Hunting Daylight (9781101619032) (18 page)

Nothing, that’s what.

That was why he called her
mia cara
, because her name was too potent, and it left a blazing streak on his tongue.
She was so damn sexy. But she also had a tender, maternal side that touched him.

Last Christmas, he’d flown to Innisfair so Caro and Vivi wouldn’t spend the holidays alone. Same as always, he’d brought too many gifts. They’d taken the foil-wrapped boxes to the hospital in Adelaide. He couldn’t help but smile as he’d watched Caro on the children’s ward, the kids’ hands caught in her hair, pulling gold strands from her French twist. She’d held a bald toddler on her lap, and she’d looked up and caught Raphael smiling at her.

She’d smiled back. Nothing had passed between them, certainly not from her end. It was just a smile, a pretty one, flooded with peace, as if she’d finally found an unbroken place within herself.

Could she love anyone the way she loved Jude?
he wondered.
Could she love me?

She crossed her legs, and her tweed skirt made a whooshing sound, like a struck match. His pulse leaped up, drumming in his chest. He brushed his leg against hers, and the ice in her glass made a clinking noise. A flutter spiraled in his chest.

I am in trouble now
, he thought.

Arrapato had been resting his nose under Caro’s arm, but now he lifted his head and gave Raphael a warning growl. Caro stroked the dog’s fur with her fingertips, then glanced at Raphael. “What?”

He leaned closer.
Are you all right,
mia cara?

Yes. We’ll talk later, okay?

Caro glanced at Gillian, who was working on her
second old-fashioned, one high heel dangling from her toes.

No one can hear us,
mia cara.
You and Vivi will be safe in Norway
.

Yes, but will you? How can you survive in twenty-four hours of nonstop sunlight?

I’ll be fine. We’ve been there before, remember?

Caro touched his arm.
Sorry, I can’t think straight. The last few hours have short-circuited my brain. Too much has happened. Keats, Mrs. MacLeod. Guns and bombs.

I regret that,
mia cara.
But they were shooting.

No, no. I’m glad you fought back. But now that you’ve helped us, you’ll be a target.

I don’t care.

I do.

He searched behind her eyes, trying to sense any emotion behind her words. Something fluttered past him, as if an iridescent bird had sensed danger and soared away from it instinctively into a leafy tree.

She still had her hand on his arm. Her fingers felt so warm and alive. He quickly closed his thoughts, because she might panic if she saw too deeply into his mind. He’d been in love with her since the first time he saw her fifteen years ago. She’d walked into the library at Villa Primaverina, her hair flying around her shoulders. She was trailed by Jude, who hadn’t seemed to notice he was in the presence of an angel.

But Raphael knew.

Caro was so much like her mother, and Raphael had never hidden his affection for Vivienne. Not that he’d ever kissed her, or been inappropriate in any way. But he’d
adored both the mother and the daughter. Though that thought in itself was mildly unsettling. Yet there were times when Caro would look up and smile, and she looked like no one but herself. And he had to restrain his emotions because she loved Jude. Then Jude was gone, and the undertow of grief had swept in and sucked Caro down. Now, she’d had ten years to surface from the weight of that loss.

Last Christmas, he’d bought her an orange dress with a plunging neckline and an asymmetrical hemline. She always wore drab colors, and he’d thought the dress might be an instrument of change. She’d hugged him, but after the boxes and ribbons had been cleared, he’d never seen the dress again.

Raphael sighed. The territory of the heart had never been mapped; the terrain was uncharted, and yet it was quantifiable. Even in the eighth century, peasants and kings had understood that when life ended, love would continue.

Caro gave him a teasing smile.
Are you using me to make your girlfriend jealous?

She’s not my girlfriend.

Was Vivi right? Is Gillian a decoy?

Yes.

For what, exactly?

My plan was to send her to Villa Primaverina. I would take you and Vivi to the Svalbard Islands. I didn’t think we’d be ambushed at your home. I made sure no one followed us. Fielding drove from London to Dunbar. I didn’t dare file a flight plan.

Caro pressed her hand against her temple.
How did they find us?

I can only assume that Keats was tortured and gave up the information.

But he didn’t know where Vivi and I were.
Caro shut her eyes.
Wait, Vivi sent him a postcard. She mailed it before I could see what she’d written. She thinks all vampires are like you and Uncle Nigel. She half believes the prophecy is something I made up. A way to control her. I can’t make her understand.

It’s a form of self-protection,
mia cara.
We don’t know what she wrote in the postcard.
He pointed at her untouched drink.
May I have a sip?

She held it out. As he reached for it, Arrapato leaped up and nipped the edge of his palm, dark eyes glowering.

“Bad Arrapato,” Raphael whispered.

The dog showed his teeth, as if to say,
Next time I’ll draw blood
.

LONGYEARBYEN, NORWAY

SVALBARD ISLANDS

I leaned against Raphael’s shoulder as the jet streaked over the dark, rumpled North Sea, toward the blinding glare of the Arctic Circle. He stayed with me as long as he could, then he and Arrapato moved to the back of the plane and climbed into a long, coffinlike metal box.

I shut my eyes and fell into a dream. The images were so graphic, I woke up, gasping. It was always the same dream. The moment I fell asleep, a dance would begin behind my eyes. Sensual music always played in the background, Ravel’s
Bolero
and Nine Inch Nails’
Closer
, and Raphael would stare at me in a you’re-more-than-a-friend kind of way. It was a courtship in dreams, with flirty, witty repartee, a slow dance of lovers moving closer and closer.
And in every dream, I saw a watery road to Villa Primaverina, where Raphael’s villa rose out of the lagoon, the oyster-colored palace surrounded by gardens and Romanesque statues.

This is pathetic
, I thought.
I’m pathetic.

At one
A.M.
, the jet touched down in Longyearbyen, a cold, grim village in the Svalbard Islands. Sunlight glinted on the rough, dark gray rocks that lined the runway. At the far end, an elk trotted down the pavement.

Five Norwegian men in puffer jackets loaded Raphael’s box into the rear of a huge van. Fielding helped us into the backseat, which smelled like motor oil and gunpowder.

“Why is the sun shining at one o’clock in the morning?” Vivi asked, rubbing her eyes.

Gillian sat down beside her, tugging Mrs. MacLeod’s raincoat around her. “Sugar, it’s the polar day,” she said. “That means the sun doesn’t set.”

“Not ever?” Vivi asked.

“It only lasts a few weeks,” Gillian said.

The men climbed into the van, bringing with them a blast of cold air. We drove around the harbor, where ice floes bobbed in the dark blue water and snow-tipped mountains rose up into the clouds. Along the road, signs warned about polar bears. The town had one main street, and all around it, colorful houses fanned out like Christmas packages, each one wrapped in red, green, blue, yellow.

Vivi made a face when the van stopped in front of a red, three-story wooden house. The caretaker, Inge Utskjoer, met us at the front door. She pulled me into a hug, then turned to Vivi.

“My, you’ve grown,” Inge said, smoothing a wrinkled
hand over her hair, tucking stray, white-blond hairs into a bun. She had pale blue eyes and a stubby nose.

“Hi,” Vivi said, giving her a do-we-know-each-other look.

“You came here when you were a baby,” Inge said. Behind her, the living room looked like an IKEA catalog—dark blue walls, natural pine chests, white bookcases, slipcovered chairs. Candles burned on a long dining table, plates and dishes lined up like soldiers.

Inge shooed us aside while the men carried Raphael’s box through the door, Arrapato’s angry, muffled barks drifting through the metal casing. The noise faded when the men turned into a narrow hallway.

“My sons will take good care of Mr. Raphael and Arrapato,” Inge said, as if the arrival of a boxed vampire were a normal event.

Gillian and Fielding walked up. The man’s eyebrows were level with her breasts. “Do you ever stop talking, darlin’?” he asked.

She patted the top of his head. “Go away, shorty.”

“Maybe one of Inge’s strapping sons can give you something to chew on,” he said.

“I doubt it.”

“Hey, Inge?” Fielding called. “Miss Delacroix wants to know if your sons are married or single.”

Inge laughed and waved her hand, as if brushing away a mosquito.

Gillian bent over and brushed her lips against Fielding’s ear. “If you don’t show me some respect, I’ll chop you into little pieces.”

Inge hummed to herself as she poured blood into a
bowl for Arrapato. She chatted with Fielding, pointing out local delicacies on the buffet table: king crab, sushi, spring rolls, and fish sandwiches.

I sat next to Fielding, who was busily piling crab legs onto his plate. Vivi squeezed in beside me. “Mom, why does Raphael have a house where he can’t go outside?”

“He bought it for us,” I said.

Vivi gave me a long, level look. Then she picked up a fish sandwich.

Raphael walked in, his hair hanging in damp tangles, his cheeks uncharacteristically pale. Arrapato trotted behind him, looking just as disheveled.

Fielding’s gaze swept over Raphael. “You don’t look well, guv’nor.”

Arrapato peed on Fielding’s chair leg, and then the little dog stretched in front of the fireplace, his paws scratching against the rug, and heaved a contented sigh.

Inge bustled into the room, holding a basket of flatbread. “Such a shame about Mr. Keats,” she said. “If you need a temporary caretaker, one of my sons can fill in.”

Vivi sat up straight, her brow furrowed. “What’s wrong with Keats?”

A hush fell over the table. Raphael looked at Inge and shook his head. She blushed and left the room.

“What’s wrong with Keats?” Vivi asked again.

I tried to speak, but my throat felt raw, as if I’d swallowed a bone. Raphael turned to Vivi.

“Your mother was going to tell you later.” He paused. “Mr. Keats passed away. I’m so sorry. I know you were fond of him.”

A sheen came over Vivi’s eyes. She balled up her fists and pushed them against her thighs. In a raspy voice, she said, “He
died
?”

Raphael nodded.

Vivi’s mouth screwed into a bow. “But he was fine. What happened? Did he forget to test his sugar?”

Raphael was silent for a moment. “God called him home.”

“That was mean of Him.” Vivi’s chin wove. She slid off her chair and ran up the stairs.

I pushed away from the table, intending to go after her. Gillian leaned across Vivi’s empty chair and caught my arm.

“Let her work through this. She’ll find you when she’s ready.”

“No, she needs me.” I pulled away.

A pained look crossed Gillian’s face. “I don’t know what’s going on, but I’m guessin’ that it’s pretty bad. Vivi isn’t a baby. She’s a teenager. You’re mixing up her wants with yours.”

I sat back in my chair and folded my arms. “You don’t understand. Vivi has a skewed understanding of death. She’s never lost anyone except her father. Not even a goldfish.”

“All the more reason to let her be,” Gillian said.

Fielding tossed a crab claw at her. “You’re a nosey Parker, aren’t you?”

“I just live to please,” she said, flicking the claw onto his plate.

I helped Inge with the dishes, then went upstairs. I paused outside Vivi’s door—everything was quiet. Too
quiet. Maybe she’d fallen asleep. I tiptoed to my room and flopped onto the bed. Blackout curtains covered the windows, and lamplight fell over a blue rag rug, a pine desk, and a pine rocking chair where I’d once rocked Vivi.

Now, all these years later, I couldn’t hold her in my lap, nor could I comfort her with words. She was going through a rough patch, as Uncle Nigel called it. Adolescence was particularly hard on hybrids, mainly because of hormones and developmental delays. And that was only the beginning of Vivi’s problems.

Me, I’d been a flat-chested, moody teen, a girl who’d spent summers in Corfu or Bulgaria, or anyplace that beckoned archaeologists. I’d hunkered in squared-off pits, scraping a trowel over the dirt, longing for breasts and boyfriends, both of which had eluded me.

One year, I developed curves, and boys began to lurk around my uncle’s stone house. But I couldn’t seem to keep a guy. I’d blamed it on my uncle, because the moment I would bring a boy into the parlor, my uncle would drag out the vacuum cleaner, and the relentless hoovering made conversations impossible.