Acquainted With the Night (9781101546000) (43 page)

“What do you mean, ‘this project'?” Jude's brows came together. “Father Aeneas said the triptych was painted in the eighth century.”

“It was,” Raphael said.

“You were the advisor?” Jude swallowed. “Surely you weren't alive when this triptych was painted.”

“I wouldn't say
alive
. But I was there.”

The historian rose up in Caro, and she leaned forward, eager to hear more. “What was it like—the eighth century?”

“Cold and dreary,” Raphael said. “Venice froze solid. The ninth century was better—a hotbed of gossip and intrigue, thanks to the Vikings. Murders, invasions, romance, power struggles. And the weather was lovely, too.”

“How did an Italian vampire end up in France?” Caro put her chin in her hand and smiled.

“Back in my mortal days, I walked from Italy to Santiago de Compostela to pay homage to Saint James. On my way back, I stopped in Tours. I worked in a scriptorium at Marmoutier—that's a monastery outside Tours. This was during the glorious Carolingian age. I was one of the monks who translated
Historia Immortalis
for Charlemagne. Right after I finished, I got ‘neck bit,' as they say. One of the Grimaldis turned me.”

Caro's hands went involuntarily to her throat. “Grimaldi? That was my father's name.”

“Yes, I know. Philippe Grimaldi was my best friend. Incidentally, he didn't bite me. Philippe saved all that for the ladies. It was his cousins, the bawdy d'Aigrevilles, who turned me into a vampire.”

Caro grabbed his arm. “You knew my father?”

“I know this must be hard to fathom, but yes.” His eyes circled her face. “The Grimaldis were French noblemen. Aristocratic. Richer than the pope—and immortal. They lived in the Languedoc region, between Carcassonne and Limoux. They began having prophetic dreams about the immortal race. I had them, too. So did many other vampires. The Grimaldis wanted the visions documented. So they commissioned this triptych. They had definite ideas about how it should be painted. Plus, they required movable art, the preferred type for heretics on the run.”

Caro's grip tightened on Raphael's arm. All those magnificent details about her father were in Raphael's head. That was why Uncle Nigel had sent her to him. To recover what had been lost. Not pages, not an icon, but the truth of her family.

I will tell you everything,
mia cara
. One thing at a time.

She released his arm and nodded.

Jude pressed his mouth into a flat line, and the
M
in his upper lip vanished. After a moment, he said, “Why are these icons different from the ones in Meteora?”

“There are all types of iconography,” Raphael said. “Technically, this is a family icon. Etienne Grimaldi—he was your grandfather, Caro—hired a Greek craftsman to paint the triptych. The artist came from the Iviron Monastery on Athos. The poor fellow traveled all that way only to be bombarded with requests by the Grimaldis. Things like, ‘I don't like the eyes on that owl' and ‘Add another vineyard.' ”

Raphael lifted his eyebrows. “Talk about finicky. Since I was advising the artist, I was supposed to have the last word, but when I told him the martyr was a female, the artist threatened to quit. He insisted that all martyrs were male. I explained that the triptych should illustrate a prophecy and, like it or not, the artist had to comply with the Grimaldis' wishes. He broke his paintbrush in half and spat on the ground.”

“Why didn't he paint what the Grimaldis wanted?” Jude asked.

“It's hard to describe the medieval mind-set. They were obsessed with piety and the seven deadlies. In the wrong hands, art could be exploited. Guilds had inviolable guidelines about iconography. They'd beat an artist to a bloody pulp if he painted anything remotely heretical.”

“How did the triptych get painted?” Caro asked.

Raphael framed the outer panels between his hands, his short fingernails gleaming in candlelight. “A pile of money was transferred under the table, and the Grimaldis prevailed.”

Caro studied the castle on Raphael's icon, looking for geographical clues. “Do you have a map of the Languedoc region?”

“Several.” He glanced up. “But you won't find answers in Limoux.”

“Father Aeneas said the triptych shows where the rest of
Historia Immortalis
is hidden,” she said.

“He told the truth as he knew it. But he was mistaken.” Raphael ran his finger along his panel, tracing the vineyard. “It shows where the book was located at the time the triptych was painted.”

“So it's not there now?” Caro pressed her knuckles against her lips. She wanted this quest to end, but it kept twisting.

“No,
mia cara
. It's a long, convoluted story. Do you wish to hear it?”

She nodded.

Raphael kept stroking the triptych, his nails scratching against the wood. “When the crusade heated up, Philippe and I dismantled the manuscript and the triptych. We took the artifacts to a cave near his chateau. We divided the leaves into ten-page bundles, wrapped each one in silk, and placed them in shallow wooden chests. The same for the icons. We shoved these chests in crevices and piled rocks in front of them.”

“How did you keep track of the hiding places?” Jude asked.

“Philippe had what is now called a photographic memory. But we lived in violent times. If he'd gotten killed in the crusade, I wouldn't have found the chests. So I marked the hiding places with rock cairns. After Château de Quéri-bus fell, your father and I returned to the cave to retrieve our treasures. Some of the cairns had been dispersed by thieves. Philippe remembered each hiding spot. We found one icon and all but ten pages to
Historia Immortalis
. I kept the icon and Philippe took the vellum pages.”

“What did he do with them?” Caro asked.

“He wouldn't tell me.”

“Why not?” Caro shifted closer to Jude. If her father hadn't trusted Raphael, perhaps she shouldn't, either.

“Philippe wasn't being secretive. He was protecting the book. After the Inquisition, the book had become a collectible. The Church wanted to burn it, but art dealers were having wet dreams. The fewer who knew, the better.”

“Why didn't you just read his thoughts?” Jude's eyes narrowed.

“No one could. Not even me. Philippe was strong in his mind. But his philosophy was simple: When the pupil is ready, the teacher will appear.” Raphael stared into Caro's eyes.
Although I am not sure who is the teacher—you or me.

Caro remembered opening the envelope her uncle had stashed with the vellum. Just below Raphael's name, he'd written
Vitas Quest Rev I
. Good lord, her uncle hadn't meant for her to read the Book of Revelation; he hadn't steered her toward a Biblical prophecy.
Vitas Quest Rev I
was an anagram for
At Vivi's request
. Now she understood why her uncle had stashed those pages in Venice and why he'd directed her to Raphael.

Uncle Nigel had honored Vivi's last request.

Raphael sat up straight, and his dark eyes filled.
I have so much more to tell you,
mia cara.

Jude was studying the panels, his eyes moving back and forth. “If the triptych doesn't point the way to the rest of the book, then Caro's uncle sent her on a nonexistent treasure hunt,” he said.

“That depends on how you define
treasure
,” Raphael said. He looked away, wiped his eyes, then blinked down at the panels. “But you couldn't be more wrong about the triptych. It figures heavily into the immortals' mythology. And, perhaps, into our future. Because it holds a prophecy.”

Caro's stomach tightened. She didn't want to hear the rest of it.
For the time is near
. No, it wasn't. Her quest had ended.

“So the relevance of the triptych isn't the book's location,” Jude said, regarding Raphael with an impassive, academic gaze. “It's the illustrations. They depict the prophecy, correct?”

“A prophecy of what?” Caro's voice shook.

Raphael sighed. As his breath grazed her cheek, she caught a faint bouquet of ripe cherries and pomegranates. Ketones. Her stomach eased, and she leaned back in her chair.

“Some things cannot be explained,” he said. “They must be viewed—like art in the Louvre or the Vatican. As I said earlier, symbols in this triptych came from the Grimaldis' dreams. A few events occurred, such as the crusade, but most of their dreams have not materialized. Now that Caro and the triptych have come together, I'm not sure what will come to pass.”

Jude stiffened, then flashed a glacial stare at Raphael.

Caro stared at him, too, trying to prick through the vampire's thoughts, imploring him to hush, but he kept talking.

“You have the Grimaldis' beauty and intuition. And your uncle trained you well.” Raphael broke off, and his forehead creased. “We will talk later. Someone is coming.”

He turned toward the water. A distant puttering noise cut through the dark. Then it got louder and louder.
A boat,
Caro thought.

A beam of light hit the fortress wall and swept across the wooden landing.

Caro's throat tightened, and scalding, bitter fluid spurted into her mouth. She swallowed, forcing down the bile, then squeezed Jude's arm. “Those vampires found us.”

“Caro, so many people are after us, it's hard to guess who might be in that boat.”

“No vampires.” Raphael stood, the wind tugging his ponytail, the blond hairs spreading in the air like cracks in a porcelain vase. “These interlopers are human.”

Beppe stepped out of the shadows, his shoes clicking over the terrace, and pulled out his BlackBerry.
“Telefonare la polizia?”

“Not yet.” Two lines creased Raphael's forehead. “Beppe, please greet the party crashers.”

“Does this happen often?” Caro asked Raphael.

“Does
what
happen?”

“People sneaking up on you.”

A flush spread over Raphael's cheeks, and he strode to the balcony rail. Jude and Caro followed and gazed down into the dark garden. Beppe moved down the steps, aiming his flashlight at the boat. The beam swept into the startled faces of Demos and Father Aeneas.

“We know them,” Jude said, turning to Caro. “It's the monk and his friend.”

Raphael's iPhone rang.
“Sì?”
he answered, his face tight and unreadable. “No, it's okay,” he said. “They're Caro's friends.”

The Inverna picked up as Beppe escorted the men up to the terrace. When Father Aeneas saw Caro, his face split into a grin. Before he could speak, Raphael bowed.

“Welcome to Villa Primaverina,” he said. Arrapato was less cordial. He barked and showed his teeth.

“Caroline!” Father Aeneas's prayer beads clicked as he rushed over to her.

“I called the hotel earlier,” she said. “The operator said you'd left. I assumed you'd returned to Meteora.”

Demos put his hands on his hips, his fingers splayed. He wore a baggy green tweed jacket, and a bottle jutted up from a deep pocket.

“We barely escaped.” Father Aeneas shuddered. “Vampires stood outside the hotel—in daylight. They wore some sort of gear. But I knew. So did Demos. We pulled back the curtains and watched.”

Arrapato sniffed, then growled under his breath. Raphael snapped his fingers, and the dog's ears drooped. He scooted under the table and put his head on his paws, his eyes darting back and forth.

“How long did they hang around?” Jude asked.

“Until noon, when the sun was strong and the evil ones were weak,” Demos said. “And their reflective gear was drawing too much attention. They ran off and we came to Murano. We had trouble finding someone who would bring us here.”

Raphael turned to Beppe. “Please bring these gentlemen something to drink.”

“Wait. I brought a gift for you,” Demos said. He pulled up the tapered bottle. “Grappa. It is aged. We shall all have a taste, yes?”

Raphael moved two fingers, and Beppe left the terrace.

“Would you like to see the third icon?” Caro asked Father Aeneas.

“Yes, yes.” His eyebrows lifted, grazing the rim of his hat. “Where is it?”

“Over here.” She led him to the table.

Father Aeneas gazed down at the panels. “The triptych is whole,” he said, his voice hushed and reverent.

Caro bit her lip. How could she explain that the triptych wouldn't lead them to the remaining pages of
Historia Immortalis?

Father Aeneas pointed to the castle on Raphael's panel. “I hope this is not Carcassonne.
Historia Immortalis
is not there.”

“It never was,” Raphael said. “This castle isn't Carcassonne.”

“Then where is this domicile?” Father Aeneas's breath stirred his beard.

“The image isn't relevant.” Raphael paused, as if waiting for a reaction.

“What are you saying?” Father Aeneas tipped back his hat, and a vein bulged in his temple.

“
Historia Immortalis
was moved from the Languedoc region during the Crusades,” Raphael said. “The triptych no longer shows where the manuscript is located.”

Father Aeneas grasped an edge of the table. “The pages are lost forever?”

“I wouldn't say
forever
.” Raphael steered the monk over to a chair. “They have an uncanny way of popping up.”

“Caroline, your ten pages are all the more valuable,” Father Aeneas said. “You must keep them safe.”

“I've got them right here.” She patted her duffel bag.