The Raven (The Florentine #1)(60)

His eyes moved to her scar.

“Please,” she begged, knowing that her life hung in the balance. “If your story is true, you saved me from being raped and killed. Would you kill me now, after all that?”

He closed his eyes for a moment.

“Cassita vulneratus,” he whispered.

At the sound of those words, images crowded Raven’s mind. She saw William’s face, and the faces of the man and woman who’d chased her to the Duomo.

She saw herself in a dark alley, her hands covered in blood.

She saw herself in William’s room, lying on his bed while he stood over her, a tortured expression on his face.

She heard his voice, murmuring in English and in Latin.

“‘Wounded lark,’” she translated, lifting her eyes to him in wonder.

William’s lips curved into a half smile. “The wounded lark with the great green eyes and the maddening, courageous soul.”

Raven broke eye contact as she tried to come to terms with the images she’d just seen. Unless he was a hypnotist and a master of the power of suggestion, she was beginning to remember what had happened to her. Shockingly, the memories were consistent with the story he’d told.

She wrapped her arms around her middle, trying to manage the fear and wonder that coursed through her.

“I went to a party that night,” she mused aloud. “I couldn’t remember what happened after.”

“You had a brain injury.”

She looked up at him. “Is that why I found my sneakers in the closet upstairs?”

He nodded. “The rest of your clothes were ruined—stained with blood.”

Her stomach twisted.

“The homeless man you mentioned, was that Angelo? The man who stayed by the Ponte Santa Trinita?”

“I don’t know his name, but that’s where we found his body.”

Raven’s eyes filled with tears. “He never hurt anyone. All he did was draw pictures of angels and ask people for charity.”

William watched Raven’s reaction, an unfamiliar emotion rising in his chest.

“From what I’ve inferred, you saw the homeless man being attacked and intervened. That’s why they turned on you. You’re noble, but lack prudence.”

“What should I have done? Stood by and watched?” Her green eyes flashed.

He gestured to her knapsack. “You own a cell phone. Why didn’t you use it?”

“I don’t remember. Probably I thought there wasn’t time to wait for the police.”

“Precisely.” He gave her a look that was heavy with meaning.

She swiped at her eyes. “Will my memory return?”

“I don’t know.” His tone was sincere. “Perhaps it’s a mercy you don’t remember.”

She nodded absently.

After a moment, something occurred to her.

“You said earlier you could tell I was good and that’s why you intervened. How can you tell someone is good just by looking at her?”

“It’s a skill acquired over time, of which I have had a great deal.”

“I can’t be much older than you. Is it part of your alchemy?” She watched him carefully.

His posture was casual, too casual. “A kind of alchemy, perhaps. Mostly, the judgment is made based on perceptions. Your character was evident to me even as you lay dying.”

Raven turned away, her stomach churning.

“What did you give me to save my life?”

William opened his mouth to answer but stopped. He noted her tense posture, her still wet eyes, and the ferocity with which she held on to his chair.

“I think you’ve had enough for one evening.” His voice was quiet. “Go to bed. We’ll continue this conversation tomorrow.”

“I want to know about the alchemy. I want to know why my wound healed quickly.” She gestured to her forehead.

He reached out to trace the scar, his touch featherlight.

“This is a tragedy.” William’s tone was heavy with meaning.

Raven heard much more than a description of her scar in his voice. From his eyes, his face, the way he caressed her, she started to believe he didn’t want to hurt her.

He withdrew his hand. “I gave you something to heal your injuries, but the change in your leg is temporary. It’s already beginning to wear off.”

A look of horror flashed across Raven’s features. “Temporary?”

“Unless the treatment is repeated,” he qualified, searching her eyes.

“Will my head injury return? Will I die?” Raven’s heart thumped in her chest.

His hand slid underneath her hair to the back of her neck.

“Look at me,” he ordered, his gruff tone at odds with the lightness of his touch.

He brought his face close to hers.

“The mortal wounds were healed. But your appearance and the old injury of your leg will return to what they were before, perhaps with some small variations.”

Her gaze dropped to his mouth. “How is that possible?”

“How is it that a relic deters a feral, and holy ground repels Maximilian and Aoibhe?”

“You’re a murderer.” She changed the subject.

He did not blink. “Yes.”

“And a thief.”