The Prince Read online

  When he arrived at the second floor he found the corridor abandoned.

  He followed the Emersons’ scents to the Botticelli room. Peering through the door, he saw them entangled in a passionate embrace.

  With scant reflection, he decided to enter the room and admire the artwork, but to do so unseen. It had been some time since he’d viewed the works of the Uffizi in person. The affairs of state kept him busy, as did his other pursuits.

  He scaled one of the interior walls and suspended himself from the ceiling, taking care to be silent in his movements. This was an old trick of his kind when they wished to observe human behavior unseen. It was amazing how few human beings ever bothered to look up.

  While the Emersons kissed and whispered to each other, the Prince took a moment to appreciate The Birth of Venus and the copy of Botticelli’s original Primavera, an immense feeling of superiority and satisfaction swelling his chest.

  With respect to Primavera, he knew what no one else in the world knew. He held his secret knowledge tightly, like a precious jewel.

  His self-congratulatory thoughts were interrupted by Mrs. Emerson, who grabbed her husband suddenly and pulled him to the corridor.

  The Prince was about to follow them when he noticed a new addition to the room, near where the Emersons had been kissing.

  Dropping soundlessly from the ceiling to the floor, he strode toward the work. A few feet away he stopped.

  On the wall opposite The Birth of Venus was a large black-and-white photograph of Mrs. Emerson. She was in profile, eyes closed and smiling. Her long dark hair was being lifted by a pair of hands.

  It was an extraordinary image, even to his cold and cynical gray eyes. Its beauty was made poignant by the knowledge she was ill.

  His eyes traveled to the words that had been posted below the photograph. It was a quotation from Dante,

  «Deh, bella donna, che a’ raggi d’amore

  ti scaldi, s’i’ vo’ credere a’ sembianti

  che soglion esser testimon del core,

  vegnati in voglia di trarreti avanti»,

  diss’io a lei, «verso questa rivera,

  tanto ch’io possa intender che tu canti.

  Tu mi fai rimembrar dove e qual era

  Proserpina nel tempo che perdette

  la madre lei, ed ella primavera».

  —Dante, Purgatorio 28.045–051.

  “Ah, beauteous lady, who in rays of love

  Dost warm thyself, if I may trust to looks,

  Which the heart’s witnesses are wont to be,

  May the desire come unto thee to draw

  Near to this river’s bank,” I said to her,

  “So much that I might hear what thou art singing.

  Thou makest me remember where and what

  Proserpina that moment was when lost

  Her mother her, and she herself the Spring.”

  The Prince scoffed and turned on his heel. He hadn’t liked Dante in life and he liked him even less in death.

  Beatrice was a different case. . . .

  Let the Emersons view themselves as modern incarnations of Dante and Beatrice. It mattered not. Mercy was not part of the Prince’s nature and not all the romantic love in the world would change that fact.

  The professor would pay for his thievery, and his wife would mourn him. In those events, justice would be served.

  Anxious that perhaps the Emersons had fled the building, he entered the hall, following their scent down the corridor.

  In the distance, he could hear voices and muffled sounds.

  He approached silently, almost floating across the floor.

  Desperate groans and the rustling of fabric filled his ears, along with the twin sounds of rapidly beating hearts. He could smell their scents, the aromas heightened due to their sexual arousal.

  He growled in reaction, baring his teeth.

  The corridor was shrouded in darkness but the Prince could see that the professor had his wife up against a window between two statues, her legs wrapped around his waist.

  Her voice was breathy as she spoke, but the Prince tuned out her words, moving closer so he could catch a glimpse of her lovely face.

  At the sight of it, flushed with passion, his old heart quickened and he felt the stirrings of arousal.

  It was not his custom to observe rather than participate. But on this occasion, he decided to make an exception. Careful to remain in the darkness, he moved to the wall opposite the couple.

  The woman squirmed in her lover’s arms, her high heels catching on his tuxedo jacket. Her fingers flew to his neck, undoing his bow tie and tossing it carelessly to the floor.

  She unbuttoned his shirt, and her mouth moved to his chest, as murmurs of pleasure escaped his lips.

  The Prince felt more than desire as he watched the woman’s eager movements. He caught a glimpse of her exquisite mouth and the toss of her long hair that would no doubt feel like silk between his fingers.

  She lifted her head to smile at the man who held her close and he could see love in her eyes.

  It had been many, many years since someone smiled at him like that. As if he, himself, were the prize.

  The Prince felt the sharpness of loss in that instance and the heaviness of an emerging envy.

  The second floor was not air-conditioned and was warm, very warm. The air clung, growing thick with the scent of the lovers—a mixture of blood and sex that teased the Prince’s nostrils.

  The professor’s hand disappeared between his wife’s legs and he began to touch her, whispering sensual words of appreciation.

  The Prince craned his neck for a better view but of course his line of sight was obscured by the professor’s body.

  He cursed, remembering once again how the professor seemed to stand between him and what he wanted.

  He followed the movement of the man’s arm, watching as the rhythm was matched by the shifting of the woman’s hips and the sounds emanating from her throat. Breathy groans and panting tempted him to push the professor aside and take her himself.

  He indulged himself in a momentary fantasy. The young woman warm and willing in his arms, her eager mouth pressed to his as he entered her. He’d be careful, of course, because humans were breakable.

  But she would be warm and pliable, and when she cried out in his arms he’d bend his lips to her neck and . . .

  “Don’t make me wait,” the woman spoke, her tone urgent.

  The Prince awoke from his reverie to see her hands covering her lover’s backside as she tried to urge him closer.

  Low murmurings were exchanged and gentle laughter as the professor reached into his pocket and withdrew a foil packet.

  The joy between the couple surprised the voyeur, as if it were out of place. He was used to hard, angry coupling, absent joy, absent affection.

  He fornicated as he fed—with a goal to pleasure and satisfaction, to filling a void and sating a hunger.

  What he was witnessing was something else entirely.

  The sound of trousers being unzipped echoed in the corridor. The woman exhaled in satisfaction as her lover pushed inside her.

  The pair moved in concert, hands tugging and pulling, grunts of delight filling the air.

  The woman’s back thudded against the windowpanes as her lover thrust more forcefully.

  Her eyes were open, heated, until they fluttered closed and her ruby lips parted.

  “I’m close,” she moaned, a series of inchoate sounds escaping her mouth as she climaxed.

  The man said her name as he quickened his movements, his hips rolling and pushing. Then he, too, was overcome.

  The scent of sex filled the air as the lovers clung to each other.

  The Prince gritted his teeth, his arousal both painful and obvious beneath his black trousers.

  He steeled himself against the sensation, shamelessly staring at the couple as they gently caressed each other. He could hear their lungs expand and contract and their heart rates begin to slow.

&
nbsp; The professor lifted a hand to his wife’s face, caressing her cheekbone. She leaned into his touch, pressing her lips to the edge of his palm.

  The Prince averted his eyes, as if he’d trespassed on an intimacy.

  “Can you walk?” The professor placed his wife on her feet and bent to straighten her dress.

  She laughed, the sound light and happy. “I think so. I might be a little wobbly.”

  “Then allow me.” He lifted her in his arms and carried her down the corridor.

  The Prince followed discreetly, peering around the corner as they disappeared into a bathroom.

  He refused to entertain any of the conflicting thoughts he was having after having witnessed the passionate but tender scene. Instead, he adjusted his trousers, willing himself to calm down.

  His thoughts wandered to the photograph that was hanging in the Botticelli room, but only for a moment.

  His idea of justice and his plans for achieving it easily blotted out the possibility of sentiment.

  He focused his attention on his people, his principality, and the lengths he would go to maintain his control of them. Then he waited for his prey to emerge from their hiding place.

  Chapter 3

  “Massimo, there you are. What’s the name of the young man we were speaking to earlier?”

  “Who?” Dottor Vitali gazed up at his American friend, confused.

  The professor scanned the guests as they assembled in one of the large lecture rooms downstairs, waiting to be seated for dinner.

  “There.” Gabriel pointed to a man dressed in a black suit who was staring in their direction. The man who, unbeknownst to him, had followed him and his wife upstairs.

  As if he’d heard the professor’s words from across the room, the figure turned abruptly in his direction and gave him a menacing look.

  Vitali watched the wordless exchange between the man in the black suit and the professor and nodded.

  “Ah, the Englishman. He made a substantial donation to the gallery when he learned of your benevolence and requested an invitation to tonight’s events. Apparently, he’s a patron of the Palazzo Medici Riccardi and funded its restoration.”

  “His name?” Gabriel pressed.

  Vitali stared into space absently.

  “Massimo?” Gabriel snapped his fingers.

  Vitali startled, his eyes moving to the professor’s. “What was I saying?”

  Gabriel resisted the urge to huff in frustration. “You were going to tell me the name of the young Englishman who made a donation to the gallery.”

  “Of course.” Vitali smiled. “I don’t remember his name but we will ask my assistant. He has the guest list.”

  Gabriel pressed his lips together. “So you don’t know the man personally?”

  “Not really. But I recall the donation was large and wired within an hour from a Swiss bank.”

  Gabriel frowned. “I don’t trust him. Do me a favor and keep him away from Julianne.”

  Vitali gave him a puzzled look.

  “Has he insulted her?”

  “Not yet.”

  Vitali glanced at the Englishman.

  “He’s one of those rich, young aristocrats who fled England to pursue pleasure in my country. We’ve seen thousands of his kind over the years. I’m sure he knows better than to trouble your wife.”

  “Perhaps.” Gabriel’s tone was unconvincing, as was his expression as he stared at the stranger’s retreating back.

  Vitali gestured to the front of the room. “Come, my friends. Please.”

  Gabriel extricated Julia from a conversation she’d been having with Vitali’s wife, and escorted her to their table.

  “Va bene,” said Vitali, taking his wife by the hand and following the Emersons.

  Neither the professor nor Vitali realized that even from the hall the mysterious stranger could hear every word of their exchange, or that he’d changed his mind and decided to deal with Vitali sooner rather than later.

  Dottor Vitali’s memory was about to become even less reliable.

  Chapter 4

  The Emersons had sexual intercourse during the gala not once but twice.

  The Prince silently saluted the professor’s (human) stamina.

  It was close to midnight by the time the elaborate dinner ended and the Emersons said their farewells to Dottor Vitali. They exited the Uffizi hand in hand, strolling toward the Piazza della Signoria.

  The Prince followed, keeping to the shadows.

  A figure trailed behind him, having encircled the Uffizi for hours, like a shark, waiting for him to emerge. The figure made sure that he was downwind of the Prince, so that his scent would not reveal him.

  It was a short walk from the Piazza to the Gallery Hotel Art, which was only a few steps from the Arno River. Still, the Emersons took their time.

  Mrs. Emerson seemed determined to give money to every homeless person she encountered and the professor seemed determined to kiss her every time they passed a gelateria.

  (Given the number of homeless persons and gelaterias in the city center, the Prince despaired of them ever making it to their hotel before Advent.)

  When they finally entered the hotel, the Prince stood across the street, waiting. His contacts in the human intelligence network had informed him that the professor had expensive tastes. He’d reserved the penthouse suite.

  Locked doors and tall buildings were no barrier to the Prince, given his abilities, but it was fortuitous that the penthouse was easily accessible from its private terrace. He’d simply bide his time until the Emersons retired for the evening.

  (The Prince secretly hoped they would not have intercourse a third time, as it would delay his revenge once again.)

  It was at this point that the figure who had been following him disappeared.

  The Prince saw the lights go on in the penthouse. A short time later, those same lights were extinguished.

  In a flash, he was across the street. He was just about to scale the side of the hotel when the wind shifted.

  He froze, closing his eyes and inhaling.

  The scent of a number of his kind came into sharp relief. Not a single one of the scents was familiar.

  The Prince ascended to the roof just in time to see a crowd of ten men, wielding swords, sprinting across the rooftops in his direction. They were about a half a mile away.

  He was unarmed.

  Quickly, he surveyed the area in case they’d sent another group to flank him. But they hadn’t.

  The Prince found the fact rather curious.

  It was possible they were after someone else. Possible, but not likely. A group of armed beings running in his direction meant only one thing—assassination.

  He faced them, his body alert, continuing to survey the area in case there were more.

  The group leapt to the building next to the hotel and stopped.

  Once again, the Prince found their strategy (or lack thereof) surprising.

  “The Prince of Florence, alone and unarmed.” A man who appeared to be the leader of the group addressed him in Italian, brandishing his broadsword.

  The Prince examined the group, searching for any familiar faces. He found none.

  He straightened himself to his full height. “You have one minute to put down your swords and surrender, or I will destroy you.”

  The group laughed, one of them moving to the edge of the roof to taunt him. “Are you mad? We are ten to your one.”

  The Prince’s gray eyes lasered into his. “Do you have any idea who you are addressing? I’ve been in possession of this principality for centuries. Lay down your weapons or die holding them.”

  The group laughed again.

  Another man mimed a beheading, his broadsword whistling through the air.

  When the laughter ended, the first man who’d spoken raised his weapon and with a shout crossed the gap between the buildings, flying toward the Prince.

  The Prince remained still until the man was just above him. Then he stepp
ed to the side, grabbing the man’s sword hand at the wrist and wrenching it. The wrist bones snapped like twigs beneath his fingers.

  The man howled in pain and released the sword, crashing to the roof.

  The Prince caught the sword with his left hand and spun, slicing through the man’s neck. The head flew into the air and then hit the floor with a sickening, wet thud.

  He tossed the sword to his right, kicking the headless corpse aside. He turned his smile on the group. “Next?”

  There was an instant of hesitation, but only an instant. A cry rang out from the remaining members and they surged forward.

  The Prince waited until they were almost within striking distance before leaping high into the air. He executed a flip midair and landed behind them, quickly severing the heads of two men with a single stroke.

  Again, he kicked the decapitated bodies aside, ignoring the rolling heads.

  His attackers rushed him.

  The Prince fenced and battled, leaping into the air to avoid the blades. In a few moments, he’d diminished the group by six. Only four remained, including the leader.

  “Put down your swords.” The Prince paced like a lion, herding the men toward the edge of the roof.

  The leader cursed, spitting on the ground.

  “Vincenzo, see to the others.” The leader addressed the man next to him, gesturing to the corpses and heads that littered the roof, their blackish blood shining like tar in the semidarkness.

  The leader attacked, hoping to give Vincenzo the opening he needed. The Prince evaded the leader’s strikes and kicked Vincenzo in the chest, forcing him to his knees before taking his head.

  The Prince pointed his bloodied sword at the leader.

  “Tell me to whom I owe the pleasure of your visit before I kill you.”

  The leader gripped his weapon more tightly. “You’re still outnumbered.”

  “Not for long.”

  The leader jumped over the side of the roof, his two companions following after.

  The Prince calmly looked down at them.

  They landed next to the hotel, poised to fight.