Acquainted With the Night (9781101546000) (25 page)

A chilly breeze snapped the edges of Caro's sweater, and she shivered. Jude slipped his arm around her and they walked past gift shops and bakeries. A tour guide with long black hair charged down the street, holding a tiny Greek flag above her head, steering a group toward a Byzantine church.

“I made reservations at the Pension Arsenis,” Jude said. They cut down a path and walked through an olive grove to the hotel. In the distance, the monasteries loomed, casting long shadows over the valley.

The lobby smelled of herbs and pine, and on the opposite wall, flames crackled in a stone fireplace. Just beyond the fireplace was a crowded taverna. Cigarette smoke floated over the tables.

“You are the honeymooners, yes?” the receptionist asked.

Jude nodded.

The clerk winked and held out the key. “Your suite is on the second floor. Number sixteen. Very private.”

Their room was a far cry from the honeymoon suite, with twin beds on one wall and a pine armoire on the other. Jude immediately pushed the beds together.

“Much better,” he said, then turned on the television and flipped the channel to Sky News. Caro found a complimentary bottle of ouzo on the dresser and dribbled a little into a glass.

She opened the French doors and stepped onto the balcony. The Thessalian Plain swept up into the Pindos Mountains. Dusk was falling and spotlights blazed around the distant pillars. Why had Uncle Nigel directed her to Meteora? Was she supposed to find a monk who could translate a vellum page? Or explain the mysterious icon? How did
A fates hath torn
relate to
Vrykolakas?

Jude walked up behind her, slipped his hands around her waist, then brushed his lips against her ear. “I dreamed about you last night,” he whispered. “You were climbing a snowy mountain.”

“That's strange. I dreamed about you, too, but you were in a white robe. Sand was everywhere. And wild dogs.”

“See? We're dreaming in white.”

Still holding the ouzo, she turned and slid one hand over his chest. In the background, she heard the Sky News anchorman recite global events, and she wished the hotel had a music channel. A moment like this called for old standards, songs by Frank Sinatra or Tony Bennett.

Caro twisted her head and saw her picture on the television. Even though she'd known this might happen, it was still a shock. Sky News was beamed into every hotel on the continent. If she didn't find answers in Meteora, and soon, she'd have to go underground. Changing her appearance wouldn't be enough. She'd have to be invisible.

Jude ordered room service and they ate in front of the television while Sky News recycled the same stories. “I've been thinking about that Bulgarian man I pushed in front of the truck,” she said.

“Vampire, not a man.”

“Will his stem cells make him regenerate?”

“Not after a catastrophic accident. That's where the vampire folklore comes in. The peasants used to behead a suspected vampire—no chance of regenerating a head.”

“What about a stake to the heart?”

“Again, a catastrophic injury. Two areas of vulnerability are the brain and heart. They can't regenerate quickly enough.”

“Tell me more.”

He pushed back her hair. “They're not human. They're predators.”

She nodded. “Keep going.”

“It's their world, and we're just in it. They own the night. Some track humans for sport. Others are paid assassins. Maybe someone hired the Bulgarians to find your icon. We should hide it. Say, I've got an idea. We could stash it in the lining of my jacket.”

He lifted his coat and ran his fingers along the seam.

She felt the leather. “Won't the icon be bulky?”

“Let's try.”

She found a tiny sewing kit in the dresser and threaded the needle. Jude spread his jacket on the floor and cut along the seam with their hair-trimming scissors. Then he ripped the cover from a glossy magazine, fit it around the icon to protect the paint, and slipped the wood panel inside the lining.

He put on the jacket and stood. The icon's square edges jutted out.

“It won't work.” She frowned. “We've ruined your jacket for nothing.”

“But your uncle's passport will fit. We wouldn't want those clues to fall into the wrong hands.”

She fitted the passport into the jacket's lining. Jude watched her fingers fly over the fabric as she stitched a tiny series of Xs. When she finished, he pulled a flat leather wallet from his backpack. “I need to confess something.”

“About vampires?”

“No.” He opened the wallet and plucked out a tattered photograph. “I fell in love with your picture before I ever saw you.”

“My picture?”

“Your uncle sent it with his second letter. So I'd recognize you.”

She stared at the photograph. It
was
her. Her uncle had taken it last summer when the garden was in full bloom. She wore a white dress with green buttons, and tomatoes spilled out of her apron. Her hair floated around her shoulders, blotting out the rose garden.

“Do you want to hear the whole story?” he asked.

She chewed her lip. Of course she wanted to hear, but if he kept going, she'd fall in love and it would definitely end with tears at bedtime—her tears.

He seemed to misinterpret her silence and continued talking. “After I heard about Sir Nigel's death, I went straight to your flat,” he said. “It was the middle of the night. I kept looking at your picture. My plan was to ring you at daylight and show you the letters. Then, at dawn, I saw a gorgeous girl in ragged blue jeans run out of the building, her hair flowing around her, and bang, I fell in love.”

“That's the most romantic story I've ever heard.” She threw her arms around him and pressed her forehead against his.

“But it's not a story,” he whispered. “It's the truth.”

 

Georgi stopped at a petrol station on the outskirts of Larissa. He climbed out of the Dacia and unscrewed the gas cap. Odd scratching noises came from the trunk. He wasn't ready to open it. Not yet. A howl rose up in the dark and shapes moved along the dark road.

Georgi howled back, and the shapes bolted. He filled his tank and went inside to settle the bill. The clerk sat behind the counter, leaning over the
Novinite
's sports pages. He didn't look up until Georgi's shadow fell over the newspaper.

“Can I help you?” the clerk asked.

Ten minutes later, Georgi stepped over the clerk's legs and emptied the cash register. As he tucked euros into his wallet, he saw the Clifford girl's photograph that Teo had stolen from the old professor. Nice. Georgi climbed into the Dacia and shoved the picture behind the visor. He was the hunter, and she was elusive prey.

The assignment had been to capture the girl and transport her to a laboratory in Romania. He'd been forbidden to harm her. In Georgi's opinion, it was all how you defined
harm
. The Geneva Convention did not apply.

He drove west, one bony hand draped over the steering wheel. On the console, his mobile phone vibrated and a London exchange popped up on the small display. It was Wilkerson.

“You left an eyewitness in Momchilgrad.”

“Not for long,” Georgi said. “I plan to stop there on my way back to Bulgaria.”

“Good. Have you found Miss Clifford?”

“I am tracking her.”

“Where the bloody hell are you?”

“Larissa.”

“Can you travel faster?”

“I was shot. But do not worry.” Georgi paused, smirking. “I will arrive in Kalambaka later tonight.”

“You'd better. It's gone bollocks one too many times. This time, you will do exactly what I say. Are you following me?”

“Yes.” Georgi bit down on the word.

“I've got a connection in Kalambaka—he's not a vampire, so behave yourself. Stick to animal blood for a while. Call the police department when you arrive. They'll be expecting you. Go with them to the monasteries. And remember—not one mark on the girl.”

I will do as I please
, Georgi thought, remembering the Russian woman in his trunk. There was plenty of room for two women. But he would need to tie up Miss Clifford. She had fooled him before. But not again.

An hour later he drove into Kalambaka and checked into a hotel. It was a classy place with piano music drifting from the bar. Nice. The only sour note was the clerk, a pale man with scabs running up his arms. He reeked of drugs and death.

Georgi hung around the lobby, waiting for a tourist or barmaid, but the hotel was deserted. He walked to his room and propped Miss Clifford's picture on the bathroom counter so she could watch while he poured mouthwash over his wounds. His shoulder had festered. The Turkish bullet had left him shaky and nauseated, killing his thirst. But not his desire. It burned. Day and night it shimmered with a red flame.

“This time tomorrow,” he told the picture, “you will be mine.”

The hotel maid kept knocking on Georgi's door. He rose from his hideout in the bathtub, dragging the blankets with him, and walked stiff-legged into his room. The maid was still knocking. He'd forgotten to put out the DO NOT DISTURB sign.

“Go away,” he yelled.

A moment later, he heard a rattle. He looked through the peephole. The cleaning bitch had pushed her cart away from his door. Georgi yawned and scratched the back of his head. He opened the door, hooked the DO NOT DIS-TURB sign on the handle, and bolted the door. He didn't have to leave his nest until dusk. Then he would meet the Kalambaka police and find the girl.

He walked to the sliding glass doors, standing away from the light. His room faced the big, phallic-shaped rocks. Nice. He turned on the television and waited for the weather report. It would be overcast and cold. He thought of the Clifford girl, and his pants seemed to shrink, the fabric tightening over his groin, pressing hard into his erection. “Soon, my love,” he whispered. “Soon you will be mine.”

 

The morning sun cut through the lace curtains, dividing the room into light and shadow. Caro shifted in the narrow bed. Jude's arm fell over her hips, and she pressed against him.

Without opening his eyes, he smiled. “Mmmm, you're warm.”