Acquainted With the Night (9781101546000) (34 page)

“The policeman wants to know if Jude was in a fight,” he whispered. “I avoided his questions and said you are French students. But now, Demos has contradicted my story. He is weaving a tale that rivals
The Iliad
.”

The policeman let Jude pass and thumped Demos's shoulder. Greek words flew back and forth like tiny birds in an olive grove. Both men drew figures and dots in the air.

“Demos thinks he is Homer,” Father Aeneas said, rolling his eyes.

Caro smiled and started toward the ramp. A passenger pushed by her, and Caro felt a stinging sensation in her arms. She looked at her hands. The flesh was red, and when she pushed up her sleeves she saw that the redness extended under her sweater, as if she'd spent a day at Brighton, oiled with suntan lotion. Maybe Jude and Father Aeneas were wrong; maybe she
was
turning into a vampire.

 

The ferry steamed past Corfu, its pristine beaches glittering in the morning sun. Even though Caro's eyes were still sensitive, she lingered on the deck to watch a pod of bottlenose dolphins slice through the clear water.

“The ancients believed dolphins were a good omen.” Father Aeneas folded his hands on the railing. “They are also an early symbol of Christianity.”

The dolphins led the ferry to the Strait of Otranto, through a chain of tiny, rounded islands that bulged from the water. Caro looked around for Jude, but he'd vanished. The smokestack belched, sending up a black mushroom cloud, and the ferry churned north into the Adriatic Sea.

Demos had reserved four cabins, but they were spread out on different decks. A steward led Caro to a cabin on the upper deck. Music pressed in from hidden speakers, and the Goo Goo Dolls were singing “Without You Here.”

Perfect. She sat on one of the twin beds and wondered if Jude's cabin was this tiny. If so, he would be able to spread his arms and touch the walls on either side.

Stop thinking about him, Clifford.
Her stomach growled. She pushed off the bed, grabbed her bag, and headed toward the restaurant.

She found Jude standing in line outside a snack bar. Two middle-aged women stood in front of him, trying to get his attention. They wore cheery red Christmas sweaters and tennis shoes.

Caro slipped in front of Jude. He gave her a helpless look and said,
“Parle français.”

“We were just wondering if his girlfriend would show up,” said a woman with a fanny pack. She laughed, and thin, red lips moved over her teeth.

“Just our luck,” her companion said. Three diamond rings flashed as she smoothed back her silver hair.

The woman with the red lips extended her hand. “I'm Regina Hamilton from Birmingham—that's Alabama, not England.” She turned to her friend. “And this is Truvy Jo Adamson. She's from Birmingham, too. Where y'all from?”

“Je ne parle pas anglais,”
Caro said, hoping to discourage the women. She looked past them, into the crowded restaurant. Three television sets hung on the walls, and each one flashed her picture. It was the photograph with all the hair, but still.

“Viens avec moi,”
Jude said and pulled her out of the line. They hurried along the deck until they hit a logjam. Greek teenagers had set up nylon tents, and they were videotaping each other. Caro lowered her head, and her hair fell into her face but didn't quite cover it. She gripped Jude's arm, and he led her to the other end of the boat. They passed by another snack bar, and she looked up at the television sets. Her picture was gone, and the screens showed an Iraqi man who'd been kidnapped and tortured in Athens.

“Someone's bound to recognize you,” Jude whispered. “Where's your cabin? I'll get takeaway and bring it to you.”

“You know what?” She rubbed her stomach. “I'm not hungry.”

He pressed his hand against her forehead. “No wonder. You're burning up.”

“I'm queasy. I always get seasick. I need to lie down and I'll be fine.”

The ferry bounced over a wave, and she stumbled. Jude caught her, holding her tight for a moment as another ferry swept by on the port side, leaving a foamy white wake.

“I'll see you to your room,” he said. “Where is it?”

“Up there.” She pointed.

The moment they stepped into her cabin, everything went pear-shaped. She bolted for the tiny lavatory.
Oh, no. Not this. Not now.
She was dimly aware of him holding back her hair while she was sick. After a while she stood up and rinsed her mouth with water. He helped her out of the bathroom, and she dove onto the nearest bed. He turned back into the lavatory.

“The bites aren't making me ill,” she said in a defensive tone. “I'm seasick.”

“Maybe. But you're burning up.” A moment later she heard the lavatory tap running. The piped-in music was playing “Unwell,” but she was too miserable to enjoy the synchronicity.

Jude stepped out of the room with a cold rag and pressed it against her forehead. “There you go,” he whispered.

“When I was a child I was unbearably seasick,” she said.

“Can I get you anything?”

“My old life.”

His hand felt cool against her skin. “Other than that?” he asked.

“It's just my inner ear. I'm
not
turning into a flipping vampire bat.”

“Let's hope not.”

“Oh no.” Her insides spun around. She was going to be sick again. She leaped off the bed and ran to the lavatory.

Jude left the cabin and returned a while later with ice and ginger ale. The ice melted instantly on her tongue. She closed her eyes and fell asleep. When she awoke she lifted her arm. Her watch was gone. Damn, she'd lost it at Varlaam. The cabin had no window, so she couldn't judge the time of day. Not that she cared. Jude was stretched out on the other bunk, one hand over his eyes.

“Is it night?” she asked.

“It is.” He sat up, opened an Altoid tin, and waved it under her nose. “Breathe in the fumes. Peppermint is supposed to help nausea. Can you lift your head?”

“No. I'm sick as a parrot.” She opened one eye. “Have you seen any vampires?”

“Can't say that I have,” he said.

“You've looked, right?”

“Vampires wouldn't board a ferry in daylight.”

“Maybe they hid in a minivan or a truck.”

“They'd still need a driver.”

“I bet that happens all the time. They hypnotize people into being gofers.”

“Well, they can't get to you. Not now, anyway. Try to relax.”

“I can't. I want to, but I can't. What if those chatty women recognized me?”

“Your mind never stops, does it?” He smiled. “I've never met anyone with an imagination that's so . . . delicately tuned.”

“Is that a compliment? Or an insult?”

“An observation. Try to sleep.”

“Now I know why my uncle contacted you. To convince me that vampires exist.” She yawned. “Wonder why he didn't tell me?”

“To protect you. Or, more likely, he stumbled across new information. Something that posed a threat to you.”

She closed her eyes and whispered, “A threat.”

 

Moose swaggered into the Wilkerson Pharmaceuticals building, his reflective coat swirling around his knees. He stepped into the cherry-paneled lift and pressed the LL button, just as Wilkerson's cheeky secretary had instructed. She had even given him a fucking ID badge, and it dangled from his neck by a grubby string. He had never been to the lower level—and didn't want to go now—but the tricky secretary had insisted. Moose didn't trust her. Any woman who shagged her boss would double-cross the pope.

The lift opened, and Moose stepped into a corridor. He followed the signs to the Executive Lounge. A guard asked for Moose's badge. He held it up with exaggerated boredom.
Wilkerson Pharmaceutical Corporation, Edwin Tipton, Jr., Security Division.

The guard buzzed him through the locked metal doors. Moose stepped into a dark room that smelled of illness and putrid flesh. He started to run back through the doors, but they snapped shut.

“You're on time.” Wilkerson's disembodied voice floated out of the gloom.

Moose heard a whirring noise, and he crouched down, hands extended, waiting for the Zubas to attack. Lights clicked on, and huge TV screens flashed on the walls. Each screen showed a pastoral view: green rolling hillocks, trees, and a broad wash of sky. Birds flew in and out of the yew trees. Moose couldn't spot them, but he could hear their bloody chirping.

Wilkerson stepped out of the shadows, holding a shotgun. “How do you like my virtual shooting gallery?”

“Clever.” Moose licked the fingers on his right hand and started on his left. He glanced around for the goon bodyguard. “Where's the big guy?”

“There.” Wilkerson pointed to a dark corner of the room, where Yok-Seng lay on a black leather couch, curled into a ball.

“What's wrong with him?” Moose's nose twitched as Yok-Seng leaned over the edge of the sofa and vomited into a bucket.

“A bellyache.” Wilkerson shrugged.

“Shouldn't he be in hospital, mate?”

“We're waiting for the helicopter.” Wilkerson swaggered over to a stone wall that must have cost a bloody fortune. He lifted the gun and aimed it at the screen, which showed a squatty house.

“Pull,” he said, and a clay duck shot out of the squatty house. Wilkerson squeezed the trigger, and a cracking noise reverberated through speakers. The clay duck shattered. Moose watched the pieces fall into the virtual weeds.

“Can I have a go?” Moose blinked at the squatty house.

“Later,” Wilkerson said. “I'm sending you to Italy. I received a tip about my daughter's whereabouts.”

“What kind of tip?” Moose was instantly suspicious. He didn't want any involvement with Wilkerson's girl. It was too risky. One more bungle, and he'd be hunted ruthlessly by the Zubas.

Wilkerson ignored him.

“You must have contacts in very high places, mate.” Moose laughed, but he was thinking,
Bloody wanker.

“Actually I do. The British embassy in Bulgaria knows the Clifford girl's every move.”

“Why would they care about this bird?”

“I'm paying the ambassador's executive assistant to care. He arranged for someone to shadow Miss Clifford. Not to stop her, but to see where she's going, and why. Apparently, she's headed to Venice with her lover.”

“So the darling young buggers are traipsing around Europe. Having a holiday, are they?”

Wilkerson grimaced. “She's got something I want. And I need you to get it.”

Moose wrinkled his nose. He hated to think what would happen if he broke the daughter's neck.

“But I'm counting on you, Moose. Remember the photos you showed me the other day? The pictures with the art missing from her wall? It was an icon. She stole it from me. I want it back.” Wilkerson lowered the gun and clapped Moose's shoulder. “You won't let me down, will you?”

“No, sir.” Moose preened a little, then grinned.

“If you succeed, there'll be a handsome bonus. By the way, the Zuba brothers will accompany you.”

Moose's smile faded. “Bollocks to that,” he said. “I'm not sharing this assignment with freaks.”

Wilkerson raised the gun and yelled, “Pull!” Again, the virtual clay sailed out of the little house and flew into the sky. Wilkerson pulled the trigger, but the clay fell into the trees.

“You don't want the Zubas near your girl.” Moose ran his tongue over his lips. “They won't stop till she's in pieces.”

“The Zubas are brilliant trackers. They won't harm her.”

“Sure they won't. Send me a postcard from Italy, mate.” He stepped backward. Wilkerson was loop-de-loop if he expected Moose to take this gig.

“The Zubas will behave.”

“And pigs might fly. I'm not afraid for meself. I'm afraid for your bloody daughter.”

“Trust me, the Zubas won't be a problem. We've started clinical trials with a new opioid antagonist. It's effective with ICD.”

“Pardon?”

“Impulse control disorders. That's what they've got.”

“I don't give a monkey. I'm not going.”

“We're flying out of Gatwick in two hours. I want you on that plane. Don't disappoint me.”

 

When Caro awoke it was darker outside, and the piped-in music was still grinding out love songs. Train was singing “Getaway.” As her eyes adjusted to the dark, she saw a familiar shape on the other bed. “How many hours until we're in Venice?” she asked.

“Nineteen,” Jude said. “Feeling better?”

“A little.” She rubbed her eyes. “Where are we?”

“Somewhere between Croatia and Albania. The Croatian beaches were lovely. I'm sorry you missed them.”

“Me, too.” She pushed her hair out of her eyes. “Jude?”

“Mmm-hm?”

“That vampire accused me of stealing pages from a book. He meant
Historia Immortalis
, didn't he?”

“It doesn't matter. He's dead.”

“
Historia Immortalis
could be the history of vampirism. If my mother truly stole ten pages from that book, what should I do? Go to the BBC? Hide? Oh, Jude. These pages could shake the world.”