“And the inventory?” Raven followed the director out of the elevator once they’d reached the lowest level.
“I’ve prepared a paper copy for you.” The director repeated the security measures before entering a narrow, white-walled hall.
He performed the palm and retinal scan at the first door on his right.
When they entered the room, dim lighting shone from overhead. A desk and chair stood nearby, along with a leather folio.
“This is the inventory.” The director handed it to her. “It’s alphabetized by artist, and each work has a corresponding location. I can assist you in viewing the vaults. Or perhaps you’d rather proceed item by item?”
Raven leafed through the inventory to the letter B.
Botticelli—Illustrations of Dante’s Divine Comedy. Vault A9C.
“I’d like to see these first.” She pointed to the entry.
“Very good.”
Within a few minutes, they were inside one of the temperature-controlled vaults, and Monsieur Marchand was lifting a wooden box from a labeled shelf. He placed it on a nearby desk and gestured to Raven to take a seat behind it.
She put on a pair of white gloves he’d provided and carefully opened the box. There, in a series of folios, were the illustrations that had caused so much trouble; illustrations William had acquired from Botticelli centuries earlier, and that had somehow been stolen from him by Lorenzo, the lieutenant who’d betrayed him.
Raven leafed through the folios until she found the drawing of Dante and Beatrice in the sphere of Mercury. She removed it carefully.
It was so beautiful. So fragile.
“Assessing their condition may take time.” Raven spoke without lifting her head, hiding her emotions.
“Of course, madame. There is an intercom to your right. Please contact me if I may be of assistance.” The director left her in privacy.
She replaced the illustration in the box, closed it firmly, and removed her gloves. Leafing through the inventory, she discovered the prized Michelangelo on the list, along with Botticelli’s alternative version of Primavera. William had even arranged to have some of her own sketches transferred. It was a bittersweet revelation.
A tear streaked down her cheek.
She continued reading the inventory, so engrossed that some time later she barely heard the door open and close.
Raven twisted away from the door, clutching the inventory to her chest.
“I need more time,” she faltered.
“More time?” a familiar voice asked.
“Yes.” Raven held the inventory more tightly.
“Cassita,” the voice whispered.
Chapter Sixty-Three
NEXT TO THE DOOR stood a man dressed in black.
His hair was fair and tinged with gray at the temples. Laugh lines radiated from his eyes. A scar marred his chin.
His eyes were familiar—a light and beautiful gray—and so was his voice.
“Cassita.” He smiled, like the shining of the sun, and held out his arms.
The pages of the inventory fluttered to the floor. Raven shrieked and put the desk between them. “How did you get in here?”
“It’s me,” he said, his smile vanishing. “It’s William.”
“William is dead.”
“Look at me. I am not dead.” The man began unbuttoning his dress shirt.
“Stop!” she cried. “What are you doing?”
He exposed his chest. “My heart beats normally now. Come, feel.”
“No, thank you.” Raven narrowed her eyes, examining his face, chest, and hands. He looked like William, it was true, but William at about age forty rather than the twenty-something vampyre she’d known him as.
“You changed your hair.” One side of his mouth tipped up. “And your eye color.”
She didn’t respond.
He rubbed his thumb across his lower lip. “This reminds me of the day I had to prove to you I was a vampyre.”
He lifted his hand and stared at it. “I’ve been transformed. My heart beats, and red blood flows through my veins. I can’t be driving daggers into this body without doing damage.”
Raven ignored his display and kept her gaze focused on his eyes. “How do you know about that?”
“I think you know the answer.” He studied the floor, as if he were measuring the distance between them.
Raven flattened herself against the wall, her eyes moving to the brace she’d abandoned next to the desk. It was her only weapon.
The man’s gaze moved to hers, and his expression took on a new intensity. “Do you remember the first time I came to your apartment? When I gave you the relic from my teacher?”
Raven’s eyes widened, for as far as she knew, she and William had never discussed the events of that night with anyone.
“I called you Jane by mistake, because I’d seen the name in your passport. We talked about mercy and justice. I ordered you to leave the city.” He chuckled. “Of course, you didn’t listen. I’m glad. If you’d fled the city, I’d never have known you. I’d never have known hope, dancing in my arms.”
Raven covered her mouth with her hand.
The man’s brow crinkled. “I brought your stepfather from California and presented him to you as a macabre birthday present. But you instructed me to send him to the police instead. You asked me to set up a fund to help the children he’d abused. Did Monsieur Marchand tell you that he and his staff manage the fund? It was set up in your name, your name and Cara’s.”