Hunting Daylight (9781101619032) (11 page)

The river took him with a wet slap, and he went under. He tried to kick his legs, but they wouldn’t move. He held his breath as long as he could.

Caro
, he thought.
I love you. I will always love you.

INNISFAIR HORSE STATION

HAHNDORF, SOUTH AUSTRALIA

The fate of the Barrett women weighed heavily on Edward Keats’s mind as he led the gelding into the paddock. Caro and her thirteen-year-old daughter had spent the last ten summers vacationing at Innisfair, ever since her husband had gone missing in Africa. This past November, the ladies had arrived at the horse station, same as always, ready to enjoy the Australian summer. Now it was July first. Caro and Vivi were leaving this afternoon, ready to fly off to the Northern Hemisphere.

At least, Caro was ready. Keats winced as loud, angry voices hurtled from the stone manse. He steered the gelding around the paddock, the chilly wind snapping the edges of his nylon jacket. He’d never minded the cold, short days of winter.

1But today felt different.

A blade-sharp wind scraped across the pasture, and dried leaves rose into eddies. The horses felt the strangeness, too. Ozzie tugged at the lead, jerking Keats’s arm. The thoroughbred was a nine-year-old, a bit high-strung for a gelding, and he stamped his hoof against the ground, his eyes rolling back, showing white crescents.

“Steady, boy,” Keats said.

“Mr. Keats!” called a high-pitched, girlish voice.

The old man turned. Vivi Barrett sprinted down the hill, arms pumping, her spiky, dark hair bouncing on her forehead. She raced through the meadow, then leaped to the black wooden fence and climbed onto the top rail.

“I wanted to say bye before we left,” she said.

Keats smiled. Her accent was almost too American, as if she’d had elocution lessons.

“G’day, little miss,” Keats said, then turned to the gelding. “Look who’s here, Ozzie. It’s Vivi.”

He guided the horse to the fence, trying not to look surprised at the girl’s appearance. A few days ago, she’d dyed her hair black and added pink highlights.

“Will you adopt me, Mr. Keats?” Vivi said, her blue eyes magnified by horn-rimmed eyeglasses. She didn’t need them for reading—she was just being a teenager.

“Your mum would have a say about that.” He smiled. “Don’t you want to ride Ozzie one last time?”

“Can’t. Mom has already packed my riding clothes.” Vivi lowered her chin, and pink fluff dropped over her glasses. She hunched her shoulders and chipped at her black fingernail polish. Seconds later, the bright bits
drifted to her black tartan skirt and stuck to her dark leotards.

Keats looked away. Wherever Vivi and her mum were going, it was the very last place this teenager wanted to be.

Another gust of wind hacked around Keats, and he faced the pasture. Off in the distance, five mares galloped, as if they’d been spooked. The hairs on Keats’s arms stood up. Something was out there. And it was watching.

Keats had been raised on a horse station in the Adelaide Hills, just outside the quaint town of Hahndorf. But he hadn’t been hired for his knowledge about thoroughbreds. Mr. Raphael had hired Keats for his military background: he’d served in South Vietnam, a hero in the First Australian Task Force, and he’d worked with British ground forces in the first Gulf War. Keats was also half-immortal and could read the mood of a horse. It was his only gift. He had worked at Innisfair for eleven years, and he was looking forward to the future. The only problem at the station was a few rabbits and their bloody holes.

Now, Ozzie’s lips curled back, and he whinnied. Vivi reached out to stroke his mane, but the gelding pulled away.

“What’s wrong with him?” she asked.

“He’s just happy to see you,” Keats said smoothly.

“No, he’s freaked out.” She frowned. “I know just how he feels. It’s too bad I can’t stay here. I’d feed him apples every day.”

“You’ll be back in November,” Keats said.

“I shouldn’t have to leave at all,” she said.

Keats patted Ozzie’s neck, wishing he could ease Vivi’s
mind. In all the years the Barretts had come and gone, Keats had never seen her this upset. He thought it had something to do with her father—Dr. Barrett had just been declared legally dead, after being missing for donkey’s years. Ever since the declaration, Vivi had rebelled. She’d quit riding Ozzie. She’d even refused to help Keats look for rabbit holes, and she’d been doing that since the very first summer she’d arrived at Innisfair, when she was a three-year-old child.

Now Vivi hung her head and sighed. “After we leave Innisfair, Mom and I are going to Italy for a few days. Isn’t that pathetic?”

“Dreadful,” Keats said. “Eat some pasta. Send a postcard.”

“Okay, I will.” Her lips moved into a trembly smile. She tucked her hair behind her ears, where three miniature razor-blade earrings dangled from each lobe.

Keats didn’t want to be the one to tell her, but she’d never get them earrings through airport security in Adelaide.

A decade ago, when Mr. Raphael had brought the Barretts to Innisfair, Vivi had been a little girl, nothing but eyes and brown pigtails. She’d clung to her mum’s hand. Caro had seemed ghostlike in a long black dress that hung on her frame. Mr. Raphael had explained the situation to Keats: Caro had just lost her husband; some kind of scientific expedition in Africa had gone terribly wrong.

Caro had been a jumpy little lady, always jolting when a door slammed. Once, she spilled her pocketbook, and two blue American passports had slid out. When Keats
picked up the booklets, he noticed that the Barretts’ photographs didn’t match their names. She and the girl were traveling under aliases? What kind of trouble were they in? They weren’t vampires, that was certain, but he suspected they might have some immortal blood.

Mr. Raphael never explained. He was a gentleman, and a vampire. He’d stuck to Caro and Vivi like an eyelash on a damp cheek. He’d spent that whole first summer at Innisfair, making a big production about the Christmas holidays, ordering lots of presents and pudding. Even the barn had been outlined in red lights that year.

Mr. Raphael was a big-hearted Italian chap, the most generous vampire Keats had ever met; but his little black dog, Arrapato, was an ankle biter. Both the beast and Mr. Raphael were smitten with Caro; she was crazy about the dog, but she’d treated Raphael cordially. Until this past Christmas. Keats had noticed how her eyes had lingered on Mr. Raphael a bit too long, and he’d looked at her the same way. It was almost as if they were talking, yet they hadn’t moved their lips.

Keats thought they were in love. But they didn’t know it.

Now Ozzie whinnied, a sound he reserved for his favorite humans. Keats looked toward the meadow. Caro was coming down the hill, walking in and out of dappled light.

Vivi looked, too. “Shit,” she whispered. “I can’t have a minute to myself.”

As Caro moved toward the paddock, Keats wondered if she really was thirty-nine years old, or if her birth date
was just as fake as her traveling name. She looked much younger, which made him think that she was a hybrid—Keats himself was eighty-seven but could pass for sixty-five.

Caro seemed determined to look older. Her drab sweaters were buttoned to her chin, and her dresses were shapeless and unstylish. She always had a long-suffering look on her face, putting him in mind of Grace Kelly in
The Country Girl
.

Today, she’d tied a brown sweater loosely over her shoulders. Her hair was pulled back with dozens of bobby pins, but no force on earth could tame those fractious curls, and the wind sent them flying around her like gold threads. Her beige pants hugged her curves, and the legs were neatly tucked into red leather boots. The bright footwear seemed odd, Keats thought, but a step in the right direction. At least she’d gotten rid of those scuffed black flatties.

“I’ve been looking for you two,” Caro said, leaning against the fence.

Vivi didn’t respond.

“G’day, ma’am.” Keats smoothed his wrinkled hand down the horse’s dark mane. “I’m trying to talk Little Miss into riding Ozzie.”

“I can’t,” Vivi said. “I’m wearing a dress.”

“Yes, but you’ve got on leotards,” Caro pointed out. “Just hike up your kilt and ride.”

“Mom!” Vivi scrunched up her face. “Besides, I’m wearing tennis shoes.”

“Wear my boots,” Caro said.

“Mom, I love you, but I don’t love your footwear.”

Now that the mother and daughter were side by side, Keats saw how different they were in looks and temperament. Caro was blond, tall, and willowy; Vivi was dark, short, and sturdy. Caro always hosted a Christmas party for the station hands; Vivi hid in her room. Caro wore little makeup, but her silver-blue eyes were thickly lashed; Vivi had drawn kohl around her dark blue eyes, and she was a dead ringer for a raccoon.

“If you aren’t going to ride, you need to finish packing,” Caro said.

“Maybe I’ll stay at Innisfair.” Vivi crossed her arms, and a dozen heart-shaped bracelets rattled.

“We’ll return soon,” Caro said.

“Not till November. That’s forever and ever.” Vivi let out a sob and sprang off the rail, hitting Keats’s chest with such force, he couldn’t catch his breath for a moment. He smoothed the back of that god-awful hair.

“You’re a corker,” he said. “Nothing but a corker.”

FLORENCE, ITALY

I walked down the Via dei Calzaiuoli, glancing over my shoulder every few seconds to make sure that Vivi was still there. It was a sunny morning in Florence, and the wide street was jammed with tourists. I stopped in front of the Duomo, smoothing the wrinkles in my black slacks.

“Forget it, Mom,” Vivi said. “You’re not dragging me in there.”

My daughter was so proud that she’d been born in New York City, and she’d cultivated an American accent. However, she was dressed like a European Goth-girl—black capri jeans, a white A
LICE
D
RINK
M
E
T-shirt, and black Converse tennis shoes. A dotted hair band held back her pink bangs. She wasn’t wearing the fake eyeglasses, but
her makeup was dark and dramatic, the kind that makes people stare.

“You love the Duomo,” I said.

“If you’d stop homeschooling me, I could learn about art the normal way. From textbooks and videos.”

“But not in person,” I said.

“Not now.” She tugged my hand. “I’m starving. After we eat, help me find a postcard for Mr. Keats.”

I glanced at my watch. “But it’s only ten o’clock.”

“My stomach is still on Australian time. I’m gonna faint.”

She did look exhausted. Our layover in Dubai had been brutal, and I still felt disoriented. But Vivi didn’t join in my little trick for jet lag: I always imagined the curve of the earth, the continents pasted onto the blue water, each hemisphere crisscrossed with time zones. I ignored the zones and divided my travels into the past, present, and future.

Right now, in Florence, it was a breezy, sunny morning. The past was somewhere far below—it was five thirty
P.M.
in Australia, and periwinkle dusk would be spilling over Innisfair. The future was somewhere above me. It was nine
A.M.
in Scotland, and a sheen of light would be spreading across the choppy waters of the Firth of Forth.

“Mom?”

Vivi’s voice brought me back to the here and now.

“An early lunch sounds good,” I said, then cast a long glance at the Duomo.

“You’re the best,” she said, then stood on her toes and pecked me on the cheek. The top
of her head came up to my shoulders. I hugged her close, feeling her tiny bird bones, and felt a pang. I missed Jude so much. He could have explained why two relatively tall parents had produced a petite child. Apparently Vivi had inherited her bone structure from my father’s side of the family. Philippe Grimaldi had been over six feet tall, but his mother had only been five-three.

Vivi and I walked in silence toward the Piazza della Signoria. The morning sun brightened the stone façade of the Palazzo Vecchio.