Acquainted With the Night (9781101546000) (47 page)

“I almost died because Demos shot me.” She pulled his hand to her breast. “Feel my heart? That's not an imaginary beat. I'm very much alive.”

“The immortals have a pulse,” he said. “Yours is racing. Perhaps you need another transfusion. A rapid pulse means your blood volume has been depleted and your blood pressure is low.”

“Or maybe I'm excited to see you.” She looked at his throat, where the dark, springy chest hairs began, and she remembered how he and Raphael had argued.

He withdrew his hand and leaned back. His eyes were solicitous but noncommittal. She tried to hear his thoughts but couldn't grab hold of anything. Was he going to stay? She couldn't bring herself to ask. Either he was or he wasn't. He was like those ten vellum pages. She couldn't lose something if it was already gone.

Dr. Nazzareno's wire glasses slid down his nose as he examined her shoulder. “Minimal redness. No swelling,” he said. “Are you having any pain?”

“A little,” she said. “Mostly it itches.”

“That means it is healing. And rapidly.” He smiled, and tiny wrinkles framed the edges of his dark eyes. He spread antibiotic ointment on the wound and covered it with a wide bandage, dabbing a bit on her neck, covering the scabbed bite marks.

“Keep the wound dry for another week,” he said. “Don't shower, take a tub bath. As to your activities, use common sense. Don't exert yourself.”

“Thank you, Dr. Nazzareno.”

“You are quite welcome.” He leaned closer. “We should discuss your condition.”

She swallowed, and her throat clicked. “What's wrong? Did the bullet cause other damage?”

“No, not at all.”

“Then what?” She blinked, searching her mind for anything resembling a medical condition. Only one came to mind. Either the doctor was psychic or Raphael had blabbed. She lifted an eyebrow. “Are you referring to my half-vampirism?”

“No, my dear.” He smiled and patted her hand. “You are pregnant.”

She sat there a moment, her heart punching against her ribs, and tried to absorb the news. “But how do you know?” she whispered.

“A blood test.”

“Why would you check for that?”

“I've been a physician for quite a long time.” He chuckled. “Not to brag, but my senses are acute. All good doctors have a second sense about their patients' health, but mine is particularly developed. The moment I saw you, I knew you were with child. I could hear two heartbeats. After you were in a stable condition, I took a small blood sample. And my hunch proved correct.”

A rush of blood went to her head. “I thought it took weeks for a pregnancy test to show positive.”

“The beta hCG test detects pregnancy six days after ovulation. Naturally your levels were highly elevated.”

“Wouldn't that be too soon to hear the baby's heartbeat?”

He smiled. “Vampires have keen hearing. Not to boast, but my auditory skills can be trusted.”

“You're sure I'm pregnant?”

“Definitely.”

Streaks of joy raced through her, and she placed one hand over her stomach. A baby. Jude's baby.

“Caro, when was your last menstrual period?”

“November fourteenth.”

“Let's see.” He tipped back his head and mumbled to himself. “Your due date is August twenty-first.”

“A summer birth,” she said, imagining herself walking in clear sunlight, her hands resting on a curved belly. Then she remembered the grappa. “Demos drugged the grappa with LSD. Will it hurt the baby?”

“Raphael said that you consumed a small amount.”

“Yes, just a sip, but—” She blinked. “Does he know about the baby?”

“Not from my lips.” The doctor shook his head. “That would be a violation of doctor-patient confidentiality. But he is canny, as you well know. Er, he is not the father, is he?”

“No.” She pressed two fingers to the bridge of her nose, trying to blot out images of Demos and the tainted grappa bottle. “But I thought LSD damaged the chromosomes.”

“That was a popular theory in the sixties, but it has not been proven. However, in humans it can cause uterine contractions. When LSD was given to laboratory mice, a small percentage aborted. An even smaller percentage had stillbirths.”

“Are you saying that I could have a miscarriage? Or that my baby might be born dead?”

“Did you not hear me, dear? With
humans
, there can be risks.” Dr. Nazzareno patted her hand. “In hybrids, the placental blood barrier is exceptionally strong. Think of it as a super placenta.”

“But I've been bitten twice by vampires.”

“That shouldn't be a problem.”

She would have felt better if he'd said
Absolutely not
. But at least the grappa wouldn't have a detrimental effect. A baby! She was going to be a mother.

“Can I drink coffee?” She tried to smile, but her lips wobbled.

“I don't think anyone should drink coffee.” He threw his head back and laughed. “My dear, try not to worry so much. It would be different if you were completely human—the LSD would have crossed the placenta. Your baby is safe.”

“You're not just trying to keep me calm, are you?”

“I do not hide the truth from my patients.” He pulled a square, white pad out of his pocket. “I am prescribing prenatal vitamins. Take one daily with meals. I will send Beppe to the chemist.”

“Should I do anything special? A high-protein diet? Megadoses of vitamin C?”

He flicked one finger, as if dismissing a gnat. “Eat what you like. Drink in moderation. Make all the love you wish, unless there is bleeding, of course. If this happens, call immediately. When you are back on your feet, I'd like to do a baseline ultrasound, record your weight, give you some brochures—all
normal
things for a pregnant woman.”

She nodded.

He kissed her hand. “Congratulations, my dear.”

Rain slashed against the villa for two days, but Caro barely noticed. She lay curled up in the red toile bedroom while the storm raged over Venice, heaving cold surf onto Isla Carbonera.

She grimaced, fighting another wave of morning sickness, and pushed her face into the pillow. Her nausea was faintly green and spun around her like a tropical storm.

If it weren't for bad luck, she'd have no luck at all. In addition to the loss of her ten pages and a near-fatal injury, she was pregnant. By a man who couldn't wait to get away. Fine, she wouldn't feel sorry for herself, not one damn bit. Her problems were small and bearable.

She rolled over and tucked the blanket under her chin. If only her mother were here. They could discuss men, babies, and vampires. “Vivi, tell me how to be a good mother,” she whispered.

And what about Jude? What would Vivi think about him?
Go on with your life
, she'd say.
Eat chocolate, paint a mural, hang wind chimes.

Later that evening, the nausea receded, along with the rain. Caro sat next to the window and watched the lights of Venice. She craved tiramisu and risotto with leeks and carrots, which Maria sent from the kitchen on huge brass trays.

Jude and Raphael visited, bringing weather reports. More rain was predicted. Jude fed her teeny slices of Veronese Christmas cake. Arrapato jumped on her bed, showing off his red sweater.

A little after one A.M. Dr. Nazzareno stopped by to check her shoulder.

“I'm worried about her nausea,” Jude said.

“Normale,”
Dr. Nazzareno said, winking at Caro. “It will end shortly.”

Maria shooed them out of the room, leaving Caro with just Arrapato for company. She lifted his furry chin and said, “I'm going to be a mother.”

Arrapato snorted and showed his teeth.

By Friday morning, Caro's nausea had passed. She craved tea and
brasadella
, a coffee cake with lemon and anise. She opened the closet and found a silk caftan that was patterned with giant poppies, then wandered barefoot through the villa. She made her way to the terrace level and paused by the arched windows. Fat raindrops slid down the glass, and beyond the stone patio, mist rose up from the water and engulfed a marble statue of Athena in the lower garden. Venice and Murano were hidden in the scrubwater clouds. Bad weather had always made Caro feel lazy and snug, as if she were hidden from the world, but today it felt menacing.

Someone is watching
, she thought, and spun around, expecting to see Beppe or Maria, but the loggia was empty. She felt relieved until she turned back to the window, and a cold flutter moved through her chest. She had the distinct feeling that someone—or something—was out there.

She walked to the terrace door. This was vampire weather. They could roam on cloudy days, even though they still needed sunglasses and zinc oxide. What if those ghouls had tracked her and Jude to the island?

Behind her, music uncurled from a long, dark hallway. Nine Inch Nails was singing “Something I Can Never Have.” She walked toward it. The hall twisted into a darker antechamber, where a door stood open, casting a wedge of artificial light onto the stone floor. She peeked inside. The room resembled a stylish crypt, with silver crosses hanging on the black walls. Raphael sat at a long, polished table, leaning over the shattered triptych. Beside his elbow were tweezers, a magnifying glass, and a pot of glue. Caro heard a muffled bark. It seemed to be coming from a carved bench. Arrapato's head popped up between a pile of books, and he barked again. Raphael waved one hand, and the music faded. “Come sit with me,
mia cara
. I'm trying to restore the triptych.”

Arrapato leaped off the bench and followed Caro to the table. He bumped his cold nose against her leg, and she reached down to pat him. “I thought vampires slept during the day,” she said, glancing at Raphael.

“We do. But Arrapato kept whining. So I came to my study. It's the darkest room in the villa.”

Right
, Caro thought. No windows. No chance of sunburn. She sat down and looked at the broken icons. The panels lay in five chunks; the smaller pieces had been sorted into piles. “Tell me about the prophecy,” she said.

“I like a woman who gets straight to the point.” Raphael smiled. “The images on the triptych are supposed to predict the future of the vampire race. According to the legend, a woman will be the link between humans and immortals—with the power to save or destroy us.”

“Which images?” Her thoughts skated back to the female saint and the bleeding man.

“Let's wait until the panels are whole. It will take time because there are so many little pieces. Some images might be lost forever. If only I had thought to photograph the triptych the other night, when it was complete.”

She glanced at the wooden shards; some weren't much bigger than an eyelash. “I don't see how you'll fix it.”

“I've got time.” He smiled. “I learned patience when I was a monk. Not that I was particularly pious. Most second and third sons of nobility joined a monastery.”

Gripping the tweezers, he said a prayer, then lifted a broken fragment that showed part of the castle.

“I don't suppose you knew the Borgias?” Caro asked.

He laughed. “Yes, I knew them. The whole lot were scandal magnets.”

“You aren't related to them, are you?” She felt Arrapato's paw on her leg and picked him up.

“No, my family is much older.”

“How much?”

“My father was a vassal of Charlemagne. Long story short—he was one of the Lombard princes.”

“You're that old?”

“Just think of me as thirty-nine.” Raphael leaned back in the chair. “Are you strong enough for bad news?”

She tilted her head, trying to slip into his thoughts, but hit something solid.

“A body washed up,” Raphael said.

“Poor Father Aeneas.” She'd been expecting this. She briefly shut her eyes and crossed herself.

“No. Poor Demos. His body was pulled from the water.”

The room spun around, and Caro grabbed the edge of the table to steady herself. “
Demos
is dead? But he had the gun.”

“Father Aeneas must have wrestled it away and shot him.”

“But I thought it was the other way around.”

Raphael sighed. “We'll never know the real story. Perhaps the men were in cahoots and the partnership went sour. Maybe the monk hopes to sell your ten pages and move away from the monastery. Or he could be a zealot who wishes to destroy
Historia Immortalis
.”

“This is my fault. If only I hadn't gone to Meteora.”

“Your uncle had no way of knowing that Aeneas would betray you.”

“Why didn't Uncle Nigel send me to you?”

“Because I needed all three icons to interpret the prophecy.”

“Yes, but—”

Raphael lifted his hand. “Remember, he was dying when he wrote those anagrams, Caro. He had to honor Vivi's final instructions—whatever they were—and keep you safe. Your cover had been blown, and he knew you would need to move fast. Bulgaria sits above Greece. So Nigel directed you to Meteora to collect the first icon. He thought Aeneas would protect you.”

“You would have done that.”

“Not in daylight.” Raphael shook his head. “Even if Nigel had sent you straight to my villa, we would have needed the third icon.”

“You would have brought me to Meteora.”

“But I can only travel at night—I would have slowed you down. When you showed up at Varlaam, I'm guessing that Demos and Aeneas hatched a plan to steal the artifacts—or perhaps they wanted to destroy them. Either way, they needed Jude out of the way.”