The Raven (The Florentine #1)(32)
Author: Sylvain Reynard

“What a nasty piece of filth.” She tossed the head aside and picked up her skirts, wiping her hands carefully on the white slip she wore underneath. “And the smell. Good hell.”

Ibarra coughed, as if in agreement.

“What now?”

“You take the human; I’ll take the feral and its head. We’ll meet in the alley.” She nodded across the piazza.

Ibarra did as he was told, grabbing the human, and his gun, and lifting him over his shoulder. He ran between the raindrops to the alley, then dumped his burden on the ground. Something fell from one of the human’s pockets.

It was a black leather wallet.

Ibarra almost threw it away. Money in small amounts was uninteresting to him. But when he picked it up, he caught sight of something that gave him pause.

“What’s that?” Aoibhe looked over his shoulder curiously.

He pointed at the identification in the wallet. “Interpol.”

“Damnation!” Aoibhe kicked at the feral’s beheaded corpse. “Not only does it trespass on our city, but it feeds in public on a damn policeman!”

Ibarra tossed the wallet to the ground. “What now?”

Aoibhe turned furious brown eyes in his direction. “What now? I’ll tell you what now. You and your border patrols are appearing before the Consilium. If you don’t have an explanation as to why our borders were breached, I’ll kill the lot of you.”

Ibarra took a step backward, lifting his hands. “Aoibhe, stay calm. Let’s find out what happened before we involve the Consilium.”

“It’s too late! The humans are probably reporting what they’ve seen, including our little maneuver, to the police. The feral spilled blood on the ground. The piazza will be crawling with policemen in minutes. Don’t you understand what this means?”

He dropped his hands and his black eyes narrowed. “Don’t patronize me, Aoibhe. I know exactly what it means.”

She gave him a furious look.

“Then help me clean up this mess before they arrive.”

Ibarra cursed and did as he was ordered.

Chapter Fifteen

The Prince was restless.

His network of spies informed him that the Emersons had left the city for Umbria. On the whole, their departure mattered little. There was nowhere in the world that was beyond his reach, only places that were more inconvenient than others.

Umbria was not inconvenient.

He would have to apply to the Princess of that region for permission to hunt on her territory, but they’d been on good terms for years. He doubted she’d withhold her assent. It was possible she’d request a sexual favor, as she had in the past.

She was beautiful and very desirable, but the Prince found himself indifferent to the possibility as his thoughts shifted to a raven-haired woman with large green eyes.

His quest for revenge against the professor would have to wait. He had more pressing concerns.

He’d watched the woman from afar, hoping she’d obey him and flee.

She didn’t.

She went to work. She went to the doctor’s office. She went shopping.

The Prince cursed.

Yes, he’d given her two weeks, but that had been a concession. She needed proper motivation. She needed to be shown what true danger was.

He’d fed himself in his villa, indulging in human blood followed by one of the rare, bottled vintages he’d procured in centuries past. This was one of his secrets.

Over time, he ingested the blood of old ones; blood he’d carefully extracted and saved or acquired through various means. His economy in not ingesting the blood of an old one all at once was rewarded every time he took a drink. He felt himself renewed in strength, his intellect sharper, his senses heightened.

Ingesting blood sated one desire but aroused another. On this evening, he wanted a human woman—young and soft. He wanted to kiss her mouth and thrust inside her. He wanted to look into her eyes and see trust, not fear, and to have her sleep in his arms the way Emerson’s wife slept in his.

He wanted Cassita.

For various reasons, he couldn’t have her. This meant he needed to go in search of a convenient substitute.

On a rainy evening, when the streets were almost empty, it would be difficult to find a woman who met his standards.

That was how he found himself outside Teatro, a place he had not visited in over a century.

When he entered the club, those who recognized him fell silent. He was greeted enthusiastically, if carefully, by the bartender and his citizens, who bowed deferentially, offering their seats.

The music played on and he found himself grimacing. Surely, music was used equivocally when applied to the pulsing dissonance that resonated from the sound system. He didn’t find it entertaining. He didn’t find it enjoyable.

In fact, it made his already impatient and aroused mood that much more dangerous.

Luckily, the humans ignored him. To them, he was one among many. Handsome, it was true, but not obviously powerful or as large as some of the others.

He took a proffered seat and goblet of warmed blood and sat in silence, scanning the crowd. If he couldn’t have Cassita, at least he could have someone who looked like her. He doubted anyone would smell as sweet.

Within minutes he found an olive-skinned, dark-haired woman who boasted an hourglass figure and bright blue eyes.

Close enough.

“Good evening, my lord.”

The Prince’s musings were interrupted by a female who bowed before him. She was dressed in red satin, her sandy-colored hair pinned up, exposing pale shoulders and an elegant neck.

He tamped down his annoyance at being interrupted and nodded at her curtly, putting his drink aside.

“May I service you, my lord?” Her hazel eyes lifted to his.

He stared at her.

“Service me, how?”

“In any way you wish.” She knelt before him and placed her hands on his knees.

He undid her hair, wrapping it around his wrist.

“Your name?”

“Svetlana, my lord.” She searched his eyes for permission.

His expression did not change.

“Your age?”

“I was changed fifty years ago, my lord. I was visiting from Russia.” She parted her red lips in anticipation.

“A youngling,” he muttered. He released her hair and pushed her hands aside. “Stand up.”

Her face registered her surprise as she stood.

He tugged impatiently on the cuffs of his black shirt.

“Since you’re a youngling, I’ll forgive this impertinence. But in future, know that I am the hunter, not the hunted.” His gray eyes narrowed.