Acquainted With the Night (9781101546000)

by Maitland, Piper

  “That was a popular theory in the sixties, but it has not been proven. However, in humans it can cause uterine contractions. When LSD was given to laboratory mice, a small percentage aborted. An even smaller percentage had stillbirths.”

  “Are you saying that I could have a miscarriage? Or that my baby might be born dead?”

  “Did you not hear me, dear? With humans, there can be risks.” Dr. Nazzareno patted her hand. “In hybrids, the placental blood barrier is exceptionally strong. Think of it as a super placenta.”

  “But I’ve been bitten twice by vampires.”

  “That shouldn’t be a problem.”

  She would have felt better if he’d said Absolutely not. But at least the grappa wouldn’t have a detrimental effect. A baby! She was going to be a mother.

  “Can I drink coffee?” She tried to smile, but her lips wobbled.

  “I don’t think anyone should drink coffee.” He threw his head back and laughed. “My dear, try not to worry so much. It would be different if you were completely human—the LSD would have crossed the placenta. Your baby is safe.”

  “You’re not just trying to keep me calm, are you?”

  “I do not hide the truth from my patients.” He pulled a square, white pad out of his pocket. “I am prescribing prenatal vitamins. Take one daily with meals. I will send Beppe to the chemist.”

  “Should I do anything special? A high-protein diet? Megadoses of vitamin C?”

  He flicked one finger, as if dismissing a gnat. “Eat what you like. Drink in moderation. Make all the love you wish, unless there is bleeding, of course. If this happens, call immediately. When you are back on your feet, I’d like to do a baseline ultrasound, record your weight, give you some brochures—all normal things for a pregnant woman.”

  She nodded.

  He kissed her hand. “Congratulations, my dear.”

  CHAPTER 60

  Rain slashed against the villa for two days, but Caro barely noticed. She lay curled up in the red toile bedroom while the storm raged over Venice, heaving cold surf onto Isla Carbonera.

  She grimaced, fighting another wave of morning sickness, and pushed her face into the pillow. Her nausea was faintly green and spun around her like a tropical storm.

  If it weren’t for bad luck, she’d have no luck at all. In addition to the loss of her ten pages and a near-fatal injury, she was pregnant. By a man who couldn’t wait to get away. Fine, she wouldn’t feel sorry for herself, not one damn bit. Her problems were small and bearable.

  She rolled over and tucked the blanket under her chin. If only her mother were here. They could discuss men, babies, and vampires. “Vivi, tell me how to be a good mother,” she whispered.

  And what about Jude? What would Vivi think about him? Go on with your life, she’d say. Eat chocolate, paint a mural, hang wind chimes.

  Later that evening, the nausea receded, along with the rain. Caro sat next to the window and watched the lights of Venice. She craved tiramisu and risotto with leeks and carrots, which Maria sent from the kitchen on huge brass trays.

  Jude and Raphael visited, bringing weather reports. More rain was predicted. Jude fed her teeny slices of Veronese Christmas cake. Arrapato jumped on her bed, showing off his red sweater.

  A little after one A.M. Dr. Nazzareno stopped by to check her shoulder.

  “I’m worried about her nausea,” Jude said.

  “Normale,” Dr. Nazzareno said, winking at Caro. “It will end shortly.”

  Maria shooed them out of the room, leaving Caro with just Arrapato for company. She lifted his furry chin and said, “I’m going to be a mother.”

  Arrapato snorted and showed his teeth.

  By Friday morning, Caro’s nausea had passed. She craved tea and brasadella, a coffee cake with lemon and anise. She opened the closet and found a silk caftan that was patterned with giant poppies, then wandered barefoot through the villa. She made her way to the terrace level and paused by the arched windows. Fat raindrops slid down the glass, and beyond the stone patio, mist rose up from the water and engulfed a marble statue of Athena in the lower garden. Venice and Murano were hidden in the scrubwater clouds. Bad weather had always made Caro feel lazy and snug, as if she were hidden from the world, but today it felt menacing.

  Someone is watching, she thought, and spun around, expecting to see Beppe or Maria, but the loggia was empty. She felt relieved until she turned back to the window, and a cold flutter moved through her chest. She had the distinct feeling that someone—or something—was out there.

  She walked to the terrace door. This was vampire weather. They could roam on cloudy days, even though they still needed sunglasses and zinc oxide. What if those ghouls had tracked her and Jude to the island?

  Behind her, music uncurled from a long, dark hallway. Nine Inch Nails was singing “Something I Can Never Have.” She walked toward it. The hall twisted into a darker antechamber, where a door stood open, casting a wedge of artificial light onto the stone floor. She peeked inside. The room resembled a stylish crypt, with silver crosses hanging on the black walls. Raphael sat at a long, polished table, leaning over the shattered triptych. Beside his elbow were tweezers, a magnifying glass, and a pot of glue. Caro heard a muffled bark. It seemed to be coming from a carved bench. Arrapato’s head popped up between a pile of books, and he barked again. Raphael waved one hand, and the music faded. “Come sit with me, mia cara. I’m trying to restore the triptych.”

  Arrapato leaped off the bench and followed Caro to the table. He bumped his cold nose against her leg, and she reached down to pat him. “I thought vampires slept during the day,” she said, glancing at Raphael.

  “We do. But Arrapato kept whining. So I came to my study. It’s the darkest room in the villa.”

  Right, Caro thought. No windows. No chance of sunburn. She sat down and looked at the broken icons. The panels lay in five chunks; the smaller pieces had been sorted into piles. “Tell me about the prophecy,” she said.

  “I like a woman who gets straight to the point.” Raphael smiled. “The images on the triptych are supposed to predict the future of the vampire race. According to the legend, a woman will be the link between humans and immortals—with the power to save or destroy us.”

  “Which images?” Her thoughts skated back to the female saint and the bleeding man.

  “Let’s wait until the panels are whole. It will take time because there are so many little pieces. Some images might be lost forever. If only I had thought to photograph the triptych the other night, when it was complete.”

  She glanced at the wooden shards; some weren’t much bigger than an eyelash. “I don’t see how you’ll fix it.”

  “I’ve got time.” He smiled. “I learned patience when I was a monk. Not that I was particularly pious. Most second and third sons of nobility joined a monastery.”

  Gripping the tweezers, he said a prayer, then lifted a broken fragment that showed part of the castle.

  “I don’t suppose you knew the Borgias?” Caro asked.

  He laughed. “Yes, I knew them. The whole lot were scandal magnets.”

  “You aren’t related to them, are you?” She felt Arrapato’s paw on her leg and picked him up.

  “No, my family is much older.”

  “How much?”

  “My father was a vassal of Charlemagne. Long story short—he was one of the Lombard princes.”

  “You’re that old?”

  “Just think of me as thirty-nine.” Raphael leaned back in the chair. “Are you strong enough for bad news?”

  She tilted her head, trying to slip into his thoughts, but hit something solid.

  “A body washed up,” Raphael said.

  “Poor Father Aeneas.” She’d been expecting this. She briefly shut her eyes and crossed herself.

  “No. Poor Demos. His body was pulled from the water.”

  CHAPTER 61

  The room spun around, and Caro grabbed the edge of the table to steady herself. “Demos is dead? But he h
ad the gun.”

  “Father Aeneas must have wrestled it away and shot him.”

  “But I thought it was the other way around.”

  Raphael sighed. “We’ll never know the real story. Perhaps the men were in cahoots and the partnership went sour. Maybe the monk hopes to sell your ten pages and move away from the monastery. Or he could be a zealot who wishes to destroy Historia Immortalis.”

  “This is my fault. If only I hadn’t gone to Meteora.”

  “Your uncle had no way of knowing that Aeneas would betray you.”

  “Why didn’t Uncle Nigel send me to you?”

  “Because I needed all three icons to interpret the prophecy.”

  “Yes, but—”

  Raphael lifted his hand. “Remember, he was dying when he wrote those anagrams, Caro. He had to honor Vivi’s final instructions—whatever they were—and keep you safe. Your cover had been blown, and he knew you would need to move fast. Bulgaria sits above Greece. So Nigel directed you to Meteora to collect the first icon. He thought Aeneas would protect you.”

  “You would have done that.”

  “Not in daylight.” Raphael shook his head. “Even if Nigel had sent you straight to my villa, we would have needed the third icon.”

  “You would have brought me to Meteora.”

  “But I can only travel at night—I would have slowed you down. When you showed up at Varlaam, I’m guessing that Demos and Aeneas hatched a plan to steal the artifacts—or perhaps they wanted to destroy them. Either way, they needed Jude out of the way.”

  “Why?”

  “Aeneas probably thought he could control you better if a boyfriend wasn’t hanging around.” Raphael’s gaze sharpened. “So instead of taking you aside to explain about your parents and your hybridism, the monk blurted the news in front of Jude. And planted the seeds that you would not be sexually compatible with him.”

  Caro felt the color rise to her cheeks and quickly tried to clear her mind, but she was a beat too late.

  Raphael opened a glue pot. “The monk used the oldest trick in the world—he wounded Jude’s masculine pride.”

  “I’m sure Father Aeneas made that up. Because Jude and I have no problem in that department.”

  “The monk told the truth.” Raphael lifted an eyebrow. “Humans are sexually magnetized by vampires—a bit less with hybrids. But hybrids don’t have sexual chemistry with humans.”

  “Wrong. Jude and I have more than enough.”

  “Yes, after you were bitten in Momchilgrad.”

  She cupped her hand over her neck, grazing the scabs. Her eyes narrowed. “Did he tell you?”

  “I looked into his mind. And yours.” He shrugged. “Sorry, but I was curious. It’s most unusual for a hybrid to lust after a human.”

  “So I’d feel differently about Jude if I hadn’t been bitten?”

  “You might have fallen for him, but the lovemaking would have been disappointing. When the Momchilgrad vampire bit you, it triggered a hormonal storm within your system. A pitch-perfect collision of estrogen and testosterone.”

  Indeed. “Will it lessen?”

  “No.” He grinned. “That’s good for you. For Jude, not so much. He is riddled with doubts—your hybridism torments him. But he’s a typical guy. He worries even more about his sexual prowess.”

  “He shouldn’t.” She glared at Raphael until he turned away. He lifted the tweezers, plucked a wooden shard, and moved toward the glue pot.

  “I haven’t seen him this morning.” Caro’s stomach muscles tightened. Actually, she hadn’t seen him since last night. Had he left the island?

  “He’s here.” Raphael looked up.

  She felt him reach into her mind. “Stop reading my thoughts. It’s rude.”

  “I don’t want you to fret, mia cara. Jude is with Maria. She tried to teach him how to make panettone and focac-cia, but I’m afraid he showed no aptitude for baking.” Raphael slid the shard into place, then gently patted it with the tweezers. “Maria forced Jude to help her plan the menù di Natale. Then she insisted that he help her and Beppe put up a Christmas tree. You have never heard such complaining. But I think Jude secretly liked the festivities.”

  “I had no idea he was a traditionalist.” She lifted the magnifying glass and examined her palm. The lines were shaped like a martini glass. “He hasn’t been drinking, has he?”

  “Not at all. Why?”

  She didn’t answer, and Raphael’s gaze sharpened.

  Quit snooping, she thought, but he pressed harder. Her head tipped back, and she began humming “God Save the Queen,” Uncle Nigel’s favorite hymn. A moment later, her chin snapped back, as if a suction had broken, and she felt Raphael’s mind retreat.

  The music changed, and Andrea Bocelli began singing “O mio babbino caro.” Raphael set down the tweezers and touched her face. “Forgive me. I did not mean to intrude. I enjoyed long, telepathic conversations with your father, but he could shut me out, too.”

  Caro smiled. “Well, I’m glad I inherited something from him.”

  “You look so much like the Grimaldis—the straight nose, high cheekbones, long legs. They had blond, curly hair. Odd that yours isn’t.”

  “Oh, I do.” She lifted a dark strand. “But I needed a disguise.”

  “Your father had a head full of curls. My God, women loved him.” Raphael pointed to an icon fragment that showed the vineyard. “The Grimaldis loved wine, too. Their vineyards were famous. In fact, they introduced the Mauzac Blanc grapes to the Languedoc region.”

  “If my father was a ladies’ man, how did he settle for my mother?”

  “Because Vivienne wasn’t just any woman. She was his big love. His only true love.”

  “What made her different?”

  “Philippe had lost the capacity to feel joy, and Vivienne found happiness in small things. Moonlight on a rug. A blooming orchid. A fresh peach.”

  “Why did she marry Wilkerson?” Caro scratched Arrapato’s ear.

  “I asked her that question. I was hoping she’d say that Wilkerson had drugged her and she woke up married. But apparently they met at a bookshop on Portobello Road. Wilkerson collected books and so did she. He romanced her. She was reeling from her parents’ deaths. After he won her, he put a checkmark beside her name and moved to the next conquest. Then she met Philippe.”

  Caro looked up. “You knew her?”

  “Quite well.” He opened a drawer and pulled out a photograph that showed a laughing woman with pewter eyes and shoulder-length dark blond hair. She was sitting on a terrace with shimmering blue water rising behind the balustrades. In her arms was a black puppy with a monkey face.

  “I took this photograph the last time they were here,” Raphael said. “Vivi and Philippe had brought me an Affenpinscher puppy.”

  Caro looked down at Arrapato. “Him?”

  “He was my consolation prize. You see, Philippe and I were both at the Sotheby’s auction, bidding on those ten pages to Historia Immortalis. I fell hard for Vivi. But I didn’t have a chance.”

  Raphael spread his fingers, as if to show that something precious had escaped his grasp.

  “Your mother was quite upset when I named him Arrapato,” he continued smoothly. “She thought he needed a more dignified name. Then she was gone, and the dog was all that remained.”

  Caro placed her hand under the dog’s chin. “So you turned Arrapato into a vampire.”

  “Love will do that, mia cara.” He pulled out another photograph that showed a bald, big-eyed baby with oversized lips. “Vivienne sent this after you were born.”

  “This is me?”

  “Il bambino brutto—the ugly baby. All the Grimaldi babies look this way. The Italians have a saying ‘ugly in the cradle, beauty at the table.’ You grew into a goddess.”

  “How did my father feel about me? Did he think I was a half-breed?”

  “Mio Dio, no. He doted on you. The night you were born, he wrapped you in a blanket and sang you a Cole Porter song.”


  “Why didn’t you tell me you knew my mother?”

  “It is difficult for me to speak of Vivi.” Raphael touched Caro’s hair. “When she was here, I had a premonition of trouble. She and Philippe were hiding from Wilkerson. And the Grimaldis were furious.”

  “They didn’t give my mother a chance, did they?”

  “They couldn’t.” Raphael’s hand fell. “It’s forbidden for humans and immortals to bond.”

  “Says who?”

  “Historia Immortalis.” Raphael’s voice took on a scholarly tone as he lectured her about the book’s tenets and moral ambiguities—just as in today’s world, the ancient vampires didn’t keep their own rules.

  “Exceptions were made when an immortal fell in love with a well-connected human,” he said. “In other words, if you were in the peerage, if you possessed land or influence, the vamps looked the other way. Greed is a human response to an inhuman dilemma. However, when a high-born vamp romanced a lowly human, the rules were enforced, and the unfortunate lovebirds were ostracized.”

  Raphael couldn’t cite the cases because apparently the appendix to Historia Immortalis was part of those ten stolen pages.

  “Who took the pages?” Caro asked.

  Raphael lifted his shoulders. “The pope’s mercenaries, no doubt.”

  “Why did the Church care about that book?”

  “Historia Immortalis launched the Albigensian Crusade.”

  “Wasn’t that about the Church versus the Cathars?”

  “It worked as a cover. Languedoc was a hotbed of Catharism. The Grimaldis were right in the middle of it. The crusade began centuries after your triptych was painted.”

  A lightness filled her chest—finally a subject that didn’t involve hybrids. “I briefly studied the Albigensian Crusade. It started when Béziers was sacked.”

  “Precisamente. Pope Innocent sent Arnaud-Amay to deal with the so-called heretics.”

  Raphael’s face darkened and he looked away from the triptych. “The knights couldn’t tell the difference between Catholics, Jews, and Cathars. They asked Amay what to do. He said God would recognize His own. So they killed everyone. Thousands went to God that day. Meanwhile, Pope Innocent and his criminals cavorted at their summer residence. Not so innocent after all. One thing led to another. The Inquisition began. And more people were slaughtered.”