Her hand bumped into his shirt, and she flattened her palm against it, feeling the rhythmic thump of his heart. “I’m scared. Talk to me.”
He drew in a breath. “I guess you’ve figured out that I’m a bit of a science nerd.”
“You’re not.” She moved her hand down his arm, found his hand, and gave it a squeeze.
“It’s true. My second year at Cambridge, I developed a crush on a girl in microbiology class. As a token of my affection, I gave her a petri dish that had grown a perfect specimen of E. coli. She pitched the dish into the trash bin and accused me of trying to infect her with bacteria.”
“That’s the best story ever,” Caro said.
“I learned one thing.” He laughed. “Never give a dish of germs to a woman as a valentine.”
CHAPTER 37
Georgi ran over the stone bridge and turned up the winding path. He paused by the circular steps and waited for the Greek officers to catch up. Their flashlight beams swept along the rocks, blending into the torches that shone upward from the ground. In the distance, police cars moved down the road toward Agia Triada, St. Stephen’s, and Metamorphosis.
Georgi raised his head and sniffed. The girl’s smell was strong. Now that Teo was dead, he needed a companion. He’d dumped the Russian woman at the base of one of the monasteries. She was comatose and would remain that way until blood was infused into her mouth or veins. Not likely. So he’d decided to turn the Clifford girl. She was much nicer. Shapelier. He liked a woman with curves. Wilkerson would not approve. But it would be too late. Georgi and the girl would disappear. They would reemerge after Wilkerson had turned to dust. Georgi had comrades in London who would be more than willing to help.
A policeman rounded the bend, then stopped running, as if caught in the black bead of Georgi’s gaze. The man behind him stumbled. Georgi smelled their fear. He heard the blood moving through their veins.
“No need to panic.” Georgi smoothed one hand down his new jacket. He had taken it from a tourist at the Kalambaka hotel.
The policemen hung back, watching him with hooded eyes.
Georgi sighed. He couldn’t communicate with these Greek pigs. He waved toward the stairs, indicating that they should go first, but they huddled against the rocks. Georgi shrugged and started up the stairs, restraining himself from streaking ahead. His knife felt hard and heavy in his pocket, knocking against his thin leg.
He reached the top long before the Greeks. From the stairs, he heard their harsh, rapid breathing as they struggled to climb the last few steps. He heard their overburdened hearts pumping.
The girl’s smell grew stronger as he curved up to a terrace. A monk stood on a wooden platform beneath a slanted roof, his arms folded at his waist. The policemen staggered up, wiping their faces on their sleeves. The monk said something in Greek. The words flew past Georgi, to the men. The monk turned to Georgi.
“You are looking for someone?” he asked in Bulgarian.
Georgi nodded and started to explain. The monk’s face twisted in revulsion. Georgi knew that look. He returned it with a belligerent gaze and held up the wrinkled fax. “Have you seen this woman?”
The monk’s eyes flitted over the picture. “She was here today.”
Georgi waited for the monk to continue, but the old man looked at the Greeks and rattled off a long sentence. The words hurt Georgi’s ears. He wanted to pick up a stone and crush the monk’s skull.
The policemen babbled something, and the monk fixed his gaze on Georgi. “You are welcome to search the monastery. But you will not find the woman.”
“Did you see where she went?” Georgi continued to hold up the fax. “Her name is Caroline Clifford. She is a British national—and very dangerous. She has killed two people.”
“Clifford?” The monk put one finger to his lip. “A British archaeologist by this name was murdered in your country.”
“He was.” Georgi’s eyelids twitched.
“And you were the investigating officer?” asked the monk.
“I work with the Interior Ministry.” Georgi stuffed the fax into his pocket and reached for his badge. He had been flashing it all night, and not one member of the Kalambaka police force had questioned it.
Wind stirred the pomegranate tree, then washed over the monk, flattening his beard. He looked like a wizard, Georgi thought.
“Shall I take you on a tour?” the monk asked. “If not, I bid you good night and Godspeed.”
The monk spoke to the policemen. They shook their heads and looked at Georgi. The monk headed toward an arched opening, his robe floating around his feet. Above him, the monastery loomed, dark and forbidding.
Liar, Georgi thought. But the night wasn’t over. He watched the monk blend into the darkness. Then he picked up a stone. He threw it over the ledge and waited for it to hit the bottom. But it never did.
CHAPTER 38
Caro heard a scrabbling sound in the outer chamber. Then a broad slash of light moved in front of the cave’s opening.
“Are you here?” Father Aeneas’s voice echoed. “The police are gone. You may come out.”
They grabbed their bags and hurried to the opening, where Father Aeneas’s sandals were visible beneath the ledge. After Jude and Caro crawled out, the monk raised a lantern.
“This way, children,” he said and turned down the corridor. “We have much to discuss. My friend Demos will be here at dawn. He will guide you out of Meteora—and Greece, if God wills it.”
They followed the monk up the stairs and waited while he closed the passageway. He strode out of the church, across the cloister, into a large room with stone walls, a domed ceiling, and a cupboard. On the left side of the room, an arched door opened onto a terrace.
“Sit,” Father Aeneas said, waving at a table piled with books.
Jude pulled out a chair for Caro, then he sat down beside her, his hand lingering on her shoulder.
“A Bulgarian man just left. He posed as a policeman.” Father Aeneas walked to a small altar table and lit a candle. Light blazed up, shining into the faces of St. Jude and the Holy Mother. The monk crossed himself and walked to the cupboard. He reached for a decanter and turned to Caro.
“The man claimed you murdered two people.”
Caro shook her head. “It’s not true.”
“The Kalambaka policemen were frightened of this man.” Father Aeneas set the decanter on a tray, then added three cups. “He asked if you were here. I denied it, but I do not think he believed me.”
Jude touched Caro’s arm. “We can’t stay here. What if he comes back? Let’s take our chances in Kalambaka.”
“I need a better disguise—red hair or a wig.”
“The chemist closed at five,” Father Aeneas said. He shuffled to the table, the cups rattling, and set down the tray. “But souvenir shops are still open.”
Caro glanced at her watch. Six P.M. Damn.
“You can stay at a hostel in Kastraki.” Father Aeneas placed a cup in front of Jude. “I’ll arrange for Demos to pick you up in the morning.”
“No.” Jude held up his hand. “I don’t mean to be rude. It’s best if you and your friend aren’t involved.”
“As you wish.” Father Aeneas lifted a cup. “I assume you and Caro are not traveling under your real names?”
Jude didn’t answer.
“I do not recommend flying out of Athens with false credentials.”
“We’re not going there,” Caro said, and Jude squeezed her arm.
Father Aeneas caught the gesture and frowned. “Leaving by bus or train will be difficult. The military police can be unpredictable—and they will have Caro’s picture. The Serbian borders are stringent, too. But you might have luck with a ferry.”
“Caro and I will think about it,” Jude said.
“Do not ponder too long,” Father Aeneas said. “You’ll need reservations. Demos has connections, but he will need your passport numbers and the names you are traveling under. If you do not trust him, you may bo
rrow his car, or he can drive you.”
Caro reached for her bag. Jude’s mouth tightened as he rummaged in his backpack and produced a passport. The cover was dark red, just like Caro’s.
“Father, thank you,” she said, pushing her passport across the table.
“Don’t thank me yet.” The monk poured brandy into his cup. “The night is not over. And we must discuss a troublesome matter.”
What now? Caro thought. The French doors rattled, and an icy draft seeped into the room. The red candles flickered, and spiky shadows flashed on the wall. The monk fixed Caro with a penetrating stare. “I know why Sir Nigel sent you,” he said. “All those years ago, when he brought you to Varlaam, he wanted me to examine pages from an illustrated manuscript.”
Caro’s heart thrummed. Vellum Venice. Monk Icon. Yes, it’s all connected.
“The title was Historia Immortalis,” Father Aeneas said. “You’ve heard of this book?”
Caro shook her head.
“During the Albigensian Crusade, copies were ruthlessly ferreted out and burned.” The monk lifted his eyebrows. “With their owners.”
“Over a book?” Jude’s forehead wrinkled.
“Many believe it is a history of the immortals. But it is so much more.”
“Immortals?” Caro’s hand flew up to her neck. “You mean vampires?”
Father Aeneas lifted his hand. “Before you question my sanity, let me clarify. I believe in things that cannot be explained. It is called faith. For a myth to exist in so many cultures, it must have truth. I know the immortals exist. I have seen them. And I have read their book. To them, Historia Immortalis is a sacred text. But for us, it has the power to shake Christianity, and humanity itself.”
“You’re off the rails,” Jude said.
“Not about this,” Father Aeneas said curtly.
Caro’s mouth went dry. “Tell me about this book.”
“It was translated during Charlemagne’s era. That’s why it is called a Carolingian manuscript. You, dear Caroline, were named for it.”
“Me?” She clasped her hands to keep them steady.
“I am surprised Sir Nigel did not tell you.” Father Aeneas scraped his fingers through his beard. “Your icon dates from this period. When the triptych is complete, it shows the location of the complete Historia Immortalis. At one time it had one hundred vellum leaves. But they vanished. Except for ten.”
Jude rose to his feet. “Caro’s icon is mixed up with a book about vampires?”
A cold finger scraped down her spine. She leaned back in her chair, shaking her head.
“Your parents were murdered for it,” Father Aeneas said, his eyes dark and sorrowful.
Lies. Nothing but lies. All the blood drained from her head, and she felt dizzy.
Father Aeneas leaned closer. “Was your mother’s name Vivienne?”
Caro just stared.
“Your mother was a manuscript curator for the British Library,” Father Aeneas said. “The year before you were born, Sotheby’s auctioned ten pages of Historia Immortalis along with the center panel to a triptych. Vivienne’s husband collected vampire memorabilia. He sent her to bid on the artifacts. Collectors from all over the world came to the auction. The bidding was reckless. Another collector started bidding against Vivienne. A Frenchman named Philippe Grimaldi. He fell in love with your mother before the auction ended. By the way, the winning bid was one point two million pounds—placed by Vivienne. Shortly after the sale, the book and the icon went missing. So did your mother and Monsieur Grimaldi.”
“Wait, I’m confused.” Caro pinched the bridge of her nose. “You said Vivienne’s husband sent her to the auction. My father was Philippe Grimaldi. How could he send her to the auction and bid against her?”
“Vivienne was not married to Monsieur Grimaldi. She was married to someone else.”
“This is ridiculous.” Caro pushed away from the table. “You’re saying my married mother picked up a man at an auction and ran off with him?”
Father Aeneas’s eyes wobbled. “Monsieur Grimaldi wasn’t a man. He was immortal.”
CHAPTER 39
Caro bolted from her chair, and it crashed to the floor. Terror exploded in her chest. “My father wasn’t a—” She broke off, unable to say the word.
“He was a vampire,” Father Aeneas said.
“This is a bloody outrage,” Jude cried. “Where’s your proof?”
“I have none.” The monk lifted his hands, fingers splayed.
“Of course not.” Jude balled his hands into fists. “What are you playing at?”
“It was Sir Nigel’s destiny to explain Historia Immortalis to Caroline. Not mine.” Father Aeneas’s voice shook. “Now he is gone, and I am the only one who knows the truth.”
“How convenient,” Jude said. “And cruel.”
“Truth and cruelty are bound together.” Father Aeneas glanced at Caro. “Before I took my vows, I was a physician in Athens. I learned about the immortals. They freely mate with humans, but it is nearly impossible for them to reproduce. True, mortal women can conceive children by vampires, but the pregnancies usually end in miscarriages. In less than half a percent of cases, a baby is carried full term. These rare offspring are called hybrids—half vampire, half human. And they possess unique traits.”
“Traits?” Jude’s face hardened. “Biting? Blood drinking? Regeneration?”
“Hybrids do not consume blood,” Father Aeneas responded.
Caro couldn’t catch her breath. She sat down in Jude’s empty chair and squeezed her hands, forcing herself to gulp air. She wasn’t a hybrid. The monk was lying or crazy. Why had Uncle Nigel sent her to Meteora? Maybe he hadn’t. Maybe the anagrams had been a warning to stay away.
“In the old days, when a vampire bred with a human, the offspring was called a Dhampir,” Father Aeneas said. “Hybrid is a modern term. They have unusual speed and strength, with an ability to heal rapidly. Most possess a hyperawareness of danger. Some can read minds. Others can sense when immortals are near—that is why hybrids often make successful vampire slayers.”
“Why should I believe you?” she cried.
“I am something of an expert on the immortals. That is why your uncle sought me out. I traveled the world, searching for Dhampirs. In my whole life, I only found a dozen. But I am well aware of their characteristics. Also, Sir Nigel and I have both studied those ten pages of Historia Immortalis. He would want me to explain your hybridism, Caroline.”
“I am not a hybrid.”
“No? Do you sometimes know what people are thinking?”
“Never.”
“When you were small, did you run faster than the other children? Were you immune to viruses that swept through the classroom? If you scraped your knee, did people marvel when your lesions healed at an accelerated pace?” His gaze sharpened as he stared at her throat.
Her hand flew to the bite marks. The wounds had scabbed over, but the flesh beneath felt warm and prickly.
Father Aeneas fingered his belt and the beads clicked softly. “I know what is written in Historia Immortalis. It is prohibited for a vampire to love a mortal. Yet they do, of course. Their libido is as powerful as their thirst. They are irresistible to humans. I like to compare them to cone shells. Their brown-and-white patterns are intricate as a mosaic. Conidae are toothed. Pick one up, and you shall feel their bite. They impale their prey and fill them with venom. They are hunters. Built for survival.”
“What’s this leading to—vagina dentata?” Caro glared at him from under her eyebrows.
“I do not mean literal teeth.” The monk’s cheeks reddened. “But you exude some type of pheromone that attracts, then repels. Halflings like yourself cannot form lasting romantic relationships with any human.”
Caro swallowed, and her throat made a precise click. She remembered the mural in her nursery—a corridor of locked doors, a key on a table, the Cheshire cat, the Caterpillar, the Dormouse. She felt like Alice, curiouser and curiouser.
The monk released a feeble breath. “It is awkward to speak of it. But I will try. Have men always wanted you? Chased you? Like bees following sweetness. But after they taste you, the sugar turns bitter and the men fly away. No man can satisfy you.”
Jude flinched, his eyes rounding.
Caro’s throat tightened unbearably, and her lungs contracted. In a choking voice she said, “Jude gives me great pleasure. The most I’ve ever felt. And he isn’t a vampire.”
“You’ve been bitten.” Father Aeneas gestured at her throat. “Hormones flooded your bloodstream—estrogen, progesterone, and even testosterone. You’ve become hypersexual. A doorknob could give you pleasure.”
Her pulse throbbed against her temples. She shut her eyes and saw blood red, a color symbolizing menses, a woman coming of age. A tear ran down her cheek, and she brushed it off. How did the monk know about her Lost Boys? Their lust had dampened when they hadn’t pleased her in bed. Even when she’d faked it, somehow they’d seen through her and moved on to more accessible women. Jude was the only man who’d left her weak and shaking, begging for more. She’d been easier to arouse lately, but she refused to believe that the bites had heightened her sexual response. She was falling in love with Jude. That was why she’d responded.
Now he pushed his hand through his hair, his face pale and troubled.
“I have upset you.” Father Aeneas reached for her hand.
She jerked away, her eyes filling. Something cold and barbed streaked through her heart.
“Try to be strong, Caroline. Because you must hear why your parents died. A vampire who falls in love with a mortal is cast out of his or her clan. Your father violated this tenet. Your mother became pregnant and somehow carried you to term. You are a miracle, Caroline, but a dark one.”
Jude splayed his fingers against the table. “You’re saying Caro’s parents were put to death because they fell in love?”
“No.” The monk shook his head. “This miscegenation is a moral offense rather than a mortal one. It is not punishable by death. Monsieur Grimaldi and Vivienne were killed because they stole an icon, along with ten pages to Historia Immortalis. Vivienne’s husband wanted those artifacts and had her murdered.”
Acquainted With the Night (9781101546000) Page 21
