Acquainted With the Night (9781101546000)

by Maitland, Piper

  “You will. It’s just chemicals.” He shrugged. “Pheromones.”

  “Either you care or you don’t.”

  “It’s not that simple. There’s no future for us. What if we got married? Our children would be part monster.”

  “We don’t need children.”

  “I do. We can’t be together.”

  “Give one reason why—and make it a damn good one.”

  “Because you’re a fucking vampire,” he cried, his voice echoing.

  “Half,” she said, lifting one finger. “Only half.”

  “What part don’t you understand?” His forehead creased. “You’re one of them. I can’t be with you. It ends right here.”

  “No!” She flung herself against him, locking her arms around his neck. For a second, she thought he might embrace her, but he grabbed her wrists and pulled her away.

  “Do not try to seduce me,” he said.

  “I wasn’t.”

  The corners of his mouth turned down. His eyelids were swollen, his face mottled. He exhaled, filling the space between them with whiskey fumes. Averting his gaze, he sat down at the opposite end of the table and pinched the bridge of his nose. Two veins protruded on the back of his hand. Caro looked down at her own hands, and her throat clenched. Her veins were smaller but carried a violent history.

  She sat on the edge of a chair and shut her eyes, trying to still her thoughts. She’d returned Jude’s money—why was he still hanging around? She pushed down another surge of hope and forced herself to picture her old garden in Oxford and how the morning light spilled over the flower beds. When she was a child, Uncle Nigel had showed her how to plant tulip bulbs. He hunkered in the grass with a trowel, pushing the bulbs into the soil. Next, they planted lavender, basil, and parsley near the kitchen door. Later, they played tag; she always hid behind the boxwood niche where a statue of Pan stood, green moss spreading up his woolly thighs.

  She pictured her uncle’s desk, the cubbyholes stuffed with notes and students’ papers. Reference books lay open on chairs and tables, any available surface. Dinah, the cat, was drawn to chaos, and she daintily picked her way through the debris.

  The cheerful memories circled back to vampirism. Caro tried to remember childhood illnesses, but she’d been a vigorous child. Once, though, she’d fallen sick. It had been a snowy winter morning. She’d awoken with a sore throat, and by noon she’d spiked a fever. Her uncle had spoon-fed her ice chips until her teeth chattered. By dinnertime, the fever had broken, and she was turning cartwheels in the hall.

  Why hadn’t Uncle Nigel told her about Vivi and the stolen artifacts? His life’s work had centered around pulling secrets out of the dirt. Because the truth wouldn’t stay buried. The truth was a force of nature.

  CHAPTER 40

  A faint, scratching sound echoed on the terrace. Caro lifted her head and squinted at the French doors. Through the bubbled glass, she saw an eyelash moon. How long had she slept?

  She glanced at her watch: four A.M. Jude hadn’t moved from his chair, except he’d gone to sleep, resting his head against the table. He muttered something and stirred, and then his breathing slowed. Father Aeneas was wrong. She couldn’t read people’s thoughts. She didn’t even know if Jude was really sleeping, much less why he’d stayed.

  From the terrace, the scratching continued. She turned, and a shadow flitted by the door.

  “What’s that noise?” Jude mumbled without lifting his head.

  “A scrabbling. Could the police still be searching for us?”

  “When I was down there, I didn’t see anything.”

  She pushed back her hair and faced the terrace. A tall, gaunt man stood behind the arched door. It was the tall Bulgarian who’d locked her in the Dacia’s trunk.

  He kicked the door, and it flew open. Cold air whipped through the room, making the candles sputter.

  “V-vampire,” Caro yelled and scrambled to her feet.

  Jude lunged from his seat and charged the man. There was a blur of arms and legs, and then Jude was flying across the room. He slammed into the cupboard and then dropped to the floor. Dishes toppled from the shelves, crashing around his shoulders. He groaned. One hand scraped through broken crockery. Then he stopped moving.

  Caro snatched a cup and threw it at the vampire. He swerved, and the cup whizzed past his head and clattered against the wall.

  “We meet again,” the man said, then bowed. “Or do you not remember me? I am Georgi. And you are the queen of England, yes? You damaged my trunk, Your Majesty. And killed my partner. But all shall be forgiven.”

  “Stay away!” She threw another cup, but this time Georgi didn’t duck; he caught it in one hand.

  “You have something that does not belong to you,” he said.

  “Stay away, you bloody bastard.”

  “Give me the pages you stole.”

  “I don’t have them.”

  “No? Then I will come up with another use for you.” His eyes flicked over her. He threw the cup over his shoulder and fished a knife from his pocket. The air stirred as he crossed the room and pressed the knife to her throat.

  “Do not move or I will cut you.” He pushed the blade into her flesh. She felt a pinch, and then something trickled down her neck.

  “I have longed for this.” He licked her throat. She smelled iron and an acrid, musty smell. She felt a sharp pain below her right ear, and then he sucked her flesh, his throat clicking. Oh my God. He was drinking her blood. She tried to claw his cheek, but her arm tingled and wouldn’t move. A numbing sensation crept down her jaw, seeping into her limbs, just as it had in Momchilgrad.

  Georgi tipped his head back, her blood streaming down his chin. His nostrils flared and he began wheezing. Caro remembered the vampire in Momchilgrad—was this some sort of odd ritual or vampire physiology?

  His rasping worsened.

  Run, run, run. But how much of her body was paralyzed? Her arms hung limply at her sides, and a tingling buzz moved downward, spiraling through her chest toward her lower body. Could she move her feet? She scraped her foot over the floor—good, her legs weren’t numb. Gritting her teeth, she rammed her knee into Georgi’s groin. He moaned and doubled over, clapping both hands over his groin. Burgundy threads trickled down the corners of his mouth. Her blood.

  Adrenaline spiked through her veins, and her dead limbs flooded with sensation. She lifted a wooden chair and smashed it over Georgi’s head. He dropped to one knee, still holding his testicles, and howled.

  She ran across the room, skating through broken china, and hunkered next to Jude. He was still unconscious. She pushed two fingers against his neck. His pulse was strong, but fast. The air stirred around her. A cold hand circled her neck. She groped on the floor, grabbed a china shard, and drove it upward. She felt it hit something solid.

  Georgi bellowed, and his hand fell away from her neck. He staggered backward, blood streaming from his eye, and bumped into the altar table. The crucifix and candles fell over.

  Caro’s breath came in hitches. She snatched another shard and brandished it. The vampire held his hands over his eye, blood gushing over his fingers, and sank to the floor. She crawled back to Jude and pulled his head onto her lap. “Please, wake up.”

  He blinked. As he began to stir, bits of pottery crackled beneath him.

  “Open your eyes, darling,” she said.

  He blinked, and then a tendril of smoke blew over his face. Caro glanced up. Across the hazy room, flames licked across the altar cloth. Beneath the table, a shadow uncoiled.

  Caro released a shuddering breath as Georgi rose from the smoke. He pulled the shard out of his eye and tossed the piece over his shoulder. The smoke wafted as he shot across the room and seized Caro, shaking her until her neck bowed. A gluey, flypaper sensation trapped her conscious thoughts. She felt herself rise as he dug his hands under her armpits and dragged her past the blazing table, onto the terrace. Faint pink light glimmered over the mountains.

  A blast of wint
ry air hit her face, and she sucked in a deep breath. Her head instantly cleared. She started to claw out his other eye, but he caught her wrist.

  “Now I will take you,” Georgi said.

  A raw, ripping pain broke through Caro’s neck as he pushed his teeth into her flesh. His throat clicked and clicked. The bastard was sucking the wound as if it were a ripe peach. Tears and blood ran down her cheeks and curved under her jaw. If she didn’t break free, Jude would die in that burning room.

  She tried to lift her knee again to smash Georgi, but the numbing sensation was stronger this time and her foot clunked against the floor. She tried to move her toes, but they were dead, dead, dead.

  As he drank her blood, her other senses sharpened. The acrid stench of the burning altar cloth rushed up her nose, mingling with Georgi’s sour breath. From inside the room, she heard two heartbeats, crackling flames, and an odd zipping noise.

  Georgi must have heard it, too, because he wrenched his teeth out of her neck and glanced toward the burning room. Black fluid pulsed out of his ruined eye and curved down his cheek. She tried to push him away, but the unusual anesthesia had turned her arms into leaden posts.

  He released her, and she fell to the terrace floor.

  “You can’t kill me, old fool,” Georgi said.

  Old fool? Caro twisted her head. The monk stood in the doorway, aiming a crossbow.

  “Caroline, move out of the way,” Father Aeneas said, his voice low and controlled. Smoke billowed above his head and scattered into the dark. The feeling was creeping back into her limbs. Gritting her teeth, she flattened her shoulders against the balcony rail.

  The arrow whizzed through the air and thudded into Georgi’s chest. It made a hollow sound, like thumping a melon. His long fingers curled around the shaft. Blood surged around his fist and streamed down the front of his trousers. A second arrow slammed into his chest, inches from the first. He staggered backward across the terrace and toppled over the rail. Caro’s arms tingled as she rose up and peered over the ledge. Georgi rolled down the embankment. Cracking noises echoed as his body plowed through brush and stumpy trees.

  “Vrykolakas,” Father Aeneas said.

  Until now, Caro had not known how to pronounce that word. It sounded sinister yet exotic on the holy man’s tongue: vree-KO-la-Kahss. Vampire.

  “He is the one who came to Varlaam last night.” Father Aeneas shifted the crossbow to his left hand. Arrows jutted up from a deep pocket of his robe, and they clicked violently as he stepped to the ledge. “Where did he land?”

  “The bottom.” She pointed. Lights from the base of the monastery shone on Georgi’s body. He was so far down, he resembled a crushed spider, but her vision was still sharper than normal and she saw the gruesome details. He lay face up, his arms and legs spread at crooked angles. A bone jutted out of his thigh, poking through his trousers, and dark blood pooled around his head.

  Caro grimaced. “Please tell me he’s dead.”

  “Not yet.” Father Aeneas reached for another arrow.

  Georgi’s arm moved, and then his fingers dug into the soil. He dragged himself out of the light, toward shadowy rocks.

  Father Aeneas lifted the crossbow and aimed. The arrow zipped down, clunked against a rock, and spun off into darkness. The monk loaded another arrow. It thrummed down and lodged in Georgi’s chest.

  Smoke rolled past Caro, and she struggled to her feet, her legs wobbling. “Fetch Jude. He’s unconscious. And the room is on fire.”

  “Stay here,” Father Aeneas said. “Keep your eyes on the Vrykolakas.”

  A ribbon of blood slid down her neck, and she shivered.

  Father Aeneas hunkered beside her. “You were bitten?”

  She nodded.

  He fumbled in his pocket, drew out a white handkerchief, and pressed it to her neck. “Hold firm pressure,” he told her. “Was Jude bitten?”

  “No. But he’s injured. And he’s breathing smoke.”

  Father Aeneas hurried into the room. She glanced down at Georgi. He hadn’t moved. Without turning, she tracked the monk’s footsteps. His sandals crunched over the broken china. She heard a splash, followed by a hiss. She turned. The monk heaved a bucket of water onto the table. The flames sputtered, and black smoke coiled toward the ceiling.

  Father Aeneas’s robe waffled around his feet as he strode over to Jude. She leaned over the ledge. Georgi still hadn’t moved. She was certain he was dead. She glanced back at Jude. He sat up, rubbing the back of his head. The monk set a first-aid kit on the table and rummaged inside. He saw her staring and pointed.

  “Watch the Vrykolakas,” he said.

  She turned away. The sun inched its way up the mountain, spilling light onto the red tile roofs of Kalambaka. She looked down for Georgi, but he was gone. Her pulse thrummed in her ears. She yelled for Father Aeneas, and he ran to the terrace. Jude limped behind him.

  “I took my eyes off him a moment,” she said.

  Daylight seeped across the valley, moving in a sharp line that divided it—bright on one side, dark on the other. Father Aeneas pointed to a boulder. Georgi crawled on his stomach, his long fingers grabbing weeds. His narrow face contorted as he stared back at the broadening strip of light.

  Father Aeneas lifted the crossbow and loaded an arrow. The string hummed. The arrow slammed through the vampire’s left calf into the ground. A sharp cry held in the air, bouncing off the rocks. Georgi struggled to pull forward, but his leg was pinned. He tugged at the arrow. The line of daylight inched forward, eating up the shadows. He screamed as it passed over his legs and hips, over his shoulders. The scream snapped off as the light hit his face and moved to his outstretched arms. His head slashed back and forth, and he clapped his hands over his eyes.

  “He’s blind?” Caro whispered.

  Father Aeneas crossed himself. His eyes met Jude’s. “He must be decapitated. Caroline should not see this.”

  Jude nodded and swiped at his nose, smearing blood and soot across his cheek. He sat down beside Caro and pulled her head against his chest. A pinprick of hope seeped through her, delicate as light streaming through a honeycomb. Something wet and warm tapped against her hand. She leaned back. Jude’s blood dripped in the space between them.

  “You’re bleeding,” she said.

  “So are you.” He pointed to the bloody handkerchief that she was holding against her neck.

  “I tried to stop him. He was too strong.”

  Jude shut his eyes. She stared, fascinated, as light moved over his legs, shining on the folds of his trousers, outlining the intricate peaks and valleys in the corduroy. His right leg was bent at the knee, and the other was braced against a stone pillar. She wondered what he’d do if she pushed her thigh against his, if his repulsion was outweighed by his desire to obey the monk.

  Wait, what the hell was happening to her? They’d almost died, and she was thinking of seducing him? No, she’d been tainted by Georgi’s horrid stem cells. She inched away from Jude and forced herself to take slow breaths.

  Father Aeneas returned, gripping pails of fresh water. She didn’t know what he’d done to the vampire, and he didn’t offer an explanation. Jude helped her to her feet, and she glanced over the ledge. A dark stain marked the spot where Georgi had lain earlier, but there was no trace of his body.

  She followed Jude into the room. Father Aeneas handed her a damp washcloth. She wiped blood from her hair and neck, taking care not to touch the wounds. The icy water trickled down her throat, cooling her blazing skin.

  Jude sat down. His nose was swelling, but the bleeding had stopped. He pulled off his sweater and threw it onto the table; his shirt gaped open, showing a smooth neck with an even pulse beat. Her mind filled with prurient images, and she forced herself to look away.

  Father Aeneas found a broom and began sweeping up the crockery. Jude glanced at Caro’s neck but didn’t comment. She doused a cotton ball with hydrogen peroxide and dabbed the wound. Jude looked at her again, then away.

 
“Any minute now, I’ll be turning,” she said. “So you better watch out.”

  Father Aeneas stopped sweeping. “Someone is coming.”

  Jude reached for his sweater. “Should we go to the cave?”

  A short, portly man in a gray wool suit entered the room. He pulled off his hat and smoothed a stubby hand over his straight white hair. His beard was white and wispy, reminding Caroline of a giant dandelion. His hand dropped to the scarf around his neck. As he fiddled with it, his dark eyes skipped from Jude to Caro.

  “Permit me to introduce Philokrates Xenagoras Demos. But his name is so long, we call him Demos.” Father Aeneas propped the broom against the wall. “He will drive us to the ferry. Demos, these are the young people I told you about.”

  “Kalimera.” Demos bowed.

  Jude stood and sat down abruptly.

  “If he can’t make it down the steps, we can lower him in the basket,” Demos said. “It may attract some attention, but if there is no other way—”

  “Don’t worry about me.” Jude waved his hand. “I’m staying here.”

  A band tightened around Caro’s chest, and her lungs flattened. So this was it? They’d never see each other again? Her eyes filled, and she dug her fingernails into her palms, welcoming the sharp sting. It meant the vampire’s numbing venom had passed through her system. She pushed harder, hoping the pain would distract her from a crying jag.

  “We should leave right away,” Demos said.

  “I’ll fetch my bag.” Father Aeneas walked toward the hall.

  Caro struggled to catch her breath. Her throat was so tight, she had to push out the words. “You’re going with me, Father?”

  The monk turned. “I have prayed for guidance. Caroline, you have stepped into the dangerous world of the night. Sir Nigel would expect me to protect you.”

  “Thank you, Father.”

  He stepped back to the table and put his hand on Jude’s shoulder. “Stay at Varlaam as long as you wish. Caroline will not be alone. I will guard her with my life.”

  A pinched look crossed Jude’s face. He leaned across the table and touched the back of Caro’s hand. “If you want me to come along, just say so.”