Aeneas told the girl the truth, that she was half vampire. The boyfriend had fled, just as Aeneas had hoped. Later, he heard the rise and fall of voices. Aeneas crept out of bed and peered into the room. The boy had returned. He sat at the table—the fire and suspicion had left his eyes, leaving behind sorrow and confusion.
Aeneas tiptoed down to the church. Demos was kneeling in front of the altar, asking God for a sign. He glanced at the monk. “The boyfriend came back?”
Aeneas nodded.
“Then it is God’s will,” Demos said. “But we have another dilemma. The Bulgarian vampire is lurking. He will take what we seek.”
“I will be ready.”
Demos put his hand on the monk’s shoulder. “Now I know why God led me to Varlaam all those years ago. You and I were meant to find Historia Immortalis.”
It had felt like a quest, but then it changed when Demos’s heart filled with greed. Aeneas should have known something was amiss when Demos had kept asking questions.
“Didn’t you say that Caroline’s parents stole those ten pages?” He cut his dark eyes at Aeneas.
“They belonged to Harry Wilkerson.”
Demos scratched his head. “Is he a collector?”
“I do not know.” Aeneas sighed. “He owns a pharmaceutical company. Perhaps he wished to exploit Historia Immortalis.”
“I bet he’d pay anything to have those pages. In fact, I know he would.”
“What are you saying?” Aeneas lifted his finger and drew a cross in the air. He’d told Demos too much.
“It isn’t enough to burn the vampires’ book. They owe me.” Demos pressed his fist against his chest. “I can still hear my children’s screams.”
“You are God’s servant,” the monk said. “You cannot succumb to avarice.”
Now Demos was drifting along the bottom of Laguna Veneta with a bullet hole in his chest. His death had been an accident. In the boat, he and Aeneas had argued. “You are either with me or against me,” Demos said. “But you cannot stop me. I must hurry. I am meeting Wilkerson at Varlaam.”
“You have betrayed me and God. And you have murdered Caroline.”
“The strong do what they have to do.” Demos squeezed the trigger and the bullet whizzed past Aeneas’s head.
Aeneas threw himself at Demos’s feet, causing him to trip. The gun clunked against the bottom of the boat. Aeneas stretched out his hand and grabbed the gun, and it detonated.
Despite his panic, he managed to retrieve the pages, the red key, and Demos’s wallet. Inside was a paper with a London phone number and Wilkerson Pharmaceuticals. Then Aeneas caught a flight to Thessaloniki. He’d planned to burn whatever he found, but when he opened the locker, he’d pulled out a plastic bag filled with hair and bloodstained clothes. Where were the other pages to that cursed book?
Aeneas boarded the train to Kalambaka and prayed for guidance. He who betrays shall reap betrayal. But who, exactly, was the betrayer? If he did not set things right, the deaths would continue. He stopped in a hotel, found a pay phone, and called Wilkerson Pharmaceuticals. A woman with a nasal voice answered and identified herself as Harry Wilkerson’s secretary.
“I must speak to Mr. Wilkerson.” Aeneas licked his dry, cracked lips.
“He’s unavailable,” she said.
“This is . . . Demos.” The monk paused and crossed himself. He hoped God forgave his lie. “I have an urgent message.”
“I’m afraid it’s impossible to leave a message. He’ll return to the office next week.”
“Tell him the deal is off. The pages are lost,” he said and hung up.
Now, cold air stung Aeneas’s cheeks as he stepped out of the church and shuffled across the cloister. No one would find those ten pages. He could almost feel the hand of God as he paused beside the windy ledge. A quarter moon hung over Meteora, a barbed tooth against the dusky sky. The winter equinox was drawing near. These dark, short days had torn his heart. A swarm of if onlys cut through him. If only he hadn’t confided in Demos. If only he’d stopped the old man from shooting Caroline. If only Wilkerson stayed away from Varlaam.
But his unwanted guest was coming. Aeneas heard footsteps on the stone stairs. The monk decided he would greet Wilkerson cordially, then would lure him to the cave and leave him to rot in the stygian dark.
Harry Wilkerson’s briefcase slammed into his leg as he climbed the curved steps to Varlaam, a tall, red-haired man trailing behind him. Wilkerson’s eyes narrowed.
“Are you Demos?”
“He has been called away,” Father Aeneas said, glancing at the redhead. His skin was white and freckled, and his teeth were too big for his mouth. He emitted the stink of ketones. A vampire.
“When will Demos return?” Wilkerson asked.
“He won’t. He is gone from this place.”
“Who the bloody hell are you?” Wilkerson asked.
“Father Aeneas.” The monk swallowed and his throat clicked. “You must leave. The monastery is closed.”
“Can we discuss this inside?” Wilkerson rubbed his hands together. “It’s freezing.”
“Your business is with Demos, not me. You must leave.”
Wilkerson turned to the redhead. “Tell him how I hate the cold, Moose.”
The redhead pointed a .44 Magnum at the monk. “You heard him, mate.”
Aeneas led the men into the common room and poured wine, his hands shaking. The redhead wrinkled his nose and passed his glass down to Wilkerson.
“You know why we’re here,” Wilkerson said. “Don’t bother lying.”
Aeneas set the decanter on the table and tucked his hands into the sleeves of his robe. “If you have come for the pages and the icons, they are lost.”
“Lost?” Wilkerson cried.
“Demos destroyed them.”
“But I’ve already wired one million euros to his Berne account.”
“I know nothing of this,” Aeneas said.
“We had a deal.”
“Not with me.”
Wilkerson set his briefcase on the table, clicked it open, and turned it in Aeneas’s direction. The monk shook his head.
“You want more money?” Wilkerson asked.
“I want nothing.” Aeneas waved his hand. “I do not have what you seek. Leave. Now.”
“I can’t do that. Not until I’ve seen my artifacts. Demos said they’d be here.” Wilkerson pushed a stack of money across the table.”
“He lied,” Aeneas said.
The vampire aimed the .44 Magnum at the monk’s head. “Get those blooming pages.”
“Shoot me.” Aeneas withdrew his hands from the sleeves and spread his arms wide. “I am ready to die.”
“Don’t shoot him. Bite him,” Wilkerson said. “Make him like you. God frowns on the immortals.”
Aeneas shrank back. He could not be bitten. God would not forgive. And he would burn. The redheaded vampire opened his dark mouth. Aeneas breathed in the sweet, calming stench.
“It’s your choice,” Wilkerson said. “You’ve got ten seconds to decide.”
Aeneas led them to the church and pulled the cornerstone. The door opened, and light spilled down the first few steps.
“Where does it lead?” Wilkerson asked.
“To your precious pages.”
“Don’t let me stop you from getting them.” Wilkerson smirked.
The monk shook his head. “I am too wobbly. Look for a box. The vellum pages are inside. With the icon.” The vampire’s broad shoulders filled the stairwell and he descended, counting to himself. He turned a corner and dropped out of sight. “Got it, mate,” he called.
“Bring it to me.” Wilkerson moved to the top of the stairs.
I’ll push him, Aeneas thought, and rushed forward. Wilkerson leaped to the side. The monk tipped forward. As he fell, his robe waffled around him. He reached out blindly for the handrail and stopped his free-fall.
“Silly old tosser,” said the vampire. He stepped around the monk. Then he jogge
d up the steps, handed the box to Wilkerson, and went back down to the monk. “Let go of the rail, ducky.”
“Let me just hang here a moment,” Aeneas said.
The vampire grabbed the monk’s arm and tugged. The bone snapped, and the monk dropped away from the rail, into the darkness. His screams echoed up the stairwell. Moose looked up at Wilkerson. “Shall I get him, mate?”
“What’s the bloody point?”
Moose ran up the steps. “He was a bit hairy at the heel, wasn’t he?”
The monk’s cries echoed, rising and falling. “Shut the door,” Wilkerson commanded.
“But won’t the other monks come sniffing around and see that he’s gone missing?”
“Who cares?” Wilkerson slammed his fist against the cornerstone. The door swung shut, and Aeneas’s cries snapped off.
A tinny buzz echoed in Wilkerson’s pocket. He reached for his mobile phone and glanced at the display. “Yes, Mr. Underwood,” he said. “This better be good news.”
“I believe it is, sir. Caroline Clifford has left Villa Primaverina.” Mr. Underwood paused. “Our men tracked her to an airport in Milan. I’m quite proud of our chaps, sir. They’ve performed admirably. Much better than your vampires. In fact—”
Wilkerson cut him off. “Where is Miss Clifford headed?”
“Sharm El Sheikh. Shall I send a crew to Egypt?”
“I’m handling this myself. Tell my pilot to register a flight plan for Egypt.”
Wilkerson opened the box. He didn’t see the icons, but he counted ten vellum sheets. He lifted one, and the colors leaped out. “Welcome home,” he said.
CHAPTER 63
SINAI PENINSULA, EGYPT
Raphael’s jet landed at Sharm El Sheikh and taxied along the runway to the old terminal.
Jude looked worried. “Isn’t security rather tight in the Sinai Peninsula?”
“I’ve hired an excellent guide,” Raphael said.
He guided Jude and Caro across the tarmac where a man in a headscarf waited. Caro saw a green armband with the insignia of the Egyptian tourist police. When he saw her, he bowed.
“Welcome to Egypt. I am Haji Muhammad Sayyid, your guide. Please call me Haji.”
His lips curved, showing large, gappy teeth, but he looked intensely into her eyes. Caro looked back into his. The pupils were enormous. Drugs? she thought. No, he was too collected. She remembered something Uncle Nigel had said. The Egyptians aren’t staring at you, Caro. They are studying your eyes. Tiny pupils mean boredom. Dilation means happiness or excitement.
Haji turned to Raphael. Arabic flew into the air as the men exchanged greetings, followed by cheek kissing and handshaking. Caro saw a patch of rough skin on Haji’s forehead—his zebibah, the praying mark, a permanent blemish caused by repeatedly pressing the forehead to the ground.
“Do not worry, beautiful lady,” he said. “You will travel in safety.”
He whisked them around customs into a black van. Haji drove across the tarmac and stopped next to a helicopter. Their pilot, Kareem, stowed their luggage in the back, then settled into the cockpit. His linen galabiyyah stretched over his wide shoulders as he surveyed the instrument panel. He bent closer, and the luminous green dials tinted his face.
The Huey’s blades began to revolve. The bird veered up and over the congested streets of Sharm El Sheikh, then it passed over a road with blue barrels, indicating a security-stop point. Caro’s vision seemed much sharper, and even from this distance she could pick out the soldiers that were huddled in the back of a truck, clutching AK-47s.
The helicopter dropped in altitude when it passed by Mt. Sinai. Caro leaned against the window, watching lights move up the mountain. The Huey touched down near the monastery. Sand flew past the windshield as Kareem clicked switches and the blades slowed to a rhythmic whap.
Haji helped Caro out of the helicopter, cautioning her to bend low. The sand rose up in thick eddies, cutting against her cheeks. She draped her pashmina over her nose and stepped over loose rocks, past Bedouin men and their sleeping camels. She caught up with the men in the courtyard. A monk stood beneath the entrance gate and lifted a kerosene lantern.
“Father Nickolas,” Haji said, and gripped the monk’s arm. The men turned into an arched tunnel where petrol lamps blazed down from the walls. Caro lowered her pashmina and followed the group into a large courtyard filled with narrow lanes and buildings. A monk with a shaved head joined them beside a wooden staircase.
“I am Father Konstantine.” His eyes hardened into olive pits as he stared at Caro, then he turned. “Follow me to the guest quarters, please.”
Raphael touched her elbow. No woman has stayed behind these walls since the fourth century.
How did you arrange that?
Tirari molti spagi.
Ah, he’d pulled big strings. Caro gripped the dark wooden rail and followed the monk up the stairs. They were quite steep, with twists and turns, and she was breathless when she stepped onto a veranda. At one end, Moorish arches overlooked the quad and the domed basilica, with Mt. Sinai rising behind the monastery’s walls.
She glanced behind her. Father Nickolas was showing Jude and Raphael to their rooms. When she looked back, Father Konstantine’s lips tightened. He opened her door. “Your quarters,” he said, averting his eyes.
“Thank you, Father.” Caro stepped into the room. It was small and tidy, with a cot at one end and a desk at the other, and it smelled of cedar incense. A carved wooden crucifix hung on the far wall with a dried palm frond tucked behind it. The walls were curry colored, brightened by moonlight that fell through an arched window. The thin muslin curtain was pulled back, and she saw lights moving up Mt. Sinai.
She dropped her bag on a chair and stretched her arms. They felt weightless. Raphael had the triptych, and Father Aeneas had taken the ten vellum pages, but in a strange way, she felt liberated. She wouldn’t have to guard priceless artifacts. Her relief segued into apprehension as she pressed one hand to her stomach. The guarding had only begun.
Her door opened and Raphael walked into the room carrying along a cardboard box. “Don’t get settled, mia cara. You and Jude are climbing Mt. Sinai.”
“Tonight?” She frowned. “I’ve got vampires chasing me. What if they tracked me here? I’m not going on a pleasure hike.”
“This is more than sightseeing, mia cara.”
He set the box on the bed and raised the lid. Light hit the triptych and glanced off the colors. Caro remembered how he’d stayed in the back of his plush jet during the long flight to Egypt. He’d leaned over a table, trying to reassemble the triptych.
Now it was intact, more or less.
“Originally, the vampires believed that the three panels embodied the past, present, and future of the immortals. It took us centuries to understand that the images symbolized a more enigmatic prophecy.”
Caro’s mouth went dry. “How enigmatic?”
“Your grandfather, Etienne Grimaldi, could see the future. While the triptych was being painted, Etienne had a vision, but he couldn’t interpret the symbols. Indeed, none of them made sense. The images didn’t represent any past that we’d known. But Etienne was emphatic. He knew this was a prophecy, and he made sure the artist added each detail in the order he’d dreamed them. No one realized that he’d visualized the past, present, and future of a woman, and child, not yet born, who will pull the immortal race out of the dark. This duo will cause a stir, and Christianity may change—all of humankind will change, too.” Raphael touched her cheek. “When you arrived at my villa and we assembled the triptych, the puzzle pieces began to merge.”
He pointed to Father Aeneas’s panel. “This icon represents the past. There’s a castle, and it’s on fire. A girl child is running away. She’s holding an egg and pages from an illustrated manuscript. This child is you. The icon shows your past.”
“But I never had an egg,” she cried.
He ignored her and tapped the center icon. “See the saint with dark hair? She
is you—as you are now. You are holding a complete book. Behind you is a castle in Limoux—but it could also represent Saint Catherine’s Monastery. The ground has turned into a bloody battlefield.”
Caro shivered. “Who’s the bleeding man? And who’s the monk in the background?”
“I don’t know.” Raphael touched the figures. “I believe they are the same person. Perhaps the monk is the soul rising.”
“Could this be Demos?” She swallowed. “Or Uncle Nigel?”
“Possibly.”
“What about the third panel?” Caro asked. It showed the rest of the castle, with a woman and a child. Behind them lay a graveyard of crosses. The night sky had turned to blood, with tiny glimpses of the stars.
“I believe this is you and your baby, mia cara.”
A cold finger scraped down her spine. “I couldn’t lead a bunch of tourists through Waterloo Station. I’m not at the center of this prophecy.”
“You won’t know until you climb to the top of Sinai. You’ll find a chapel. It’s surrounded by an iron fence. Your guide will take you inside. Look for a fresco on the north wall. It has these same images, but I do not know when it was painted, or by whom. Study it. Think about your triptych. Try to interpret the symbols. But I believe they concern you and the immortals.
“Have you seen them?” Caro asked.
“Yes, but they are very confusing. Perhaps they were not meant for my eyes but for yours.”
“What if I can’t make sense of it?”
“Then enjoy the view.” Raphael smiled. “And tell Jude about il bambino. The longer you wait, the harder it will be.”
“I’m so afraid, Raphael. What if he doesn’t want this child?”
“Mia cara, fear waits at the edges of love. You must create a fortress inside yourself.” He kissed her hand. “Let’s find Jude. The mountain is waiting.”
Raphael led them out of the monastery to a black Range Rover with tinted windows. Kareem drove while Haji distributed blankets and brandy. He opened a beaded purse. “Baksheesh,” he explained. “For tipping.”
Jude leaned against the dark window. “How long does it take to climb Mt. Sinai?”
Acquainted With the Night (9781101546000) Page 37
