Acquainted With the Night (9781101546000) (17 page)

“I can't watch this.” Caro spun around and lunged to the mini fridge. She grabbed two itty bottles of vodka. She downed one and started on the other. The alcohol burned her throat, but it seemed to numb the bite wound. She just wanted to sink down into the cool sheets and sleep, but she still had questions. When Mr. Hughes had picked her up at the airport, he'd mentioned that people were disappearing in southern Bulgaria. He hadn't named the town, but he'd said it was near the Greek border. Had he meant Momchilgrad?

She sat on the bed and took another sip of vodka, repressing a shudder. “Let's just say there
are
vampires. How do I know you aren't one of them?”

“Are you serious? You've seen me in daylight.”

“Yes, inside buildings. Today you were outside, but it was overcast.”

“I'm not a vampire.”

“I wish you were a physician. Because I feel woozy.”
No, Clifford, you're drunk. Sozzled.
“Are you positive I won't turn into Lady Dracula?”

“One more time. That man bit you once and not deeply. You didn't get enough vampiric cells into your system. You'll make a complete recovery in a day or two. Quit worrying, lass.”

“Why do you keep calling me that?”

“It's a Yorkshire endearment. Be glad I didn't call you
flower
or
my dear nug
. That's what my father called my stepmother.”

“Maybe I'll call you Mickey.”

“Why?”

She started to say Walt Disney had Mickey Mouse, and you've got vampire rats, but she hiccupped. The jolt cleared her head a little, and she tossed the vodka bottle into the trash.

He pushed away from the window and sat on the other twin bed. “Caro, I don't want to upset you, but we need to discuss your uncle. Other scientists have been murdered because they dabbled in stem cell research. But this is the first I've heard of an archaeologist getting killed. There's got to be a link. Something your uncle found.”

Right. And it was hidden in her bag.

“Why was he in Bulgaria?” Jude asked.

“Digging. Perperikon is an archaeologist's dream. Artifacts are everywhere. Tourists pick up shards that probably date to the Bronze Age.”

She rubbed her eyes, remembering the time she'd slipped into a packed lecture hall at St. Cross College in Oxford to hear Uncle Nigel discuss Perperikon's wine rituals, blood sacrifices, and sun worshipping. But she couldn't think about that now because zombies were lurking in the street. She stretched out on the bed. “How many people are out there now?”

“Three.” He traced his finger along the windowsill. “You still don't believe me.”

“I do. But I wish I didn't.” She hugged the pillow to her chest. Uncle Nigel had forbidden her to read Bram Stoker or Mary Shelley. Horror movies were strictly forbidden. Thanks to her girlfriends, she'd seen every horror film that came down the pike, but she'd secretly preferred Herodotus and Will Durant. History to the
n
th. Lots of juicy tidbits on gods and goddesses. Nothing about vampires. Nothing about the daylight-loving Thracians at Perperikon, either. Why had they built a fortress on that Bulgarian hilltop? Had they been keeping something in or out? How many secrets had died with her uncle?

Down in the street, a woman began screaming. Caro scooted off the bed and peered out the window. The woman squirmed away from a man. He pulled her back, slapped her to the ground, then dragged her across the pavement into an alley.

“We really should call the police,” Caro whispered.

“I doubt they'd respond.” Jude sat on the edge of his bed and pulled off his shoes and socks. Jagged red lines ran across both heels.

“Tell me again why those Bulgarians tried to kill you,” she said.

He fell back onto the bed. “It's a dreary story. Haven't you heard enough for one night?”

“No. Tell me.”

He gazed up at the ceiling. “Right after my article was published, a burly, redheaded fellow showed up at my lab. Said he was a headhunter for a London pharmaceutical company. But he seemed dodgy. Rough and unpolished. He offered two million dollars if I'd sell my research.”

“That's a lot of money.”

“I didn't want money. My research wasn't for sale. But the redheaded man wouldn't leave. He stood beside the mouse cages, watching them spin in their wheels. Then he said, ‘I suffer from the same condition as your mice.' Before I could answer, he shot across the room and knocked me into an instrument tray. Everything clattered to the floor—forceps, scalpels, clamps. He started choking me. From the corner of my eye, I saw a scalpel. I grabbed it. Somehow I pushed it into the guy's carotid artery. That's the big artery in—”

“I know what it is.”

“The scalpel jutted out of the guy's throat,” Jude said. “I assumed he was dead. Black, tarry blood streamed down his shirt. He yanked out the scalpel and threw it to the floor. Then he ran away. I rang the police immediately. I scraped tissue from the scalpel and put it under the microscope. It was full of stem cells. I compared this to samples I'd taken from the aggressive mice.”

“They were the same?”

“Eerily similar.” He paused. “The next evening, I was working late. The redheaded man returned to the lab with the two Bulgarians. They held me down. Cut my Achilles tendons. They took the mice and set my lab on fire.”

He shut his eyes, as if trying to decide how much more to reveal. “The orthopedic surgeons at York District Hospital stitched me back together. My girlfriend was hysterical. She was horrified about the mice. She loathed the time I spent at the lab. I assumed that she was overwrought because she'd just found out that she was pregnant. But she was at the end of her tether because of my work habits. The moment she walked into my hospital room, I knew she wouldn't stick around.”

That bitch
, Caro thought. She didn't want to pry, but Jude hadn't mentioned the girlfriend's name and she was curious. All right, more than curious. “What was her name?” she asked.

“Vanessa.” He paused. “Lady Vanessa. She owns an antique shop.”

Lady.
That figured. “Was she beautiful?”

“Yes.” He paused. “She wanted to know if I'd walk again. The doctors didn't know. The police were convinced that my attackers would return and finish me off. They posted a guard outside my door. The big redheaded vampire crushed the guard's neck and sneaked into my room. My stepmother was sitting beside my bed. She pulled out a snub-nosed pistol and shot the vampire.”

“Did she kill him?”

“No.” His voice sounded clear and firm, not asking for pity. “The next day, I was moved to a clinic in Zürich—under an assumed name, of course. I asked Vanessa to come. She wouldn't leave York.”

A muscle twitched in his jaw. “It took seven months of physical therapy before I was able to walk again.”

“You were courageous.” Caro paused. “What happened to the baby?”

“She had an abortion.”

“I'm so sorry.” Her fists tightened around the blankets. Those horrible men had taken everything—his work, his country, his love. His unborn baby.

“I was a mess, inside and out. Casts on both ankles. Crutches. I drank myself into a stupor. I was a sot. When I was able to walk again, I left Zürich and began a lurid cycle of drifting from town to town. Drinking at night, researching vampirism during the day. I separated myth from fact. I kept track of industry news. Other biochemists were murdered—one in Paris, three in the Netherlands. Their Achilles tendons had been severed as well. When your uncle contacted me, I thought he had information.”

She was barely listening. All she could think about was the child he'd lost. “Do you still love Vanessa?” She put her hand over her mouth. “Sorry. It just popped out.”

“We were too different. It couldn't have worked.”

“Have there been others? After her?”

“Some. Nothing lasting.” He crossed his arms behind his head. “My focus was survival, not romance. Most of the time I was drinking.”

Caro nodded. The night they'd met, he'd hit the wine bottles pretty hard. But so had she.

“Since all this happened I've learned how to survive,” he said. “It's a hard way to live. When I step into a restaurant or hotel, I'm memorizing faces, watching body language. I'm always looking over my shoulder. I used to be trusting. But that part of me is dead.”

He tilted his head. “You're the first person I've told. I hope I haven't burdened you.”

“Not one bit.”

“It's a tremendous relief to talk about it.”

Caro swallowed. This was not the time to pressure him, but she still had questions. “How did you find me today?”

“It wasn't easy. I lost your taxi. I parked my car and walked down Bulgarian Boulevard. I was just about to give up, then I saw your hair.” He raised himself up. “Do you have a hat?”

“A what?”

“You'll need a hat to cover your hair.”

“Why? Am I a wreck?” She tucked her hair behind her ears. She still hadn't bought a brush.

“No, but it's distinct. You'll need to change your appearance.”

She leaned over the side of the bed, fumbled inside the duffel bag, and pulled out the knit hat. “I've got this.”

“It looks small. Will your hair fit?”

“Of course.” She spread the yarn apart with her fingers, then pulled the hat over her head.

“Tomorrow I'll find a chemist and buy hair dye,” he said.

“Buy a brush and some garlic while you're at it.” She stifled a yawn. Then she undressed under the sheets and pushed her face into the pillow.

During the night, Caro felt him pull a blanket over her shoulders and tuck the edges around her chin. She rolled over and fell into the old dream where she was being chased by the wild dogs. One leaped up, bit her arm, and dragged her into the trunk of the brown Dacia. Inside, the dead woman was waiting, her eyes glowing like Jude's mice, torn fingernails scritching as she crawled forward, her wide-open mouth revealing sharp, bone-white teeth.

Caro woke up clawing the air. Her hands flew to her neck and grazed the edges of the throbbing wound. Spasms whirled through her body, and she almost climaxed.

Jude leaped out of his bed and hurried to her side. In the moonlight, his T-shirt glowed with a white radiance, the fabric stretched over his wide shoulders. He gazed down at her with a helpless expression.

“I'm okay.”

“Shall I turn on the light?” he asked. “Or would you like whiskey?”

She shook her head and snuggled into the covers.

“You don't seem fine.” His hand brushed against her shoulder. “You're burning up.”

And she was. She was on fire—not from illness but from sexual longing. His lips were plump and moist, and she wanted to feel them pressing against her mouth.

If I don't kiss him now, if I let this moment pass, I'll never forgive myself
, she thought. She wound her arms tightly around his neck and drew him against her into the warm blankets. His shirt felt cool against her cheek. He smelled of spring rain and freshly ironed linen. Familiar, comforting scents, with a hint of a man's smell, sweat and leather.

She felt the rise and fall of his chest, the pressure of his long legs. A slant of light fell across the bed, shining on his square chin. Dark stubble ran down his neck. She wanted to put her fingertip into the cleft. Instead, she dropped her gaze and took in the whole expanse of him beneath the sheet.

He smiled down at her. She lay very still, looking up into his eyes. The sheets rustled as he raised his hand and traced his finger over her bottom lip. “I enjoyed our kiss last night.”

“Me, too.”

“May I kiss you again?”

She answered by leaning forward. Her tongue flitted past his lips, searching for his, flicking playfully at first, then more urgently. He made a soft humming noise and pulled her against his chest. He was stiff as alder wood.

She stroked him gently, feeling him rise. His hands slid along her ribs, up to her breasts. He cupped them in his hands, squeezing them together, his rough knuckles grazing her skin. Then he broke the kiss and pulled back.

“Are you sure you want this?” he whispered. In the faint light, she thought she saw his pupils dilate.

“Yes.” Her hands fluttered over him like wild birds. A sweet spasm pulsed through her belly as she imagined him inside her.

“This will change everything,” he whispered.

“It better.”

He lowered his lips to her nipple, and it stiffened. He gently took it between his teeth, and she tipped back her head. He traced his tongue over her breast, over her ribs, to her flat belly. She felt his breath through the lace of her thong. His tongue moved up the length of her body and stopped on her mouth. The kiss set off another wave of earthquakes inside her.

She wanted to see him, taste him. He inhaled sharply when her fingers circled him. Two words pulsed inside her head like a heartbeat:
I want. I want. I want.

She withdrew her hand and swirled her fingertips lightly over his stomach, then angled down to his hips. His buttocks felt hard, the flesh slightly cool. She traced each cheek, then moved her palms upward, over his shoulders to his neck.

Her neck began to throb, the wounds pulsing, sending long, pleasurable spasms downward. He sucked her lip and dropped his hand between her legs, the weight of his hand pushing against the thin lace.

“Make love to me now,” she said.

“Let's take it slowly. This is our first time. I want to remember everything.”