Acquainted With the Night (9781101546000)

by Maitland, Piper

  From his outer office, he heard his secretary’s high-pitched voice. “You don’t have an appointment. You can’t go in there.”

  “Watch me,” came a deep nasal voice.

  Wilkerson turned away from the view. The door swung open, and Moose stepped inside wearing his sun-reflective jumpsuit. The secretary scrambled behind, her backside moving up and down in her tight black dress. Yok-Seng’s heavy footsteps shook the hall, and he rushed into the room.

  Moose pulled off his helmet. “You’ll get a punch up the bracket if you mess with me.”

  “Calm down, both of you,” Wilkerson said.

  Moose winked at Yok-Seng. “For a bodyguard, you’re always up a gum tree.”

  Wilkerson pointed to Yok-Seng and the secretary. “Both of you leave,” he said. “Now.”

  “You heard the lad,” Moose called.

  After they left the room, Wilkerson folded his hands on the glossy table. His nose twitched as Moose’s earthy aroma filled the room—blood and iron.

  “So nice of you to drop in,” Wilkerson said.

  “Not at all.” Moose plopped down in a chair, the leather creaking, and began cleaning his nails with a paper clip. “A word of advice: Get rid of the chink. He’s always off for a whiz.”

  “Can I get you a cup of tea?” Wilkerson narrowed his eyes. “Crumpets and cream?”

  “Got any B positive in the cooler? It’s got a sweet but metallic bite.” Moose pinched his thumb and forefinger together, as if holding up an imaginary goblet. “And yet, it’s mellow and fruity.”

  “I don’t keep blood in this building,” Wilkerson said. “It’s in Hammersmith.”

  “Been there already.” Moose rolled up his sleeve and pointed to a red dot on his forearm. “But don’t lie to me, mate. I happen to know that you keep bags of A negative in your wee fridge. The one that’s hidden behind the paneling. Myself, I don’t like A negative. It’s too tangy, and it foams. But I’ll drink it in a pinch.”

  The phone buzzed. Wilkerson sat down at his desk and pressed the flashing button. “Sir, there’s an urgent call from Romania,” his secretary said.

  Wilkerson started to lift the receiver to say he’d take the call later, but Moose shot out of his chair, moving in a streak of colors. He loomed in front of Wilkerson and wagged his finger.

  “Not so fast, mate. Where’s the button for the speakerphone?”

  “This call doesn’t concern you, Moose.”

  “Let me be the judge of that. How’s your bloodsucking secretary doing?” Moose smiled. “Actually, it’s not blood that she’s sucking. Is it, mate?”

  Moose leaned over the phone and ran a dirty finger down the buttons. Up close, his smell was pungent and sour, reeking of unwashed flesh. Wilkerson gagged and clapped a hand over his nose.

  Moose pushed a yellow button on the phone, and the speaker crackled.

  “Er, this is Dr. Popovici,” the caller said, his voice deep and exotic. “I have the postmortem results on Teo Stamboliev.”

  “What?” Moose cried. “Teo’s dead?”

  “Er—to whom am I speaking?” the doctor said.

  Moose motioned to Wilkerson with a karate chop.

  There was a thrumming silence as Moose and Wilkerson glared at each other. “Yes, Dr. Popovici, do go on,” Wilkerson said.

  “Shall I go over the postmortem with you, sir?”

  “No,” Wilkerson snapped.

  “As you wish.” The doctor sounded confused. “When will the British woman arrive?”

  Wilkerson mashed the red button and disconnected the call.

  “Why’d you do that?” Moose cried. “And why didn’t you tell me about Teo? He was my mate.”

  Wilkerson smoothed back his hair and didn’t comment.

  Moose snorted. “What’s the purpose of a postmortem?”

  “Company policy.”

  “What a load of cack. That call came from Romania.”

  “So? Wilkerson Pharmaceuticals has research labs everywhere.”

  Moose sat down on the conference table and the mirrored surface cracked. “Why did you order a post on a vampire? Are you studying us?”

  A muscle worked in Wilkerson’s jaw. “Don’t be foolish.”

  “And who’s the British woman that Dr. Dracula wants? Could it be the Clifford girl?”

  “She’s none of your concern.”

  “Will it be my concern when you send me to Romania to kill Dr. Dracula? The day will come, you know. Either he won’t cooperate, or he’ll threaten to go public.”

  Wilkerson flinched.

  “Oh, keep your hair on. It’s the Clifford girl, isn’t it? Why are you really after her? What did she do—badmouth your cosmetics line?”

  Wilkerson almost said yes. That would have been a mistake, possibly a fatal one, even with Yok-Seng lurking in the hall. “I have a billion-dollar corporation to run. And you have the audacity to question me?”

  “You couldn’t organize a piss-up in a brewery.” Moose grabbed Wilkerson’s neck and squeezed. “Tell me what the bloody hell is going on, and if you lie, I swear on the queen’s dogs that I will cut off your billion-dollar balls.”

  Wilkerson flailed, slapping at the vampire’s large hands. He felt his body rise from the chair. His limbs felt heavy and he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. He passed wind. Moose slung Wilkerson to the floor.

  “More tea, vicar?” Moose fanned the air.

  Wilkerson lifted his head, checking his extremities one by one. Nothing seemed broken. He licked his lips and tried to appear calm, but his mind raced in all directions. If he told the truth, Moose would kill him. He sorted through classified information, plucking out sordid secrets, and emerged with one tidbit. It was death or disclosure.

  “Caroline Clifford is my daughter,” Wilkerson said. “But you mustn’t tell.”

  Moose blinked. Cor blimey, this was old news; but it wouldn’t be smart to mention that Mr. Underwood had already blabbed it. Wilkerson was hiding something bigger. Maybe he was experimenting on vampires. Whatever it was, Moose intended to find out, even if he had to be submissive. He pressed two fingers to his lips and twisted them back and forth, as if turning a key.

  “My lips is sealed, mate,” he said. “I’d offer to take your secret to the grave, but I’m already dead.”

  CHAPTER 30

  THESSALONIKI, GREECE

  Caro dreamed of the wild dogs again. Jude was with her, and they were running into the desert, kicking up waves of sand. The sun beat down, roasting their skin. She woke up with a jolt and felt her forehead. She was burning up.

  They got dressed and took the lift down to the lobby. Jude bought aspirin at the gift shop, and they stopped in the café for juice and poppy seed muffins. She shook two tablets into her hand.

  “Take one more,” Jude said.

  By the time they left the Capsis Hotel, her ears were ringing, but her fever had lessened. The chilly air felt good, and she pushed up her sleeves. Jude reached for her hand as they turned down Aphrodite Street. She waited outside the rail station while Jude paid for a locker and stowed the evidence bag they’d brought from Momchilgrad. Then they caught a bus to Aristotelous Square. Through the window, she glimpsed Byzantine architecture here and there, though much of the city had burned during the 1917 fire. They stepped down onto a crowded sidewalk where Aristotle’s statue overlooked old manses that had housed shops and cafés. The city still held a hint of Ottoman influence, with a nod to the West. At one end of the square, workmen erected a massive public Christmas tree.

  “I’d quite forgotten about the holidays,” Jude said.

  “Me, too.” Caro felt the gloom creeping back, and she tried to distract herself by focusing on the far end of the square, where the Aegean glittered. They stopped in front of a crowded outdoor café. Smells of roasting meat wafted from the tables.

  “This smells like authentic Greek food,” he said. “Shall we pop in?”

  Caro had expected folk music, but American music drifted from
the ceiling. As Snow Patrol sang “Run,” a waitress led them to a table facing the street. They ordered lemon rice soup, mussels pilaf, and hot tea. Jude traced his finger over the back of her hand. “You look worried.”

  “I’m thinking about those phrases. Sa kal Okyrv and the other one.”

  “The Internet has a plethora of deciphering tools. After lunch, we’ll find a cyber café.”

  Their waitress returned with their food. Caro broke off a golden hunk of garlic bread, then hesitated. “Garlic won’t hurt me, will it?”

  He blinked. “Why would it?”

  “It repels vampires—and I was bitten by one.”

  “Garlic has mild antibiotic properties. It might alter the taste of blood.” He patted her arm. “You’ll be fine.”

  “What about crosses and holy water?”

  “The myths seem to be cultural. Would a Muslim fear holy water and a crucifix?”

  “No. I suppose not. What about silver bullets?”

  “Lead might cause a mild anaphylactic reaction,” he said.

  “Anaphylactic?”

  “A severe allergic reaction—like with bees or seafood. The blood pressure falls, the airway closes. The silver could react with the vampires’ chemistry, preventing the wound from healing.” He leaned forward. “I’ve been thinking of ways to explain the science behind vampirism. So you’ll understand.”

  A shy grin flitted across his lips, as if he were giving her a bouquet of wildflowers instead of simplified information about stem cells. She hid her smile by taking a sip of tea.

  “Have you heard of the MRSA bacteria?” he asked. “Methicillin-resistant Staphylococcus aureus. It’s an antibiotic-resistant bug. To create a strain, all you need is a petri dish filled with staphylococcus. Add penicillin. It will kill ninety-nine percent of the staph. Take the surviving one percent and culture them. You have bacteria that are resistant to penicillin.” He paused. “Are you following me?”

  “So far.”

  “Actually, the bacterium’s resistance is a defense mechanism,” he continued. “If you put the penicillin-resistant strain into a petri dish and apply erythromycin, the antibiotic will kill a majority of the bacteria. Culture the survivors, and you have an organism that’s resistant to penicillin and erythromycin. If you repeat this process ad infinitum, adding various antibiotics, you will eventually have a superior organism. One that’s resistant to all antibiotics. And indestructible.”

  “You’re saying vampirism evolved like MRSA?” She set down her teacup harder than she’d intended and it clapped against the saucer. Several diners glanced in her direction.

  “It’s evolution. Survival of the fittest. Vampires began in small numbers and multiplied. They’re adaptive—strong, hard to kill. And they destroy the competing organism.” He pushed his soup bowl away, its contents swaying. “They’re still evolving.”

  “Into what?”

  “We’ll have to wait and see. If we’re still around.”

  They found a cyber café at the other end of Aristotelous Square. Inside, the air reeked of burned coffee and stale pastries. Cigarette smoke pooled beneath the pendant lights, floating over metal tables where people stared at computer monitors.

  Jude paid the clerk, and they found a terminal in the corner. Caro pulled up a chair beside him. The keyboard made soft tocking noises as he typed Sa kal Okyrv.

  “No hits,” he said.

  “I hope it’s not cipher text.” Caro leaned toward the screen. “Wait, could it be backward?”

  “Let’s try.” He typed in Vrykolakas. Thirty-five thousand hits popped up. “Wiki says it’s a Slavic word for ‘vampire.’ But there’s also a death-metal band named Vrykolakas. They’re on MySpace.”

  “Uncle Nigel stumbled onto something,” she whispered. “And it got him killed.”

  “That goes without saying. What about the other phrase? Nrot htah setaf a? Could it be reversed?”

  She grabbed a pen and scribbled on her hand. A fates hath torn.

  Jude typed A fates hath torn.

  “No results,” she said. “Let’s try an anagram solver.”

  After three tries, they found the right website. Jude typed in A fates hath torn. “Only 55,452 results,” he said. “See anything familiar?”

  She leaned toward the screen. “A northeast haft? Afar that honest?”

  “Tartan hath foes?” Jude asked. “Or was your uncle referring to torn faith?”

  “I don’t know.” A dull ache throbbed behind her eyes, and she rubbed the bridge of her nose. She’d solved the other clues, but now she couldn’t focus. Cobwebs filled her brain, and each thought scattered like a dust mote. She’d have to try later, after she’d rested. But if the phrase was a Caesar Shift cipher, she’d never solve it without a cryptographer. Jude pressed his hand against her forehead. “You’re still feverish. Let’s go back to the hotel.”

  On the way out of the café, they passed by a newsstand. Caro’s photograph was on the front page, her blond hair flying in all directions.

  Jude said something, but she couldn’t hear. A roaring sound filled her head. Her picture? It didn’t look like her, but still. Why would a Greek newspaper care about a traffic accident in Bulgaria? Or was this about her uncle? She leaned closer to the rack. “Damn, it’s Cyrillic,” she said. “I can’t read it.”

  Jude lifted a paper. “It says, ‘British National Sought for Questioning.’ Then it gives your name and says that three people are dead—”

  “Three?”

  “Sir Nigel Clifford, Phoebe Dowell, and Teo Stamboliev.” He scanned to the end of the article. “There’s a toll-free number that people can call if they spot you.”

  She swore under her breath. “They think I hurt Phoebe?”

  “You’re a person of interest. Eyewitnesses claim that you pushed Teodor Stamboliev into the path of a lorry. You’re described as dangerous and unstable.”

  “Great. I’m the fall guy, like in The Maltese Falcon.” She made a fist. “Dammit, what are they playing at? I’m sought for questioning? That’s wicked. Newspapers use sought when mass murderers are on the lam.”

  Jude shoved the paper back into the rack and took her arm. “Let’s go.”

  On the way to the bus stop, they debated whether they should catch a train to Kalambaka or spend another night at the Capsis. “How long does it take to reach Kalambaka?” he asked.

  “Two and a half hours,” she said. “We change trains at Larissa. I wish I remembered more, but I don’t. I was a little girl.”

  “How old?”

  “Six.” She hesitated, wondering if she should tell the rest of it. Before she could decide, the bus pulled up to the curb and discharged a plume of black smoke. They found seats near the back.

  “I hope we find answers in Meteora,” she said. “But that whole period is sketchy. I was still shell-shocked. My parents had died a year earlier.”

  “Were they in an accident?”

  “A fire.” She exhaled a little harder than she’d intended. She didn’t want to talk about her family. Not yet. He lifted her chin, and she studied his eyes, concentrating on those endearing tree-bark flecks in his left iris. She didn’t want to think about herself. She wanted to know more about him. Did one of his parents have chestnut eyes? Or a grandmother? Maybe the dominant brown genes had been repressed by generations of blue-eyed Barretts, only to surface in Jude. She didn’t know anything about genetics, but those dark bits seemed strong and defiant, representing something more powerful than color.

  He stared down at her hands. “You’re shaking.”

  She knitted her fingers together. Her throat ached, as if she’d swallowed pointy rocks. Could she tell him the rest of it? His lab had been burned, too. Was there a connection? No, that was Dame Doom talking, not her. Besides, fire hadn’t been involved in Phoebe’s murder, or her uncle’s. The events seemed random, without a connecting thread.

  “My parents didn’t die because someone forgot to turn off the coffeepot or because o
f faulty wiring.” She swallowed around the stones, her throat clicking. “They were murdered.”

  The color washed out of his cheeks. “God, Caro. I’m so sorry. I’m a bloody idiot. I’ve dredged up horrific memories.”

  “No, I need to remember my family.” She swallowed again. “I’ve suppressed everything, even the happy moments. My mother was beautiful. Long, dark blond hair and silver-blue eyes. Tiny, delicate ankles, almost like stems on wineglasses.”

  “Like yours.” Jude smiled.

  “No, I’m more like my father. He had lots and lots of blond hair. Curly like mine. Well, it was.”

  Her hands shook harder as she pictured the long gravel driveway and the white house hidden behind the hackberry trees. Jude clasped his hands around hers. The firm pressure had a soothing effect, and her tremors stopped.

  “When the fire started, I was upstairs,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “I heard yelling in the front yard. My father was arguing with six men. He turned back to the house and yelled, ‘Vivienne! Run!’”

  “Vivienne was your mother?” Jude prompted.

  She nodded. “I don’t know where she was. Probably reading in the sunroom. She always had a book in her hand. Daddy called and called, but she didn’t come. One of the men had a bottle with a rag hanging out. He touched a cigarette lighter to it and flames shot up. He hurled the bottle through the living room window. I ran downstairs, trying not to breathe the smoke.”

  Caro broke off, struggling to hold back the tears, but they spilled down her cheeks. “I found my mother in the dining room. She was stuffing things into my backpack. She clamped a tiny padlock on the zippers, shoved the pack into my arms, and sent me out the back door. She told me to hide behind the waterfall. There was a cave, and I used to play there. I started to follow her up the stairs, but she steered me out the back door. She promised she would find me. She said, ‘No matter what you hear, do not come out till morning.’ I took off running. But halfway to the cave, I stopped.”