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.
Aoibhe didn’t care what the others did with their human pets or what they did with one another. As one of the six members of the Consilium, she was obliged to follow the rules of Teatro and see that they were enforced.
No killing.
No transformations.
Feeding must be consensual but mind control and the use of alcohol and drugs are permitted.
The last rule was a puzzle to many, but it served to maintain the seductive atmosphere. Humans were unlikely to come and offer themselves night after night if they saw another human wrestled to the ground, raped, and drained of blood.
Mind control was ineffective on some humans. The strong-minded could not be swayed, nor could the particularly pious or those who wore certain talismans. But members of the latter two categories were not allowed entrance, even if they begged.
Aoibhe sighed. The rules must have been made by the Prince himself, despite his contempt for the club. They smacked of his temperance and control and the humanity that lurked just below the surface of his skin.
She smiled.
He’d let his body rule that morning. Those were the moments she enjoyed most; when the uptight, carefully controlled Prince gave and took pleasure. He was magnificent. He was powerful. He was dangerous.
She wanted him. He’d proved himself an excellent lover, despite his disdain for long-term affairs. Aoibhe felt not a small bit of longing for him and even some affection.
Even more, she wanted his city. As consort, they would share power, and when the eventual fate of their kind seized him, she would have control of the city.
Aoibhe drained her drink and signaled to one of the waitresses to bring her another.
She actively avoided André, the bartender and club manager, because he had a blood disease. His illness made him the ideal middleman between her kind and the humans. No one would touch him unless they were feral because his scent was sickening. She could only imagine how revolting his taste would be.
At that moment, a girl stumbled at Aoibhe’s feet.
“Mercy,” the girl begged, raising terrified blue eyes to Aoibhe’s face.
She put down her drink.
She lifted the girl’s chin, noting blood at the corner of her mouth and flowing from a wound on her neck. The girl was shaking in terror and began clutching Aoibhe’s stilettos.
“Mercy,” she repeated. “I don’t want to die.”
Aoibhe closed her eyes and inhaled.
Humans didn’t realize their actions and emotions affected their scent. Just as a dog could sense anger or fear in a human being, or smell disease, so, too, could the members of Aoibhe’s kind. They’d evolved to the point where they could scent a person’s character. Certain vices, such as rape and murder, made their doers most repulsive, while those who were decent and good smelled—and, more important, tasted—delicious.
This girl smelled sweet enough. Not exceptional, like the one the Prince had found, but certainly tempting. She was clean and, by all signs, good. Aoibhe wondered what had possessed such goodness to come to Teatro.
A large hand reached out to grab the girl’s curly blond hair, jerking her head back.
“For that, you’ll pay.”
“Mercy,” the girl cried, wrapping her arms around Aoibhe’s lower legs. “Please.”
Aoibhe gave Maximilian an impatient look. “If you’re going to flout the rules, do it elsewhere. Or I’ll be forced to report you.”
“Go fornicate yourself, Aoibhe. I’m a member of the Consilium, too. This is none of your concern.”
He pulled the girl to her feet and she began screaming hysterically, thrashing about and trying to crawl into Aoibhe’s lap.
Aoibhe scowled, noting that a group of humans and their nonhuman counterparts had begun to stare in their direction. “You’re making a scene. Get her under control or let her go.”
“No, no!” The girl screamed louder.
Maximilian appeared to be enjoying the spectacle. He wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her against his body, grinding his groin against her backside. He placed his mouth to the wound on her neck and snaked out his tongue, lapping at the blood like a dog.
Aoibhe huffed before reaching out a single finger, forcing the girl to look into her eyes.
“Silence,” she commanded.
The girl stopped moving, despite the man assaulting her neck. Her eyes widened as they fixed on Aoibhe, who spoke in soothing tones.
“You are not afraid. Not anymore. Look into my eyes and focus on the sound of my voice. I am your mistress now.”
The girl nodded almost imperceptibly.
“Inhale deeply and feel your heart slow. That’s a good girl.”
“Aoibhe, stop it.” Max lifted his head, tightening his grip on his prey.
Without breaking eye contact, Aoibhe spoke. “Too late. I told you to get her under control.”
She lifted her hand, signaling to the bouncers, who stood by the door.
Max bellowed in anger and tried to wrench the girl backward. But he was stopped by the arrival of two large men. They functioned as a kind of security for the club and were of the same kind as he and Aoibhe.
She blinked, and the girl closed her eyes and sagged against Max.
“Tomas, Francesco. Be so kind as to escort Sir Maximilian to the exit. He has broken the rules.” Aoibhe glanced at him in distaste.
“You can’t do this! You can’t evict me.” Max leaned forward but Aoibhe held out her hand.
“One more step and I’ll take you outside myself. I’m older than you by at least a century. Do you really want to challenge me?”
Max snorted derisively but didn’t move. He knew, as did Aoibhe, that the older the supernatural being, the more powerful he or she was. Certainly her strength and agility were well-known. If she wanted Max dead, she could kill him. But not within the city—at least, not without cause.
The larger of the two bouncers glanced at the unconscious girl. “What about the human?”
Aoibhe waved a dismissive hand. “He can have her.”
Max’s head j
erked in surprise.
She smiled slowly. “Think of her as a final gift. You are no longer welcome here. If you return, I’ll report you to the Consilium and you’ll lose your position.”
Max spat in her direction but she turned her head swiftly, his spittle landing on the wall behind her.
She turned her head and gave him a long, slow smile. “Enjoy your takeaway.”
He lifted the unconscious girl into his arms and the men escorted him from the club.
Those who had paused their activities to watch the clash between the supernatural beings quickly found themselves distracted by other pursuits.
Aoibhe straightened her dress. Dealing with Max and the other masculine egos of her kind was exhausting. Why the devil couldn’t he follow the rules?
The Prince didn’t make public spectacles, even when he happened upon an extraordinary vintage as he’d done recently. He’d simply taken the human and fed on her privately, discreetly disposing of the corpse or having Gregor dispose of it for him.
“You look in want of company.” A smooth voice sounded in her ear.
“Ibarra.” She smiled warmly at the tall Basque who leaned over her.
He kissed her cheeks and signaled to a waitress to bring him a drink.
“How is the fair Aoibhe this evening?” He sat next to her on the sofa, placing his arm around her shoulder.
“Annoyed, at the moment. I’ve just had to have Max thrown out.” She sighed dramatically.
“I’m sure he deserved it.”
“He did. Insolent fool.”
When their drinks arrived, they clinked their glasses before drinking.
Ibarra placed his glass on one of the tables nearby. “We’ll need more recruits if we’re going to oust troublemakers like Max.”
“Just kill him and get it over with.”
“Not within the city.” He winked at her and she laughed.
“Take him outside the city, then. I’ll give you whatever you want if you rid me of him. I’ve had trouble with him twice in as many weeks.”
“Anything I want?” He ran the back of his hand over her neck.
She leaned into his touch. “Within reason, Ibarra. Although I’m sorely tempted to offer you carte blanche at the moment.”
He gave her a hungry look. “I’ll remember that. Rumor says that Max’s trouble was with the Prince.”
“Trouble with the Prince is trouble with me.” Aoibhe’s tone was sharp.
Ibarra smiled sadly. “Alas, I’m too late.”
“You aren’t too late.” She kissed him eagerly but pulled away before he was able to reciprocate. “How go the patrols?”
He groaned, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
“Give me a bit of warning before you do that. Now look at me.” He gestured at his lap in frustration.
“I can arrange to have you serviced while we speak.” Aoibhe turned in the direction of a group of young women seated nearby.
Ibarra placed his hand over her wrist. “I’d prefer you to service me.”
“I’m too old to kneel in public.” She gave him a frosty look and withdrew her hand.
“Who said anything about kneeling? Sit here and I’ll pleasure you.” He gestured to his groin.
She paused, her eyes darting to his lap. Certainly Ibarra was very attractive. And the Prince had always been indifferent to her romantic activities.
“Another time perhaps.” She licked her lips. “Tell me about the patrols.”
“I’ll hold you to that promise.”
“Please do.”
He groaned again, muttering a Basque curse.
“The patrols are good enough. Our borders are secure.”
She arched an eyebrow at him.
He frowned. “What? I speak the truth.”
“A feral slipped past your patrols a few days ago. Pierre happened upon it but the creature got away.”
“An isolated incident. We’re already hunting it and will find it shortly.”
“There are rumors that some of the ferals have banded together. I wouldn’t be in a hurry to fight a war with them. They’re animals.”
Ibarra laughed. “With respect, Aoibhe, we’re animals, too.”
“Hardly.” She sniffed. “And there’s what happened two years ago. The Prince had to fight off a group of assassins by himself. They jumped him by a hotel.”
Ibarra chuckled. “He’s an old one. He can handle himself.”
“A herd of ferals could take down an old one.” She looked off into space for a moment. “How old do you think he is?”
“I’m newer to Florence than you are. You tell me.”
She looked at his dark eyes curiously. “If you had to venture a guess?”
Ibarra ran his fingers through his thick black hair.
“Even if I knew nothing of his history, I’d guess he was an old one, given his strength and discipline. Old ones are at least seven hundred. Since he’s been in possession of this principality since the fourteenth century, he’s much older than that.”
“His time is almost up,” she murmured.
“I’m not so sure. I don’t see any signs of madness. Do you?”
“No, but I’m told the madness creeps in slowly.”
Ibarra waved his hand in the air. “If it truly is a curse, how could it affect all of us? Wouldn’t they have to be aware of each of us and curse us individually?”
Aoibhe shivered, as she always did when their enemy was mentioned. “Don’t speak of them.”
“As you wish. But I don’t think they are as powerful as everyone thinks.”
“How is Venice?” She changed the subject.
“The Venetians seem remarkably placid, given their history. They tell me they prefer to be under our prince rather than Marcus. They think he was a tyrant.”
“An extremely intelligent tyrant. I can’t understand why he would have attempted such a sloppy coup when he knew the power of our prince.”
Ibarra shrugged. “Our city is very desirable. Marcus wanted to expand his territory.”
“The Roman would never permit that.”
“Who knows if the Roman still exists? He’d be long past his thousand years, if he did. I think he was destroyed years ago but they kept his name alive, referring to whoever’s in charge as ‘the Roman’ in order to keep everyone in line.”
Aoibhe watched him for a moment to see if he was serious. Then she laughed.
“You spin fictions.”
“I’ve never met anyone, or heard of anyone who is still alive, who has met the Roman. He’s a figurehead for whoever assumed control of the kingdom of Italy.”
She smiled. “I’ve lived in Italy a long time. I would have heard if the Roman had been deposed. We’ll agree to disagree.
“Since Pierre’s encounter with the feral, I’ve been meaning to call for a meeting. We need to increase the border patrols in order to protect against incursions. That means we’ll need new recruits to fill the lower ranks so we can promote the young ones.”
Ibarra stroked Aoibhe’s cheek with a single finger. “I have no idea why you aren’t the Prince’s lieutenant.”
She rolled her eyes. “Because Lorenzo the magnificent is a Medici. He was born here, while I merely arrived.”
“The Prince is a fool.”
“I won’t argue with that.”
Ibarra lifted his glass. “To your health, Aoibhe. May you live forever.”
She lifted her glass as well.
“May I live longer than that.”
Chapter Eight
Raven’s kitchen table was littered with charcoal pencils, erasers, pencil shavings, cotton swabs, and paper. Two fingers on her right hand were black from blending and she’d taken to chewing the end of a pencil as she surveyed her most recent sketch.
It was a portrait of a man with haunted eyes and a square jaw. His short hair fell across his forehead carelessly, partially masking the creases above strong brows. His nose was straight, his mouth full and unsmil
ing.
There was something lacking in his expression. Raven didn’t know what it was.
After a disastrous day at work, she’d gone to the orphanage where she volunteered. The children and workers were understandably confused by Raven’s change in appearance, which she explained as the result of a crash diet and physiotherapy.
Raven confided in Elena, her friend and the orphanage director’s assistant, about her troubles at the gallery. Elena had been alarmed and given her the name and address of one of her many cousins, who was a lawyer. Raven pocketed the information, promising to contact the cousin before she spoke to the police again.
Later, she walked to the Franciscan mission, looking for Angelo.
He wasn’t there. No one had seen him in days.
She persuaded the director of the mission to file a missing persons report with the police, wisely deciding it was not in her interest to do so herself. Then she walked home.
Her apartment was a small one-bedroom unit that overlooked Piazza Santo Spirito. The green-shuttered windows of her room opened onto the square, affording an excellent view of the central fountain and the church that stood nearby.
Her kitchen was windowless and marked the entryway into the apartment. A simple table with four chairs was pushed close to one wall, while the counter and appliances ran the length of the other two.
She cooked well, if simply, her weight a constant concern. Her fondness for pasta, cheese, and desserts, and her disability’s constraints on exercise, made weight loss seem almost impossible. She accepted the fact just as she accepted her solitude—with quiet resignation.
On this evening, she found little to work with in the cupboard or small fridge. She should have gone shopping after work, but she’d had more pressing concerns.
It was almost nine o’clock when she sat down to a modest dinner of pasta with pesto from a jar and a small salad made with wilted lettuce. She opened a bottle of Chianti, pouring herself a full glass before corking the bottle. The currant-colored liquid cheered her, but she only picked at her dinner, worried as she was about the theft of the illustrations, her sudden change in appearance, and Angelo.
Afterward, she cleared the table and spread her drawing materials across it, eager to draw Angelo’s likeness. But something stopped her. Her hand froze, as if it were unwilling to commit him to posterity. As if it would be a sin against hope to relegate him to a drawing.