The Raven (The Florentine #1)(20)

They’ve probably spread them on a kitchen table somewhere and are eating breakfast on top of them right now.

She shuddered, imagining drops of milk or coffee marring the beautiful ink and the rare, brilliant colors. She imagined the thieves smoking, perhaps flicking pieces of ash over the faces of Dante and Beatrice.

Assholes.

If the thieves were devotees of Botticelli, small wonder they stole the illustrations. The size and weight of Primavera was so great, the painting couldn’t have been removed from the Uffizi without a team of men and the use of heavy equipment.

The thieves were probably unaware that the Birth of Venus was housed in the restoration lab on the lower floor. The lab was secure, but its security was not as elaborate or sophisticated as that of the exhibition halls. However, like Primavera, the painting was large and heavy and would require several people to carry it. It wasn’t exactly a piece someone could pass through a window.

With such thoughts in mind, Raven found herself entering the Botticelli room. Immediately, she walked over to stand in front of Primavera.

The room felt off center. The large and imposing painting was usually balanced by the Birth of Venus, but it had been taken down almost a year before. It would be a few more months before it could be returned to its rightful place.

Raven stepped close to Primavera, her eyes alighting on the lone male figure on the left. She was drawn to his hands, the muscles and shape of his arms, and his perfect skin. She admired his chest and neck and, finally, his face. He possessed pale eyes and a straight nose, his lips full, his hair long.

Something about his hair displeased her, as if it were incongruous with the rest of him. But his face . . .

She heard a voice whispering in her ear, but she couldn’t quite make out the words.

She whirled around. There was no one behind her.

She took a moment to close her eyes and focus on her breathing, trying with all her might to stave off the anxiety that plagued her.

With one last glance at the painted figure of Mercury, she walked to the door, bracing herself for her meeting with Professor Urbano.

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.