Hunting Daylight (9781101619032)

by Maitland, Piper

  “They’re good people,” he said, staring her down. Nothing could shake Keats’s loyalty to Mr. Raphael or Caro. “And you’re crack-a-fruity,” he added.

  Tatiana lowered the knife, and the cold metal scraped over his flesh, making quick, surgical cuts. Just enough for the blood to well up in the shallow creases.

  “Next time it will be another finger,” she said. “I love the smell of your blood.”

  Keats clenched his teeth. This was about pain. “Bring it on, you little cunt. Bite me. Shoot me. Cut off my legs. But we’re finished.”

  “You’ll talk when I start killing the horses.”

  Keats swallowed, and his throat made a dry click. She’d butchered Ozzie.

  “One more time, old man. Where are Caro and Vivienne?”

  “The space shuttle.” He glanced past her, where the postcard lay on the floor.

  Tatiana followed his gaze. She set the knife on the desk, then lifted the postcard off the floor. Her eyes switched back and forth, and then she looked down at Keats.

  “Your eyes gave you away, soldier,” she said. “Shall I read Vivienne’s letter?”

  Dear Mr. Keats,

  You were right about Italy. It’s not half bad. I’d rather stay in Florence than go to that crappy castle in Scotland, but my mom is making me. Please give Ozzie lots of apples. Remember to check your sugar! See you in November.

  Love always,

  Vivi

  Tatiana shoved the postcard into her pocket. “A Scottish castle? How droll.”

  Tears ran down the sides of Keats’s face. Fear rose up inside him, not for himself, but for the Barretts and for Innisfair. He felt streaks of white-hot pain rush through his knee and hand.

  “Which part of Scotland?” Tatiana turned back to the desk and lifted her knife.

  “Stuff it.” He tried to ignore his cramping stomach, the sound of water rushing through his bowels. Sweat ran down the back of his neck.

  Tatiana stepped on his wrist, pinning his arm against the floor. She pressed the tip of the blade into his forearm and dragged it over his flesh, moving in a figure-eight pattern. Blood welled up, obliterating the design, and streaked down the sides of his arm.

  “Which city shall I try first?” Tatiana said. “Glasgow? Inverness? Edinburgh? Aberdeen?”

  “Go to hell, you fucking rabbit.”

  “I’m actually doing a noble thing. Someone I work for is dying. He wants to feel the sun on his face before he leaves this world. Vivi’s blood will make this possible.” She looked up at the ceiling as she spoke, a half smile on her face, caught up in her own self-importance. Then, lowering her gaze, she removed the gold ring from her thumb and forced it onto his index finger.

  He didn’t want her jewelry touching his flesh, and he tried to pull away.

  “This ring will torture Caro, just as I’ve tortured you.” Tatiana leaned forward.

  Keats felt the blade pass over his throat.

  “Farewell, soldier,” she said. “See you in hell.”

  CHAPTER 9

  Vivi

  MANDERFORD CASTLE

  EAST LOTHIAN COAST, SCOTLAND

  Vivi Barrett fought her way out of the nightmare, twisting from side to side in the four-poster bed. She kicked off the blanket and opened her eyes.

  It was the same dream. She and Keats were riding around Innisfair, looking for rabbit holes. But this time he’d fallen into one, and she couldn’t find him.

  Breathe, breathe, breathe.

  She sucked in air. Then she forced it out. She’d always had night terrors when she traveled, which was all the freaking time. It was jet lag, that was all. Keats was fine.

  She pushed her bangs out of her eyes. How long had she slept? She squinted at the windows, where dingy light trickled onto a teal-and-red tartan carpet. Was it dusk, dawn, or a typical July day at Manderford Castle? If the East Lothian coast was the brightest part of Scotland, she’d hate to see the rest of it.

  Her hand fumbled on the bedside table. She lifted the travel clock. It was seven fifty-five P.M. In two hours the sun would set—if Scotland even had a sun. Vivi hadn’t seen it. The curtains stirred and a damp breeze rushed in, carrying the harsh cry of seabirds. Their voices seemed to mock her.

  Born weird, they cawed.

  Well, she couldn’t argue. Her stupid one-quarter vampire genes had given her keen hearing and smell, but that was it. She had the feeling her mom hadn’t told her everything, as if Vivi could take only one-quarter of the truth. Oh, she knew about vampires and the hokey prophecy. But there had to be a worse secret. Like, maybe her mother was in a witness protection program. That would be really creepy.

  She curled her toes, listening to the joints pop. One day she would find out her mother’s secrets. A girl could hear juicy stuff if she kept her ears open and her mouth shut. Vivi had learned to be quiet and to notice details, to hear what people said beneath their words. Ever since she was little, she’d wrapped herself in silence, as if it were a crust, all crimped at the edges, her worries hidden like blackbirds in a pie, not that she’d eat a bird, and if anyone picked at her, Vivi would bite them with words, not teeth.

  Just this morning, she’d sassed the housekeeper, Mrs. MacLeod. The old woman had a kind face, but she was bossy. She’d steered Vivi out the kitchen door, clucking to herself. “It’s not natural to sleep this much. You need to get outside and breathe the sea air.”

  Vivi had stomped through the gray mist, past an herb garden, toward a path that led to the Firth of Forth. Even the sea had a stupid Scottish name. As she turned back to the house, she saw a stone wall. A wooden gate was in the center, big enough for a truck to drive through. Golf balls were scattered on Vivi’s side of the wall. She threw them onto the fairway until she got bored.

  Why had her mom rented a house next to a golf course? Would she insist that Vivi take lessons? She wasn’t hitting a ball with a stick. She wanted to have girlfriends and go to parties and giggle.

  Vivi had run home, straight to her room, but she’d dreamed about Keats again.

  Now she pushed off the bed and looked toward the window. She heard a car rumble down the long gravel driveway, and she sat up. Actual visitors were coming? Maybe it was a golf cart. Or the Welcome to East Lothian committee, ladies with shortbread and itty bottles of scotch. A cute delivery boy would be too much to hope for. But anything was possible.

  She scrambled off the bed, smoothing her bangs. She pulled on a pink leopard skirt and a black hoodie that was spattered with fake blood—KEEP CALM AND KILL ZOMBIES was printed across the front. She laced up her high-top sneakers and ran into the hall. A blue plaid carpet stretched toward a balcony, where suits of armor were lined up against the turret wall. The sound of the car was louder, and she paused by the arched window.

  Quivering headlights sliced through the fog, and then a white, gangster-type limousine stopped in the courtyard. The driver got out, a stumpy man with ginger hair. He was built like a beer keg. He opened the rear door, and a little black dog hopped onto the gravel. A tall man climbed out of the backseat, the wind stirring his chin-length blond hair.

  Raphael and his dog were here? But they were vampires, and they never, ever got in daylight. Sometimes the freaks came out on rainy days. They were easy to spot because they wore reflective gear and zinc oxide. But Raphael wasn’t a freak. He was totally awesome.

  Vivi leaned closer to the window. Raphael’s forehead gleamed with a thin white layer of sunblock. A tan duster coat fell to his ankles, the hem skimming above the walkway.

  Vivi saw a flash of movement from the backseat of the limo. A long, shapely leg appeared, and then a stiletto heel clicked against the pavement. A blonde in a red dress rose from the car, tall and shapely as a Victoria’s Secret model. She had wide-spaced brown eyes, high cheekbones, plump lips, and fluffy hair, which curled around her shoulders. Her creamy skin didn’t have a drop of sunblock, which meant she wasn’t immortal.

  The blonde smiled down at Raphael. She was about two i
nches taller than him, and he was six-one. He had a thing for models, and models had a thing for him. Vivi felt a pang. Raphael had practically raised her, and she dearly loved him. But his women were a nuisance, focused on aerobic exercise and starvation. His last girlfriend had lived on Diet Coke and sunflower seeds. This blonde probably ate even less.

  “You forgot somethin’, Mr. Della Rocca,” the driver called in a Cockney accent. He held out a green shopping bag.

  “Thanks, Fielding.” Raphael took the bag, then frowned at the dog. “Arrapato! Do not pee on Caro’s bushes.”

  The blonde put her hand over her mouth and giggled.

  Even her laugh is wacked, Vivi thought. Kind of metallic and tinkly, as if a hundred razor blades had fallen into a porcelain sink. If Raphael fell in love with that woman, Vivi would curl up and die.

  She ran downstairs and skidded into the entrance vestibule, her shoes squeaking on the stone floor. It was a large room, round and castlelike, with a carved fireplace at one end. The flames brightened the walls, which were lined with armor, old shields, and antlers. A scuffed red plaid duffel bag sat in front of the door, her mom’s in-case-they-needed-to-leave-in-a-hurry bag.

  Vivi pushed it aside and flung open the heavy oak door. She looked up at Raphael. Even when he was holding still, he gave off energy and charisma, making Vivi think of a rock star with an electric guitar and ripped abs. But today his forehead was puckered, as if he were worried about something. Probably because every five-star hotel in Edinburgh was booked solid, and he didn’t have a place to stash his ho in the daytime, so he’d brought her to Manderford Castle.

  He smiled, showing white teeth with slightly prominent incisors. “Vivi, how nice to see you,” he said brightly.

  “Who let you out of the casket before sunset?” she said, repressing a grin.

  “I heard that your mom rented this place,” Raphael said, his voice smooth and silky as an Italian liqueur. “I had to see Casa TooMucha for myself.”

  Vivi laughed. Oh, gosh, he was handsome. If only he would get rid of the ho and start dating Momster. Then Vivi would have a dad.

  His eyebrows went up, two dark slashes on his pale forehead. “Where’s your mom?”

  “In the attic, hanging from the rafters,” Vivi said.

  “I brought you a present,” he said, handing Vivi the green bag. HARRODS was stamped in gold across the front. “A little something that reminded me of you.”

  “Thanks.” A flutter moved through Vivi’s chest as she lifted the bag to her nose. The paper smelled like him: cologne, ripe cherries, and pomegranates. She reached inside the bag and pulled out a box. It was too large for a pair of Sickgirl earrings and too small for a Frankenlover T-shirt. She tore off the lid.

  Inside were a dozen marzipan pigs, pink and plump, lined up snout to tail. She imagined him walking through Harrods’ Food Hall, looking for the most disgusting thing he could find.

  The blonde leaned in for a closer look, her dark eyelashes fanning against her cheeks. “Oh, Raphael. How darlin’,” she said.

  Vivi blinked. She’d always had an ear for accents, but she couldn’t place this one. Though if she had to guess, she’d say this bimbo came from the American South, way down deep, in a place that dripped with moonlight and water moccasins.

  “Do you like your pigs?” Raphael said, holding back a grin.

  “Love them. Thanks.” Vivi set the box on a table, trying to decide if the gift was an insult. Or maybe he’d bought the first pink item he saw, knowing her fondness for the color.

  “Pigs are a good-luck symbol,” Raphael said.

  “Can’t have too much of that,” she said.

  He looked troubled for a moment. “May Gillian and I come in?”

  So that was her name, huh? Vivi felt a surge of jealousy, and she shook her head. “Nope. Better not. I’ve got strep throat, and Mom’s got a vomiting virus.”

  “I still need to see her.” Raphael’s eyes were the color of coffee beans, and they held an amused glint. She knew he wasn’t buying her story.

  He looked past her and quickly brushed his hair with his hands. A second later, footsteps pounded in the hall. Caro ran into the vestibule, her cheeks flushed, hair floating around her shoulders. A few strands stuck to her cheek, and she brushed them away. Her other hand smoothed the wrinkles in her lumpy gray plaid skirt. A hideous sweater hung past her hips, giving her a waifish look.

  Arrapato ran to her, tags jingling, and she scooped him into her arms. She smiled at the blonde, and then her gaze moved to Raphael.

  “It’s so good to see you,” she said. “It’s been too long.”

  He stepped into the vestibule, the hem of his coat billowing. Without flashing his usual bordering-on-seductive smile, he took her hand. “Yes, Caro. It has.”

  “You were with us at Christmas,” Vivi said.

  They ignored her. Raphael leaned in toward Caro, the tips of his shoes pointing at her shoes. Then, still holding her hand, he turned back to the blonde. “This is Gillian Delacroix. She’s from Baton Rouge, Louisiana.”

  “Nice to meet you, Gillian,” Caro said warmly. “Come on in.”

  Raphael squeezed Caro’s hand. “Can we speak privately?”

  “Sure.” She looked confused. “The library is just down the hall.”

  Vivi folded her arms. Why was Raphael really here? What would make him come out in daylight? And why was he trying to get away from the blonde? Usually his women were stuck to him like ticks. Probably they sucked his money, and he sucked their blood. Oh, why did she care? Why was she acting like a brat? She didn’t mean to, but she was on edge because of jet lag and those nightmares.

  Caro set Arrapato on the floor, then gave Vivi a pleading look. “Can you show Gillian around?”

  “Show her yourself,” Vivi said. Crap, why had she said that?

  Gillian took a step forward, her gaze latched onto Raphael. “No, I…Can’t I just go with y’all?”

  “I won’t be long,” he said, regarding her with a benign expression, as if she were part of the décor. He turned back to Caro and laced his fingers through hers. They walked out of the vestibule, into the wide hall. It was lined with dark, oppressive woodwork and high plaster ceilings.

  As far as Vivi knew, Raphael had never been to Manderford, but he seemed to know his way around. He led Caro into an oak study, one of the lovelier rooms in the castle, with bookcases, tall leaded glass windows, a crystal chandelier, and a crackling fireplace.

  Arrapato stopped in the doorway, flashed a malicious glance at Gillian, then ran after his master. Raphael closed the door.

  Gillian sighed, her breasts heaving beneath the silky red dress. “Didn’t his mama teach him better manners?”

  “Do you even know when his mom was born?” Vivi said.

  Gillian dragged her gaze away from the door. “Say what?”

  Vivi shrugged. “Forget it.”

  “Gosh, I’ve never been in a castle before.”

  “You’re lucky.”

  “Yeah, right.” Gillian smiled. “What’s the story on Raphael and your mom?”

  “They’re old friends.” Vivi stared at the library door, stifling an urge to press her ear against it. No, the dog would hear her and she’d get busted. But she wasn’t going to babysit the girlfriend or give her the grand tour. Besides, she was starving.

  “See you later,” Vivi said, stepping backward.

  “No, wait,” Gillian called.

  Vivi ran down the hall, past a room where deer heads hung on teal walls, through a billiard room that was all done up in green-and-red checks, and past a small staircase that was carpeted in brown plaid. This house had obviously been furnished by someone who was tartan crazy. And color-blind. Or maybe they’d thought the castle would attract a foreign renter if the décor hit on every Scottish cliché.

  She turned into the kitchen. A huge china cupboard stood against one wall, the shelves crammed with mismatched plates and bowls. Mrs. MacLeod stood beside the gigantic Aga, w
here six pots bubbled merrily. Her cheeks were flushed, and perspiration dotted her broad nose. “I’m putting the finishing touches on your dinner.” Mrs. MacLeod nodded, and her gray curls shook, each one large as a banger sausage. “I made lamb stew. Your mum says you like it with plenty of carrots and potatoes.”

  “Thanks.” Vivi pressed one hand against her rumbling stomach.

  Mrs. MacLeod stirred a pot. “I heard a car drive up. Does your mum have company?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Shall I be setting extra dinner plates, then?”

  “No, ma’am. I think they’ve already eaten.”

  Mrs. MacLeod looked disappointed. She turned back to the stove.

  Vivi looked down at a pan of browned rolls, the tops glistening with melted butter. She glanced furtively at MacLeod. Most housekeepers didn’t like you to eat before the meal, but these rolls smelled yeasty and buttery. Vivi shoved one into her jacket pocket and yawned. She needed caffeine. Anything to keep her from going to sleep and dreaming about rabbit holes. She’d be totally horrified if she had a nightmare while Raphael was here with his ho.

  “Mrs. MacLeod, can you make a pot of coffee?” she said, her voice trailing into a yawn.

  Mrs. MacLeod turned away from the stove. “We only have tea and milk.”

  “No Cokes or Red Bull?”

  “What kind of bull?” Mrs. MacLeod asked.

  “It’s an energy drink.” Vivi could almost taste the gingery, slightly bitter liquid. One can of Red Bull would keep her wired for hours, but jitters were better than bad dreams.

  Mrs. MacLeod’s head tipped back, curls trembling. She swiped her nose, leaving a comma of blood across her cheek. “You’ll be needing that bull, won’t you, little lady?”

  “I’ll be fine.” Vivi frowned at MacLeod. The poor thing looked like she’d been in a fight. A bloody line curved out of both nostrils, but she didn’t wipe it off this time. The ruffles on her apron trembled as she charged toward the back door, pausing to grab an enormous tapestry pocketbook from the counter. Then she walked outside.