Acquainted With the Night (9781101546000) (44 page)

Raphael cut his eyes to the bag, and then his cheeks flushed again. So, apparently he hadn't pulled everything from her thoughts.

Beppe walked onto the terrace holding a tray with crystal goblets, each one a different color. Demos held out the grappa and Beppe poured the liqueur into each glass.

“I shall do the honors.” Demos handed a goblet to Caro. “Red to match your dress,” he said, winking.

She thanked him and took a sip. The grappa was too sweet, but she forced herself to swallow.

“Good?” Demos asked.

“Delicious.” Caro smiled.

Demos passed the remaining glasses to the men. “You, too,” he said, handing a purple glass to Beppe. Then Demos raised a bright green goblet. “To our host!”

“To Raphael,” Jude and Caro said.

Maria walked onto the terrace holding a portable phone. She made an apologetic gesture and said, “A call for you, Signore.”

“
Grazie
, I will take it in the library,” Raphael said. He took another sip of the grappa and set down his glass. “Please excuse me.”

He stepped through the door, followed by Beppe and the little dog.

Demos walked over to the dog bowl and squatted beside it. A bark echoed in the house, and a moment later Arrapato trotted back onto the terrace. He growled at Demos, then lowered his muzzle to the bowl and started drinking. Demos scrambled to his feet and edged over to Father Aeneas. “This is a vampire's lair!”

The monk sketched a cross in the air, and his elbow knocked into his grappa. The glass fell and liqueur spilled across the table. Caro moved the triptych, then grabbed a napkin.

“Bah, I am clumsy.” Father Aeneas frowned.

Arrapato bared his teeth, snapping at Demos. The little Greek climbed onto one of the chairs. Arrapato barked twice and ran back into the house.

“Caro, you must leave at once. Signore Della Rocca is a vampire,” Demos said.

She repressed a smile. “Yes, but he's a nice one.”

“Nice?” Demos made an obscene gesture with his hand. “And the dog?”

“Arrapato is more temperamental.”

“We cannot stay,” Father Aeneas said, his voice rising.

“We're perfectly safe,” Jude said. “Raphael and the dog aren't dangerous.”

“Dangerous?” Demos cried. “He will drain us! We shall leave while he is gone.”

Caro stood, weaving slightly. “Excuse me,” she said to no one in particular. “I'll just be a moment.”

“But we do not have a moment,” Demos said.

“I'm just going to the powder room,” she said.

“There's no time,” Father Aeneas said. “Demos is right. We should go.”

“I'll be quick.” She turned into the house. The powder room was across the hall. Music blared from the speakers, Jim Morrison singing “The End.”

Caro turned on the tap and splashed water onto her face. She glanced in the mirror. Her reflection showed a grotesque image. Droplets slid down her cheeks, then floated up and out, spinning in the air. She blinked, and her head separated into a triptych; the middle piece slid down the front of her dress.

Keeping her eyes on the mirror, Caro backed up against the wall. A strange calmness descended as her reflection morphed into a skeleton, then changed back into her face. But her teeth hung down, piercing her bottom lip. She was turning into a vampire. The serenity vanished, and a hoarse cry tore out of her throat. She lunged out of the powder room, into the hallway, where Arrapato paced back and forth. His frantic movement stirred up a vortex of colors.

Caro sucked in a breath of magenta. It tasted like Raphael's wine, with a hint of Demos's grappa. She wasn't transforming into a vampire; she'd been drugged.

 

During the flight to Bulgaria, Moose sat in the back of Wilkerson's jet and transfused himself with the medicated blood. The seats around the vampire slowly filled with empty bags, each one wrinkled like a grape skin and prominently stamped with a green label.

When the plane touched down in Sofia, he screamed.

“Shut it back there,” Wilkerson yelled.

The vampire staggered up the aisle, cursing the Zubas and railing against toffee noses and chinless wonders. Wilkerson got up from his seat and gathered his bags. Behind him, Moose bumped his head on the overhead baggage compartment. “I can't bear this blooming part of the world,” he cried, followed by a string of
bloody fucking hell
s and
ducky
s.

It took forever to clear customs. Moose kept mouthing off to the official. “He suffers from Tourette's syndrome,” Wilkerson told the officers.

After an interminable drive to the Grand Hotel, Wilkerson shoved Moose out of the taxi and steered him into the lobby. When they finally entered the suite, the vampire lunged into the bathroom. He started to crawl into the tub, but he was too large.

“It's all sixes and sevens,” he muttered, and curled up under the sink.

“Don't get cozy,” Wilkerson warned. “We have an appointment at the embassy.”

“Go by yourself, grot bag.”

“What's wrong?”

“You drugged me, ducky,” Moose said. “I don't know what you put in the blood, but it's deadly. I got to sleep it off. Go away.”

Wilkerson stared down at the sleeping giant. Days ago, before they'd left London, the Hammersmith chemists had added Tofranil to Moose's transfusions; the bags were clearly marked with yellow labels. It was supposed to help with the OCD. But only God knew what the chemists had put in the Zubas' green bags.

Earlier, he'd watched Moose hide in the back of the plane and set up IV equipment. “Don't get the bags mixed up,” Wilkerson had called.

“Fat lot you know,” Moose had said.

Now, Wilkerson frowned. Was Moose having a drug reaction? The blood chemistry of a vampire was a conundrum. However, if Wilkerson didn't find a way to drug his operatives, he would have to eliminate them from the program.

He rang the head nurse at Hammersmith. The drug trials at Wilkerson Pharmaceuticals were conducted with strict secrecy, and normally, the nurse wouldn't know which patient received the drug and which received the placebo; but it was different with the vampires.

Even with the difficulties, Wilkerson preferred working with the Zuba brothers. They never spoke, never screwed up. Well, not until the drug-testing fiasco. Hours ago he'd dispatched Mr. Underwood to Venice to arrange for their release, but if their jail cells had windows, the Zubas would be blind and useless.

“Moose is in the fetal position,” Wilkerson told the nurse.

“Did he accidentally receive the wrong blood?” she asked. “The green labels were earmarked for the Zubas.”

“Let me ask.” Wilkerson lowered the phone. “Moose, when you transfused yourself, which color label was on your bag?”

“Like I remember, ducky!”

Wilkerson pressed the phone to his ear. “He said—”

“I heard.” The nurse paused. “It's impossible to tell if he got into the wrong blood, but he appears to be suffering from adverse effects. Discontinue the medicated transfusions, give him fresh blood, and let him sleep it off.”

“I'm in Bulgaria. What am I supposed to do? Trap small animals and bring them to the hotel?”

“If I may make a suggestion, sir? You're close to the Romanian laboratory. They have a large blood bank. Shall I tell Dr. Popovici you're coming?”

“Can't they bring the blood to me?” Wilkerson sputtered. “Wouldn't that be faster?”

“Not necessarily, sir. The Romanian facility doesn't have a jet. And the company car is in for repairs. You'll have to fly to Bucharest and drive to the lab. Do be careful. The mountains are quite snowy this time of year.”

“Call the lab immediately. Tell them I'm on my way.” He started to bang down the receiver, but the nurse was still talking.

“Sir, would you like an update on Yok-Seng?”

“Oh, him.” Wilkerson rubbed his brow. He'd forgotten about his bodyguard. “How is he doing?”

“His appendix burst. He had a touch of peritonitis, but he should be fine. The doctors are covering him with full-spectrum antibiotics.”

“How did this happen?”

“A high pain tolerance. And he's quite loyal to you, so he ignored his symptoms.”

“I wasn't asking a literal question,” Wilkerson said. “Don't let him die. I need a bodyguard.”

He went alone to the British embassy, pushing through the jagged line of protesters. A soldier escorted him to Sir Thurston Hughes's office on the second floor. “I have an appointment,” Wilkerson told the secretary, a plain, hen-like woman in a brown speckled suit.

“Mr. Hughes went missing two days ago,” the secretary said.

Wilkerson released an explosive sigh. Missing could mean only one thing: Hughes had been murdered. But Wilkerson didn't have any operatives in this region, except for Georgi, and he'd gone missing, too. What the bloody hell was going on?

The secretary handed him a note. Wilkerson squinted down at Sir Hughes's distinctive handwriting, which was peppered with the famed Eton
E
s.

Wilkerson caught a taxi to the hotel and went upstairs to check on Moose. The vampire was still in the fetal position.

“I'm dying, mate.” Tears streamed down Moose's broad face.

“You've had a reaction to the transfusions, but the sickness will pass. I'm fetching you a few pints of fresh blood. You mustn't leave the room. Do you understand what I'm saying?”

Moose rolled into a tighter ball and bit his own knee.

Wilkerson placed a DO NOT DISTURB sign on the door. Under normal conditions, he would let Moose drift into a bloodless coma. Now, of course, that couldn't happen. All of his best operatives were dead, missing, imprisoned, or incapacitated. He needed Moose.

The wheel of fortune was turning downward.

Wilkerson's phone rang, and he stepped into the hall. “Yes?” he said irritably.

It was his secretary. “Sir, I'm patching through an urgent call.”

Wilkerson listened to a series of clicks, then an odd mechanical voice said, “Mr. Wilkerson?”

“Yes.”

“Your trackers left a mess in Venice,” the caller said. The voice sounded high-pitched and comical, rather like Donald Duck. No doubt it was distorted by a scrambling device.

“They're no longer a problem,” Wilkerson replied.

“I have ten pages from
Historia Immortalis
,” the caller said. “They're yours for ten million euros. One for each page.”

 

The night wind caught the hem of Caro's dress, and the red fabric billowed around her. Arrapato ran past her, moving in a swirl of colors. But why was the wind blowing? She and Arrapato had been standing outside the powder room. Had someone opened a window?

She looked at her dress. The bottom had grass stains, and tiny leaves were stuck to her bare feet. Where were her strappy sandals? She pushed back her hair and glanced up. Stars rushed across the black sky.

A cold shudder ran through her. She wasn't in the house. Dread uncurled in the pit of her stomach as her eyes focused and Raphael's garden stretched out around her. Either she'd wandered out here in a daze or someone had brought her. Had the wine been drugged, or the grappa? Where was Jude?

Pull yourself together
,
Clifford,
she thought, and touched the jade pendant.

Arrapato raced up the steep marble steps, toward the house. The front door stood open, and the dog paused beside it, as if waiting for Caro. Her vision blurred, but she forced herself to crawl up the steps. She followed Arrapato through the door, into the foyer. Music stained the air with black sludge, but she was lucid enough to recognize the song—Drowning Pool was singing “Bodies.” She heard a screech. A moment later, Beppe strutted into the room, flailing his arms. He opened his mouth and a strange, birdlike sound came out. The noise turned colors: orange, green, red, purple.

Arrapato bumped his nose against Caro's leg, then he ran toward the arched hallway.

She braced her hand against a table. “Beppe, what's going on?”

“Caw, caw!” A thousand Beppes flapped their wings and spun around, making odd bird noises.

Caro tilted her head. Beppe had just spoken to her in raven—and she'd understood.
Caw, caw
translated into
Run, run!

Behind him, through the arched doors, the sky flickered like a photograph negative, and she staggered toward it. The terrace elongated. The stone floor curved inward, and she felt dizzy. Jude sat in a chair, his long legs sprawled. He tilted a bruschetta, studying it.

When he saw her, he dropped the bruschetta and stood. Behind him, the water resembled glass. It rose up in a thin sheet and broke, the shards falling around him.

Father Aeneas hovered over the table, his hands tucked into his robe, blinking at the triptych. Demos leaned against the terrace rail and poured the grappa over the edge. He turned and smiled.