Tatiana lunged forward and slashed his carotid. Arterial blood jetted across her face like cherry-colored paint. Another spurt hit the stall and ran down. Nick dropped to the floor, clutching his throat.
Tatiana moved above him. “You didn’t really think I’d let you walk out of here.”
A gurgling sound came out of his throat. He watched her rip open his shirt, listened to his buttons ping on the tile. A cool draft stirred over his chest. He heard music playing somewhere, so he couldn’t be dying.
“Poor Nick,” Tatiana said. “When adrenaline hits, you’re all flight, no fight. If you’d stayed in Marrakech, I wouldn’t know anything. And you’d still have a beating heart.”
She placed the jagged edge of the glass just beneath his ribcage, then she made an incision. Her hand thrust deep inside him, groping and digging.
He felt a tug. A burst of pain. The whole world turned red, and somewhere music was playing.
CHAPTER 35
Caro
VILLA PRIMAVERINA, ISLA CARBONARA
VENICE, ITALY
I watched the lights from St. Mark’s Square spread out as the helicopter angled toward Raphael’s private island, where Villa Primaverina cast a glow on the dark waters of Laguna Veneta.
Security boats patrolled the island, and their lights bobbed in the waves, brightening the floats and buoys that created an obstacle course around Isla Carbonara. A floating sign warned trespassers of Arrapato’s ferocity: PROPRIETA PRIVATA GUARDI DA DEI CANI.
The helicopter began to descend, the blades stirring the olive grove, blowing leaves toward the four-story Italianate house.
Raphael’s manservant, Beppe, waited by the helicopter pad, holding Arrapato in his arms. Beppe was part Italian and part Swiss, a bald, big-shouldered man of an indeterminate age—and completely human. His chin was long and knobby like a bell pepper. He always wore a white dinner jacket with gold buttons.
“Caro, you’ve been gone too long,” he said, kissing my cheek.
“I’ve missed you, Beppe,” I said, reaching up to hug him.
Arrapato began to howl, then leaped into Raphael’s arms. The dog’s tongue shot out and he licked every inch of Raphael’s face. After a few moments, Arrapato realized I was there, and he gave me a melty, apologetic stare. But he would not let Raphael set him down.
We found Monsieur La Rochenoire in the kitchen with Beppe’s wife. Maria was a professional chef—Raphael still loved to smell food. She got huffy when La Rochenoire put on an apron.
“Where’s the butter?” he asked, peering into a stainless-steel refrigerator.
Maria gave him the stink-eye. “Olive oil is on the counter. Sauté the porcini in oil.”
“Oil?” He spat out the word.
“If you want butter,” Maria said, “buy a dairy farm in Normandy.”
As the argument escalated, Raphael and I slipped out of the kitchen, leaving the cooks to debate the finer points of French versus Italian cuisine. Me, I would eat anything as long as it didn’t involve fish eyes or sheep entrails.
“Let’s walk into the garden,” Raphael said.
“If we’re going to do more than walk, you might want to take your Benadryl,” I said.
“Good idea.” He pulled a box our of his pocket and swallowed two pink tablets. On our way out the terrace door, he lifted a silk quilt from the back of a sofa and took my hand.
Arrapato ran ahead of us, loping through the shadows. The constellations curved over Isla Carbonara while Raphael and I spread the quilt on the lawn. We sat down and he draped his arm around me.
Arrapato glanced back, as if making sure we were still there, and then he raced around the garden, peeing on the bushes and kicking up tufts of grass.
“I’m trying not to look into your mind,” Raphael said, smiling down at me. “But you’re so quiet.”
“I was just remembering the first time I came to the villa,” I said. “It was almost fifteen years ago. Right around Christmas. You bought me a red Chanel dress, and you hired a makeup artist and a hairdresser—just for drinks on the terrace.”
Those days seemed distant, like pieces of a torn dream, but I remembered that night so clearly. Jude had come with me to the villa. He’d been human, filled with angst. He probably wouldn’t have come if a trio of homicidal vampires hadn’t tracked us across Venice. I’d worn crazy disguises then, too.
The more things changed, the more they stayed the same. I don’t know who said that, but it’s true.
“I remember every moment of that night,” Raphael said. “I kissed you. A bit heavy-handed, I admit. You were outraged and told me to never do that again.”
“I was in shock. You were also dipping in and out of my thoughts. I heard you say, ‘You could love me, mia cara.’ And at that moment, I thought I could. Then you made me climax.”
“That was rude.” He traced his finger along my arm. “I was so attracted to you. But you loved Jude.”
“Do you remember what you said after that kiss?”
“You told me that you couldn’t be with anyone but him.”
“And you said I would change my mind. That I might fall for you. And you promised great sex.”
He lifted an eyebrow. “Did I lie?”
“No.”
“Good.”
“You said you would wait for me. I thought you were a playboy, someone who didn’t understand love. I was so wrong.” I watched his finger slide along my arm. “After Jude died, why didn’t you tell me how you felt?”
“Because our first kiss had ended in disaster.” Raphael smiled wryly, then he gazed toward the lagoon and didn’t speak for a long moment. “I was happy to be near you. It was enough.”
My chin was shaking so hard, I couldn’t answer. The Inverna began to blow, sifting through the olive trees, stirring Raphael’s hair. I caught a strand and tucked it behind his ear.
He put his head in my lap. He cupped his hand around my cheek. “Come live with me and be my wife.”
I leaned over him, and my hair fell around us in a veil. “I’d love to.”
“Do you want a long engagement?” he asked.
“Not too long.”
His hand dropped to my neck. “A church wedding or something small? Maybe in the garden?”
I breathed in the smell of lemon verbena. “The garden.”
“What about next week?” I heard a smile in his voice.
“That’s too soon.” I smiled. “I want Vivi to be our flower girl.”
“We can have two weddings. One next week, in the garden, and a second wedding after Vivi returns.”
“Do you need two ceremonies to feel married?” I teased.
“No, but what if we make a baby tonight?”
I shut my eyes, remembering when Vivi was little. I’d put her plump toes against my lips and I’d give them air kisses. She’d always smelled of talcum and milk. I’d always wanted more children. I still did. My eyes blinked open. Wouldn’t it be selfish of me to bring another hybrid child into the world? Assassins would have two targets.
“I heard that, mia cara,” he said. “You know what Mark Twain said. ‘If you have one egg in a basket, watch that basket.’”
“I’ve been watching Vivi’s basket for a while,” I said.
He let that pass. “Our child would have three-quarter vampire genes,” he said.
“Hypothetical child,” I said.
“You grew up without siblings. Vivi needs a sister or a brother. They can protect each other, if anything should happen to us. They won’t be alone. And I want to have a child with your eyes.”
“You’ve forgotten one salient point,” I said. “It isn’t easy for hybrids and vampires to make babies.”
“Then we will need to practice,” he said, rising from my lap. He pulled me into his arms and carried me into the gazebo and set me down next to a Grecian column. Arrapato sped around us and leaped onto the rattan sofa, then stretched out full-length. He flashed a triumphant stare, as if to say, I’ve thwarted
you again.
Raphael took off his trousers. His gaze never left my face as he slipped his hands under my dress, tugged off my panties, and picked me up. I locked my ankles around his waist and his hardness pressed between my legs.
“We haven’t made love standing up in at least two days,” I said.
“Three days,” he said, bracing his shoulders against a column. “You smell so good. Like sun-drenched olive trees and lemon verbena.”
I smiled and put my arms around his neck. His chest leaned against mine, and I felt his heart booming, his whiskers scraping on my cheek, his breath ruffling in my hair, the pressure of his hands on my backside. I reached between us, and slipped my hand through the gap in his boxer shorts. My fingers brushed down his erection, caressing his smooth flesh, then I moved up and smeared the damp bead on his tip.
His breath was coming in short puffs, and so was mine. “Raphael, I want you. I’ve never wanted anyone this much.”
“I want you more.”
My teeth nipped the swell of his bottom lip, and I sucked it. He kissed me, and a current raced from my throat to my fingertips. Tiny veins of rapture seemed to enter my bloodstream, and I climaxed. Then he was inside me, his buttocks thudding against the column, pushing deeper into me. Another orgasm broke loose, and I skimmed my teeth over his neck and pinched the flesh. I bit down.
He groaned, and his mouth dropped to my throat. I felt the prick of his incisors, and my hand tightened on the back of his neck. As we tasted each other, a pulse started to beat between my thighs. He kissed my mouth, and I tasted blood. A convulsive force moved low inside me, sweeping through me. He kept thrusting, saying my name, and I climaxed again. His breathing became erratic, and as he spilled into me, I imagined a dome of water rising out of the Adriatic Sea, tipped with white foam, and pouring onto the shore.
All sound left the world: the wind stopped blowing in the olive trees, the waves froze against the sea wall, water quit pattering in the fountain. Then the noises rushed back at once and I was coming again and he was coming, and it was all starting over.
Later, we walked back to the villa, still flushed and breathless. Beppe and La Rochenoire were in the game room, watching Sky News on the widescreen TV. Arrapato leaped between them and tucked his nose under the Frenchman’s arm.
The television screen showed a picture of Nick Parnell. It was an old photograph—his hair was shorter, and he had a mustache. The image changed to a stock photo of Heathrow Airport.
“Last night, a passenger discovered the body of Dr. Nicholas Parnell in the restroom of a lounge at Heathrow,” the announcer was saying. “Police have not ruled out a ritualistic murder at this time.”
“Ritualistic?” I said.
Light from the television played over Beppe’s glossy head. “The victim’s heart was removed,” he said.
Raphael looked stunned. “The news reported this?”
“No,” Beppe said. “It’s all over the Internet. A Guinea-Bissau drug lord ordered the hit.”
The hairs on my arms lifted, and I sat down hard on a love seat. Raphael strode toward me, his eyes rounded. I couldn’t shake the feeling that time had reversed, and he was moving away from me, walking backward across the lawn, his legs scissoring through the shadowy garden, moving back into the gazebo, stepping through a tear in the fabric of the night, into a realm without clocks. And I could not follow him, no matter how hard I tried.
CHAPTER 36
Vivi
VALBONNE, FRANCE
Sabine’s house was perched on a hill, next to a vineyard, and down in the valley, the lights of Valbonne were starting to shine. The sun had just gone down, but Vivi wasn’t ready to go inside. She sat in the grass, watching Marie-Therese chase a purple butterfly. Its wings were the exact color of the lavender clouds that wafted across the sky.
In just a few days it would be August, her last month in Provence. Then she would return to Sabine’s penthouse. She sighed, picturing the noisy, all-white rooms. But at least she’d get to see her mom.
“Come help me set the table, child,” Lena called from the pergola.
Vivi turned. Lena stood by the old wooden table, arranging dishes and flatware. She’d made escargot risotto, fava beans, marinated olives, tiny radish sandwiches, and a salad with red and yellow cherry tomatoes.
“Be right there,” Vivi called. She got up, dusted grass off her shorts, and ran to the pergola. Marie-Therese raced ahead of her and leaped onto a wooden sideboard, watching Vivi grab a pile of napkins.
Lena set down a plate and glanced toward the stone house, where lamps were glowing in the windows. “I’ll whip Sabine’s ass if she lets her food get cold again.”
“I heard that,” Sabine said, walking into the pergola. She set down a basket that was crammed with small baguettes, then turned to the sideboard and scratched Marie-Therese’s ear. The cat began to purr.
Vivi placed a napkin beside each plate. She and Sabine had spent the whole morning in Grasse, strolling past the pale tangerine-colored houses and poking around the Cathedral Notre-Dame-de-Puy. They ended up in a crowded square where people were walking their dogs. Vivi sat on a bench, Inducing a group of middle-aged tourists to stay away from the pastry shop. Sabine had given her an A-plus.
“You have saved these people from ingesting too many calories,” Sabine had told her.
Now, Sabine pulled out a chair and sat down. “Tomorrow we’re going to the Fête du Jasmin.”
“What’s that?” Vivi asked.
“A festival.” Sabine winked at Lena. “You should come with us.”
“Only if you go to the fruit market,” Lena said. She sat down and shook out her napkin.
Marie-Therese leaped off the sideboard, ran under the table, and began weaving around Vivi’s feet. Halfway through the meal, Sabine put down her fork and grimaced, as if she’d swallowed a bone.
“Drink you some water,” Lena said.
Sabine ignored her and stared down at the road. Vivi looked, too. Shadows fell over the empty road. Way off in the distance, the lights of Valbonne cast a glow.
Lena frowned. “What you looking at, Sabine? You expecting somebody?”
“No.” Sabine turned to Vivi. “Something just occurred to me. I haven’t taught you how to kill.”
Vivi spat out a tomato. “You’re supposed to teach me how to avoid that.”
“She better be.” Lena shook her finger at Sabine. “I can’t be having that kind of talk at my supper table. You hear?”
Sabine was still looking at Vivi. “Hemakinesis can be a defense. But you can also use it to cause exsanguination.”
Vivi screwed her up nose. “What’s that?”
“The victim bleeds to death.” Sabine spoke in an offhand tone, as if she were asking Vivi to pass the salt. “Do you remember the breathing exercises?”
“Yes,” Vivi said warily.
“When you want to kill, you hold your breath. But you also have to use your stomach muscles. You tighten them as hard as you can. You may feel the energy pass out of you, as if you’d exhaled. Remember to focus—look at the target, imagine his name, visualize what you want him to do.”
“I ain’t listening to this.” Lena put her hand over her mouth as if she had a sour stomach. She pushed away from the table and walked back to the house.
Vivi put down her fork. “Sabine? Are you okay?”
“Perfectly.”
“Good. Because I’m not killing anybody. Even if I could, and I won’t, how will I practice?”
Sabine squinted at the road. “You never know when an opportunity will turn up.”
Vivi’s chest felt tight. If her mom knew about this, she’d freak out. “I don’t want to blow up someone’s chest.”
“Don’t be silly.” Sabine’s face tightened. “Chests can’t explode. If you aim at the ribcage, you’ll rupture the aorta—but even I can’t do that. At least, I don’t think I can. It’s much easier to cause a cerebral hemorrhage. Just focus on the target’s eyes or nose
.”
“I can’t believe you’re teaching me how to murder people.”
“Self-defense is part of your training. What if someone attacks you?”
Vivi drew back.
Sabine’s face softened. “I’m speaking of hypotheticals, of course.”
“Well, that’s a relief. Because it’s creepy how you keep looking at the road. Like you’re afraid a vampire might drive up.”
“I’ve had a bad feeling all day.”
“Then why are we still here? When Mom gets paranoid, we pack our bags and move.”
“Flight is a perfectly acceptable reaction to fear. As long as it isn’t your only response. One day you might not be able to run. You will have to fight.”
“Fight who?”
“Anyone who wishes to harm you. Don’t let moral turpitude get in the way of survival. Your opponent certainly won’t be concerned with ethics.”
Vivi’s mouth opened. She’d never heard Sabine talk this way. “Maybe I accidentally made a vessel burst in your head today. Because you’re acting like you’ve had a stroke.”
“I hope not.” Sabine darted another look at the road. Headlights cut two cones of light on the dark pavement. The car snaked around a curve, then sped past Sabine’s gated driveway and disappeared over a hill.
“Stop it,” Vivi said. “Cars come down this road all the time.”
“True.”
A twisty feeling moved in Vivi’s chest. “Should I pack my suitcase?”
“No. I don’t want you to worry.” Sabine reached under the table and lifted the cat. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me tonight. We won’t need to leave Valbonne for a while. We’ll be safe.”
But they weren’t.
CHAPTER 37
Sabine
VALBONNE, FRANCE
A nightmare awoke Sabine at two A.M. She sat on the side of the bed, her heart pounding, pajamas stuck to her back. It was the same horrid nightmare. The same confusing images. A shattered balcony door. Blood in a public restroom. More blood in a driveway. A blond woman standing outside a house.
Hunting Daylight (9781101619032) Page 30
