Acquainted With the Night (9781101546000) (35 page)

“Maybe someone doesn't want it shaken. Maybe they want to suppress this knowledge.”

She shut her eyes and drifted. When she opened them again, the music had stopped, and grainy predawn light trickled into the room. She stumbled to the lavatory. The nausea was gone, but her ribs ached from dry-heaving. She splashed water on her face and rinsed her mouth, then collapsed on the cot and rolled into a ball.

Jude's bed creaked. She felt him slide the blanket around her shoulders, and she turned. “I hope Father Aeneas doesn't know you're here,” she said. “He'll think we're shagging.”

“Caro, the man killed a vampire.” He knelt beside her bed. “He left a monastery to join us on a bizarre quest. I hardly think he'd frown on a little shagging.”

“But we're not,” she said.

“No,” he said.

“I miss you.” Her breath caught.

“I'm right here.”

“I miss being in your arms.”

“Don't start, or I'll leave.”

“Quit threatening me. I'm having my say.” She swallowed. “I thought you were the one. I still do. Jude, look at me. Can't you see that I love you?”

“You don't know what you're saying.”

“Yes, I do.” She scooted close, molding herself around him. His body immediately tensed.

“Caro, stop.”

“We're not doing anything. I'm barely touching you.” An ache uncurled in her stomach, and she shivered.

“I don't trust myself,” he said.

“I won't bite.” She felt the corners of her lips curve into a trembly smile. Even as she began to stroke him, she knew the monk had told the truth. The bite wounds had changed her. She was like those damned cone shells, more attractive to prey. But definitely not toothed.

He started to rise, but she grabbed his hand and pulled him to her. His sweater made a scratchy sound as he slid his arms around her. Their mingled smells wafted between them, and the ache in her chest slipped lower, morphing into a craving.

He jerked away. “We can't,” he said.

She raked her teeth over her bottom lip. “But you want me.”

“Caro, we've been over this. You're a vampire.”

“Half. Only half. Stop being so bloody prejudiced.”

“I'm not.”

She rolled on her side and pushed her bottom against his thigh. “You're discriminating against me because of a few odd genes.”

“A few?”

“I'm proof that all vampires aren't bad.”

“You're not the only one who's hurting. I'm grieving over the future I saw for us.”

She held her breath. He'd seen a future? They could still have it, provided she didn't push too hard. But it was difficult to control herself because she'd never felt such raw yearning. She turned over, resisting an urge to climb on top of him, and cast about for an unromantic topic. Something that could help her understand his mind-set.

“Tell me about the night you were attacked.” She sat up. “Why didn't the vampires bite you?”

A pulse leaped in Jude's neck. “I don't know. Perhaps they meant to. The fire drove them away. Chemicals were exploding.”

“I don't blame you for hating vampires. Not one bit. I hate them more.”

He didn't answer. She leaned over him and groped on the floor, looking for her shoes.

“What's the matter?” he asked.

“I need air.”

“Don't try to stand up too fast. Here, take my arm.”

They stepped onto the deck. Below, on every level of the ferry, the aisles were heaped with bodies—people sleeping in chairs and tents, curled up on benches.

“Peaceful, isn't it?” Jude said. “I've always loved watching the sun rise.” He looked up at the grainy sky. A cone of light broke over the water. Caro grasped the rail. It was beaded with moisture, and her hand slid along the metal. Jude started to say something, then shook his head.

“What?” She frowned.

“Never mind. We'll talk in Venice.” He raised two fingers in a salute.

She could almost read his thoughts, but there were too many, each one thrashing like a minnow in a bucket. She sensed fear, anger, sorrow, regret. Ravenous desire.

“I don't regret a bloody thing,” she whispered.

 

As the ship approached Venice, Caro walked to the starboard deck and leaned against the rail. Afternoon sun blazed through the clouds, brightening a row of terracotta palaces. Why had Uncle Nigel directed her to Venice? What was waiting at the bank? This could be a wasted trip. But she hadn't given up on Jude. He could have left her alone in Meteora, yet he'd stuck by her.

The ferry puttered down the wide canal, looming over tiny water taxis filled with luggage and tourists. She felt a hand on her elbow, and Jude squeezed in beside her, looking handsome in his leather jacket. “Lovely day,” he said, turning his face up to the sun. “I ran into Demos and Father Aeneas at the Internet café. They booked rooms at the Hotel San Gallo. It's near the bank.”

They took a water taxi to San Marcos Pier no. 15. As they walked around St. Mark's Square, pigeons flew up at a slant, blotting out the dome. Jude headed toward Rusolo Campo, and she hurried after him. The Hotel San Gallo was just beyond an old well, nestled at the end of the empty courtyard, a white, three-story building with lime-green shutters framing the windows. Just around the bend, she could see the ornate façade of the majestic Banca Nazionale del Lavoro.

Caro pinched Jude's sleeve, digging her nails into the leather, and struggled to keep up with his brisk pace.

He stopped abruptly, his brow furrowed. “Am I walking too fast?”

“You're practically jogging,” she said breathlessly, but her gaze sent a different message.
You're running away from me.

“I won't go far, lass. Not with these bum ankles.” His eyes seemed to say,
I'm damaged goods.

“I still can't keep up. I'll get lost.”
No matter what I do, you'll leave. And I'll be alone.

The truth was, she was an expert at being alone. She'd always had a wide-open space inside her—Dame Doom's black pit—but now, finally, a radiant streak had forked into the gloom. She didn't know much about human nature, didn't know who or what she was; but she knew how love felt, and it flowed around her, buoyant as the notes in a Puccini aria. No, she couldn't return to the dark. Not now. Not ever.

She gripped his jacket a little harder and breathed in his cologne. “Jude?”

He gazed down at her. “The answer is no,” he said in a soft voice.

“But I haven't asked a question.”

“Yes, you have.” He took a breath and held it, as if he were smelling her, too, and then his face relaxed. “If we're alone, we'll make love. And we can't.”

“I always avoided men who say ‘can't' in a cultured, I-went-to-Eton way. But you make it sound alluring.” She flashed a coy smile. “Do word pheromones exist?”

“At one time, I didn't think vampires existed.” A wry smile flickered across his lips. “I never thought I'd be standing in Rusolo Campo, trying to hide a hyper-aroused condition.”

“You needn't hide anything.” She smiled. “The campo is empty.”

“You're relentless.”

“If you stop pushing, I'll stop pushing.” She released his jacket.

“You're always talking in riddles. I haven't moved an inch.”

“I'm quite aware of your position.” She cupped her hands over his hands, as if she were holding baby birds, their hearts fluttering against her palms. “I don't want to be alone tonight.”

“You'll be on your back in two seconds, Clifford.” The vein in his neck leaped against his collar.

“That's your favorite position, not mine.”

He winked. “I know.”

She felt encouraged by that wink. With his hips pressed up against her, a quivery sensation began in her belly and she couldn't think straight. She locked her hands behind him and looked up into his eyes, studying the brown chips caught in the blue. “Let's take this indoors,” she whispered.
Yes. Say yes.

“I can't.” There was that word again. It brushed past her ear, feather soft, barely above a whisper.

“And I know why. Because you love me.” She cringed.
Big mistake, Clifford
. She knew better than to pin the L-word on a moving target. Jude would probably think she was stoned on bat-nip, filled with insatiable cravings.

“We'll only get hurt,” he said.

“I'll handle it.”

“Is it that easy for you?” He pulled away from her, his eyes hard. “It's not me you want. You're flooded with hormones. Right now, you'll sleep with anyone. Check back with me in a few days.”

“I'll feel the same.”

“Right.” He didn't look convinced. “Until then, pull yourself together. Look at yourself. You're a wreck.” She felt a prickling behind her eyes. Maybe it
was
hormones or plain old tiredness, but she was going to cry.
Dammit. Son of a bitch.
She strode ahead of him, down the stone walkway and opened the hotel's heavy wooden door.

In the lobby, a sleepy-eyed clerk stood behind the desk, twisting her long blond hair around her fingers. She pushed a clipboard across the marble counter and yawned while Jude wrote down the confirmation number.

Savory aromas wafted from the restaurant, lemony fish with rich undertones of sautéed onions and pancetta. The seasickness had vanished, and Caro was starving. She picked up a hotel brochure to see if the restaurant's hours were listed.

The clerk dropped two enormous brass keys onto the counter.

“Passaporti, per favore,”
the woman said, stifling another yawn.

Jude tossed down his passport, and Caro slapped hers on top of his. He grabbed a key and left hers on the counter. Then he walked toward a dark staircase.

“Shouldn't we wait for our passports?” she called.

“This is Italy,” he said over his shoulder. “We'll get them later.”

Caro lifted her key. It was heavy, shaped like a giant toothbrush. Then she hurried toward the stairs. She caught up with Jude on the landing. On either side, halls twisted off into dim passageways. According to the brochure, Hotel San Gallo had only twelve rooms, but they were tucked into corners and at the ends of steep staircases. Her room was three doors down from Jude's.

“I'll see you in thirty minutes,” he said. “Then we'll talk to Father Aeneas.” His tone was businesslike and dismissive. He fit the huge key into the lock and stepped into his room.

“Make it thirty days,” she called after him, and then she closed her door a little too hard.

 

The medicated blood was kept in a chilled compartment in Harry Wilkerson's private jet. Instead of having labels, the bags were color coded.

Moose sat in the back of the plane, transfusing himself. During the flight to Venice, he had sampled the lot. The yellow bags had lessened his finger licking and toe tapping, but they withered his dangly parts. The green bags had been reserved for the Zubas, but Moose had stolen one. The blood had given him a rush reminiscent of his psychedelic days at Piccadilly Circus.

Wilkerson's phone kept ringing, presumably with updates about the girl. When the jet landed at Marco Polo Airport, he briefed the vampires. “My contact just informed me that Miss Clifford will be staying at the San Gallo. She's registered as Noelle Gaudet—but don't go near her. Just hang back and watch.”

“I thought you wanted us to kidnap her,” Moose cried.

“And risk another cock-up?” Wilkerson shook his head. “Follow Miss Clifford for the next twenty-four hours. She'll start to feel complacent. If I want you to snatch her, I'll ring you. In the meantime, do try to stay out of trouble.”

Wilkerson took off for the Hotel Cipriani, leaving Moose and the Zubas to fend for themselves.

“Now I'm in charge of you fucking sods,” Moose said. He tossed two yellow bags to the Zubas, then he selected a bag with a green label for himself.

“Wilkerson told us to take the green ones,” said the Zuba with the nose ring. The other fiend stood in the background, rubbing sunblock over his hands—each finger bore a tattoo with some type of fucked up Cyrillic.

“He did, did he?” Moose laughed. “Well, Mr. Toffee Nose isn't here. So you'll get the yellow.”

Moose opened a cabinet, pulled out the IV equipment, and slogged to the front of the plane. Something cold hit him between the shoulders, and he turned just in time to see a yellow bag hit the floor.

The Zubas rushed past him in a blur, leaping over the seats, into the aisle. They climbed off the jet and loped across the tarmac. What a pair of donkeys. They needed a big telling-off. They weren't trackers, they were murderers. Moose lifted the green bag and hooked himself to the IV.

He followed the Zubas' distinct smells of blood, sex, menthol, and Dunhill cologne to Campo di Santa Margarita. They stood in the shadows outside the church, dabbing on sunblock.

“So, what are you lot up to?” Moose said.

The Zuba with the nose ring pointed to a medieval building. “We tracked the girl. She is outside the tobacco store with her lover.”

“You're sure it's them?” Moose studied the couple. The girl had frizzy, dark blond hair, and she was smiling up at a man. His brown ponytail streamed down his back as he leaned over and kissed her.