Jude pushed away from the table and stood. A vein ticked under his jaw. “Explain how you ended up with part of this bloody triptych.”
“Many of my patients were vampires. A hybrid child contracted meningitis. Penicillin saved the boy, not I, but the parent was so grateful, he gave me his most prized possession: an icon. He’d stolen it from a German soldier. Presumably, it was part of a triptych. I believed the other panels would find each other.”
Jude slammed his fist against the wall. Bits of plaster hit the floor.
Caro scrambled to her feet and grabbed his hand. He pulled it back. “Don’t touch me,” he said.
A black, sucking silence descended. Her stomach knotted, and bile spurted into her throat. She ran out of the room, her shoes clapping on the floor, the sound echoing in the empty hallway. Behind her, Jude and the monk began to argue. As their voices rose and fell, she hurried down the stairs, into the cloister, and leaned against a rock pillar. She looked down at the twinkling lights of Kalambaka. If only she hadn’t come to Varlaam. She rubbed her arms. The friction over her breasts sent a wave of pleasure through her, but she didn’t enjoy it. Now it only reminded her of all the painful things the monk had just told her. Her icon was linked to vampires. Because her father was one.
She stared up at the black sky, tears gliding down her neck, stinging the bite marks. When she was a small girl, her uncle had taught her to navigate by the stars. He’d lectured her about night-related things: comets, dusk-blooming flowers, and nocturnal animals, skipping over the immortals and their penchant for drinking blood. Yet he’d known about her connection to Historia Immortalis . He’d opted for nature lessons instead of Vampire 101, and he’d almost taken her secret to the grave.
A scuffling sound echoed behind her, and she turned. Jude walked out of the shadows, his backpack slung over one shoulder. She started toward him, but he held up one hand.
“If I don’t come back, will you do something for me?”
She gaped up at him, her stomach clenching. Not coming back? Not ever?
His gaze flickered over her. “It’s a big ask, but please don’t mention the anagrams to the monk. Don’t show him your uncle’s passport.”
Caro tilted her head. He was just like her uncle, whose motto was Trust no one.
“You distrust Father Aeneas?” she asked.
“You could put his life in danger. A Bulgarian man tracked you to Kalambaka.” Jude’s eyes hardened as he stared at the winking lights in the valley. “What if he’s the vampire who kidnapped you?”
“You’re scaring me.”
“Promise you won’t tell the monk about the anagrams.”
She nodded.
“Maybe your kidnapper thinks you’re hiding Historia Immortalis.”
“I’m not.”
“You’ve got the icon that shows where it’s hidden. Father Aeneas has another panel.” He pressed his lips together. “Please be careful.”
“I’m a trouble magnet. You can’t leave.” Her chin wavered. “I’m falling in love with you.”
He started to say something, then shook his head. He lifted a shaking hand and started toward the stairs.
“Wait.” She shivered. “I don’t have Uncle Nigel’s passport. You do.”
He shrugged off his jacket and tossed it into her arms. “Keep it.”
She started to throw it at him, but he turned down the stone stairs and rounded a corner. He hadn’t even said good-bye. As she slipped the coat over her shoulders, the smell of Acqua di Parma and man sweat wafted around her. His footsteps echoed in the steep rock walls as he ran down the steps. She started to call his name, then pressed her hand over her mouth. He wouldn’t come back. Besides, if the Bulgarian vampire was lurking, her voice would alert him.
Tears slid around her mouth and pattered against the leather of his coat. She’d been dumped before, but no one had ever hurt her like this. She’d told him she was falling in love with him, but she’d lied. She was already in love. All her life, she’d waited and waited, yearning for a man she’d created in her head. She’d shown Jude her broken pieces and he’d shown her his. Those cracked bits had fitted together just as perfectly as their bodies had. But she’d turned out to be the one thing he despised.
Her neck tingled. Was someone watching her? She ran to the church, paused in the center aisle, and genuflected in front of the altar. With her knee still on the floor, she curled into a tight ball. Jude’s coat covered her legs, and his smell rose up from the leather. No way had her father been a vampire. He’d listened to her prayers at bedtime, put Band-Aids on her cuts and scrapes, and whistled her to sleep with an old Beach Boys song—her song—“Caroline, No.”
They’d never had visitors. It had been just the three of them. Philippe, Vivienne, and Caro. Behind their house had been a root cellar with cobwebbed passageways and dark green bottles stacked along the walls. Her father’s homemade wine. Or so she’d thought. Could it have been blood?
She pictured him standing beside the stove, Vivienne’s white apron tied low on his hips, while he tossed onions in a pan. She couldn’t remember seeing him eat a meal. He’d only picked at food, but he’d always had a glass of dark red wine at his elbow.
A tremor began in her chest, as if something alive and buzzing had hatched, and memories swarmed out: a warm Tennessee night on the side porch, crickets shrilling from the weeds, a harvest moon skating over the mountains. Her mother had set out dishes: cold lemon chicken, asparagus, a salad sprinkled with wild pansies. From the hills came the high yipping of coyotes. “I’ll see to them,” her father had said, patting Caro’s hand. He pushed back his untouched plate and rose from the table. He kissed Caro’s mother and stepped off the porch, across the yard, into the shadows. After that night, she did not hear the coyotes.
Now she lifted a shaking hand and stared at the white scar on her palm. If she was half vampire, why hadn’t she healed? A tear fell off her chin and hit her Mound of Venus. Her hand wobbled so violently, the liquid lost its shape and spilled to her lifeline. She closed her hand.
No man can satisfy you, Father Aeneas had said.
Before Momchilgrad, she’d been a little frigid. Of course, that was like being a little dead, or a little pregnant. After the Momchilgrad vampire had bitten her, she’d begun to change. She’d made love to Jude, using her body in ways that had surprised her. Yet something greater than pleasure had swept through them. He had felt it, too.
A draft swept through the church, and the flickering flames of the candles quivered. She shivered again, rubbing her arms. Was she spiking another fever? She pulled Jude’s coat around her and rocked back and forth.
Footsteps echoed behind her. She wiped her face and turned. Father Aeneas shuffled down the aisle, his robe billowing. He looked relieved when he saw her.
“Thank goodness,” he said. “You are still here.”
She jammed her fists into the pockets of Jude’s coat and waited for the monk to mention vampires. Instead, he helped her to her feet and led her to a pew. She slid across the cold wood and clasped her hands. He hooked his cane on the back of a pew and sat down heavily. His spotted hand adjusted the folds of his robe.
“You’ve been weeping,” he said.
“Even freaks have feelings.”
“You are a caring young woman. Of course you have feelings. When you have calmed down, I will explain vampirism.”
“I’m a half vampire, so just explain half.”
He stroked his beard. “It has taken me a lifetime to study the immortals. Many of the myths are exaggerated. But some have a kernel of truth. For instance, it is true that the immortals are hypersensitive to daylight. It is not fatal, but ultraviolet rays affect the retina. The blindness is temporary unless exposure is prolonged. The sun also causes third-degree burns to the skin. The condition has been confused with porphyria, but it is more severe.”
“But I’ve seen them in daytime.”
“If the day is overcast, and they are desperate to feed, t
hey can wear sunblock. It gives them some protection, but not for long.”
“Do they drink anything besides blood?”
“They can. It’s by choice, not for survival. The purists believe that food and water intensify the blood craving, and they abstain.”
“Purists? What do you mean?”
“The old, elite vampires are more conservative. I call them purists. They are morally opposed to killing humans or animals. Your father was one.”
“What do purists drink?”
“Many are wealthy. They own blood banks and receive transfusions.”
“But some immortals are violent, right? Because the one who bit me seemed . . . crazed.”
“A fledgling vampire, most likely. They cannot control the desire to feed until they receive an initial loading of blood. A fledgling needs blood the way a swimmer needs air. But this phase quickly passes.”
“I think my uncle was killed by vampires. Now his body has gone missing from the morgue.” A fresh surge of tears gathered behind her eyes. “Will he become a vampire?”
“I do not know. It takes two vampires—sometimes more—to create an immortal. As you can imagine, there are rules about that in Historia Immortalis.”
“Jude says that vampirism is caused by stem cells.”
“How would he know this?” Father Aeneas tilted his head.
“The short version? He’s a biochemist. He studied vampire mice—until real vampires tried to kill him.”
Father Aeneas sketched a cross in the air, then released a heavy sigh.
“Uncle Nigel was bitten repeatedly.” Caro swiped a finger under her eyes. “Maybe he got enough stem cells, and now he’s . . .”
“I’ve no idea. Modern science is beyond my scope. I practiced medicine before the age of stem cells and organ transplants.”
She folded her arms. “I want to know about my mother’s husband.”
“His name is Harry Wilkerson. He owns a British pharmaceutical company. He’s quite wealthy—and ruthless.”
“My mother was gentle. She wouldn’t have married someone like that.”
“I only know what your uncle told me. Vivienne’s parents died in a plane crash when she was twenty years old. Apparently, she was vulnerable, and Wilkerson took advantage. Wormed his way into her heart. Your uncle never met him, but he’d heard tales from Vivi’s cousins. It was a desperately unhappy marriage.”
“Was he a vampire, too?”
“No.”
“So my mother went to an auction and fell in love with Monsieur Dracula?”
“Apparently.”
“Wouldn’t a ruthless man like Wilkerson suspect that his wife was having an affair?”
“Apparently her curating business required travel. He was accustomed to her absences.”
“Then what happened? She married Philippe?”
“No. According to your uncle, Vivienne was afraid to petition for a divorce. She knew Wilkerson would track her down. And he did.”
Caro stared straight ahead, her vision blurring as she tried to absorb the information. What if Philippe wasn’t her father? She wouldn’t be a hybrid. And she could find Jude and explain.
“Do you happen to know if my mother was pregnant with me when she ran off with Philippe?”
“Yes—according to your uncle.”
“Then who got her in that condition? She played around with Philippe while she was married to Wilkerson. He could be my biological father.”
“It’s possible.” Sweat beaded on Father Aeneas’s forehead. “But unlikely. Sir Nigel said you were born nine months after the auction.”
Dammit, she couldn’t catch a break. Her birthday was December fifteenth, but with all the chaos, she’d forgotten. In just eleven days she’d turn twenty-six, and she’d gotten an early present: Everything she knew about herself was a lie.
“For a monk, you sure know how to cause trouble,” she said. “You haven’t offered proof that Philippe was my father. And you chased off my boyfriend.”
Father Aeneas’s beard trembled. “There’s an old saying: Do not confuse the message with the messenger.”
“I’m trying. But I’m stunned.” And in denial. “You know what? I’m glad Mother found happiness with her vampire.” Caro smoothed her hand along Jude’s coat, trying to feel the edges of the passport, but the leather was too thick. “Did Uncle Nigel know that Philippe was a vampire?”
“Apparently Vivi left a letter in your knapsack that explained the icon, the manuscript, her romance—and you.”
“Wrong. She put an icon in my bag, not a manuscript.”
“Your uncle told me too much and told you too little.” Father Aeneas grimaced. “The night of the fire, your mother placed an icon and ten vellum pages of Historia Immortalis in your knapsack. She’d won them at Sothe-by’s. Your uncle made discreet inquiries about the artifacts. His research led him to Meteora and to me. I advised him to destroy the vellum—it’s cursed. But he had another plan, one that he refused to share with me.”
Vellum. Venice. Her ears filled with a high-pitched buzzing. Shouldn’t she tell Father Aeneas about her uncle’s passport? She started to remove Jude’s coat, then she remembered his parting words. She’d promised not to reveal the anagrams.
Father Aeneas watched her a moment. “Are you telling me everything?”
She bit her lip. “I could put you in danger.”
“I am not afraid. Your uncle would want me to know.”
Breathe, Caro. Just breathe. Jude was gone, and she would break every promise that she’d made to him. She plunged her hand into a pocket, ready to tear out the lining, then hesitated. Was she scared for the monk or overly attached to the jacket? Maybe it was better if Father Aeneas didn’t see the passport. The fewer who knew about it, the better. But she could give him a summary.
“Uncle Nigel left clues. Anagrams. One brought me to you. Another mentioned vellum and Venice.”
Father Aeneas tapped his cane against the floor, the sound echoing like gunfire along the high ceiling. “That’s where he hid the ten pages! Maybe the third icon is there, too.”
“I’m supposed to find a deposit box, too.”
He stopped beating the cane. “Do you know where? Do you have the key?”
“Yes.” Maybe.
“Then I will help you find a way to Venice. If your uncle had lived, he would have eventually told you the truth. Do not blame him. No one knows when death is coming.”
“I think he’d planned to tell me when he returned from Bulgaria. He’d even called in Jude to provide scientific evidence.”
“Do not look so unhappy.” Father Aeneas’s blunt fingers gripped his cane. “Your young man will come back.”
“No, he won’t. He despises vampires.”
“In time his prejudice will lessen. He will see the psychological similarities between immortals and humans. Some are virtuous, others are evil. They can be intelligent, stupid, or greedy.”
“He believes all vampires are wicked. He’ll never come back.”
“If he doesn’t, it is God’s will.”
“No, it’s Jude’s will.”
“You look tired.” Father Aeneas stood, leaning against the cane. “I will show you to your quarters.”
She followed him out of the church, down the covered walkway, and up a wooden staircase to a large common room. One side was a dining area; the other side held an altar and bookshelves, clearly devoted to reading and prayer.
“Tomorrow, I will show you my icon,” he said. “But now, I must rest.” He stopped in front of a wooden door with a crucifix nailed on the upper panel. “Here is your room. Please, make yourself comfortable. If you are thirsty, there is brandy in the kitchen. It may help you sleep. If God is willing, I shall see you in the morning.”
He sketched a cross in the air and turned down the hall. She walked to the kitchen, thinking brandy would settle her nerves. Jude sat at the table. She jolted, clapping one hand over her mouth. He stood, his chair scraping ove
r the stone floor.
“I’m not staying long,” he said.
A glimmer of hope rose up and streaked through her chest, a palpable force that thrashed against her throat, wrists, and fingertips. “Why did you come back?” she whispered.
“My money was in the jacket.”
His words slammed against her like a fist, crushing the glimmer, the pieces falling to her feet. She took a breath, and a defiant flash of hope uncurled from the rubble. “That’s the only reason?”
“Yes.”
“Take it and go.” Her hands shook as she pulled off his coat and held it out. He didn’t reach for it, so she draped it over the back of a chair. “Before you leave, you need to know something. Philippe Grimaldi might not be my father. I’m going to find a lab and have my blood examined.”
“You don’t need tests. I know what you are.” His eyes were overbright, and he spoke in a confident, imperious tone. “I documented hybridism in my laboratory. You’re like the mice.”
“And you’re a rat bastard.” Her eyes burned, but she refused to cry.
“I saw you run after that child in Heathrow,” he said. “God, you were fast. And warm. You’re always warm. If I took your temperature, it would be more than a hundred degrees.”
“That doesn’t mean anything. You’re a scientist. I thought you relied on empirical data.”
“I don’t need to. I’ve spent the last two years studying vampires. Watching them. Hunting them.” A muscle worked in his jaw. “When humans are bitten, they become anemic—pale and sickly. But after you were attacked, you looked different. Smelled different. Felt different.”
She lifted her chin. “What if it’s just an allergy to vampire saliva?”
“You’re more beautiful than ever. More alluring. And I want you like I want air.”
Their eyes met briefly; he looked past her. Want? He’d spoken in the present tense.
“I thought you cared,” she whispered.
“I’ve cared for others.” He shrugged. “I got over it.”
“What if I don’t get over you?”
Acquainted With the Night (9781101546000) Page 22
