Acquainted With the Night (9781101546000)

by Maitland, Piper

  The band around her chest snapped and she took a grateful breath. Two days ago, she would have answered with a glib “So.” But Jude was plainly struggling with his emotions. The firm set of his jaw clashed with the doubtful, hooded look in his eyes. She imagined his thoughts. He wanted to stay, he wanted to go. He loved her, he loved her not.

  “Yes.” She steepled her hands. “Please come to Venice.”

  CHAPTER 41

  GREEK NATIONAL ROAD 6

  METEORA–IGOUMENITSA, GREECE

  Demos angled the black van down a narrow road that led away from Varlaam. Onyx rosary beads dangled from the rearview mirror, clicking against a blue evil-eye charm.

  Caro stared out the window. A rabbit streaked across the valley. It stopped and rose on its haunches. Father Aeneas traced a cross in the air, as if blessing the rabbit.

  She crossed her arms, and the slight pressure on her breasts set off tremors between her legs. Her breath caught, and she jerked her arms apart. Those last two bites were more potent than the first.

  Jude turned. “Your face is flushed.”

  She looked at the bruises on his face and couldn’t breathe. Because of her, he’d almost died. In a raspy voice, she said, “I’m fine.”

  “I thought you might be hungry,” Demos said. He lifted one hand from the steering wheel and grabbed a small wicker basket. “Nothing fancy, but I think you will like.”

  Caro peeked inside. Small water bottles. A box of raisins. Honeyed apples wrapped in a white napkin. A small flask of red wine. Her stomach twisted and she looked away.

  “Where are we headed?” Jude asked the men.

  “Igoumenitsa,” Demos said. “I have made reservations on the Ikarus Palace. I took the liberty of reserving deck-class cabins. They are cheap this time of year. The ferry leaves at nine A.M.”

  “Have you arranged to leave your van in Igoumenitsa?” Father Aeneas asked.

  “I’m bringing it on the ferry,” Demos said.

  “But we won’t need transportation in Venice,” the monk said.

  “Just the same, I will park it at the Tronchetto.”

  “What is the point? We will be taking water taxis. A vehicle is one more thing to worry about.”

  “Worry?” Demos cried. “This van is no worry. You curse it with your talk of worry.”

  “Park it in Igoumenitsa.”

  “This is a mistake.” Demos shook his head. “I don’t like mistakes.”

  The conversation drifted into the best strategy to line up on the passenger boardwalk. “I’ll go first,” Father Aeneas said. “The military police will be respectful of clergy. Jude and Caroline can stand behind me.”

  “Where will I be?” Demos asked.

  “Behind Jude. You and I will shield the young people.”

  Caro glanced over her shoulder and squinted at the van’s broad rear windows. The highway was empty. Then a small blue car veered around the curve. A twinge of paranoia made her chest tighten. She swallowed and shifted her gaze toward the front seat.

  “There’s a car behind us,” she said.

  “I am watching,” Demos said, then peered into the rearview mirror.

  She leaned her forehead against the cool window. A long time ago, she’d traveled down this road with Uncle Nigel, and they’d stopped at a gas station that served baklava, calamari, and goat soup. All these years later, here she was, driving along this same road with a monk and a biochemist. Both of whom had killed vampires on her behalf.

  The leather seat creaked as Father Aeneas turned and slipped two white tablets into her hands. “Aspirin. For the fever,” he said. “You may feel parched, as well. Make sure you drink water.”

  “Or I’ll turn into a vampire,” she said, not bothering to hide the sarcasm, but it seemed to wash right over the monk. His mouth sagged open, and his eyes rounded.

  “No, no. Do not worry. I have not heard of a hybrid transforming. You will feel ill after a bite, but the symptoms will diminish in a few days.”

  “Or sooner,” Jude said.

  Caro tossed the pills into her mouth and opened the water bottle.

  Father Aeneas’s gaze shifted to Jude. “Last night, Caroline said you’d studied vampiric mice.”

  Jude shot her a startled look, then faced the monk. “Yes? What of it?”

  Father Aeneas smoothed his beard. “I’ve heard of vampire sheep in France, but mice? How did you find immortal rodents?”

  “I experimented with stem cells and created an immortal strain. It’s a long, boring story.”

  “An impressive one,” Father Aeneas said. “What did you learn, young man?”

  Jude didn’t answer right away, as if he felt reluctant to discuss his work. Finally he said, “The offspring of vampiric and normal mice—the hybrids—had fantastic immunity. However, a hyper-strong immune system can be just as dangerous as a weak one. An example would be the 1918 Spanish Flu pandemic, when young people died. But I digress.” He pushed his hands together, as if repressing the scientific footnote, and continued with more enthusiasm. “When hybrid mice were bitten by vampiric ones, it caused a mild allergic response in both the host and the recipient. The human equivalent would be a reaction to a flu shot.”

  As Caro listened to Jude talk, she imagined him standing at a lectern, his jacket sleeves dusted with chalk, instructing biology students about amino acids. He was a born teacher, just like Uncle Nigel.

  “Interesting.” Father Aeneas paused. “I never imagined that hybrids possessed an antibody that is not found in the immortals. Is the opposite true?”

  Jude darted a look at Caro, then looked back at the monk. “Yes, vampires have unique antibodies, but they appear to have an exaggerated response to the one found in hybrids.”

  Caro squared her shoulders with great dignity, preparing to argue that she wasn’t a half-breed. The men fell silent as the van sped through a tunnel, the tires singing on the pavement, toward the dazzling archway. An unbearable glow hurt Caro’s eyes when the van blasted out of the tunnel. The sun was up now, glinting on the snow-covered mountains. She blinked, and a stomach-churning dizziness swept through her. A second before she keeled over, she seized the door handle and wrapped her fingers around the smooth chrome.

  I’m not a hybrid, she told herself. I’m not.

  The road straightened and her head cleared, but she stubbornly gripped the handle, making her wonder if she was clinging to other, bigger things. Love. Normalcy. False hope. Her hand sprang open, and she glared at her fingerprints on the chrome. She couldn’t deny the truth another second. Philippe Grimaldi was her father. She had inherited his blond, unruly hair, along with speed, immunity, and a metabolism that burned calories. As she pictured her father, a fierce surge of love spread through her chest. His genes had collided with Vivi’s, and Caro refused to be ashamed.

  But she was afraid. Was someone following them or had she imagined that car? A band tightened around her chest as she squinted at the rear window. The road was still empty, except for a blue dot. It vanished around a curve and then reappeared.

  Father Aeneas tugged at his beard. “A vampire’s hidrosis is unique.”

  Caro tore her gaze away from the car. “What?”

  “Hidrosis is the Greek word for perspiration,” Father Aeneas told her. “When vampires sweat, they give off a tang. Some smell of ketones—a musky, overripe-melon fragrance. But the Vrykolakas who attacked you reeked of menthol.”

  Caro drew her lips into a bow, remembering the raw dirt-and-blood aroma of the Momchilgrad vampire and Georgi’s pungent armpits. “I didn’t notice a minty smell,” she said.

  “Some humans can’t detect it,” Father Aeneas said. “Yet their brain chemistry is affected—it produces a psychological result. It always makes me calm.”

  “Is it a pheromone?” Caro leaned forward, eager to learn more.

  “Definitely not,” Jude said. “Though it mimics one. It’s more like a terpenoid—that’s a plant hydrocarbon. They’re fragrant, with pharmaceutic
al properties. That explains the ketones and menthol.”

  Father Aeneas looked confused. “If the chemical isn’t a terpenoid or a pheromone, what is it?”

  “I didn’t have time to properly analyze it,” Jude said. “But it’s similar to a terpene. I’m sure you’ve heard of Nepetalactone?”

  “Catnip?” Father Aeneas asked.

  Jude nodded.

  “That would explain the aphrodisiac effect,” Father Aeneas said.

  “But my tabby was immune to catnip,” Caro said. “Uncle Nigel was always setting out little herb-filled toys for Dinah. She ignored them.”

  Jude touched his bruised nose and winced. “Perhaps she lacked the olfactory receptor. Some felines have it, some don’t. It’s genetic.”

  Caro’s mouth curved into a smile. “What does bat-nip do to humans?”

  Jude’s face went slack, as if offended by the comment. “It depends on the concentration,” he said. “In large quantities, the molecule causes sedation and numbness, followed by euphoria and hypersensitivity.”

  “But doesn’t vampire saliva have a toxin?” Caro wiggled her fingers, remembering how they had gone numb after she’d been bitten. “Surely I wasn’t anesthetized from breathing these souped-up ketones.”

  “I agree with Caroline,” Demos said. “If the catnip theory is true, then people would faint whenever they got near a vampire. Sidewalks and train stations would be filled with paralyzed humans.”

  Jude lowered his eyebrows, flashing his I’m-not-good-at-explanations look. “When the chemical is excreted by a vampire’s sweat glands, it evaporates and diffuses into the air and becomes less potent,” he said, but his clipped, controlled voice couldn’t contain his passion for science. “If humans inhale it, they feel relaxed. But it’s fleeting. A high concentration of this molecule is found in a vampire’s blood and saliva. That’s why Caro was temporarily paralyzed. She was prey. And predators are made for survival. They stalk, pounce, restrain, feed.”

  “Why don’t vampires succumb to their own chemical?” Demos asked. “Why doesn’t it paralyze them?”

  “Is a spider killed by its own venom?” Jude lifted one eyebrow. “An effective predator isn’t harmed by its own methods of predation.”

  Demos stopped at a roadside café. The blue car sped past them and rounded a curve. Father Aeneas helped her out of the van. “Tea and baklava will revive us,” he said.

  Minutes later, as they sped through the mountains, Jude went to sleep, but the sugary dessert had a loquacious effect on Caro. She told Father Aeneas and Demos about her kidnapping ordeal and the dead tourist in the Dacia’s trunk. “Will she turn into a vampire?” she asked.

  “It depends on when she was killed,” Father Aeneas said. “And how much physical damage occurred prior to her death.”

  Demos grunted. “Also, we cannot know if the vampire released her from the trunk and taught her to feed, or if he left her to starve. How many days ago were you kidnapped?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve lost track.” Caro rubbed her eyes. Since she’d come to Greece, time had elongated, flipping back on itself.

  “Five days,” Jude said without opening his eyes.

  Caro reached for the door handle again. “What if that woman is still in his trunk?” she asked.

  Father Aeneas crossed himself. “If the vampire left his vehicle in Kalambaka, the police will find it—and the woman, if she is still there.”

  “What if they open the trunk and she attacks them?” Caro asked.

  “Not after five days.” Demos shook his head. “If she does not drink blood, she will appear dead. And they will bury her.”

  Jude’s eyes blinked open, and his mouth tugged into a suspicious frown. “How do you know so much?”

  “My family was killed by a nest of Vrykolakas.” Demos lifted one hand away from the steering wheel and loosened his scarf, revealing ragged scars on his neck. “I was left for dead. Father Aeneas nursed me back to health and taught me about the fiends who’d killed my wife and children. So that is how I know.”

  “I’m so sorry.” Caro released the handle, and shifted her gaze to the rear windows. Dozens of cars looped around the hairpin curves. She saw two blue cars, and her heart stuttered.

  Demos saw her looking and waved his hand. “Do not worry. These vehicles are different. I did not mean to derail the conversation with my sad story. You were asking about the woman in the trunk. She will be in a catatonic state. After the police determine who she is and track down her relatives, it is likely that she will be buried alive.”

  “Alive isn’t the correct word,” Jude said.

  Father Aeneas sat up a little straighter, his prayer beads clicking, and looked at Jude. “I have not talked to a scientist in many years. I would like to hear more about your research.”

  “If the victim receives enough stem cells through the bite wounds, or if he drinks a vampire’s blood, he will enter the first hibernation phase,” Jude said. “The victim will appear to be dead. No vital signs. No brain activity. Yet the blood is teeming with immature stem cells, and they’re dividing at an extraordinary rate. When the transformation is complete, the victim will regain consciousness. He’ll need an initial loading of blood. And if he doesn’t get it, he’ll go into a frenzy.”

  Caro touched her neck, her fingernails grazing the edges of the Band-Aid. The slight pressure sent a peppery heat rushing between her legs. Damn, she’d become a female roué.

  “When a myth is found in many cultures, it must have some truth,” Father Aeneas said. “Some people may quibble over etymology, but they’re missing the point. Vampires have been around for—dare I say it?—an eternity.”

  He chuckled, and Demos nodded vigorously.

  “The Russians have the Upyr,” Father Aeneas continued, “yet this word is mixed up with heretics. The Strigoi are Romanian vampires—actually, they have several categories, but I won’t bore you.”

  “Albanians have the Shtriga,” Demos added.

  “The Japanese have Kamaitachi,” Father Aeneas said. “The Aztecs had the Civataleo. Serbians and Bulgarians have vampirs. Incidentally, the Serbians have a name for a child born of a vampire and a human—the Vampirdžije, a vampire finder. And, of course, the Bulgarian vampir supposedly has a single nostril.”

  “That myth has been debunked,” Caro said, remembering Teo and Georgi’s perfectly formed noses. She hoped the Serbian vampire killer was a myth, too.

  “Yes, it has.” Father Aeneas paused. “But the mystery of Agathonos Monastery hasn’t been explained.”

  “What happened there?” Caro asked. Despite the grim subject, she felt soothed by the academic discussion because it reminded her of Uncle Nigel.

  “A monk was exhumed fifteen years after he went to God’s glory,” Demos said. “His body was undamaged. No bones, no mold, no rot.”

  “Well, perhaps a little decay,” Father Aeneas said. “But I have heard that the air was clean, with a hint of freesia. The monk appeared to be sleeping. Supple flesh. Robust coloring.”

  “But no breathing,” Demos said.

  Caro leaned in closer to Father Aeneas. “But what prompted the exhumation?”

  “It is a custom in Greece. Perhaps you saw the sacristy at Metamorphosis?” Father Aeneas glanced out his window. “Burial space is limited. However, when the brothers are exhumed, nothing but bones are found. Normally.”

  Caro leaned back against the seat and watched the sun inch its way up the sky. Her eyes watered, and she put on her sunglasses. She’d had trouble with her vision after Momchilgrad, but this morning, it was worse. Still, the light was a comfort, an ancient symbol of protection. They would be safe from vampires until sunset.

  “Of course, there have been other cases of preserved bodies,” Father Aeneas said. “The prophet Daniel was found intact.”

  “Do not forget Pope John the Twenty-third.” Demos lifted one finger. “Four decades in a casket, and his body did not decompose.”

  “I suppose the story
of Saint John of the Cross is the most interesting,” Father Aeneas said. “His mortal remains were buried, exhumed, reinterred, and exhumed again. During one of these outings, someone wanted a souvenir and hacked off Saint John’s finger. It bled. No one bleeds after death.”

  “He was a vampire?” Caro asked dryly.

  Father Aeneas gazed out the window, as if the answer were floating in the sunlight. “I only know that he achieved a kind of everlasting life.”

  “Did the Church explain his finger?” Jude asked.

  Father Aeneas shook his head. “Perhaps it was a metabolic oddity.”

  Demos’s lips spread wide, showing a mouthful of small, crooked teeth. Then he said, “Or maybe he did not like the taste of blood.”

  CHAPTER 42

  PORT OF IGOUMENITSA

  GREECE

  The clerk in the Igoumenitsa port office issued four first-class tickets without asking for identification. The luck continued as Caro followed the men down the steps, where they joined the line at the passenger boardwalk. A bold red stripe ran down the length of the ferry, with MINOAN LINE printed in black letters.

  Even with her sunglasses, the light hurt Caro’s eyes. She narrowed them and watched passengers walk along the dock. Four American teenagers passed by, chattering about Venice and the knockoff handbags they hoped to buy. Not too long ago, Caro had led a similarly normal, if dull, existence. She’d shopped at thrift stores, watered her African violets, and escorted tourists through Windsor Castle. But normalcy had been an illusion. Her mother was a thief, and her father was a vampire.

  A commotion rose up from the front of the line as the military police interrogated a passenger. Caro’s uncle had once said that Greek border officers were notorious for inventing ways to detain travelers. She glanced back at Jude, but he was studying his ticket. Behind him, Demos’s bottom lip slid forward as cars and trucks were loaded into a wide compartment.

  Caro turned around, and the hairs on her neck tingled, as if someone was watching. She shrugged it off, blaming her reaction on the chilly breeze, but when she reached down to button her coat, it was already fastened. Nerve endings kept firing in the back of her neck, and gooseflesh rippled down her arms. Someone was definitely watching. She whirled around and bumped into Jude.