her nostrils as he moved, as if he hadn’t been washed in a very, very long time.

What she noticed most were his eyes. They were very dark, as if the pupils had expanded to obliterate the whites of his eyes, giving him a strange, insectlike appearance. When he opened his mouth, he exposed a pair of fangs among broken, yellowed teeth.

She moved to run, and once again her ridiculous shoes slipped out from beneath her, landing her hard on her bottom.

The creature roared expletives, waving his arms and pacing back and forth. But he maintained his distance.

“You whore. Take that fucking thing off,” he shouted. “I’ll rip your head off and drain your blood. I’ll fuck you until you die. Take it off!”

Raven moved back, placing more distance between them as he continued to rant almost incoherently.

He started shrieking Latin profanities, which she barely understood. He described someone, a man, as a pedophile and a deviant. He said she was the deviant’s whore and that he was going to kill her.

But, strangely and inexplicably, he came no closer. He simply paced back and forth, like a lion in a cage, roaring and gnashing his teeth.

Raven righted herself and was prepared to flee into the house, when she heard footsteps. Someone was approaching from the direction of the church, which stood to their right.

“Police!” a man called. “Put your hands on your head.”

Raven saw someone dressed in black run toward them, pointing a gun at the madman. It was dark and still raining, so she couldn’t make out the policeman’s features.

In an instant, the madman leapt, knocking the gun out of the other man’s hand. He pulled the policeman’s head back by his hair, baring his neck, and bent over him.

Raven heard a ripping sound and saw blood spurt.

She looked away in horror as the madman bent his mouth to the wound in the policeman’s neck.

Without a backward glance, she skidded to the door of her building, her hands shaking as she fumbled with her keys. She slammed the door behind her, climbing the stairs as fast as she could.

It was only when she was in her apartment, with the door locked and every light on, that she sank to the floor, clutching the gold she wore around her neck.

Aoibhe closed her eyes and inhaled.

“Blood.” She drew her lips back, exposing her fangs. “Let’s go, Ibarra. It smells delicious.”

Together, they leapt from roof to roof, racing from where they’d been conversing, under the loggia near the Uffizi, to Santo Spirito. As they dropped to street level and crossed the bridge, Aoibhe stopped.

“Do you smell that?” She grabbed Ibarra’s hand, rain pouring down on them.

He inhaled and his expression shifted. “A feral.”

“Hurry,” she cried.

The two beings climbed a nearby building, continuing their course across the roofs. When they arrived at the piazza, they stopped, their eyes scanning the space below.

They located the feral easily. It was feeding from a human in full view of the buildings. Based on the strength of the scent, they inferred the human had almost been drained.

“How did it get past the patrols?” Aoibhe cast a furious gaze on her companion.

“This must be the one Pierre spoke of.”

She surveyed the apartment windows that lined the piazza on both sides. Many of them were illuminated.

“No doubt it’s been seen.”

“It’s too late to worry about that. There are too many witnesses.” Ibarra glanced in her direction. “Can you tell how old it is?”

Aoibhe wrinkled her nose. “It isn’t old enough to be a challenge. We can take it, if there’s only one. How much faith do you have in your patrols?”

“I have absolute faith in them.” He met her gaze.

“Good. I’ll approach from the front and you, from behind. We’ll attack and drag it into one of the alleys.”

They nodded to one another and Ibarra raced across the roofs to get behind the feral, while Aoibhe landed on the wet cobblestones.

She approached him slowly.

Ferals were unpredictable, as well as strong. They were outcasts, eschewing covens and living and hunting in the countryside. Many were mad and behaved like animals, although some of them maintained vestiges of rationality.

Aoibhe begun running toward the feral as soon as her feet hit the ground. Whether it saw her or merely scented her, it dropped its prey immediately.

Its blood-smeared mouth snarled and it bared its teeth, lowering into a crouch.

Aoibhe changed direction, but it was too fast. The feral came at her with speed, its fingers stretched like claws toward her head.

She vaulted over its shoulder, surprising it. She placed a knee to its back and grasped its head with both hands. With a twist and a crunching sound, she wrenched the head from the body and dropped back to the ground.

The feral continued moving, its arms and legs shaking, black blood oozing from its neck.

Aoibhe held the head out to her side, taking care not to be bitten by its snapping mouth. She scowled in disgust as the stench filled the air.

“I was going to do that.” Ibarra appeared at her side.

She laughed. “Next time. But you’ll have to be faster.”

She shook the head by its hair, the way a cat shakes a mouse, until the eyes closed and it stopped moving.