The backs of her eyes burned, and more tears broke loose, splashing against Jude’s hands. The stone in her throat felt like a boulder, and it was growing, but she forced herself to continue.
“I knew my mother would be angry, but I ran back to the house. The men dragged my father up the front porch. He was limp. I could see through the living room window. Our sofa blazed. The fire jumped to the curtains.”
Her chin wavered, and she broke off. Jude lifted one hand and wiped her cheek. Each tender stroke made her feel calmer. She swallowed around the boulder, then drew in a shuddering breath. “I waited in the bushes for the men to return. When they didn’t, I ran into the house. I couldn’t see anything except for a red stain on the floor. I thought wine had spilled. The living room had been ransacked. I heard my mother screaming in her bedroom. I tried to open the door, but the knob burned my hand.”
She spread her fingers. A tear fell off her chin and hit her palm, skidding over an almond-shaped scar.
“A man came out of Mother’s room. I ran outside and cut down the hill to the waterfall. I crawled behind it, into the cave. I’d breathed in a lot of smoke and couldn’t quit coughing. Then I saw lights moving behind the falls. They were looking for me. I pressed my hand over my mouth, trying to muffle my cough. The lights moved back and forth, then cut to the woods. I waited till morning. I crawled out of the cave and ran to the house. It was gone. Nothing but smoke and blackened wood. I tried to open the backpack, but I couldn’t undo the lock. My burns were smarting, so I ran to the highway. An elderly couple picked me up. I ended up in a Knoxville hospital. Then my uncle showed up and whisked me and the backpack to England. While I slept, he picked the lock and found the icon.”
She unzipped her bag, pulled out the relic, and peeled off the plastic covering.
“It looks ancient. Like something in a museum.” Jude’s brows tightened. “How did your parents come to own something this valuable?”
“I don’t know.”
“What if they were murdered for it?”
A chill spiked up her backbone. Her heart thrashed in her chest, like a hooked fish. “But they kept it in an unlocked dining room cabinet. Thieves could have broken in while we slept. They didn’t need to murder my parents.”
“I didn’t mean to frighten you.” Jude picked up the icon and traced his finger over the metal brackets. “What are these?”
“I don’t know. I’ve always wondered.”
He turned the icon over. The back was unpainted, except for black symbols and a drawing: the handle of a sword plunged downward through a large X. It ended in a diamond with a cross embedded in the center.
“What do these mean?” he asked.
“A blessing of some sort. The symbols were supposed to protect our family. But they didn’t.”
The bus stopped at the corner of Monastiriou Street. They got off and walked to the hotel. She flopped onto the bed. The boulder in her throat was gone, but she felt shaky. Jude sat down beside her and pulled her into his lap, stroking her hair.
“Jude, I have a bad feeling. Maybe we should forget the clues. We could go to South America or New Zealand. Someplace far, far away.”
“But we’re so close to Meteora.”
“The Bulgarian authorities think I murdered Teo. My picture is all over Greece. It’s too dangerous. We need to leave the continent. What about New Zealand?”
“I’m not afraid,” he said.
“I am.” She burst into tears.
“Don’t cry, lass. I’ll spend my last breath protecting you.” He pushed a handkerchief into her hands, then he rested his chin on top of her head. She leaned against the rough nap of his sweater, wiping her eyes and breathing in the smell of Acqua di Parma. She would probably lose this man, but she would never return this handkerchief. Not even if he begged.
CHAPTER 31
MOMCHILGRAD, BULGARIA
The new moon scraped up the backside of the sky as Georgi drove through Momchilgrad. Streetlights shone down on the empty sidewalk. This town was his favorite hunting preserve, but from the look of the town, someone was poaching.
He saw a sign for Kudret’s Photography Studio and turned into the parking lot. The car dipped to one side as Georgi climbed out and brushed lint from his new suit. He’d taken it from Ilya Velikov’s closet.
Georgi looked at the studio and spat. A Turk. He hated all things Ottoman, but he especially loathed Bulgarian Turks. The air was thick with smells. Petrol fumes. The bite of paprika and cumin. The ripe, pungent smell coming from the Dacia’s trunk.
Between these odors, he detected the Clifford girl. It was faint, not enough to track her, but enough to make his pulse race. He took a breath. The aroma welled up, clean yet sticky, reminiscent of soap and sugar, with musky, chemical undertones.
Georgi walked toward the studio, scanning the parking lot. He ignored the CLOSED sign and rapped hard on the glass. “Mr. Kudret? Are you there?” he asked in Bulgarian. “Open up, please. It is an emergency.”
Inside the dark building, a light snapped on, and a yellow rectangle spilled into the hall. A rotund man appeared, wearing slippers and a robe. He fumbled with eyeglasses, pushing them over his stubby nose. Halfway to the door, his eyes rounded and he stopped behind a desk.
“We are closed,” Mr. Kudret called.
Georgi shook the doorknob. His nostrils flared as he breathed in the Ottoman stench. It smelled of oppression, pain, death.
“I am not a customer.” Georgi held his badge against the glass. “Open the door, old man.”
“Come back in the morning,” Mr. Kudret said. “When it’s daylight.”
“You will open now.” Georgi rattled the door, and a string of brass bells tinkled. “I know the girl was here.”
“Who?”
Georgi pulled the wrinkled fax from his pocket and held it up against the glass. “Her.”
“Leave or I shall call the real police,” Mr. Kudret called.
Georgi kicked the door. Tiny, circular cracks spread across the glass; the panel bowed inward and fell. Inside the store a burglar alarm bleated. Georgi reached through the opening, unlatched the knob, and stepped inside. Oh, yes, he would take his time with this one.
Mr. Kudret pulled out a gun, drew a bead, and fired. A bullet sliced into Georgi’s left shoulder. Mr. Kudret took aim and fired two times in quick succession. One bullet hit Georgi’s leg, and the other whizzed by his ear.
“You cannot stop me,” Georgi cried. He lunged across the room, then doubled over, clutching his shoulder. These weren’t normal bullets. He was on fire. Then, a chill spread through his limbs. He ran back to his car. The little Turk hurried after him and fired again. A bullet dinged against the Dacia’s fender as Georgi drove off.
He steered the car up a hill and parked in front of the Hotel Konak. Here, the Clifford girl’s smell was strong. He hobbled into the lobby, blood dripping down to the carpet, and banged on the desk until he roused a clerk. A pale woman appeared, blinking at his stained suit. Her lips drew into a tight bow, and she slid a plastic key card across the counter.
Georgi grabbed her wrist and pulled her over the desk. Bite marks ran up and down her neck. He searched for a clean patch of skin and sank his teeth into her breast. Her heartbeat bloomed in his mouth, but she didn’t struggle. He drank greedily, sucking her flesh between his teeth. She didn’t have more than a few pints. Someone had gotten there first.
He dragged her body behind the desk. On his way to the elevator, he ducked into the dining room and grabbed a steak knife. He ran to his room and bolted the door. The wounds throbbed. His flesh would dissolve if he didn’t remove the Turkish bullets.
He leaned close to the bathroom mirror and pulled down his lower eyelid. The membranes were pale. He had lost blood, and the woman had not satisfied his thirst. He peeled off his jacket. Using the tip of the steak knife, he picked at the wounds. He dropped a bullet into the sink, and it rolled around the white porcelain.
Silver.
&nbs
p; He couldn’t reach the bullet in his shoulder. It would have to wait. But he had time, all the time in the world. When Teo had removed bullets, he would distract Georgi with stories of the Turks. Sometimes people asked how long they had been partners. “Since the seventies,” Georgi would say, omitting the century.
His mouth felt dry; if he didn’t feed again, and soon, he would lose strength. He scrubbed the dried blood off his jacket, then put it on and dashed out of the room. At the end of the hall he heard a ding, and a stout blond woman stepped out of the elevator, pushing a stroller. The wheel snagged in the gap, and Georgi hurried over to help. He lifted the stroller and gently set it on the ground. Inside, a plump baby slept, oblivious to the commotion.
“Thank you,” the woman said.
“Don’t mention it,” he said.
CHAPTER 32
KALAMBAKA, GREECE
The train whistle blew as they pulled into Kalambaka, rumbling past the yellow station. Caro stepped onto the platform and tipped back her head, gazing up at the giant stone pillars. The monasteries were up there, perched on the flattened tops, their red tile roofs glinting in the sun.
Jude grabbed her hand, and they wandered down the main street, past an outdoor café. Blue tablecloths stirred in the cool air. Caro stopped in front of a window where a man was building a display with olive oil jars, baskets heaped with brown eggs, and glass domes filled with cheese.
When she glanced up, a policeman rounded the corner. Jude hooked his arm around her neck and steered her into a souvenir shop. They stopped by a shelf that was filled with mugs and jigsaw puzzles. Perspiration broke out on her upper lip while she pretended to study the mugs. The policeman stopped outside the shop and peered through the glass; he waved to a dark-haired clerk.
Caro let out a huge sigh. She followed Jude to the desk, where he bought postcards, hats, sunglasses, and a field guide to Meteora. They stepped outside. Jude slipped a hat on her head, then bent down until he was eye level with her. He pressed his palm against her forehead. “You’re not feverish anymore.”
She smiled, then reached up to straighten his hat. “Did anyone ever tell you that you have a rugged chin?”
“I can’t say they have.” He laughed and ran his hand over his jaw.
“And I love this teeny knob.” She touched the bridge of his nose.
“The Barretts have straight noses.” He grinned. “Rugby gave me the bump.”
A chilly breeze snapped the edges of Caro’s sweater, and she shivered. Jude slipped his arm around her and they walked past gift shops and bakeries. A tour guide with long black hair charged down the street, holding a tiny Greek flag above her head, steering a group toward a Byzantine church.
“I made reservations at the Pension Arsenis,” Jude said. They cut down a path and walked through an olive grove to the hotel. In the distance, the monasteries loomed, casting long shadows over the valley.
The lobby smelled of herbs and pine, and on the opposite wall, flames crackled in a stone fireplace. Just beyond the fireplace was a crowded taverna. Cigarette smoke floated over the tables.
“You are the honeymooners, yes?” the receptionist asked.
Jude nodded.
The clerk winked and held out the key. “Your suite is on the second floor. Number sixteen. Very private.”
Their room was a far cry from the honeymoon suite, with twin beds on one wall and a pine armoire on the other. Jude immediately pushed the beds together.
“Much better,” he said, then turned on the television and flipped the channel to Sky News. Caro found a complimentary bottle of ouzo on the dresser and dribbled a little into a glass.
She opened the French doors and stepped onto the balcony. The Thessalian Plain swept up into the Pindos Mountains. Dusk was falling and spotlights blazed around the distant pillars. Why had Uncle Nigel directed her to Meteora? Was she supposed to find a monk who could translate a vellum page? Or explain the mysterious icon? How did A fates hath torn relate to Vrykolakas?
Jude walked up behind her, slipped his hands around her waist, then brushed his lips against her ear. “I dreamed about you last night,” he whispered. “You were climbing a snowy mountain.”
“That’s strange. I dreamed about you, too, but you were in a white robe. Sand was everywhere. And wild dogs.”
“See? We’re dreaming in white.”
Still holding the ouzo, she turned and slid one hand over his chest. In the background, she heard the Sky News anchorman recite global events, and she wished the hotel had a music channel. A moment like this called for old standards, songs by Frank Sinatra or Tony Bennett.
“. . . authorities are still looking for a London woman who has been linked to gruesome murders in the U.K. and in Bulgaria. Caroline Clifford, a twenty-five-year-old tour guide, was last seen in Kardzhali, Bulgaria, where she reportedly pushed a man into the path of a delivery truck. She is a suspect in a brutal murder in the U.K. Clifford is considered dangerous. . . .”
Caro twisted her head and saw her picture on the television. Even though she’d known this might happen, it was still a shock. Sky News was beamed into every hotel on the continent. If she didn’t find answers in Meteora, and soon, she’d have to go underground. Changing her appearance wouldn’t be enough. She’d have to be invisible.
Jude ordered room service and they ate in front of the television while Sky News recycled the same stories. “I’ve been thinking about that Bulgarian man I pushed in front of the truck,” she said.
“Vampire, not a man.”
“Will his stem cells make him regenerate?”
“Not after a catastrophic accident. That’s where the vampire folklore comes in. The peasants used to behead a suspected vampire—no chance of regenerating a head.”
“What about a stake to the heart?”
“Again, a catastrophic injury. Two areas of vulnerability are the brain and heart. They can’t regenerate quickly enough.”
“Tell me more.”
He pushed back her hair. “They’re not human. They’re predators.”
She nodded. “Keep going.”
“It’s their world, and we’re just in it. They own the night. Some track humans for sport. Others are paid assassins. Maybe someone hired the Bulgarians to find your icon. We should hide it. Say, I’ve got an idea. We could stash it in the lining of my jacket.”
He lifted his coat and ran his fingers along the seam.
She felt the leather. “Won’t the icon be bulky?”
“Let’s try.”
She found a tiny sewing kit in the dresser and threaded the needle. Jude spread his jacket on the floor and cut along the seam with their hair-trimming scissors. Then he ripped the cover from a glossy magazine, fit it around the icon to protect the paint, and slipped the wood panel inside the lining.
He put on the jacket and stood. The icon’s square edges jutted out.
“It won’t work.” She frowned. “We’ve ruined your jacket for nothing.”
“But your uncle’s passport will fit. We wouldn’t want those clues to fall into the wrong hands.”
She fitted the passport into the jacket’s lining. Jude watched her fingers fly over the fabric as she stitched a tiny series of Xs. When she finished, he pulled a flat leather wallet from his backpack. “I need to confess something.”
“About vampires?”
“No.” He opened the wallet and plucked out a tattered photograph. “I fell in love with your picture before I ever saw you.”
“My picture?”
“Your uncle sent it with his second letter. So I’d recognize you.”
She stared at the photograph. It was her. Her uncle had taken it last summer when the garden was in full bloom. She wore a white dress with green buttons, and tomatoes spilled out of her apron. Her hair floated around her shoulders, blotting out the rose garden.
“Do you want to hear the whole story?” he asked.
She chewed her lip. Of course she wanted to hear, but if he kept going, she’d fa
ll in love and it would definitely end with tears at bedtime—her tears.
He seemed to misinterpret her silence and continued talking. “After I heard about Sir Nigel’s death, I went straight to your flat,” he said. “It was the middle of the night. I kept looking at your picture. My plan was to ring you at daylight and show you the letters. Then, at dawn, I saw a gorgeous girl in ragged blue jeans run out of the building, her hair flowing around her, and bang, I fell in love.”
“That’s the most romantic story I’ve ever heard.” She threw her arms around him and pressed her forehead against his.
“But it’s not a story,” he whispered. “It’s the truth.”
CHAPTER 33
LARISSA, GREECE
Georgi stopped at a petrol station on the outskirts of Larissa. He climbed out of the Dacia and unscrewed the gas cap. Odd scratching noises came from the trunk. He wasn’t ready to open it. Not yet. A howl rose up in the dark and shapes moved along the dark road.
Georgi howled back, and the shapes bolted. He filled his tank and went inside to settle the bill. The clerk sat behind the counter, leaning over the Novinite’s sports pages. He didn’t look up until Georgi’s shadow fell over the newspaper.
“Can I help you?” the clerk asked.
Ten minutes later, Georgi stepped over the clerk’s legs and emptied the cash register. As he tucked euros into his wallet, he saw the Clifford girl’s photograph that Teo had stolen from the old professor. Nice. Georgi climbed into the Dacia and shoved the picture behind the visor. He was the hunter, and she was elusive prey.
The assignment had been to capture the girl and transport her to a laboratory in Romania. He’d been forbidden to harm her. In Georgi’s opinion, it was all how you defined harm. The Geneva Convention did not apply.
Acquainted With the Night (9781101546000) Page 18
