Acquainted With the Night (9781101546000) (22 page)

He drew her into the warm covers and his hand skated over her damp breasts, down to her navel, then slid upward again. Every place he touched seemed to vibrate. He kissed one edge of her mouth, then the other. The sweet, teasing kisses became more urgent. His hand cupped the back of her damp head and his fingers caught in her hair.

“I want to make love to you all night,” he said, kneading her breasts, his thumbs rubbing against her nipples. The pleasure swirled around and around, pulling her with it. She suppressed a shudder as a tiny spasm uncoiled like a watch spring.

“Did you just . . .” Jude's eyes widened.

Don't tell the truth, Clifford.
She started to shake her head, then nodded.

“But I was barely touching you. Has this ever happened before?”

She shook her head. “Maybe it's a rare event. Like Halley's comet.”

“Damn, I hope not.” He laughed. “Let's give it another go, shall we?”

Keeping his gaze on her, he drew his finger down her throat, between her breasts, to her navel, then paused.

“Keep going,” she said, and pushed his head to her breast. He drew her nipple into his mouth and gently sucked. She began to pant when he flicked his tongue over the tip. She laced her fingers through his hair, then arched her back. A shimmery circle moved inside her, then folded back on itself. He fitted himself between her legs and smiled down at her. “This time, I'm the one who can't wait,” he whispered.

She reached down and guided him. As he moved inside her, he tipped back his head.

“My God,” he whispered. “This is—I've never—”

The heat in his words seared the air, leaving a smoking imprint. As he throbbed inside her, she moved in ways she'd never thought possible, and each shift of her body seemed to ignite something within him. He began thrusting, and the slow flame within her blazed again. All she knew was his breath. His heartbeat. His touch.

His hoarse cry brought her back. He pulled her hips upward, pressing deeper and deeper. The friction set off a series of jagged streaks, each one shooting through her. She fully expected the sheets to smolder and burst into flames.

She lifted her hips again and again. His back tensed and he cried out her name. A tiny explosion began in her center. Something was building, something colossal, a force of nature, old as time itself, and it moved through her veins like magma seeking a vent. She felt it shoot upward, fire and ice, and she rose with it.

Afterward, she lay under the blanket, watching Jude's muscles flex as he pulled on a shirt. When he sat down to lace his shoes, his hair fell forward. She wanted to run her hands through it. She breathed in the faint scent of lovemaking that hung in the air. A potent sexual chemistry had existed between them from the start, but it was building into something unstoppable.

She reluctantly left the warm blankets and rummaged in her bag. She pulled out a long black skirt and a delicate white blouse she'd found years ago at a thrift shop on Portobello Road.

She slid her warm arms through the cool sleeves. The rounded décolletage showed a discreet curve of white breasts, and the sleeves were sheer. Layers of antique lace fell around her wrists. She tugged at the skirt. It wasn't loose; she hadn't lost weight after all.

It's the straight, dark hair
, she thought, leaning toward the mirror. Jude walked up behind her, swept her hair aside, and kissed her neck. She cupped her hand to his cheek and leaned against him.

“If we don't leave now, I'll need a cold bath.” He laced his fingers through hers and led her out of the room. They took the elevator to the lobby and walked past the crowded hotel restaurant toward Irene's Piano Bar.

“What an odd name for a Greek pub,” she said.

Jude didn't seem to be listening. He led her to a corner booth. As she slid across the leather, she saw a tall, bony man step into the bar. Her breath caught.

“That's not him,” Jude said.

“I see him everywhere.”

A waiter took their drink orders and returned with a bread basket and a little bowl of cucumber yogurt. After he left, Jude reached under the table and caressed her knee. “It's taking all of my willpower not to kiss you,” he said.

“Willpower is highly overrated.” She leaned forward, rising from the seat, and pressed her lips against his. They were still kissing when the waiter returned with drinks. Diet Coke for Caro, water for Jude. She pulled back as the waiter set out the flatware and a flickering red candle.

Jude lifted his glass and clinked it against hers.
“Sláinte.”

“To the Queen,” she said. After the waiter took their orders and left, Caro leaned across the table. “Are all immortal beings evil?”

“Haven't met a decent one yet,” Jude said.

“How can you be sure they're all bad? My uncle was an honorable man. He didn't ask to be bitten. Now his body is missing. If your theories are correct, he might turn into a vampire.”

“That's precisely why I went to the morgue. To examine him.”

“Well, I guess we'll never know the truth.” She took a sip of Diet Coke. “But if Uncle Nigel turns up in a black cape, I won't throw holy water at him.”

“He won't be your uncle.”

“Yes, he will.”

“He'll bite you.”

“Nonsense. I'll feed him steak tartare.”

“It won't stop his blood thirst.”

“We're discussing hypotheticals.”

“No, we're not. Your uncle wouldn't be the same. Vampirism affects the brain's chemistry.”

“I've been bitten. And I'm not craving blood.”

“You'd want it after a dozen bites.”

“For the sake of argument, let's say I ran into a vampire on my way to the ladies' room, and he bit me from head to toe. Let's say I got just enough stem cells to turn. What would you do?”

His jaw tightened. “I don't know.”

“Would you run off into the night?”

“Yes.”

She didn't ask why. She didn't need to. Vampires had taken everything from him. But whether he stayed or went, she had no intention of getting bitten again.

After dinner, they went straight to their room. Caro sat on the edge of the bed and kicked off her flats. Jude opened his backpack and pulled out the plastic bag with the hair and her bloody clothes.

“We need to stash this in a safe place for now,” he said.

“No one is looking for my DNA in Greece. Can't housekeeping take it?”

“Let's put it in a locker. We'll rent one at the train station. When the heat's off, I'll come back to Thessaloniki and deal with the bag.”

“Are we leaving in the morning?” she asked.

“It's up to you. But it might not hurt if we stayed here a few days, would it? We've had a hectic twenty-four hours. And Meteora isn't going to be a cakewalk. We've got to tramp through monasteries and find a nameless monk.”

She unzipped her duffel bag and rummaged for a fresh T-shirt. She didn't have a slip or a teddy, and she was definitely in the mood for silk and lace. But a woman on the run didn't have time to shop for a negligee.

Jude leaned over her shoulder. “What's a man's wallet doing in your bag?”

“It's Uncle Nigel's.”

“From the crime scene?”

She nodded.

“Was anything missing?”

“Money and credit cards. And my photograph.”

“Check it again. He may have slipped a paper into a crevice. And I'd like to take another look at his passport.”

She pulled it out of the bag and handed it to Jude. He turned the pages slowly, pausing over the section of clues. “Caro? Have you seen this?”

He pointed to the back page of the passport, near the bottom.
Sa kal Okyrv
had been written in shaky, minuscule handwriting, with a slash of dried blood beneath it.

“I can't believe I missed that.” She studied the words.
“Sa kal Okyrv?”

“Here's another one, too.” Jude tilted the book. In the crease was another bloody smear.
Nrot hath setaf a
was written in the same shaky, diminutive print. “Could these be more clues?”

She squinted. “How did I miss them?”

“Well, they're tucked in the back. Maybe he wrote them as an afterthought.” Jude paused. “Was the passport found beside his body, or in his backpack?”

“I don't know. Why?”

“When the Bulgarian police worked the crime scene, they would have noticed a passport beside the body, and they would have examined it.”

“But if Mr. Velikov had seen the anagrams, he would've kept the passport.”

“Maybe. Maybe not.” He glanced at the pages. “I hope these clues don't lead back to Bulgaria. Because we can't go back.”

“No.” She squinted at the words. What did they mean?
Sa kal Okyrv. Nrot hath setaf a.
They didn't form semi-logical phrases, like anagrams. “I can't crack these clues,” she said. “I can't think straight.”

“You don't have to solve them this second, do you?” He tugged the passport from her hands, set it on the bed, and drew her into his arms. She pressed her head against his shoulder and shut her eyes. She'd had other lovers, but she'd never yielded herself mentally to a man. Some part of her had refused to budge, always holding back. Overnight, an untouched part of her soul had opened, and she didn't know quite what to make of it.

He pressed his lips against hers, then slid his hands up and down her back. She closed her eyes as the kiss drew her in, powerful as a current. His mouth was an ocean. And she was breathing underwater.

 

Harry Wilkerson stood in front of the new window and clasped his hands behind his back. London's skyline stretched up and out in front of him. The rising sun glanced off St. Paul's, and the dome sparkled with a preternatural light. He ignored the view and peered at his reflection, smoothing down his gray hair.

One good thing about the daylight—it forced vampires to lurk in the shadows, waiting for dusk. Except for the trainspotter. Moose wasn't frightened of anything and might show up at any moment. But soon, even he would be under Wilkerson's control. The Hammersmith scientists had finally developed an SSRI that quashed obsessive-compulsive urges; it also rewired the amygdala—a teardrop-shaped structure in the brain that records the memory of fear, among other things. The next time Moose showed up for a feeding, he would receive his first chemically laced transfusion.

The chemists were also testing skin patches: a time-release derivative of Ecstasy that caused brain cells to release large amounts of serotonin. Unfortunately, the dose that soothed immortals was lethal to humans and laboratory mice. Still, it was a breakthrough. When vampires were floating in serotonin, they were easier to control.

Wilkerson looked at the notes his secretary had left on his desk. Everything was in order. Mr. Underwood's contacts in the London police department had presented the photographs to the task force; several members had rejected the idea that one flatmate had murdered the other. The information had been leaked to Sir Edmund Dowell, and he'd called the prime minister. Now, more MI5 field agents had been dispatched to Sofia. The investigation was expanding. It wouldn't be long before the Clifford girl's whereabouts were known—and he'd be one step closer to his stolen artifacts.

From his outer office, he heard his secretary's high-pitched voice. “You don't have an appointment. You can't go in there.”

“Watch me,” came a deep nasal voice.

Wilkerson turned away from the view. The door swung open, and Moose stepped inside wearing his sun-reflective jumpsuit. The secretary scrambled behind, her backside moving up and down in her tight black dress. Yok-Seng's heavy footsteps shook the hall, and he rushed into the room.

Moose pulled off his helmet. “You'll get a punch up the bracket if you mess with me.”

“Calm down, both of you,” Wilkerson said.

Moose winked at Yok-Seng. “For a bodyguard, you're always up a gum tree.”

Wilkerson pointed to Yok-Seng and the secretary. “Both of you leave,” he said. “Now.”

“You heard the lad,” Moose called.

After they left the room, Wilkerson folded his hands on the glossy table. His nose twitched as Moose's earthy aroma filled the room—blood and iron.

“So nice of you to drop in,” Wilkerson said.

“Not at all.” Moose plopped down in a chair, the leather creaking, and began cleaning his nails with a paper clip. “A word of advice: Get rid of the chink. He's always off for a whiz.”

“Can I get you a cup of tea?” Wilkerson narrowed his eyes. “Crumpets and cream?”

“Got any B positive in the cooler? It's got a sweet but metallic bite.” Moose pinched his thumb and forefinger together, as if holding up an imaginary goblet. “And yet, it's mellow and fruity.”

“I don't keep blood in this building,” Wilkerson said. “It's in Hammersmith.”

“Been there already.” Moose rolled up his sleeve and pointed to a red dot on his forearm. “But don't lie to me, mate. I happen to know that you keep bags of A negative in your wee fridge. The one that's hidden behind the paneling. Myself, I don't like A negative. It's too tangy, and it foams. But I'll drink it in a pinch.”

The phone buzzed. Wilkerson sat down at his desk and pressed the flashing button. “Sir, there's an urgent call from Romania,” his secretary said.

Wilkerson started to lift the receiver to say he'd take the call later, but Moose shot out of his chair, moving in a streak of colors. He loomed in front of Wilkerson and wagged his finger.