The monks began whispering. Father Konstantine flashed a basilisk stare. “That might be difficult,” he told Raphael. “The antiquities police will need to establish provenance.”
“There is no way to show provenance.” Raphael sat next to Caro. “Sotheby’s had a damned hard time proving it.”
“What is the history of these pages?” Haji asked. “Who owned them before the auction?”
Father Konstantine rose from his chair. Before he tucked his hands into his sleeves, Caro saw an infinity tattoo on his wrist. “During World War II, ten vellum leaves were found in the basement of the Louvre and were taken back to Berlin. A Munich collector bought them. Not long afterward, his only son hanged himself. The pages were sold to an Austrian violinist. Days before her murder, she sold the pages to a South American dictator who couldn’t get rid of them quickly enough. Before he could find a buyer, the pages were stolen. Decades later, they ended up at Sotheby’s.”
“How many people have died because of your damned book?” Caro flung off the blanket.
Father Konstantine glared, but the others began whispering. The murmurs changed into a strident hum, like bees getting ready to swarm. She thought they might attack and sprang from the chair.
“Where are you going, mia cara?”
“You know where. He’s all I have. I’m going. Don’t try to stop me.”
“The brethren are with him.” Father Konstantine looked alarmed.
Raphael steered her back to the chair. She gaped up at him. “We shouldn’t have come to Egypt. I shouldn’t have been born. Then my uncle and Jude would be alive.”
“You don’t know what you’re saying,” Raphael whispered. “You’re in shock.”
“I’m in pain. I want the pain to end.”
“Sometimes there is no end.”
“When Wilkerson and the vampire snatched me, I screamed for you in my mind. But you took so long to come.”
“I didn’t hear.” He shook his head. “I am sorry.”
“I’ll never forgive you.”
Father Konstantine’s eyes narrowed. “Signore Raphael was too worried to hear your thoughts. He was waiting for you in the library. All of us were waiting. Blame yourself for the young man’s death.”
“Death?” Caro released a shuddering sob. Jude had died? How did the monks know? Maybe they were in telepathic contact.
She clasped her hands. “Jude was still alive when we left him.”
Father Konstantine crossed himself, then turned to Raphael. “She is agitated, Signore. This could have dire consequences.”
“For whom?” Caro frowned. She hated the way he was glaring, as if her skin were covered with oozing sores.
The monk ignored her. “We heard what the criminal Wilkerson said about her blood. She is tainted, Signore. Please, remove her from our presence or we cannot be responsible for our actions.”
Dizziness spiraled through Caro, and she shut her eyes. Now she’d be hunted by Wilkerson and vampires. She was the genetic bridge to the immortals’ extinction.
“Signore, take the whore to her room or I shall be forced to sedate her.”
Father Nickolas stepped into the room, clutching Jude’s leather coat. “What shall I do with Mr. Barrett’s belongings?” he asked.
“Save them, Father,” Raphael said. He led Caro into the corridor, and the torches along the wall flickered, casting shadows over the stone floor.
“Where are you taking me now?” she asked.
“To a safe place.” He squeezed her hand and pulled her toward a bright circle at the end of the tunnel. Beyond the tunnel lay a small courtyard and a staircase that led to the guest quarters.
“Stay here,” she said. “I know the way to my room.”
“I’m going with you.”
“But the sun—you’ll burn.”
“Fuck the daylight. I will not leave you alone.”
“Why not just—” She felt the pull of gravity, the whoosh of cold air as he picked her up and sped toward the courtyard. Why in bloody hell was he always carrying her—a remnant of loyalty he still felt for her family? The courtyard and stairs blurred together, and then a door flew open and everything went still.
They stood in the center of her room. Sunlight blasted through the arched window and hit the crucifix on the far wall. As he set her on the bed, she smelled incense, heard the creak of a mattress, and her shoulders sank into a scratchy woolen blanket. Through the thin muslin curtain she saw the basilica and mountains beneath a cloudless, whitewashed sky.
Tears gathered in her lashes, and the room blurred. Oh, Jude. Please don’t be dead.
Raphael shut the curtain and the room darkened. He walked to her bed and sat down. His hands and cheeks were covered with blisters.
“You should put salve on those burns,” she said.
“I’ll be fine. I’m more worried about you, mia cara.”
She dug her fingers into the blanket and scraped her nails over the wool. “Did Father Konstantine tell the truth? Is Jude dead?”
Raphael’s brows drew together. “I do not know. He was shielding his thoughts. But I will find out. I will also talk to the antiquities police. Perhaps they have recovered your vellum pages.”
“I don’t want them.” Her gaze held his. She hoped he read her mind. She could summarize the book in three parts: death in the beginning, death in the middle, death at the end. Especially at the end.
“Those pages were your father’s,” Raphael said. “Now they are yours. The rest is here at Saint Catherine’s. Your father brought Historia Immortalis here for safekeeping, just as he indicated on the scroll. I have listened to the monk’s thoughts. I know where they hide the manuscript. It’s in a room behind the altar.”
“Keep it. And while you’re at it, hang the triptych on your wall. Use it for kindling.”
“But these artifacts are your legacy. Your father—”
“Do you think he’d still want me to protect objects that killed him and Mother?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t want a reminder of that bloody book. It has cost me everyone I’ve ever loved.”
“You are overwrought,” Raphael stood. “And il bambino needs his rest. You, too. Sleep, mia cara.”
Caro dreamed in fragments—pottery shards, torn gilt pages, scattered bones. The images coalesced into dogs with monks’ heads. She awoke with a gasp. For a panicky moment, her lungs contracted and she couldn’t get a satisfying breath.
Jude. Oh, no. She hadn’t dreamed it.
She sat up and pushed her hair out of her face. Through the window, lights wound up the hulking black mountain. It was night again. And she was alone. Raphael had not returned. She yanked off her bloodstained clothes, then slid off the bed and unzipped her bag. She had to find Jude’s body before the monks took him away. Before Raphael returned. She pulled out a chalk-colored galabiyyah and an ivory pashmina, heavily fringed. White, the absence of all colors, the symbol of purity, traditional desert garb to reflect the sun, but her grief was hard-edged and black.
Tears hit her arm and slid to her wrist. Jude had saved her in downtown Kardzhali. Then he’d attacked the vampires in Momchilgrad and Varlaam. Here at St. Catherine’s, he’d sacrificed himself to protect her and their unborn baby from Wilkerson’s bullets.
She dressed slowly, as if a cup were trapped inside her chest, its contents sloshing over the edge. If she rushed, the cup would overturn and unbearable sadness would spill through her. On her way out of the room, she lifted a red robe from the hook on the wall and pulled it around her. The cold stones shocked her bare feet as she stepped onto the veranda. The night wind smelled of baking bread with faint undertones of curry. The aromas made her queasy, and she held her breath as she rushed down the stairs.
When she reached the main courtyard, she moved into the shadows. The monastery looked deserted, but she heard clanging from the south corridor. She turned toward the sound, into a tunnel with a low ceiling. The dark, cool air hit her face as she
groped her way along the rough walls toward a circle of light. She passed into a moonlit courtyard where a silver-haired monk squatted beside a rectangular pine box. His robe puddled around his feet as he hammered nails into wood.
“Father, what are you building?” she asked. But she knew. She clasped her hands, trying to stop them from shaking.
The monk looked up, his eyes red-rimmed. “A coffin.”
At the far end of the courtyard, she saw the Burning Bush. A Bedouin man pushed a mop over the stones, leaving a film of suds and blood-tinged water. She followed a trail of dried blood into an arched tunnel that reeked of copper and petrol. The spatters led her down a maze of narrow halls, around corners, and ended in a familiar T-shaped passageway with the blue door. It was heavily carved, with an egg-shaped knob.
She grasped it, then let go as a shivery panic seized her. She hugged herself, cupping her palms under her elbows. She didn’t want to know what was in that room. Why in God’s name had she come?
Yet the door seemed to hypnotize her, pulling her closer, as if whispering secrets. An image rose up, and she saw herself sitting in the library, surrounded by illustrated manuscripts, studying the images and colors. This door held meaning to the monks at St. Catherine’s. It was lighter than the blue in a Greek talisman, the one that repelled the evil eye. Blue represented the throat chakra. Blue was sad, serene, cold, and sheltering. Blue had been made in the antiquities by fusing copper, iron, and calcium—components of blood.
On the other side of the door, she heard a bang. She pressed her ear against the smooth wood. The noise was erratic, as if someone were slamming dresser drawers. Her hand molded around the cold knob, and the metal instantly chilled her skin. She opened the door and her pupils constricted painfully in the candlelight. Shadows undulated over a freshly scrubbed stone floor, rippling over an iron bed and pristine white linen. A small table held a candle, and the flame bent sideways as a breeze rushed through the open window and banged the wooden shutter against the wall.
She swallowed. She was too late. The room had been cleaned and emptied. She started to leave when she saw movement at the other end of the room. A crop-haired monk rose from a pine desk, his white galabiyyah stirring around his bare feet.
“I’m sorry to bother you,” Caro said. “I was looking for—”
Her throat clenched as she stared into the man’s blue eyes. She studied them the way the Egyptians did. The eyes told the truth. But the shorn hair told another story.
“I’ve been waiting for you, lass,” the man said.
Her hand flew to her lips. The hair might be gone, but Jude’s soft Yorkshire accent was intact. Oh, thank God. Thank God. “You’re alive,” she whispered.
“In a fashion.” He grinned.
“But they said—” Her vision blurred. Tears gathered on her knuckles. She extended her other hand, fingers shaking, and then her knees buckled. Jude vaulted from the chair and grabbed her. She fell against him and pressed her damp cheek against his neck. Cold, so cold. His neck smelled spicy, but there was a muskiness surrounding his body.
He pulled back, eyebrows slanting over the pale skin. “I kept asking for you,” he said. “Didn’t the monks tell you?”
She shook her head. Why had Father Konstantine lied? Or had she dreamed it? Questions darted around her, each one a silvery minnow that flitted through black water, just out of reach, but they could wait. A deeper want rippled through her, the need to merge with him physically, and then she would be ready to hear those elusive answers.
Jude’s fingers tangled in her hair. “Caro, you were the thread in the maze. I lost my way for a bit. But I followed the thread and made my way back.”
“It’s a miracle. I’m over the moon.” She flung her arms around his neck, flattening her breasts against him. He leaned in to kiss her. Their lips fused, the way a finger will adhere to dry ice, and a current moved between them. His mouth tasted sweet, as if he’d been eating ripe, red fruit. Then the kiss changed into a crackling vortex. Oh, such pleasure.
Jude led Caro to the bed. The mattress creaked as he slipped in beside her. She helped him pull off his galabiyyah . There were no wounds or gauze dressings on his chest. Only two square Band-Aids. Her hand slid over the smooth flesh, past the springy hairs.
He kissed her, and the icy sweetness melted on her tongue. He was one of them now. Could he hear her thoughts? She pushed words in his direction: Please don’t be angry with me. But he didn’t respond; he hadn’t heard.
A ticklish sensation leaped under her flesh as he swept back her robe. He slipped her bra strap down over her shoulder, then drew his fingers back and forth over her collarbone, barely touching her. Her body tensed with anticipation. She closed her eyes, feeling his desire for her blood, but something strong and protective moved beneath it. If he asked, she could grow acquainted with the night. She could give up the sun without regret. The night would be her new world, and as long as he was with her, she wasn’t afraid. If he asked, she would leave her life and go with him.
He pulled off her galabiyyah. Cool air blew around her as he moved her hand to the pulsing between his legs. The shaft widened and curved. She wanted to feel it, taste it, rub down his length. Tingling started in her throat and shimmied into her chest. Tremors moved through her belly, then deeper into the very core of her being. As vibrations pulsed into her legs, she pointed her toes, and her calves trembled.
“Stop.” He tipped back his head, and his incisors lengthened. “You’re pushing me to the edge.”
But she couldn’t stop. She wanted to taste him again and again. All around her, the room glimmered, all hazy at the edges. Her hair drifted against him, each strand taut as thread, moving across his skin like a binding spell.
“Caro, no—” His face contorted. The muscles in his thighs and abdomen tensed. Cool, milky fluid jetted against the back of her hand and curved around her wrist. A thrill shot through her, and the thread tightened. Every square inch of her body thrummed, but she held still, afraid that if she moved, the fine cord would break.
Jude’s breathing slowed, and he smiled a crooked smile, as if to say, Let’s have another go, shall we?
She smiled back. Quite the randy fellow. She’d just had the most intense sexual reaction in her life, and they hadn’t been physically joined. Now she knew why vampires had groupies. The sex was transcendental.
He blinked as his length rose from the tight curls between his legs. She drew in a sharp breath.
Yes, oh, yes. She reached for him, and he caught her hand. The M of his upper lip sharpened as he stared at her throat. “What if I lose control?”
“So could I.”
“But I want you more than I want air.” Candlelight flickered over his teeth. He kissed her neck, and his lips lingered on her pulse beat. She wanted him to press those fangs into her flesh. No, he mustn’t. Wilkerson had said her blood was lethal to vampires. After the Turkish man and Georgi had bitten her, they’d suffered brief, but extreme, reactions. Coincidence? Or maybe Wilkerson had lied. So many untruths swirled around her; she didn’t know what to believe. But she could not put Jude in danger.
“I’m not scared for myself, just for our baby,” she whispered. “But I don’t think I can stay away from you.”
“There’s got to be a way,” he said.
“Too bad we aren’t in a city. I’d buy a dental device.” She smiled and touched his front teeth. “Like the wax that teenagers use for their braces. Or a mouth guard, like for sports.”
“You’ve given me an idea. Hold on.” Jude turned to the nightstand, lifted a burning candle from the holder, and rolled back to her. He drew in a breath and exhaled. The flame spit out and a dark ribbon curled up. Wax trickled onto Jude’s wrist and instantly hardened.
“I won’t be able to last. So no foreplay this time,” he said, shaping the warm candlestick into a U. His teeth sank into the soft candle, to keep him from biting her in his ecstasy.
He moved closer and drew his finger over her ni
pples, down to her navel, then inched lower and lower until he reached her cleft. She gasped and arched her back.
He moved into the space between her legs, smelling of cedar and incense, and then his face was directly above hers. He took a breath and sheathed himself inside her. She cried out, clutching his back. He withdrew and she lifted her hips to keep him inside her. With each thrust, his shoulders grew warmer, as if sucking heat from her flesh.
He pulled back again, teasing her, and she pressed her fists into his hips. A luminous rush of ice and fire surged just beneath her skin, stoking flames in her belly.
She wanted to kiss him, but she didn’t dare dislodge the candle. She pressed her face into his chest. He lunged inside her, their bodies slick with perspiration. Her thoughts rose straight up and began to spin. Then she was spinning with them, weightless and twirling, sparking into a vast, black chasm.
He shuddered and a cool rush filled her. He groaned and bit the candle in half. Shards pattered in her hair and skittered to the sheet. The spinning slowed into lazy spirals, and the air went still.
A thundering noise sounded in the corridor. The door banged against the wall and Father Konstantine charged into the room.
“What the bloody hell?” Jude cried.
“This is not a sacrament.” Father Konstantine’s cheeks pinkened as his gaze swept over the wax-strewn linen. “You are not man and wife.”
“Why are you here?” Jude blinked. “What in God’s name is going on?”
“Yes, I want to know, too,” Caro said. “You told me Jude was dead.”
“Silence!” Father Konstantine reached for Caro’s galabiyyah and red robe. He threw the clothing at her.
“Whore, cover your nakedness,” he said.
Jude’s eyes blazed. “How dare you call her that? And why did you lie to her? What purpose would that serve to you, a man of God?”
Father Konstantine looked away. Caro’s hands shook as she pulled on the clothing. Did the monk think Jude’s condition was too precarious for lovemaking? More likely, he was morally outraged.
“Your whore does not understand.” Father Konstantine tucked his hands into his sleeves. “Your wounds have healed, but internally, you are still transforming. The urge to feed is all-powerful.”
Acquainted With the Night (9781101546000) Page 40
