Hunting Daylight (9781101619032) (15 page)

“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.

Vivi ran after her. “Wait, where are you going?”

“To fetch you a bull, little lady,” MacLeod said, her arms swinging.

Vivi glanced at the driveway. Raphael’s driver sat in the front seat of the limo, his head barely visible above the steering wheel.

“Mrs. MacLeod, come back,” Vivi called. “Your nose is bleeding.”

But the woman was already climbing into a blue compact car. The door slammed on the hem of her apron. It dragged on the ground as she drove down the driveway What had made the old lady take off like that? And why was she bleeding?

Pain thumped in the backs of Vivi’s eyes. She dragged
the roll from her pocket and bit off the end. The buttery taste filled her mouth. She walked back to the kitchen, stepping over dime-sized drops of blood, and shut off the stove. When she turned around, Gillian stood in the doorway, one leg bent at the knee.

“Want a roll?” Vivi asked.

“Thanks, but I’m watching my carbs.” Gillian rubbed her bare arms. “It’s gettin’ chilly. Can I borrow a sweater?”

Vivi found MacLeod’s beige raincoat in the closet, and she tossed it to Gillian.

“Thanks.” Gillian draped the coat around her shoulders. “Is your mom a vampire, too?”

“No, are you a ho?”

“I’m a malpractice attorney.”

“You could’ve fooled me. I thought you were an airhead.”

“You’re a rude little thing.” Gillian pronounced
thing
with a hard
a
, making the word rhyme with
twang
.

Vivi grabbed another roll, shoved it in her pocket, and headed out the back door.

“Hey, don’t run off again,” Gillian called.

“So come with me,” Vivi said, and walked into the yard, her tennis shoes squeaking over the damp grass. Cool, glazed air rushed past her face. She glanced over her shoulder.

Gillian was following her, backlit by the castle, its red sandstone walls jutting up, the crow-stepped gables and turrets casting long shadows. Smoke curled from the chimneys, each one stamping a black question mark against the fog.

Vivi had a few questions of her own. Why was Scotland so cold in July? Why had Raphael shown up before sunset? Why was he locked up in the library with her mom?

She stepped into the herb garden. It was rectangular, hemmed in with a boxwood hedge. Inside, gravel paths divided the rectangle into square beds, lavender and mint at one end, cooking herbs at the other.

Gillian leaned over, plucked a coriander sprig, and touched it to her nose. “This kinda smells like Raphael,” she said.

“It’s his new cologne,” Vivi said, her voice hitched up into a yawn.

Gillian lowered the sprig. “How long have you known Raphael?”

“All my life.”

“How old are you?”

“How old do I look?”

Gillian tilted her head. “Twelve?”

“Nope. Thirteen.”

“Is your mom in some kind of trouble?”

Vivi cut her eyes at Gillian. “Why do you ask?”

“Because Raphael hired me to be a decoy.”

“For what?”

“For your mom. I’m supposed to pretend to be her. I’ll go off in one direction; your mom and Raphael will go in another. I thought maybe they were having an affair. And maybe your mom’s husband is having her followed.”

Vivi lifted the roll from her pocket and tossed it in the air. Either Gillian was lying or Raphael had gone mad. Because this woman was one hundred times prettier than her mom and lots taller.

“Decoy, huh?” Vivi said. “Sounds like a pickup line to me.”

“It worked.”

“Why would you want Raphael?”

Gillian’s eyes widened. “Are you kidding? He’s gorgeous. And he has such good taste. He walked into the Savoy the other night, and he was wearing the most divine Dolce and Gabbana suit. I swooned.”

“Too bad he’s a vampire,” Vivi said.

“I like that part best. Vamps are fantastic lovers.”

Vivi tilted her head, intrigued. She’d never heard an adult talk so openly. “How many have you dated?”

“A few. But I’ve never known any man like Raphael.”

“He’s okay, I guess.”

“He won’t tell me how old he is. Do you know?”

“I’m not sure. Maybe a thousand.” Vivi shrugged. “Give or take a few centuries.”

“How did he get so wealthy?”

“The Dutch Tulip Bubble.”

Gillian looked confused. “The what?”

“Some kind of market crash in 1637,” Vivi said. “The world went crazy for tulips. Bulbs sold for over a thousand dollars. Raphael got out before the bubble burst.”

“You must be a smart girl if you know about financial bubbles. I bet you go to a fancy school, huh?”

Vivi hesitated. It was too gross to explain about her homeschooling. Maybe she ought to swerve the conversation away from herself. “My mom practically has a Ph.D. in history. She crams it down my throat.”

“At least it’s not algebra, right?” Gillian looked back at the castle. “You know anything else about Raphael?”

“Before he was a vampire, he was a monk.”

“Now
that
is interesting. He doesn’t act real monkly.”

“It was a long time ago. He even went on a pilgrimage. Something about a homage to Saint James.”

“It’s
an
homage, not
a
homage,” Gillian said.

“So you’re a lawyer and the grammar police?”

“I taught English before I went to law school.”

“Why do you talk like a swamp rat? Dropping your
g
’s. Pouring sugar on each word.”

“Honey, it takes unimaginable skill to talk this way.” Gillian sniffed the coriander. “So how did Raphael become a vampire?”

“It happened on his way back from Spain. He stopped in France. Got a job in Tours. My mom says he translated books. She says he knows all the dirt on the Vatican, but who cares?”

Vivi hesitated. Dammit, she’d almost told the real story—that her grandfather’s voluptuous French cousins had bitten Raphael. Then Gillian would have put the rest of it together, that Vivi and her mom had some vampire blood. And that wasn’t anybody’s business.

Gillian sighed. “I’ve always liked older men.”

“He likes anything with boobs.”

“Then we’ll get along perfectly.” She smiled. “Can he read minds?”

“Sometimes. He can also adjust the volume on a stereo or a television set with his mind—even if he’s in another room.”

Gillian’s smile broadened. “Cool.”

“You’re freaky.”

“Honey, I’m from Louisiana. It’s against the law to be
normal. But isn’t it a little odd that you know so much about vampires?”

“Not really. I found out about them when I was nine. My mom and I were spending the Christmas holidays in Australia. Raphael and Arrapato came to visit. On Christmas morning, we sat in the dark living room—Mom always kept the curtains pulled tight. I couldn’t see my presents, so I flung open the drapes.”

Gillian made a face. “Yikes. What happened?”

“It wasn’t pretty.” Vivi lifted her eyebrows, remembering how light had blasted into the room. Arrapato had yelped, and smoke curled up from his fur. Raphael swooped down, his face red and blistered, and carried the dog out of the room.

“My mom explained that Raphael and Arrapato were vampires,” Vivi said.

“And you believed her?”

“Eventually. At first, I thought she was crazy. If she’d said they were demons or hatchet murderers, I might have gone along with it. But vampires? And a vampire dog?”

“I thought the same thing when I saw Arrapato,” Gillian said. “How could an Affenpinscher be a vampire? He has that precious, smooshed-in face.”

Vivi leaned over and plucked a thyme sprig. It had taken her forever and ever to understand about the immortals. Her mom had seemed to know when to feed her more information. Raphael preferred type O blood, and he either drank it in a cup or injected it into his veins. Arrapato licked blood out of a bowl, but he was still a dog, and he would dance on his hind legs for a raw bone.

Gillian lifted her right foot. “He bit me the other
day. See those marks? I was afraid he’d turn me into a vamp. But Raphael said it wasn’t that simple.”

“Yeah, it’s not three bites and you suddenly grow fangs. You have to get bit a lot. And drink vampire blood or get transfused with it.”

Gillian crossed her eyes and laughed. “Ick.”

Vivi repressed a grin. She’d never talked to a human about vampires, but it felt good. The wind picked up, tossing the herbs back and forth, and she smelled peppermint. But the fragrance wasn’t coming from the garden. She also detected menthol. Not all vampires smelled alike, but all vampires carried an odor. Some gave off the tang of lemon oil, camphor, menthol, or fruity ketones. It was something in their sweat, and it made humans briefly relax.

She glanced at Gillian. “Do you smell that?”

“Smell what?”

“That minty-fruity odor.”

“A little.” Gillian’s nostrils flared. “Why?”

“It’s a vampire odor.”

“You’re a weird kid,” Gillian said. “Cute, but weird.”

“Whatever.” Vivi glanced toward the golf course, and her scalp tingled. The fog was blowing out to sea, leaving behind the smell of vampires.

Lots and lots of vampires.

MANDERFORD CASTLE LIBRARY

I sat on the edge of a green velvet chair, watching Raphael pace in front of the fireplace. Arrapato trotted behind him, his black tail whipping back and forth. Each time they passed by my chair, I smelled pomegranates and patchouli, coriander and cocoa. Leave it to a vampire—and his dog—to wear a cologne with a sense of history: Serge Lutens Borneo 1834. That was the year silk merchants added patchouli sprigs to their bales to keep moths away.

As a failed historian, I’m a font of useless trivia, all of it gleaned from textbooks. But Raphael has been a vampire since the eighth century, and his brain is filled with magnificent details, which is one reason I adore him. Best of all, he’d known my mother and father, and he was always remembering little stories.

He walked by my chair again, and I remembered the dream I’d had last night. I forced myself to think about something else. Why hadn’t he invited his pretty girlfriend to join us? I’d never known him to be rude. He could be forgetful, like when he scheduled two dates on the same night, but he’d always handled these situations with finesse.

“What’s up?” I asked. I tried to look into Raphael’s mind. We could carry on whole conversations without saying a word—a fascinating way to communicate, even if it left me with a headache. Raphael’s talents were stronger. He could look into my mind and pluck thoughts with the speed and efficiency of a neurosurgeon. When he didn’t want me inside his head, he would block me. He was blocking now. It was a palpable thing, as if I’d bumped into a concrete wall.

He stopped in front of the fireplace and looked up at the portrait of a nineteenth-century woman. She appeared to stare back at him, an ethereal look on her plump face.

“I knew her,” Raphael said.

Somehow I wasn’t surprised. “Who was she?”

“Lady Margaret Manderford,” he said, his voice ringing with music, like notes from a Puccini aria. “Her husband was a total bastard. And a golfing fanatic. Lady Margaret died of consumption.”

Normally I would have had plenty of questions about Lady Margaret. When had she died? What was her relationship to Raphael? But something felt wrong about his visit. I’d known him for fifteen years, and yes, he often surprised me, but some aspects of his personality never changed. He hadn’t shown up before dusk to give me a
history lesson. He’d come to tell me something, and he was procrastinating.

“So did you just decide to fly to Scotland?” I asked.

“Fielding drove me. I was in London.”

Raphael pulled a Kleenex from his pocket, scrubbed off the sunblock, and dropped the tissue onto the logs. Flames licked up, and light washed over his high, aristocratic cheekbones. He turned away from the fireplace and strode to a game table, giving off another wave of patchouli. As he rearranged the chess pieces, Arrapato sat at his feet. The dog sighed when Raphael started moving again.

“You’re restless tonight,” I said.

“Am I?” He stopped in front of a bowfront chest, where old tartan boxes were lined up in rows. I watched him move the boxes. He had lovely hands—long, tapered fingers, clipped nails, and sturdy wrists. He glanced up at the crystal chandelier.