“Several.” He glanced up. “But you won’t find answers in Limoux.”
“Father Aeneas said the triptych shows where the rest of Historia Immortalis is hidden,” she said.
“He told the truth as he knew it. But he was mistaken.” Raphael ran his finger along his panel, tracing the vineyard. “It shows where the book was located at the time the triptych was painted.”
“So it’s not there now?” Caro pressed her knuckles against her lips. She wanted this quest to end, but it kept twisting.
“No, mia cara. It’s a long, convoluted story. Do you wish to hear it?”
She nodded.
Raphael kept stroking the triptych, his nails scratching against the wood. “When the crusade heated up, Philippe and I dismantled the manuscript and the triptych. We took the artifacts to a cave near his chateau. We divided the leaves into ten-page bundles, wrapped each one in silk, and placed them in shallow wooden chests. The same for the icons. We shoved these chests in crevices and piled rocks in front of them.”
“How did you keep track of the hiding places?” Jude asked.
“Philippe had what is now called a photographic memory. But we lived in violent times. If he’d gotten killed in the crusade, I wouldn’t have found the chests. So I marked the hiding places with rock cairns. After Château de Quéri-bus fell, your father and I returned to the cave to retrieve our treasures. Some of the cairns had been dispersed by thieves. Philippe remembered each hiding spot. We found one icon and all but ten pages to Historia Immortalis. I kept the icon and Philippe took the vellum pages.”
“What did he do with them?” Caro asked.
“He wouldn’t tell me.”
“Why not?” Caro shifted closer to Jude. If her father hadn’t trusted Raphael, perhaps she shouldn’t, either.
“Philippe wasn’t being secretive. He was protecting the book. After the Inquisition, the book had become a collectible. The Church wanted to burn it, but art dealers were having wet dreams. The fewer who knew, the better.”
“Why didn’t you just read his thoughts?” Jude’s eyes narrowed.
“No one could. Not even me. Philippe was strong in his mind. But his philosophy was simple: When the pupil is ready, the teacher will appear.” Raphael stared into Caro’s eyes. Although I am not sure who is the teacher—you or me.
Caro remembered opening the envelope her uncle had stashed with the vellum. Just below Raphael’s name, he’d written Vitas Quest Rev I. Good lord, her uncle hadn’t meant for her to read the Book of Revelation; he hadn’t steered her toward a Biblical prophecy. Vitas Quest Rev I was an anagram for At Vivi’s request. Now she understood why her uncle had stashed those pages in Venice and why he’d directed her to Raphael.
Uncle Nigel had honored Vivi’s last request.
Raphael sat up straight, and his dark eyes filled. I have so much more to tell you, mia cara.
Jude was studying the panels, his eyes moving back and forth. “If the triptych doesn’t point the way to the rest of the book, then Caro’s uncle sent her on a nonexistent treasure hunt,” he said.
“That depends on how you define treasure,” Raphael said. He looked away, wiped his eyes, then blinked down at the panels. “But you couldn’t be more wrong about the triptych. It figures heavily into the immortals’ mythology. And, perhaps, into our future. Because it holds a prophecy.”
Caro’s stomach tightened. She didn’t want to hear the rest of it. For the time is near. No, it wasn’t. Her quest had ended.
“So the relevance of the triptych isn’t the book’s location,” Jude said, regarding Raphael with an impassive, academic gaze. “It’s the illustrations. They depict the prophecy, correct?”
“A prophecy of what?” Caro’s voice shook.
Raphael sighed. As his breath grazed her cheek, she caught a faint bouquet of ripe cherries and pomegranates. Ketones. Her stomach eased, and she leaned back in her chair.
“Some things cannot be explained,” he said. “They must be viewed—like art in the Louvre or the Vatican. As I said earlier, symbols in this triptych came from the Grimaldis’ dreams. A few events occurred, such as the crusade, but most of their dreams have not materialized. Now that Caro and the triptych have come together, I’m not sure what will come to pass.”
Jude stiffened, then flashed a glacial stare at Raphael.
Caro stared at him, too, trying to prick through the vampire’s thoughts, imploring him to hush, but he kept talking.
“You have the Grimaldis’ beauty and intuition. And your uncle trained you well.” Raphael broke off, and his forehead creased. “We will talk later. Someone is coming.”
He turned toward the water. A distant puttering noise cut through the dark. Then it got louder and louder. A boat, Caro thought.
A beam of light hit the fortress wall and swept across the wooden landing.
Caro’s throat tightened, and scalding, bitter fluid spurted into her mouth. She swallowed, forcing down the bile, then squeezed Jude’s arm. “Those vampires found us.”
“Caro, so many people are after us, it’s hard to guess who might be in that boat.”
“No vampires.” Raphael stood, the wind tugging his ponytail, the blond hairs spreading in the air like cracks in a porcelain vase. “These interlopers are human.”
CHAPTER 54
Beppe stepped out of the shadows, his shoes clicking over the terrace, and pulled out his BlackBerry. “Telefonare la polizia?”
“Not yet.” Two lines creased Raphael’s forehead. “Beppe, please greet the party crashers.”
“Does this happen often?” Caro asked Raphael.
“Does what happen?”
“People sneaking up on you.”
A flush spread over Raphael’s cheeks, and he strode to the balcony rail. Jude and Caro followed and gazed down into the dark garden. Beppe moved down the steps, aiming his flashlight at the boat. The beam swept into the startled faces of Demos and Father Aeneas.
“We know them,” Jude said, turning to Caro. “It’s the monk and his friend.”
Raphael’s iPhone rang. “Sì?” he answered, his face tight and unreadable. “No, it’s okay,” he said. “They’re Caro’s friends.”
The Inverna picked up as Beppe escorted the men up to the terrace. When Father Aeneas saw Caro, his face split into a grin. Before he could speak, Raphael bowed.
“Welcome to Villa Primaverina,” he said. Arrapato was less cordial. He barked and showed his teeth.
“Caroline!” Father Aeneas’s prayer beads clicked as he rushed over to her.
“I called the hotel earlier,” she said. “The operator said you’d left. I assumed you’d returned to Meteora.”
Demos put his hands on his hips, his fingers splayed. He wore a baggy green tweed jacket, and a bottle jutted up from a deep pocket.
“We barely escaped.” Father Aeneas shuddered. “Vampires stood outside the hotel—in daylight. They wore some sort of gear. But I knew. So did Demos. We pulled back the curtains and watched.”
Arrapato sniffed, then growled under his breath. Raphael snapped his fingers, and the dog’s ears drooped. He scooted under the table and put his head on his paws, his eyes darting back and forth.
“How long did they hang around?” Jude asked.
“Until noon, when the sun was strong and the evil ones were weak,” Demos said. “And their reflective gear was drawing too much attention. They ran off and we came to Murano. We had trouble finding someone who would bring us here.”
Raphael turned to Beppe. “Please bring these gentlemen something to drink.”
“Wait. I brought a gift for you,” Demos said. He pulled up the tapered bottle. “Grappa. It is aged. We shall all have a taste, yes?”
Raphael moved two fingers, and Beppe left the terrace.
“Would you like to see the third icon?” Caro asked Father Aeneas.
“Yes, yes.” His eyebrows lifted, grazing the rim of his hat. “Where is it?”
“Over here.” She led him t
o the table.
Father Aeneas gazed down at the panels. “The triptych is whole,” he said, his voice hushed and reverent.
Caro bit her lip. How could she explain that the triptych wouldn’t lead them to the remaining pages of Historia Immortalis?
Father Aeneas pointed to the castle on Raphael’s panel. “I hope this is not Carcassonne. Historia Immortalis is not there.”
“It never was,” Raphael said. “This castle isn’t Carcassonne.”
“Then where is this domicile?” Father Aeneas’s breath stirred his beard.
“The image isn’t relevant.” Raphael paused, as if waiting for a reaction.
“What are you saying?” Father Aeneas tipped back his hat, and a vein bulged in his temple.
“Historia Immortalis was moved from the Languedoc region during the Crusades,” Raphael said. “The triptych no longer shows where the manuscript is located.”
Father Aeneas grasped an edge of the table. “The pages are lost forever?”
“I wouldn’t say forever.” Raphael steered the monk over to a chair. “They have an uncanny way of popping up.”
“Caroline, your ten pages are all the more valuable,” Father Aeneas said. “You must keep them safe.”
“I’ve got them right here.” She patted her duffel bag.
Raphael cut his eyes to the bag, and then his cheeks flushed again. So, apparently he hadn’t pulled everything from her thoughts.
Beppe walked onto the terrace holding a tray with crystal goblets, each one a different color. Demos held out the grappa and Beppe poured the liqueur into each glass.
“I shall do the honors.” Demos handed a goblet to Caro. “Red to match your dress,” he said, winking.
She thanked him and took a sip. The grappa was too sweet, but she forced herself to swallow.
“Good?” Demos asked.
“Delicious.” Caro smiled.
Demos passed the remaining glasses to the men. “You, too,” he said, handing a purple glass to Beppe. Then Demos raised a bright green goblet. “To our host!”
“To Raphael,” Jude and Caro said.
Maria walked onto the terrace holding a portable phone. She made an apologetic gesture and said, “A call for you, Signore.”
“Grazie, I will take it in the library,” Raphael said. He took another sip of the grappa and set down his glass. “Please excuse me.”
He stepped through the door, followed by Beppe and the little dog.
Demos walked over to the dog bowl and squatted beside it. A bark echoed in the house, and a moment later Arrapato trotted back onto the terrace. He growled at Demos, then lowered his muzzle to the bowl and started drinking. Demos scrambled to his feet and edged over to Father Aeneas. “This is a vampire’s lair!”
The monk sketched a cross in the air, and his elbow knocked into his grappa. The glass fell and liqueur spilled across the table. Caro moved the triptych, then grabbed a napkin.
“Bah, I am clumsy.” Father Aeneas frowned.
Arrapato bared his teeth, snapping at Demos. The little Greek climbed onto one of the chairs. Arrapato barked twice and ran back into the house.
“Caro, you must leave at once. Signore Della Rocca is a vampire,” Demos said.
She repressed a smile. “Yes, but he’s a nice one.”
“Nice?” Demos made an obscene gesture with his hand. “And the dog?”
“Arrapato is more temperamental.”
“We cannot stay,” Father Aeneas said, his voice rising.
“We’re perfectly safe,” Jude said. “Raphael and the dog aren’t dangerous.”
“Dangerous?” Demos cried. “He will drain us! We shall leave while he is gone.”
Caro stood, weaving slightly. “Excuse me,” she said to no one in particular. “I’ll just be a moment.”
“But we do not have a moment,” Demos said.
“I’m just going to the powder room,” she said.
“There’s no time,” Father Aeneas said. “Demos is right. We should go.”
“I’ll be quick.” She turned into the house. The powder room was across the hall. Music blared from the speakers, Jim Morrison singing “The End.”
Caro turned on the tap and splashed water onto her face. She glanced in the mirror. Her reflection showed a grotesque image. Droplets slid down her cheeks, then floated up and out, spinning in the air. She blinked, and her head separated into a triptych; the middle piece slid down the front of her dress.
Keeping her eyes on the mirror, Caro backed up against the wall. A strange calmness descended as her reflection morphed into a skeleton, then changed back into her face. But her teeth hung down, piercing her bottom lip. She was turning into a vampire. The serenity vanished, and a hoarse cry tore out of her throat. She lunged out of the powder room, into the hallway, where Arrapato paced back and forth. His frantic movement stirred up a vortex of colors.
Caro sucked in a breath of magenta. It tasted like Raphael’s wine, with a hint of Demos’s grappa. She wasn’t transforming into a vampire; she’d been drugged.
CHAPTER 55
SOFIA, BULGARIA
During the flight to Bulgaria, Moose sat in the back of Wilkerson’s jet and transfused himself with the medicated blood. The seats around the vampire slowly filled with empty bags, each one wrinkled like a grape skin and prominently stamped with a green label.
When the plane touched down in Sofia, he screamed.
“Shut it back there,” Wilkerson yelled.
The vampire staggered up the aisle, cursing the Zubas and railing against toffee noses and chinless wonders. Wilkerson got up from his seat and gathered his bags. Behind him, Moose bumped his head on the overhead baggage compartment. “I can’t bear this blooming part of the world,” he cried, followed by a string of bloody fucking hells and duckys.
It took forever to clear customs. Moose kept mouthing off to the official. “He suffers from Tourette’s syndrome,” Wilkerson told the officers.
After an interminable drive to the Grand Hotel, Wilkerson shoved Moose out of the taxi and steered him into the lobby. When they finally entered the suite, the vampire lunged into the bathroom. He started to crawl into the tub, but he was too large.
“It’s all sixes and sevens,” he muttered, and curled up under the sink.
“Don’t get cozy,” Wilkerson warned. “We have an appointment at the embassy.”
“Go by yourself, grot bag.”
“What’s wrong?”
“You drugged me, ducky,” Moose said. “I don’t know what you put in the blood, but it’s deadly. I got to sleep it off. Go away.”
Wilkerson stared down at the sleeping giant. Days ago, before they’d left London, the Hammersmith chemists had added Tofranil to Moose’s transfusions; the bags were clearly marked with yellow labels. It was supposed to help with the OCD. But only God knew what the chemists had put in the Zubas’ green bags.
Earlier, he’d watched Moose hide in the back of the plane and set up IV equipment. “Don’t get the bags mixed up,” Wilkerson had called.
“Fat lot you know,” Moose had said.
Now, Wilkerson frowned. Was Moose having a drug reaction? The blood chemistry of a vampire was a conundrum. However, if Wilkerson didn’t find a way to drug his operatives, he would have to eliminate them from the program.
He rang the head nurse at Hammersmith. The drug trials at Wilkerson Pharmaceuticals were conducted with strict secrecy, and normally, the nurse wouldn’t know which patient received the drug and which received the placebo; but it was different with the vampires.
Even with the difficulties, Wilkerson preferred working with the Zuba brothers. They never spoke, never screwed up. Well, not until the drug-testing fiasco. Hours ago he’d dispatched Mr. Underwood to Venice to arrange for their release, but if their jail cells had windows, the Zubas would be blind and useless.
“Moose is in the fetal position,” Wilkerson told the nurse.
“Did he accidentally receive the wrong blood?” she
asked. “The green labels were earmarked for the Zubas.”
“Let me ask.” Wilkerson lowered the phone. “Moose, when you transfused yourself, which color label was on your bag?”
“Like I remember, ducky!”
Wilkerson pressed the phone to his ear. “He said—”
“I heard.” The nurse paused. “It’s impossible to tell if he got into the wrong blood, but he appears to be suffering from adverse effects. Discontinue the medicated transfusions, give him fresh blood, and let him sleep it off.”
“I’m in Bulgaria. What am I supposed to do? Trap small animals and bring them to the hotel?”
“If I may make a suggestion, sir? You’re close to the Romanian laboratory. They have a large blood bank. Shall I tell Dr. Popovici you’re coming?”
“Can’t they bring the blood to me?” Wilkerson sputtered. “Wouldn’t that be faster?”
“Not necessarily, sir. The Romanian facility doesn’t have a jet. And the company car is in for repairs. You’ll have to fly to Bucharest and drive to the lab. Do be careful. The mountains are quite snowy this time of year.”
“Call the lab immediately. Tell them I’m on my way.” He started to bang down the receiver, but the nurse was still talking.
“Sir, would you like an update on Yok-Seng?”
“Oh, him.” Wilkerson rubbed his brow. He’d forgotten about his bodyguard. “How is he doing?”
“His appendix burst. He had a touch of peritonitis, but he should be fine. The doctors are covering him with full-spectrum antibiotics.”
“How did this happen?”
“A high pain tolerance. And he’s quite loyal to you, so he ignored his symptoms.”
“I wasn’t asking a literal question,” Wilkerson said. “Don’t let him die. I need a bodyguard.”
He went alone to the British embassy, pushing through the jagged line of protesters. A soldier escorted him to Sir Thurston Hughes’s office on the second floor. “I have an appointment,” Wilkerson told the secretary, a plain, hen-like woman in a brown speckled suit.
“Mr. Hughes went missing two days ago,” the secretary said.
Acquainted With the Night (9781101546000) Page 32
