Acquainted With the Night (9781101546000)

by Maitland, Piper

  He drove west, one bony hand draped over the steering wheel. On the console, his mobile phone vibrated and a London exchange popped up on the small display. It was Wilkerson.

  “You left an eyewitness in Momchilgrad.”

  “Not for long,” Georgi said. “I plan to stop there on my way back to Bulgaria.”

  “Good. Have you found Miss Clifford?”

  “I am tracking her.”

  “Where the bloody hell are you?”

  “Larissa.”

  “Can you travel faster?”

  “I was shot. But do not worry.” Georgi paused, smirking. “I will arrive in Kalambaka later tonight.”

  “You’d better. It’s gone bollocks one too many times. This time, you will do exactly what I say. Are you following me?”

  “Yes.” Georgi bit down on the word.

  “I’ve got a connection in Kalambaka—he’s not a vampire, so behave yourself. Stick to animal blood for a while. Call the police department when you arrive. They’ll be expecting you. Go with them to the monasteries. And remember—not one mark on the girl.”

  I will do as I please, Georgi thought, remembering the Russian woman in his trunk. There was plenty of room for two women. But he would need to tie up Miss Clifford. She had fooled him before. But not again.

  An hour later he drove into Kalambaka and checked into a hotel. It was a classy place with piano music drifting from the bar. Nice. The only sour note was the clerk, a pale man with scabs running up his arms. He reeked of drugs and death.

  Georgi hung around the lobby, waiting for a tourist or barmaid, but the hotel was deserted. He walked to his room and propped Miss Clifford’s picture on the bathroom counter so she could watch while he poured mouthwash over his wounds. His shoulder had festered. The Turkish bullet had left him shaky and nauseated, killing his thirst. But not his desire. It burned. Day and night it shimmered with a red flame.

  “This time tomorrow,” he told the picture, “you will be mine.”

  The hotel maid kept knocking on Georgi’s door. He rose from his hideout in the bathtub, dragging the blankets with him, and walked stiff-legged into his room. The maid was still knocking. He’d forgotten to put out the DO NOT DISTURB sign.

  “Go away,” he yelled.

  A moment later, he heard a rattle. He looked through the peephole. The cleaning bitch had pushed her cart away from his door. Georgi yawned and scratched the back of his head. He opened the door, hooked the DO NOT DIS-TURB sign on the handle, and bolted the door. He didn’t have to leave his nest until dusk. Then he would meet the Kalambaka police and find the girl.

  He walked to the sliding glass doors, standing away from the light. His room faced the big, phallic-shaped rocks. Nice. He turned on the television and waited for the weather report. It would be overcast and cold. He thought of the Clifford girl, and his pants seemed to shrink, the fabric tightening over his groin, pressing hard into his erection. “Soon, my love,” he whispered. “Soon you will be mine.”

  CHAPTER 34

  KALAMBAKA, GREECE

  The morning sun cut through the lace curtains, dividing the room into light and shadow. Caro shifted in the narrow bed. Jude’s arm fell over her hips, and she pressed against him.

  Without opening his eyes, he smiled. “Mmmm, you’re warm.”

  She was close enough to feel the pulse in his neck. She traced her finger up to his chin where the dark stubble began. He scooted down in the bed until his lips were even with hers.

  “You’re all I think about,” he said. “When it’s safe, I’ll take you to Dalgliesh. I want my stepmother to meet you.”

  A wild flutter moved through Caro’s chest. He’d take her to the castle with the hawthorn tree and the dogs waiting beside the drawbridge? He moved on top of her and caressed her face, his fingertips stroking her cheeks.

  “My lady,” he whispered. “My beautiful lady.”

  He kissed her tenderly and their tongues came together like dancers joining hands. The sweet softness of his mouth was a counterpoint to the hardness between his legs. She slipped her arms around his neck and moved closer, pressing her breasts against his chest. The chaotic thump of his heart excited her.

  He broke the kiss and drew his fingertip over her lips as if painting them. “You’re even more beautiful as a brunette,” he said. His fingers drew circles on her wrist, and he guided her hand under the sheet. The tight skin swelled at her touch. She circled him and moved up and down, faster and faster.

  A low hum vibrated in his throat. His hand fell away and brushed over her thigh. The tip of his thumb found her again and again until pleasure streaked all around her. She heard a tiny gasp and realized she’d cried out.

  “I need you inside me,” she said.

  “And I need to taste you.” He moved down, between her legs, and she felt the wet flicker of his tongue. She was on fire. The heat of it came in intense waves, threatening to drag her under. She closed her eyes and plunged into the flames.

  He waited until she stopped shaking, and then he moved up, scraping his chin over her belly, and fit himself on top of her. She shivered when he rubbed himself against her. He entered her for a teasing moment, pulled away, then returned.

  She could not breathe. All the air had left the room.

  She pulled him closer, and he slid inside her. She grasped a handful of linen, shaking her head back and forth, and flew into the inferno.

  They didn’t get dressed until midmorning. Caro pulled on a black puffer jacket that she’d bought months ago at Phoebe’s urging. “It’s on the markdown rack, silly,” Phoebe had said. “You can’t afford not to get it.”

  “You look awfully gloomy,” Jude said. He pulled on his coat and smoothed the leather where the passport was hidden.

  “I was just thinking about Phoebe. She’s dead because of me.”

  “If you’d been in the flat, you’d be dead, too.” He paused. “If we find the right monk, perhaps we shouldn’t mention the icon straightaway. Not until he proves that he’s trustworthy.”

  “But my uncle sent me here.”

  “Caro, it’s too dangerous. We don’t know why your uncle was murdered.”

  “A monk isn’t going to kill anyone.”

  “No, but he could report you for stealing an artifact. Do you have papers that prove it’s yours?”

  She shook her head.

  “Let’s find the monk,” Jude said.

  They put on their hats and sunglasses, then they grabbed their bags and left the hotel. Caro followed Jude down a path that curved through the olive groves to the foot of the Great Meteoron. Two goats ran out of a cave, their bells tinkling, and scampered over the rocks.

  “How do we find this ruddy monastery?” Jude asked.

  “The entrance is just up those steps,” Caro said.

  They caught up with a group of Italian and Australian tourists and turned up the rough stone steps. More tourists came down, talking on mobile phones and posing in front of the dramatic drop-offs. In front of Caro, the Australian woman read from a Fodor’s guide, snapping her fingers at two bored-looking teenagers.

  “How did the monks get up here?” asked a teenager with blue bangs.

  “Nets and ladders,” said a girl with a nose ring.

  Jude and Caro followed the Australians into the Great Meteoron. Inside, it was dark and cool. Caro stood at the edge of the group, listening to the guide’s commentary about icons and illustrated manuscripts in the old refectory.

  One of the monks took over and explained how food had been hauled to the monastery with a winch-and-pulley system. Caro looked through a peephole in the sacristy and saw skulls and bones lined up on shelves.

  “The bones of the monks,” the guide said, pointing out that the monastery had a second name, Metamorphosis.

  The group entered the shadowy church. Jude and Caro stopped to light candles. The guide explained that the building was shaped like a cross. Christ gazed down from a painting in the domed ceiling.

  Th
e church smelled damp and dusty, reminding Caro of the caves in the Gilf Kebir, where her uncle had taken her to see the cliff paintings. Jude stopped in front of a fresco that depicted the raising of Lazarus; he moved down to a futuristic painting titled The Last Judgment and Punishment of the Damned.

  “What’s this all about?” Jude asked.

  “The saints are being tortured,” she said. She started to say that it reminded her of a Hieronymus Bosch painting, and then she saw the icons. They were set up in a row on movable tracks. She stepped closer and looked up at the Virgin and St. Nicholas. They were different from her icon, although she couldn’t have said why. She reached into her bag and started to pull it out, but Jude squeezed her arm.

  “Not yet,” he said, nodding at a monk, who glided along in the darkness.

  “Are you seeing a theme?” she whispered. “Metamorphosis. Change. Transformation.”

  They stepped out of the church, into the sunny cloister. The brightness no longer hurt her eyes and she stretched her arms. A chilly breeze moved through the stone arches, stirring her hair. A marmalade cat sunned on the ledge, and Caro sat down beside him.

  “Your icon isn’t like the ones in the church,” Jude said. “It seems incomplete. Unfinished. Like the art was too big for the wood.”

  His leg pressed against hers, and a fluttery sweetness rippled through her. For a moment, she couldn’t think, couldn’t follow the conversation. He was talking about Venice, but she had to force herself to pay attention.

  “We could fly out of Athens,” he was saying.

  “Hmmm?” she said dreamily.

  “Athens,” he said, grinning down at her.

  “Well, I don’t know.” She pushed her sunglasses over her head and looked up at the sun. “Even if we made it through security, your titanium stakes won’t.”

  “I can buy more.” He frowned. “Maybe we should rent another locker and stash the icon.”

  “Before we do that, I’d like to photocopy it.”

  He shook his head. “We can buy a disposable digital camera and take pictures.”

  “You’d make a great spy.”

  He stretched his arms over his head. “What’s next? Another monastery? Back to the hotel?”

  “Let’s just sit here awhile.” She opened her bag, found her uncle’s passport, and thumbed through the pages, grateful that the sunlight had knocked away the cobwebs in her head. A fates hath torn—what did it mean?

  She found a pen in her bag, pushed up her sweater, and wrote the phrase on her arm. Jude bent over and studied the phrase. “Jot down Father and go from there,” he suggested. She printed the letters, the tip of the pen denting her flesh, then she held out her arm. “We’ve got leftovers: a, s, a, t, h, t, o, n,”

  “Oaths ant?” Jude shrugged. “Satan hot?”

  She blinked at the letters. “Thanatos?”

  He rubbed his finger across her arm, smudging the ink. “Wasn’t that in The Iliad?”

  “Yes!” She squeezed his arm. “Night and darkness became lovers. Their child was Thanatos. Better known as Death. The gods hated him because he represented mortality—and his sisters drank blood.”

  “It makes sense. Darkness. Night. Mortality. Metamorphosis. Vrykolakas. Thanatos. Sir Nigel knew about vampires, I’m sure of it.”

  “Thanatos might not be a real name,” she said. “We could be pursuing a metaphor.”

  Three monks swept along the walkway, toward the church. Two of the men were tall and spidery, with dark beards. A portly monk with thick eyeglasses lagged behind, struggling with an armful of loose papers.

  “Sit tight.” Jude kissed her forehead. “I’m going to ask them about Father Death.”

  “Wait, I’m going with you.”

  “It’s too risky.”

  From the roof, a bell pealed, the blunt clang reverberating through the cloister. A group of tourists came up the ramp and stopped to take photographs, all of them talking in broad, flat Midwestern accents.

  “I’ll just be a moment.” Jude got up and walked across the stones, through the archway, toward the monks. “Father?” he called. “Excuse me, Father?”

  All three monks turned. “Yes?” the round monk said in English.

  “I’m sorry to interrupt,” Jude said, “but I’m looking for a monk named Father Thanatos.”

  The tall monks cast long glances at Jude. The round one straightened his eyeglasses. “He is at Varlaam,” he said. “But the monastery closes early today.”

  “Yes, of course,” Jude said. “Thank you.”

  The monks rushed down the corridor, robes billowing, and turned the corner.

  “That was too easy,” Caro said, walking up. Jude didn’t answer. His gaze was fixed over her head. She looked up, puzzled.

  “Caro, put your sunglasses back on,” he said.

  “Why?”

  “A lady is staring. Don’t look. She’s over by the archway.”

  Caro lowered her glasses. Coming straight toward her was a pear-shaped woman with short coppery hair. “Caro Clifford?” she said in a nasal Midwestern voice.

  Caro grabbed Jude’s hand and led him out of the archway, across the cloister, toward the church.

  “Caro Clifford?” the woman called again.

  “Keep holding my hand,” Jude whispered. “There you go. Now, let’s walk into the church. If she stops us, speak French, and speak convincingly. Tell her you don’t speak English. I’ll take it from there.”

  The woman cut across the courtyard, her shoes slapping on the stones. A short, balding man trailed behind her. “Caro? It’s me, Angela Young from Springfield, Illinois? Remember me?”

  “Je ne parle pas anglais,” Caro said, lowering her chin.

  “But . . .” The woman’s eyes wobbled. “You were our guide for the English Heritage tour last month. We had our photo taken with you in Stratford-on-Avon. You had the worst time keeping everybody together, but you were awful sweet to us.”

  Jude put a protective arm around Caro’s shoulder. “I’m sorry,” he said with a French accent. “You’re mistaken. My wife doesn’t speak English.”

  The woman ignored him. “Caro? Don’t you remember me?”

  “We are on our honeymoon, if you’ll excuse us.” Jude smiled.

  “Oh.” The woman squinted, and wrinkles cut into her cheeks. “Well, she looks just like our guide. The hair is different. But . . . wow, I’m sorry. I feel like an idiot.”

  “They say everyone has a twin, no?” Jude smiled.

  “I guess you’re right.” The woman frowned. “But, gosh, she’s a dead ringer for our guide.”

  Jude led Caro through the last arch, into the church. They lit another penny candle and stepped around the movable icons.

  “Is she gone?” Caro whispered, her voice echoing in the gloom. She licked her finger and rubbed it over the ink marks.

  “No. She followed us.”

  He tucked Caro’s hand into the crook of his arm and gave it a reassuring pat. The American woman wandered across the nave, casting sidelong glances in their direction.

  Caro leaned against Jude. “Let’s go to Varlaam.”

  CHAPTER 35

  VARLAAM MONASTERY

  METEORA, GREECE

  Caro ran up the one hundred ninety-five steps to Varlaam, hoping the physical exertion would distract her from Sky News and the American tourist, but her pulse was slow and steady, pounding against the bite wounds.

  She stopped for a moment, waiting for Jude to catch up. From somewhere above, the monastery’s bell clanged. She gripped the iron rail and tilted her head, searching for a bell. She saw nothing but rippled stones and a sharp blue sky.

  Jude rounded the curve, then leaned against the wall, struggling to catch his breath. He glanced sideways at Caro. “I’m dying and you’re not even sweating.”

  “I’m running on adrenaline,” she said. “We’ve not much farther to go.”

  They stopped outside the Chapel of St. Cosmas and St. Damien. Three tourists straggle
d out of the roughhewn doors and turned down the curved steps. Before the doors shut, Caro caught one and slipped inside. Her shoes clapped over the floor as she walked down the aisle, looking for a monk. Jude walked past her. Above him the sun filtered through a stained-glass window, and dazzling colors splashed across his shoulders.

  “It’s shaped in a circle,” he said, and walked over toward the north wall to examine a fresco.

  “Jude?” She tugged the edge of his jacket. “What if that American woman calls the police?”

  “They don’t know we’re staying at the Pension Arsenis. But we probably should move, and soon.”

  “I don’t see how she recognized me.” Caro raked her fingers through her hair. “Maybe I should’ve gone platinum blond. Aren’t they supposed to have more fun?”

  “She didn’t recognize your outer appearance.” Jude reached for her hand. “It was your voice, your mannerisms.”

  “Then I’m screwed.”

  They left the church and turned up another stone staircase. Caro stopped next to a stone arch and watched a dove wheel through the haze. In the distance, the Piniós River twisted through the mountains. The wind blew over her face and she felt weightless, as if she could rise into the blue air.

  “Now I understand why Meteora means ‘levitating,’” she said. The floating sensation continued as she turned up another series of curved steps. A pomegranate tree grew next to a terrace, and one fruit dangled from a limb. A monk with a white beard set a ladder next to the tree. The wind snapped his black robe as he climbed toward the fruit.

  “Father?” Caro said.

  The monk turned. “I am sorry, but the monastery closed at one,” he said. “Please, come back tomorrow at nine A.M.”

  “We won’t be here tomorrow,” Caro said.

  The monk grasped the pomegranate. The branch dipped low and creaked, and then the fruit snapped free. The monk balanced it on his palm. “The monastery is closed,” he said, a bit louder this time. “I am late for prayers.”