Acquainted With the Night (9781101546000) (33 page)

Caro tore her gaze away from the car. “What?”

“Hidrosis is the Greek word for perspiration,” Father Aeneas told her. “When vampires sweat, they give off a tang. Some smell of ketones—a musky, overripe-melon fragrance. But the
Vrykolakas
who attacked you reeked of menthol.”

Caro drew her lips into a bow, remembering the raw dirt-and-blood aroma of the Momchilgrad vampire and Georgi's pungent armpits. “I didn't notice a minty smell,” she said.

“Some humans can't detect it,” Father Aeneas said. “Yet their brain chemistry is affected—it produces a psychological result. It always makes me calm.”

“Is it a pheromone?” Caro leaned forward, eager to learn more.

“Definitely not,” Jude said. “Though it mimics one. It's more like a terpenoid—that's a plant hydrocarbon. They're fragrant, with pharmaceutical properties. That explains the ketones and menthol.”

Father Aeneas looked confused. “If the chemical isn't a terpenoid or a pheromone, what is it?”

“I didn't have time to properly analyze it,” Jude said. “But it's similar to a terpene. I'm sure you've heard of Nepetalactone?”

“Catnip?” Father Aeneas asked.

Jude nodded.

“That would explain the aphrodisiac effect,” Father Aeneas said.

“But my tabby was immune to catnip,” Caro said. “Uncle Nigel was always setting out little herb-filled toys for Dinah. She ignored them.”

Jude touched his bruised nose and winced. “Perhaps she lacked the olfactory receptor. Some felines have it, some don't. It's genetic.”

Caro's mouth curved into a smile. “What does bat-nip do to humans?”

Jude's face went slack, as if offended by the comment. “It depends on the concentration,” he said. “In large quantities, the molecule causes sedation and numbness, followed by euphoria and hypersensitivity.”

“But doesn't vampire saliva have a toxin?” Caro wiggled her fingers, remembering how they had gone numb after she'd been bitten. “Surely I wasn't anesthetized from
breathing
these souped-up ketones.”

“I agree with Caroline,” Demos said. “If the catnip theory is true, then people would faint whenever they got near a vampire. Sidewalks and train stations would be filled with paralyzed humans.”

Jude lowered his eyebrows, flashing his I'm-not-good-at-explanations look. “When the chemical is excreted by a vampire's sweat glands, it evaporates and diffuses into the air and becomes less potent,” he said, but his clipped, controlled voice couldn't contain his passion for science. “If humans inhale it, they feel relaxed. But it's fleeting. A high concentration of this molecule is found in a vampire's blood and saliva. That's why Caro was temporarily paralyzed. She was prey. And predators are made for survival. They stalk, pounce, restrain, feed.”

“Why don't vampires succumb to their own chemical?” Demos asked. “Why doesn't it paralyze them?”

“Is a spider killed by its own venom?” Jude lifted one eyebrow. “An effective predator isn't harmed by its own methods of predation.”

Demos stopped at a roadside café. The blue car sped past them and rounded a curve. Father Aeneas helped her out of the van. “Tea and baklava will revive us,” he said.

Minutes later, as they sped through the mountains, Jude went to sleep, but the sugary dessert had a loquacious effect on Caro. She told Father Aeneas and Demos about her kidnapping ordeal and the dead tourist in the Dacia's trunk. “Will she turn into a vampire?” she asked.

“It depends on when she was killed,” Father Aeneas said. “And how much physical damage occurred prior to her death.”

Demos grunted. “Also, we cannot know if the vampire released her from the trunk and taught her to feed, or if he left her to starve. How many days ago were you kidnapped?”

“I don't know. I've lost track.” Caro rubbed her eyes. Since she'd come to Greece, time had elongated, flipping back on itself.

“Five days,” Jude said without opening his eyes.

Caro reached for the door handle again. “What if that woman is still in his trunk?” she asked.

Father Aeneas crossed himself. “If the vampire left his vehicle in Kalambaka, the police will find it—and the woman, if she is still there.”

“What if they open the trunk and she attacks them?” Caro asked.

“Not after five days.” Demos shook his head. “If she does not drink blood, she will appear dead. And they will bury her.”

Jude's eyes blinked open, and his mouth tugged into a suspicious frown. “How do
you
know so much?”

“My family was killed by a nest of
Vrykolakas
.” Demos lifted one hand away from the steering wheel and loosened his scarf, revealing ragged scars on his neck. “I was left for dead. Father Aeneas nursed me back to health and taught me about the fiends who'd killed my wife and children. So that is how I know.”

“I'm so sorry.” Caro released the handle, and shifted her gaze to the rear windows. Dozens of cars looped around the hairpin curves. She saw two blue cars, and her heart stuttered.

Demos saw her looking and waved his hand. “Do not worry. These vehicles are different. I did not mean to derail the conversation with my sad story. You were asking about the woman in the trunk. She will be in a catatonic state. After the police determine who she is and track down her relatives, it is likely that she will be buried alive.”

“
Alive
isn't the correct word,” Jude said.

Father Aeneas sat up a little straighter, his prayer beads clicking, and looked at Jude. “I have not talked to a scientist in many years. I would like to hear more about your research.”

“If the victim receives enough stem cells through the bite wounds, or if he drinks a vampire's blood, he will enter the first hibernation phase,” Jude said. “The victim will appear to be dead. No vital signs. No brain activity. Yet the blood is teeming with immature stem cells, and they're dividing at an extraordinary rate. When the transformation is complete, the victim will regain consciousness. He'll need an initial loading of blood. And if he doesn't get it, he'll go into a frenzy.”

Caro touched her neck, her fingernails grazing the edges of the Band-Aid. The slight pressure sent a peppery heat rushing between her legs. Damn, she'd become a female roué.

“When a myth is found in many cultures, it must have some truth,” Father Aeneas said. “Some people may quibble over etymology, but they're missing the point. Vampires have been around for—dare I say it?—an eternity.”

He chuckled, and Demos nodded vigorously.

“The Russians have the
Upyr
,” Father Aeneas continued, “yet this word is mixed up with heretics. The
Strigoi
are Romanian vampires—actually, they have several categories, but I won't bore you.”

“Albanians have the
Shtriga
,” Demos added.

“The Japanese have
Kamaitachi
,” Father Aeneas said. “The Aztecs had the
Civataleo
. Serbians and Bulgarians have
vampirs
. Incidentally, the Serbians have a name for a child born of a vampire and a human—the
Vampirdžije
, a vampire finder. And, of course, the Bulgarian
vampir
supposedly has a single nostril.”

“That myth has been debunked,” Caro said, remembering Teo and Georgi's perfectly formed noses. She hoped the Serbian vampire killer was a myth, too.

“Yes, it has.” Father Aeneas paused. “But the mystery of Agathonos Monastery hasn't been explained.”

“What happened there?” Caro asked. Despite the grim subject, she felt soothed by the academic discussion because it reminded her of Uncle Nigel.

“A monk was exhumed fifteen years after he went to God's glory,” Demos said. “His body was undamaged. No bones, no mold, no rot.”

“Well, perhaps a little decay,” Father Aeneas said. “But I have heard that the air was clean, with a hint of freesia. The monk appeared to be sleeping. Supple flesh. Robust coloring.”

“But no breathing,” Demos said.

Caro leaned in closer to Father Aeneas. “But what prompted the exhumation?”

“It is a custom in Greece. Perhaps you saw the sacristy at Metamorphosis?” Father Aeneas glanced out his window. “Burial space is limited. However, when the brothers are exhumed, nothing but bones are found. Normally.”

Caro leaned back against the seat and watched the sun inch its way up the sky. Her eyes watered, and she put on her sunglasses. She'd had trouble with her vision after Momchilgrad, but this morning, it was worse. Still, the light was a comfort, an ancient symbol of protection. They would be safe from vampires until sunset.

“Of course, there have been other cases of preserved bodies,” Father Aeneas said. “The prophet Daniel was found intact.”

“Do not forget Pope John the Twenty-third.” Demos lifted one finger. “Four decades in a casket, and his body did not decompose.”

“I suppose the story of Saint John of the Cross is the most interesting,” Father Aeneas said. “His mortal remains were buried, exhumed, reinterred, and exhumed again. During one of these outings, someone wanted a souvenir and hacked off Saint John's finger. It bled. No one bleeds after death.”

“He was a vampire?” Caro asked dryly.

Father Aeneas gazed out the window, as if the answer were floating in the sunlight. “I only know that he achieved a kind of everlasting life.”

“Did the Church explain his finger?” Jude asked.

Father Aeneas shook his head. “Perhaps it was a metabolic oddity.”

Demos's lips spread wide, showing a mouthful of small, crooked teeth. Then he said, “Or maybe he did not like the taste of blood.”

 

The clerk in the Igoumenitsa port office issued four first-class tickets without asking for identification. The luck continued as Caro followed the men down the steps, where they joined the line at the passenger boardwalk. A bold red stripe ran down the length of the ferry, with MINOAN LINE printed in black letters.

Even with her sunglasses, the light hurt Caro's eyes. She narrowed them and watched passengers walk along the dock. Four American teenagers passed by, chattering about Venice and the knockoff handbags they hoped to buy. Not too long ago, Caro had led a similarly normal, if dull, existence. She'd shopped at thrift stores, watered her African violets, and escorted tourists through Windsor Castle. But normalcy had been an illusion. Her mother was a thief, and her father was a vampire.

A commotion rose up from the front of the line as the military police interrogated a passenger. Caro's uncle had once said that Greek border officers were notorious for inventing ways to detain travelers. She glanced back at Jude, but he was studying his ticket. Behind him, Demos's bottom lip slid forward as cars and trucks were loaded into a wide compartment.

Caro turned around, and the hairs on her neck tingled, as if someone was watching. She shrugged it off, blaming her reaction on the chilly breeze, but when she reached down to button her coat, it was already fastened. Nerve endings kept firing in the back of her neck, and gooseflesh rippled down her arms. Someone was definitely watching. She whirled around and bumped into Jude.

“Anything wrong?” he asked in French.

She stared up at him, confused, then she remembered they were carrying French passports; Father Aeneas had warned them not to speak English. She looked past Jude and studied the long line that stretched behind them. Teenagers were listening to iPods; an elderly couple argued about their accommodations in Venice; a mother fussed at a towheaded child. Caro didn't know what she was looking for. None of the passengers wore visibly thick sunblock. If the British authorities were here, wouldn't they simply pull her aside for questioning? Or maybe they were waiting.

Waiting for what?

She thrust her hands into her pockets, and Father Aeneas's words ran through her head:
Do you sometimes know what people are thinking?

Near the front of the line, the police yelled at another passenger. The man bellowed. Two officers grabbed his arms and led him off the dock toward a squatty building. After a moment, the line moved ahead.

Father Aeneas held out his tickets and passport. The policeman's unibrow formed a crooked ledge over his eyes. He said something in Greek and stepped back to let the monk pass.

Now it was Caro's turn. The policeman studied her passport, and she forced herself to smile. “Where in Greece have you been?” he asked in French.

“Meteora,” she said, affecting a provincial dialect.

The policeman leaned closer, and his sour breath hit her face.
Ketones?
she thought. No, the man stood in daylight. But he made her nervous. She sneezed, hoping he'd back off.

He didn't.

She sneezed again, more forcefully this time.
“Excusez-moi.”

He shoved her passport and ticket into her hands, then waved her through the line. The policeman's eyes flickered over Jude's bruised face. Father Aeneas shuffled forward, pointing at Caro, Jude, and Demos, indicating they were together. The monk smiled at the policeman and rattled off something in Greek.

The policeman nodded. Demos rolled his eyes and nodded at Caro. Then he glanced at Jude, raised an index finger and drew a triangle, adding a dot at the apex. The policeman's eyes moved up and down, watching Demos's finger move.

A love triangle? Caro felt a blush creep up her neck. She always blushed when she was nervous, but she hoped the policeman didn't notice. The ferry's horn pierced the air, and Caro dropped her passport. Father Aeneas picked it up and slipped it into her hand, giving her arm a reassuring pat.