The Raven(4)

“No.” The Prince’s voice was low. He moved almost imperceptibly, standing between the girl and the others, obscuring her from sight.

“Surely, Prince, you would not deny us.” Maximilian, the largest man, gestured in the direction of the various body parts of the three dead men. “The others are dead and reek of vice.”

“There’s an unspoiled corpse by the bridge. You can have it, with my compliments. But I have first rights to the girl.” The Prince’s voice was quiet, but it held an undercurrent of steel.

“Your prize is almost a corpse,” Aoibhe spat out. “I can hear her heart stuttering.”

In response to the woman’s words, the Prince turned in the girl’s direction. Her eyes were closed and her breathing was labored.

“What a mess!” one of the other men exclaimed, his Italian accented with Russian. He stepped forward, examining the bodies of her attackers, coming perilously near their victim.

A growl escaped the Prince’s throat.

The Russian stopped abruptly.

“Pardon, my lord.” He took a cautious step back. “I meant no disrespect.”

“See to the perimeter, Gregor. If no one wants the other corpse, remove it.”

The young assistant scurried off into the street.

“Not even a feral would want to drink from them.” Everyone turned to look at Maximilian, his focus on the mutilated men.

His eyes moved to his ruler and narrowed. “I thought the Prince didn’t kill for sport.”

“Cave, Maximilian.” The Prince’s voice was threatening.

“Are you challenging the kill?” Lorenzo, the Prince’s lieutenant, stepped forward.

A noticeable tension hung in the air at the sound of his words. Everyone stared at Maximilian, awaiting his response.

He glanced from the Prince to the bleeding girl and back again, his blue eyes calculating.

“If the Prince never kills for sport, why are these men dead? He could have stolen her easily.”

“Enough!” Aoibhe sounded impatient. “She’s dying and you’re wasting time.”

“The Prince is the one who enacted the laws against indiscriminate killing.” Maximilian stepped forward. His eyes flickered almost imperceptibly to Lorenzo’s, then fixed on the Prince.

Aoibhe stood in front of him, her tall form appearing slight in comparison to his great size. “You’d challenge the Prince of the city over this? Are you mad?”

Maximilian moved, as if to shove her aside.

In a flash, the redheaded woman caught hold of his left arm, wrenching it high behind his back and dislocating his shoulder with a sickening snap.

“Never lift your hand to me again. Or you’ll lose it.” She forced him to his knees, placing a velvet-clad foot to his lower back.

Maximilian gritted his teeth. “Would someone get this fork-tongued harpy off my back?”

“Aoibhe.” The Prince’s voice was low, but commanding.

“I just want to ensure this Prussian knight understands what I’m saying. His Italian is severely . . . lacking.”

“Get off, you miserable wench!” he snarled, trying to shake her off.

“With pleasure.” Aoibhe released her colleague with a string of Irish profanity and more than a few threats.

Max stood, popping his shoulder back into place with a groan and rotating his arm.

“Since I appear to be the only one interested in the laws of the city, I withdraw the challenge.” He paused, as if expecting someone else to speak.

All were silent.

“Finally.” Aoibhe turned her attention back to the Prince, who had moved closer to his prey, his back against the wall. “Your exceptional vintage is on her final breath. If she’s to be had, it must be now. Will you share?”

On impulse, the Prince pulled the girl into his arms and in one quick motion leapt to the roof, leaving his fellow citizens behind.





Chapter Two


Cassita vulneratus.

Raven awoke with a start.

She’d heard a strange voice whispering in her ear. Of course, there was no one else in her small bedroom. She couldn’t remember what the voice said or if it spoke to her in English or Italian. Something told her the language was neither, but it was a dream, after all. She’d been known to dream in Latin on occasion.

She blinked against the streaming sunlight. It was unusual for the shutters on her bedroom window to be open, but open they were. (Not that Raven focused on the anomaly.)

She’d had the strangest dream, but all she could remember was a vortex of swirling emotions and colors. As an artist, it was not surprising for her to think and dream in color. But it was strange that her memory, which was usually as sharp as a knife, was amorphous.