Hunting Daylight (9781101619032) (16 page)

“This room wasn’t always a library,” he said. “It used to be the dining room. I sat right over there.”

He pointed toward the leaded glass windows, which overlooked the front lawn. “King George the Fourth sat at the other end of the table. He drank five glasses of wine and knighted everyone, including me.”

“That’s a lovely story,” I said. “But I’d rather hear about this century. What brings you back to Scotland?”

“This room is too quiet,” he said, and waved his hand. Music began playing from a stereo in the bookcase. I didn’t quite understand his synchronization with electricity. It was mainly with televisions, computers, and stereos, but I liked it.

The Scottish Guitar Quartet began playing something
slow and moody. Arrapato seemed disturbed by the music. He got up, tags jingling, and trotted to the window. He stood on his hind legs and spread his paws on the glass.

Raphael knelt beside my chair and gathered my hands into his. “I have distressing news,
mia cara
.”

A cold fist squeezed my heart, and I couldn’t get my breath. Was Uncle Nigel hurt? He’d been on a dig in Machu Picchu, and I hadn’t heard from him in weeks.

“Uncle Nigel is fine,” Raphael said.

“You’re reading my mind, but you won’t let me in yours.”

He leaned closer, pressing his chest against my knees. “I’m so sorry. But Keats is dead.”

“What happened?” I blinked, and tears spilled down my cheeks. Mr. Keats was a hybrid, just like me, but he’d still developed maturity onset diabetes. The immortals weren’t indestructible, and their physiology was unpredictable.

“Did he forget his insulin?” I asked.

“No.” Raphael’s voice cracked in the center of the word. In the fifteen years I’d known him, I’d never heard this much anguish in his voice. He kept smoothing his thumb over my hands, as if he were trying to push away my sadness.

A memory broke loose from the coldness in my chest, warm and shimmery, like a taste of sunlight. I saw Keats lift three-year-old Vivi onto a chestnut gelding. She’d rarely smiled in those days, but her mouth had opened wide, her face illuminated from within. Keats had brought my daughter back from despair.

“Was it an accident?” I asked, even though I thought
it unlikely. Mr. Keats had respected the immense power of a thousand-pound thoroughbred.

“Keats was murdered.”

A booming sound filled my head, as if I had held a conch shell to my ear.
Oh, God. No.

“I’ve talked to the detective superintendent,” Raphael was saying. “There was no sign of forced entry. The security system was disabled.”

“A burglar?” Innisfair didn’t have an art collection, no wall safes crammed with money. Why would someone go to that trouble? What were they looking for?

Raphael’s eyes glistened. He let go of my hands and cupped my face. “Keats was tortured. An infinity symbol was carved on his arm.”

The room tilted, and I leaned back. Raphael’s hands hung in the air, as if still holding my cheeks. I couldn’t drag my gaze away from his wrist. His coat sleeve had pulled back, and I saw a black figure-eight tattoo on his forearm. All members of the Salucard Foundation bore this mark, including my late husband. The organization was nonviolent, dedicated to the preservation of the immortals’ history and culture. I could not believe that the foundation would hire an assassin to murder anyone, much less Keats. But within the organization, smaller groups had formed, and some of these cabals had no moral boundaries. The Sinai Cabal hadn’t bothered me in years, but time meant nothing to a vampire.

I swallowed, and my eyes met his. “You don’t think that Salucard ordered the hit on Keats?”

“Absolutely not.” Raphael lowered his hands and gripped the side of the chair.

“What about the Sinai monks? They’ve always been after Vivi.”

“They would never put the infinity mark on a human.”

“Who else would?”

“I don’t know.” He glanced away, and I knew he hadn’t told me everything.

“Tell me the rest of it,” I said.

“Forensics found two types of blood. Type A positive belonged to Keats. The other sample had no distinctive type—clearly a vampire.”

I forced myself to take a breath. “Was Keats the target? Or you?”

“I haven’t been to Innisfair since Christmas.” He lowered his voice to a whisper, as if he couldn’t bear to say the words. “You and Vivi had just left.”

I started shaking. A strand of hair fell into my eyes, and he smoothed it back.

“I don’t want to scare you,
mia cara
. But this vampire might have been looking for you or Vivi.”

“A professional assassin would have known that we weren’t in Australia.”

“Right. Unless the assassin didn’t know where you’d gone,” Raphael said. “He might have thought that Keats knew.”

I jumped when Arrapato barked. He dug his hind feet into the tartan carpet, then started kicking hard, as if he were marking his territory.

Raphael grabbed my hands again. “You and Vivi need to go into hiding. That’s why I’m here. How soon can you pack?”

“I’ve got an emergency bag by the front door.” I
paused, thinking of Vivi and her nightmares. “Maybe we should wait until we have more information about Keats.”

“I’m not taking chances. You have to leave tonight.”

“Vivi won’t like it.”

Raphael’s gaze circled my face. “I’m sorry,
mia cara.
”

I pressed my forehead against his shoulder. The wool felt slightly damp, but it gave off his reassuring smell. I heard Arrapato’s low growl, followed by a creaking noise. It seemed to be coming from outside the library.

A rush of chilly air hit the back of my head, and I pulled away from Raphael. He looked past me, a startled expression on his face.

I wiped my eyes and turned. Vivi stood in the doorway. Raphael’s girlfriend was right behind her. My, she was lovely. Her brown eyes were luminous, as if topaz light were shining behind them. She clutched a handful of herbs.

Raphael got to his feet. “Vivi, can you and Gillian please wait in the hall?”

Vivi ignored him. “Mom, I’m worried about Mrs. MacLeod. She should be back by now.”

“Back from where?” I asked.

“Shopping,” Vivi said.

“Again?” I felt confused. Mrs. MacLeod had gone to town this morning, and she’d returned an hour later, her car filled with groceries. She’d spent the rest of the day cooking. “When did she leave?”

Vivi shrugged. “Her nose was bleeding.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

She wouldn’t look at me, so I knew something else was going on.

Arrapato growled under his breath. Then he began scratching the windows, his nails clicking over the glass. He looked back at Raphael and barked.

Gillian laughed. “He’s a busy little thing. Can dogs have attention deficit disorder?”

Raphael hurried to the window, his coat rippling behind him. “Something is out there,” he said.

I felt it, too. I got out of the chair and walked over to Raphael. He is five inches taller than me, and I had to tilt my head back to look into his eyes. He tapped the glass, directing my attention to the shadowy front yard.

Raphael’s driver, Mr. Fielding, got out of the limo, pulling iPod wires from his ears. Behind him, the fog had cleared, and two lights burned at end of the driveway. I saw the outline of a blue Citroën.

“That’s Mrs. MacLeod’s car,” I said.

Raphael kept staring out the window. “Why isn’t it moving?”

I leaned closer, pressing my fingers against the diamond panes. In the driveway, dark shapes passed in front of Mrs. MacLeod’s headlights, and a horn tooted.

Arrapato barked again, then butted my legs. I felt Raphael’s cool hand grip my elbow, and a second later his voice streaked through my head.

Vampires.

Then, out loud, he said, “You have to leave. Now.”

“No,” Vivi cried. “We just got here.”

Raphael steered me away from the window. As he passed by Vivi, he let go of me and grabbed her arm.

She wrenched away. “You’re not the boss of me. Mom, tell him to back off. Or I’ll—”

He hoisted Vivi over his shoulder, and hurried out of the room, Arrapato trotting at his heels. I ran into the hall. Raphael was straight ahead, his long legs moving in a blur.

“Hey!” Gillian cried. “What’s going on?”

“Trouble,” I called over my shoulder. I found my plaid bag in the vestibule, hooked the strap over my shoulder, and rushed into the nippy air. From the driveway, Mrs. MacLeod kept tooting her horn.

Mr. Fielding opened the limousine’s rear passenger door, and Raphael put Vivi in the backseat. “What’s going on?” she yelled, the cords standing out on her neck.

“Uninvited guests,” Raphael said, then helped me into the backseat.

I looked up at the padded ceiling, where pinpoint lights raced around a tinted sunroof and moved to the rear window. I guided Vivi toward the L-shaped row of chocolate leather seats. “Sit down and put on your seat belt.”

“No.” She broke away, then ran up the narrow aisle, crawled through the open partition, and dove into the front seat.

“Vivi, get back here,” I yelled.

“Fielding will take care of her,” Raphael said.

I moved past a minibar, toward the back of the limo, and sank down in the plush seat. A loud pop came from the direction of Mrs. MacLeod’s car, and then her horn blared without stopping. I glanced at Raphael. He was helping Gillian into a seat, unruffled and unhurried. She perched on the edge, tugging Mrs. MacLeod’s raincoat around her.

“I hope those are deer hunters,” she said.

Raphael climbed into the backseat, slammed the door, and sat down beside me. “Fielding, get us out of here,” he called.

Fielding swiveled around and his broad face appeared in the partition. “There’s a problem, sir. The driveway’s blocked by vehicles. I counted three. Could be more.”

“There’s another way out,” Vivi said, pointing toward the stone wall. “The golf course is right over there.”

“Let’s move,” Raphael said.

The limo did a U-turn on the lawn, headlights wheeling over the trees, then sped toward the rock wall. Raphael pulled off his coat and tucked it around me. “You’re shaking,
mia cara
.”

“I’m okay.” I tried to smile.

He patted my leg, then pushed away from the seat and knelt in front of the minibar.

“If you’re mixing drinks, I’d love a vodka collins,” Gillian said, her bottom lip shaking. I could tell that she was the sort of woman who used humor when she was frightened, but Raphael wasn’t paying attention. He slid open drawers, dumping ammo into his pockets. Then he lifted a Colt .45.

Hugging the coat to my chest, I looked out the rear window. The glass had been tinted to repel UV light, but I saw figures moving in front of Mrs. MacLeod’s headlights. Who was out there? The same vampires who’d killed Mr. Keats? Had they tracked us to Scotland?

Behind Mrs. MacLeod’s car, four new lights blinked on. I turned to Raphael. “They’re coming,” I said.

“I’ll be ready,
mia cara
.”

The limo careened around the hedge maze. Headlight beams splashed over the rock wall, then picked out the wooden gate. Fielding stomped the gas pedal. The limo blasted forward. Wooden chunks from the gate flew over the windshield and drummed against the roof, and then pieces rattled down the trunk and clattered to the ground.

“Drive faster,” Vivi yelled.

“You’re busting me ears,” Fielding said. “Put a bung in it.”

I looked out the rear window again. Four lights trailed behind the limo. I wanted to warn Raphael, but when I turned around, my throat ached, as if I’d swallowed metal screws and washers.

His hands were steady as he loaded bullets into the .45. Behind him, the limo’s high beams spilled bright cones through the grainy air. We sped past an Edwardian clubhouse, where men stood on the terrace, clutching whiskey glasses. Fielding turned toward a driving range, knocking over the distance markers, and cut back to the fairway. The sprinklers were on, and water pattered against the clipped grass.

I pulled Arrapato away from the window and held him against my chest. It had been decades since I’d been chased by vampires, but those events had toughened me in a way that I couldn’t explain. I felt oddly calm. Then I glanced backward. The headlights veered apart, and muzzle flashes brightened the air around them. I heard bullets slicing around the limo, pinging against the rear fender.

Raphael opened the sunroof, and cold air blew into the car, snapping his shirt. He stood up through the sunroof and fired.

“Somebody tell me what’s going on,” Vivi yelled.

Raphael climbed back down into the car, the wind sweeping back his hair, and he launched himself on top of me and Arrapato, flattening us against the seat. His arm shot out, and he pulled Gillian toward us.

“Incoming!” Fielding cried. “Get down, Vivi.”

A moment later, the limo shuddered, the way a jumbo jet will shake when it hits turbulence. Above us, the rear window exploded. Safety glass pattered on top of Raphael’s shoulders. Icy air rushed into the limo, bits of glass clinking against the seats.

Raphael moved back.
“Mia cara?”

“I’m fine.” Arrapato’s head popped up. Gillian sat up, too, picking stray bits of glass out of her hair.

I glanced frantically toward the front seat. “Vivi!”

“Mom?” She peered through the glass partition. Her tears had melted her kohl eyeliner, and black lines ran down her cheeks.

“Sir, we need more firepower,” Fielding yelled. “It’s under the floorboard.”

Raphael put the safety on the .45 and handed it to me. He squatted in the center of the limo and peeled back the brown carpet. He lifted a box, flipped back the lid, and took out grenades. He pulled the pins with his teeth, released the levers, and vaulted toward the sunroof.

“Holy shit,” Gillian cried, her eyes bulging.

Raphael dropped to the floor again. A boom knocked him against the minibar. Crystal goblets went flying. My ears were ringing so hard, I didn’t hear the glass shatter. The air smelled like burned plastic. I raised myself up. Behind us, on the dark fairway, a car was on fire. There
was another explosion, and flames surged up. The other car dropped back into the smoke.