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.)
“No, I am not.” William was visibly irritated. “I am perfectly well.”
“I think cannibalism counts as a mental illness. I don’t mean to make light of it, because clearly you need help. And a dietician.”
Raven was not trying to be funny, but found herself giggling out of nervousness.
William was not amused.
He walked past her and circled his desk, opening one of the side drawers.
Raven should have taken that opportunity to flee the library, but she was curious about what he was doing. Until she realized he was withdrawing a dagger.
It was old-fashioned and far from small, boasting a gold handle.
“What’s that for?” She started backing away from him.
“I’m going to challenge your view of the supernatural. I’d advise you to stay. You’ll want to see this.”
Raven continued moving toward the door, but she kept her eyes on him.
He went to one of the bookshelves and withdrew a large, heavy volume. Raven noticed that it was a copy of Dante’s Divine Comedy.
William placed it on the center of his desk. He glanced in her direction as the music swelled.
Raven’s hand found the doorknob and she twisted, eager to leave.
Unfortunately, the doorknob wouldn’t move.
She tried it again. The door was locked.
“Jane,” he called to her.
She was about to pound on the door and scream for Lucia, when she saw William put his left hand on top of the book.
Staring at her, he lifted the dagger and plunged it into the back of his hand.
Raven screamed.
“Oh, my God! Oh, my God. Oh, my God. What are you doing?”
Without thought for her safety, she raced forward, ignoring the pain in her leg.
She saw a blackish fluid pouring from the wound in his hand. She wondered if it could be blood.
“You’re okay, William. You’re going to be okay. It’s just a cut,” she lied as she pulled her white cardigan from her shoulders. “We’ll take you to the hospital.” She tried to press the sweater around the dagger, which was still sticking out of his hand, pinning him to the heavy book.
William’s face was impassive.
He hadn’t cried out. He hadn’t even flinched.
Calmly, he pushed her cardigan aside and, with a great wrench, pulled the dagger out.
The sound was sickening.
“Why did you do that? You’re going to bleed to death!” Raven pushed the sweater toward his hand.
Once again he waved her aside. With a handkerchief, he swiped the blackish substance from the center of his hand and held it in front of her face, palm toward her.
The hole in his hand was so large, Raven could see through it.
He must have shattered bone with the dagger, or perhaps he’d missed the bones entirely. She couldn’t be certain.
She dropped her cardigan to the floor. “Holy shit.”
William came around the side of the desk to stand in front of her.
“Watch carefully.” His tone was ominous.
A moment later, the wound in his hand began to close. Raven watched as a milky film formed over the hole. Sinew and skin seemed to grow over the film before her eyes.
He moved his hand, displaying the back as well as the front. The wound had disappeared.
Thinking it was an illusion, Raven grabbed his hand, peering at it closely.
She traced the palm with her finger. It felt like flesh and not a prosthetic. She couldn’t even see a scar.
On his desk was the book with a large, deep incision still visible.
She lifted her face. “How did you do that?”
“I could repeat the experiment, if you like. I could do it a thousand times, but the outcome will always be the same. I’m not human; I am a vampyre.”
Raven dropped his hand and tried to race for the exit.
He cut her off.
He lifted his hands, palms toward her.
“Jane.”
She retreated to the metal staircase and scrambled to the top, shouting as she climbed. “Help! Help!”
“No one will come to your aid. Lucia, Ambrogio, and the others do exactly as I tell them, without exception.” William stood at the bottom of the staircase. He did not look pleased. “Climb down from there before you fall.”
“Don’t come near me!” She reached over and pulled a very heavy atlas from one of the shelves.
“Sard,” he swore, throwing the bloodstained handkerchief on the floor next to her cardigan. “I’m sure the revelation comes as a shock, given your preconceived notions. But you should remember that I’ve done nothing but help you.”
“Let me go.”
He straightened his shoulders. “I can’t do that.”
“Yes, you can. I’ve done nothing to you. Just let me go.”
William regarded her, his face taking on a contemplative expression.
“You thought I was a cannibal and yet you came to my aid. You sacrificed your white sweater for my wound.”
“You were bleeding, for God’s sake! Of course I tried to help.”
“Not of course. Few have ever lifted a finger to help me in the past few centuries. When they did, it was always with an agenda. You’ve not only surprised me, you’ve impressed me. And I am not easily impressed.”
He stepped to a table nearby and poured a deep purplish liquid into a goblet.
“You need a drink.” He lifted the glass.
“No, I don’t.” She shifted the atlas to her other hand. “I need to get out of here and away from you.”
“Finally you’re making sense.”
William approached the staircase. He was unhurried in his movements, almost relaxed. He placed a hand on the railing.
“If you’d come down from your perch, little bird, I’ll tell you more.”
“You’re a bunch of sick people.”
“Strictly speaking, we aren’t people. We’re vampyres.”
“Whatever.”