The Raven (The Florentine #1)(64)

“I agree, they avoided me. The question is why. Maybe there’s something to your belief in relics and the power of Sanctuary. But maybe it’s just the placebo effect.”

William lifted his hip from the desk and growled.

Raven leaned back in her chair.

The sound coming from his chest was unmistakable—he was growling like an animal. She didn’t know what to do with that realization.

William moved closer.

“Your leg was healed, temporarily, and you changed in physical appearance. What are your scientific explanations for that?”

“I don’t have one. Listen, Mr. York. I think I deserve the truth. Something strange happened to me. My memory is confused. Just tell me what you gave me so I can go and see a doctor.”

“A doctor wouldn’t know what to do with you. He’d draw your blood, test it, and discover that it contains substances absolutely foreign to human biology.”

Raven started, visibly shaken by what he’d said. She remembered her doctor’s remarks about her blood work and the incompetence of the lab. She’d said the lab contaminated the blood sample.

“What did you give me?” she whispered.

“You’re asking the wrong question. You should be asking who I am.”

Raven pressed her lips together.

“I know who you are. You’re the thief who stole the illustrations from the Uffizi.”

“As I said, I didn’t steal them. They were stolen from me, originally.”

“Dottor Vitali said they belonged to a Swiss family since the nine-teenth century.”

William tilted his head to one side.

“From whom did they acquire them?”

She lifted her shoulders. “I don’t know.”

“Precisely. They appeared in Switzerland after they were stolen from me.”

“Before the turn of the nineteenth century?” Raven laughed. “But that would make you—”

“Yes.”

She rolled her eyes in disbelief. “What’s your connection with Palazzo Riccardi?”

“None of your business.”

“The painting in your room upstairs, who’s the artist?”

William stopped, pinning her to the chair with a look so sharp, she felt it. “You know who the artist is.”

“I’ve never seen that painting before.”

“You have, actually, when I brought you here to save your life. The artist, of course, is Botticelli.”

“Impossible.”

“Why?”

“Because of Mercury and Zephyr. Their faces . . .” She stopped, confused.

“It isn’t impossible. Use your powers of inference.”

“I am. I’m familiar with all of Botticelli’s works. I’ve never seen that painting before.”

He smiled. “Because I’ve owned it for years and I’ve never let anyone see it.”

“How long have you owned it?”

William clenched his jaw. “Since it was painted.”

Raven erupted in a scoffing laugh. “Nice try, ancient one. Botticelli died in 1510.”

“He nearly died earlier. When I discovered he’d painted my likeness in a work, I decided to kill him. He offered me a few things and I changed my mind.”

Raven stood and began walking toward the door. “I don’t find your delusions funny. I find them pitiable. You need to get help and I need to go home.”

William blurred past her and stood at the door, barring her way.

Raven’s eyes widened in shock. “How did you do that?”

“I’m quick.” He moved away from the door and stalked toward her.

She retreated, holding her hand up as if to keep him away.

“You’re disturbed. Let me go.”

He approached her determinedly.

“If I let you go, all my striving will be for naught. Someone like Max will come upon you and kill you. Or worse.”

She froze. “Like what?”

William stopped when their feet were almost touching.

“Like keeping you as a pet until he tires of you.”

William stood so close she could feel his breath on her face.

She focused on the door, willing herself not to be distracted by his nearness.

Realization suddenly dawned on her.

“You traffic in humans.” Her gaze moved to his face. “You sell them as sex slaves.”

William’s expression quickly morphed from anger to surprise to amusement.

“Not quite.”

“Who else keeps human beings as pets?” she demanded.

“Those who feed on them.”

“Feed?” Raven began backing away, keeping her gaze fixed on William. “You’re a cannibal.”

William drew himself up to his full height.

“Hardly.

“I am a vampyre.”

Chapter Twenty-four

If time could be measured by grains of sand flowing through an hourglass, there would have been enough sand to form a small sand castle in the bottom of the glass. That was how long it took for Raven to process William’s declaration and react to it.

“You’re sick.”

(She had difficulty coming up with a more descriptive response, given the fantastic nature of his claim.)