Acquainted With the Night (9781101546000) (46 page)

“Notice his coloring: classic signs of hypoxia,” Popovici said in a low voice. “Soon his blood pressure will bottom out. He will lose consciousness—unless you wish to reverse it with adrenaline.”

“He's old.” Wilkerson shrugged. “Let him die.”

The vampire opened his mouth to scream, but nothing came out. He hurled himself at the window, and the glass made a zipping noise. Cracks fanned around the vampire's face in a grisly frame. He spread out his arms and slid down the glass, leaving a trail of saliva and blood. He clunked to the floor and didn't move.

“Three minutes and fifty seconds.” Popovici tapped his watch. “Now, would you care to see our hybrid?”

Without waiting for an answer, Popovici led him into another corridor, with Lacusta bobbing in his wake. Popovici stopped in front of a window and opened the blinds. A woman with long red hair lay on the bed, her gown riding up on her hips.

“We had difficulty locating a hybrid,” Popovici said.

“Yes, they seem to be rare.” Wilkerson leaned toward the glass. “But lovely.”

Lacusta stepped forward. “It is difficult for immortals to breed with humans,” he said, ignoring Popovici's frown. “That's why their numbers are small. The ones we have studied exude a sexual attraction that is overwhelming.”

“That is enough, Dr. Lacusta.” Popovici's cheeks flushed.

“Is sleeping with a vampire the same? For humans, I mean.” Wilkerson's jaw clenched as he thought of Vivienne and Grimaldi. He imagined them at the auction, exchanging flirty glances. After one taste of the filthy vampire, she'd apparently gone mad with lust.

“Yes, but it's much more intense,” Lacusta said.

Two spots of color deepened on Dr. Popovici's cheeks, and he cleared his throat. “We are interested in doing further testing on the hybrid. If she were to become pregnant, by a mortal or especially a vampire, the stem cells and cord blood of the fetus could provide a breakthrough.”

“What sort of breakthrough?” Wilkerson's eyebrows went up.

“Fetal stem cells are more potent,” Dr. Popovici said. “They can be used to develop serums. We are also close to breaking down the genetic code, separating the genes that produce blood cravings from the ones that render immortality. We're working on the code that links sunlight, blindness, and sensitivity to ultraviolet rays.”

“We are speaking of only a few amino acids,” Lacusta said. “And we can create a biological product that will render immortality, albeit a temporary one. Aging will slow down, if not stop entirely, with none of the drawbacks that plague the immortals. Those who take the product will never grow old or fall prey to illness.”

“How long before the drug is ready?” Wilkerson's pulse sped up.

“One to two years,” Dr. Popovici said.

“Sooner if we had more hybrids,” Lacusta added.

“That long?” Wilkerson pursed his lips. Maybe he should increase the lab's budget. Then he remembered Caroline Clifford. The girl had a fifty percent chance of being a hybrid. If she was, her blood was more valuable than any artifact.

Inside the room, the woman sat up, her hair spilling down. “She's pretty,” he whispered.

“Indeed she is,” Dr. Popovici said. “Would you like to interview her?”

Wilkerson flattened his palm against the window. A fierce desire uncurled in his belly, and his breath fogged the glass. “Yes, an interview might be helpful. Can you close the blinds?”

“Take all the time you want,” Dr. Popovici said.

Wilkerson stepped into the room and shut the door.

 

Caro dreamed that she was in Oxford, watching a blue-eyed child dash across the garden. Her uncle was sitting at the kitchen table drinking Earl Grey tea and reading the
Observer
. The child's brown curls shook as he chased Dinah the cat into the cucumber patch. Caro ran after him, streaking across the sun-dappled lawn, but the child had vanished. She heard growling, then two spotted dogs crept out of the bushes.

She awakened with a start and blinked up at clouds. One cloud was shaped just like Arrapato. A moment later, a cold nose pressed against her ear and sniffed. She heard a jingling noise and felt a tongue against her cheek. Slowly the room came into focus. She wasn't in a garden. She was in a bedroom, and the ceiling was painted with clouds.

“Arrapato, I told you not to bother her,” Raphael said. He lifted the black dog and set him on the floor. The dog leaped back onto the bed and stepped over to Caro.

“Welcome back,” Raphael said. He smiled and touched her cheek. “Beppe, find Jude. Tell him she's awake.”

“Where am I?” She rubbed her eyes.

“In my big brass bed.” His smile widened. He wore a white cotton shirt that was unbuttoned, revealing an even whiter T-shirt underneath.

“I guess it's true,” Caro said.

“What?”

“You really don't sleep in a coffin.”

He laughed. “Were you dreaming of the dogs again?”

“How did you know about that?”

“Do you really have to ask?” He patted her leg. “The dream was prophetic. The dogs represent vampires.”

She scooted her uninjured hand along the mattress and lifted the sheet. She'd halfway expected to see the red dress, but she was wearing a white cotton nightgown with thin straps. The left strap had been untied and draped across her chest like a messy ribbon, curving around a bulky gauze bandage that covered her shoulder.

“How did I get into this nightgown?” she asked.

“Maria,” he said. “We helped her undress you.”

She tried to sit up, but Raphael eased her down. “You've lost quite a bit of blood.”

“Did you make me into a vampire?” She swallowed. “I remember you and Jude were arguing.”

“No.” He shook his head. “I didn't touch one drop of your lovely blood.”

“What happened?” Her voice sounded scratchy. She glanced around the room. Black walls, white bedding, clouds on the ceiling. No windows.

“The little Greek man put LSD into the grappa. He shot you.”

“Beware of Greeks bearing gifts, right?” She hesitated, then bits and pieces came back to her. “I knew it was some kind of drug. I thought maybe you were responsible.”

“Me?”

“After you got that phone call, everything went crazy.”

“I'd been making inquiries about your problems in Bulgaria,
mia cara
. It made no sense that MI5 would be pursuing you.”

“Did you learn anything?”

“Not yet.”

“How long was I unconscious?”

“Almost two days.”

“What's the date?”

“December ninth. You've been weaving in and out of consciousness.” Raphael held up a small plastic bottle and shook it. “The bullet. Not that you want a souvenir, but here it is. Your blood type is rare,
mia cara
. AB negative. But I had it in my blood bank.”

“You saved my life.” She squeezed his hand. “Thanks.”

“Prego.”
He made a little bow. “But I cannot take credit. Your necklace deflected the bullet, thankfully a small caliber; it missed the artery and nicked the great vein. Also, I suspect Demos's aim might have been off. And thank God for it—otherwise you would not have survived. The gods were smiling on you.”

“The necklace was a present from Jude.” Her hand rose to her chest, grazing over the empty space where the pendant had hung.

“I'm afraid the stone shattered,” Raphael said quietly.

“What about Father Aeneas?” she asked. “Is he okay?”

“Demos shot him. The bastard even took a shot at Arrapato. Thank God he missed.”

“Are you saying Father Aeneas is dead?”

“It appears that he is.” Raphael paused. “The police have sent divers into the water. So far, they've found nothing. The current might have carried his body away. Or it may wash ashore. Time will tell.”

She shivered, trying not to picture the monk floating along the bottom of the lagoon, tiny fish swimming in the folds of his robes. “Why would Demos turn on him?”

“Greed. One of the seven deadlies. He will sell those ten pages of
Historia Immortalis
.”

Her vision blurred, and a tear skidded down her cheek.

“I'm so sorry, Caro. This is my home. I take full responsibility. I do not know why, but I could not read their thoughts—sometimes it is that way.”

“I shouldn't have brought my bag to the terrace. But I have this ingrained paranoia.”

“No need to explain. Besides, Demos wouldn't have left without his prize.”

“I should have told you about my pages.”

“I knew you had them the moment you showed up. I caught the edge of your thoughts—you were wondering why your Uncle Nigel had placed those ancient pages in a Venice bank. But it was brilliant. A watery city is the last place anyone would look.” Raphael waved his hand. “Never mind that. I am sick that I did not protect you.”

“I didn't suspect Demos. Not one bit. He has our passport numbers. Well, the fake ones.”

“They are easily replaced. But you are not. You are a rare woman. If I had not been drugged, I would have killed Demos with my bare hands. And you wouldn't have been injured. You would have your father's pages.”

Another tear streamed down and she brushed it away. “Demos broke the triptych. Did he take the pieces with him?”

“No.” Raphael's dark brows came together. “He thought it was useless. I suppose his rage took over. He did not understand its importance.”

“Well, it's important to me; the last link to my parents. And Demos knew that. Maybe that's why he left the triptych.”

Raphael shook his head. “No,
mia cara
. Men like him have no empathy. He has no idea what he has destroyed. The triptych's value is far beyond money or sentiment.”

“Why didn't Father Aeneas know about the prophecy?”

“A cabal has guarded it for centuries. Only two mortals knew about the prophecy, and they're dead—your mother and your uncle.”

From the hallway, Jude shouted her name. He ran into the room, squeezed past Raphael, and knelt beside the bed. “Caro.” He raised her hand, as if he were lifting a baby bird. “I'm so sorry, lass. I wanted to protect you, but I couldn't. If only I hadn't drunk the grappa.”

“Everyone did,” she said.

“Except for Demos and Aeneas.” Raphael turned to Jude. “You gave him a key. I hope it won't open Sir Nigel's bank box.”

“Nothing of the sort.” Jude gently released Caro's hands and turned his burning gaze on the vampire. “It was a ruse, but it worked. I didn't see you trying to help her, you bloody coward.”

Raphael's lips drew back farther, showing his teeth. “You're the coward for not loving Caro.”

“You don't know how I feel.” Jude stood, meeting Raphael's gaze. The air around them seemed to crackle with electricity. They were like the wild dogs in her old dream. One more second and Raphael would rip out Jude's throat. Arrapato dove under the covers and nestled against Caro's leg.

“Stop it,” Caro yelled. “Both of you.”

Raphael stepped back, his eyes glowering. “Well, what is the real story on this key? Your thoughts have yielded nothing.”

“It goes to a locker in the Thessaloniki train station,” Jude said. “When Demos opens it, he'll find a bag filled with soiled clothing.”

“So you tricked him.” Raphael folded his arms. “I underestimated you.”

“Is that an apology?” Jude asked.

“An observation.” Raphael walked to the doorway and turned, his eyes sweeping longingly over Caro. “I will see you later.”

He left the room so swiftly his cotton shirt billowed and sent a cold, fruity draft toward the bed. Jude sat on the edge of the mattress and pulled the blanket over Caro's chest, careful not to disturb her injured arm.

“Thanks,” she whispered. She wanted to touch him but was afraid he'd rebuff her, and she couldn't have stood it. She heard a thump as Arrapato leaped to the floor. She'd forgotten he was there. A moment later she heard his nails snick over the floor, his tags clicking as he hurried after his master.

Caro stared at the M of Jude's upper lip, and she traced an imaginary line to the cleft in his chin. He pushed his fingers through his hair. “I only took a few sips of grappa, but they were potent. My legs felt like two limp strands of linguini. Every time I tried to stand, I'd fall. But when Demos put the gun to your head. Oh, Jesus. I couldn't save you.”

“In a way, you did.” Her hand went to the hollow between her breasts, stroking the smooth flesh above her heart where the pendant had once rested. “Raphael said—”

“Yes, I know. The necklace. But still, we almost lost you. There was so much blood. I thought you were dying. Raphael said he could save you. All I could think about was you becoming like him—and being
with
him.” His forehead tightened, and three lines appeared. “Maria heard the commotion and called Dr. Nazzareno. I was frantic that Raphael would lose control. But he didn't. He wanted to give you his blood. I wouldn't let him.”

“You made the right decision.” She touched his shoulder, pressing against the rough cotton fabric, feeling the taut, curved muscle that lay beneath. She waited to see if he moved away. He didn't.

“What if I'd been wrong?” He cupped his hand over hers. “I made a decision about your life—
yours
. I had no right. It was selfish. You could have died because of me.”