The professor’s wounds had been suggestive of an attack by immortals. Velikov’s thoughts circled back to his original theories. Could the British government be involved? Would they use the professor’s missing body as a way to trap the Clifford girl? And if so—why? Thurston Hughes was capable of orchestrating a ruse, though whether for his government or for someone else, Velikov did not know. The second option, vampirism, was equally possible, but there had been no reports of violent attacks in Kardzhali, human or animal. No thefts from blood banks. No reports of a naked Englishman creeping around the city.
Velikov rubbed his temples. Too much puzzlement for one night. And his dinner was waiting. He set the dining room table with Ursula’s china and lifted his cutlery. The white tablecloth stirred around his legs. He looked around for the source of the draft. A man with oily black hair and eyes like poppy seeds stood in the arched doorway. The man’s face was white and stunk of zinc oxide. He wiped his fingers on a filthy red jogging suit. Other, darker stains marked the fabric.
“Dear Ilya, always sticking your nose where it does not belong,” the man said.
“Who are you?” Velikov frowned. “How do you know my name?”
“One question at a time. I’m Georgi Stoyanov Ivanov.” He bowed. “I know everything about you, Ilya. You go to bed at nine P.M. and arise at dawn. Your wife died of uterine cancer. Every Saturday you visit her grave and leave a bouquet of lilies—her favorite, yes?”
“You are observant,” Velikov said, struggling to control his voice. He inched closer to his jacket.
The tall man bowed. “Only when I am paid to observe.”
“Did Hughes send you?”
“In a roundabout way, yes.” Georgi smiled. His teeth pricked the edge of his lower lip. “Do not worry. I will not drink your dirty bureaucratic blood.”
Velikov dove for his jacket and reached for the holster. Before he could turn off the safety, Georgi was on top of him, wrenching the gun from his hand.
“Wait. Do not shoot,” Velikov said. “Let us sit down and talk.”
“No talk.” Georgi seized Velikov’s neck. There was a snap, and the bureaucrat dropped to the floor. A tiny thread of blood curled from his ear.
Georgi touched Velikov’s wrist. Warm. A weak pulse. But the heart would not beat much longer. The smell of iron brought Georgi to his knees. His thoughts dripped down the back of his mind.
“Just one taste,” he said, then plunged his teeth into Velikov’s neck.
CHAPTER 28
THESSALONIKI, GREECE
Jude and Caro walked from the bus station to the Capsis Hotel—a square building in a bad part of the city, but it was only two hundred meters from the railway station.
When they stepped into their room, she leaned her hip against him. “After we get settled, let’s poke around the city. We can find authentic Greek food.”
He shook his head. “It’s not prudent to walk around at night.”
“But you said Greece is safer.” For the last fifteen minutes, she hadn’t thought about her uncle or his missing body. She hadn’t thought about the living dead in Momchilgrad, either.
“The hotel is in a dangerous part of the city.” Jude slipped his arm around her. “Not so many vampires, but plenty of other unsavory types.”
“I was in Thessaloniki a long time ago with Uncle Nigel and we walked everywhere.”
“Where have you not been?” Jude laughed.
“Quite a few places, actually. Machu Picchu. The Easter Islands. Antarctica. Come to think of it, I haven’t been to Miami or Chicago, either.”
She headed straight to the bathroom. While the tub filled, she picked through the miniature toiletries on the counter. She tipped blue bath oil into the water. Suds rose to the edge of the porcelain lip. She pushed her hair into a plastic cap and sank down into the steaming water. She bent her leg at the knee and rubbed soap over the ink, scrubbing away the letters: Ellen vumv ice = Venice vellum.
Her uncle was speaking from the grave. With all the museums in Venice, she was sure to find old manuscripts—but where to begin?
But the first clue, Meteora, Greece, also fit. All sorts of manuscripts, from papyrus to vellum, were housed in the clifftop monasteries. Had it only been this morning when she’d solved the anagrams? It seemed as if they’d spent years in Momchilgrad.
She pressed a washcloth to her neck, and the water dribbled between her breasts. The faint movement of the streaming droplets made her skin tingle. She soaped the cloth and ran it over her breasts. Her nipples hardened into taut peaks. Every nerve in her body vibrated like strummed guitar strings. Her head almost slipped under the water as she climaxed.
She moaned, and her foot skated along the slick porcelain bottom. One more inch, and she’d slip under the surface. She grabbed the edge of the tub, pulled up, and brushed her toes along the drain, feeling for the chain. She gripped it with her toes and pulled. As water gurgled, she tried to work up the courage to touch her nipple again. What would happen if she touched between her legs? She leaned back in the tub and waited till the water receded; her hand dropped to her stomach and moved lower and lower. Ripples moved in all directions, and her breath caught.
Even before she reached her most sensitive place, the orgasm broke loose. The sensations slammed into her, hard. It was like falling and having the breath knocked out of you, but in a pleasurable way.
Moving cautiously, she climbed out of the tub, careful not to touch herself. This could be embarrassing. What if someone bumped into her in a restaurant, hitting her breasts in the right spot, and set off an accidental orgasm? She couldn’t even become a nun; she’d have to be a recluse. She wasn’t fit to be around people.
I’m just like Jude’s mice. Her hand moved to her neck. Even light pressure on the wounds felt erotic. Before the man had bitten her, sex had been pleasing but underwhelming, leaving her wondering why the world made such a fuss about it. But she’d been bitten by a vampire and was now at the mercy of a hormonal storm.
She wound a thick towel around her body, flinching at the pressure against her nipples. The bathroom was foggy, so she walked into the bedroom and peered into the full-length looking glass. She pulled off the plastic cap, and her hair tumbled down. Her reflection peered back, still flushed and aroused. Her eyes looked different, too, more blue and rimmed with silver.
Her breasts looked rounder, fuller. Not a lot, but she knew her body, and it seemed to be changing. Would starvation change her this dramatically? She’d eaten a small bowl of chickpea soup at Mr. Kudret’s, but other than that she couldn’t remember the last time she’d eaten. She started to turn away and saw Jude’s image in the looking glass.
“You’re beautiful,” he whispered.
For a moment, she thought she could hear his thoughts, that he wanted children with her eyes. The towel fell into a puddle around her feet. She stepped out, feeling like Venus emerging from her clamshell.
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.
&nb
sp; “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.
CHAPTER 29
WILKERSON PHARMACEUTICALS
EAST LONDON, ENGLAND
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.
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