He jerked away. “We can’t,” he said.
She raked her teeth over her bottom lip. “But you want me.”
“Caro, we’ve been over this. You’re a vampire.”
“Half. Only half. Stop being so bloody prejudiced.”
“I’m not.”
She rolled on her side and pushed her bottom against his thigh. “You’re discriminating against me because of a few odd genes.”
“A few?”
“I’m proof that all vampires aren’t bad.”
“You’re not the only one who’s hurting. I’m grieving over the future I saw for us.”
She held her breath. He’d seen a future? They could still have it, provided she didn’t push too hard. But it was difficult to control herself because she’d never felt such raw yearning. She turned over, resisting an urge to climb on top of him, and cast about for an unromantic topic. Something that could help her understand his mind-set.
“Tell me about the night you were attacked.” She sat up. “Why didn’t the vampires bite you?”
A pulse leaped in Jude’s neck. “I don’t know. Perhaps they meant to. The fire drove them away. Chemicals were exploding.”
“I don’t blame you for hating vampires. Not one bit. I hate them more.”
He didn’t answer. She leaned over him and groped on the floor, looking for her shoes.
“What’s the matter?” he asked.
“I need air.”
“Don’t try to stand up too fast. Here, take my arm.”
They stepped onto the deck. Below, on every level of the ferry, the aisles were heaped with bodies—people sleeping in chairs and tents, curled up on benches.
“Peaceful, isn’t it?” Jude said. “I’ve always loved watching the sun rise.” He looked up at the grainy sky. A cone of light broke over the water. Caro grasped the rail. It was beaded with moisture, and her hand slid along the metal. Jude started to say something, then shook his head.
“What?” She frowned.
“Never mind. We’ll talk in Venice.” He raised two fingers in a salute.
She could almost read his thoughts, but there were too many, each one thrashing like a minnow in a bucket. She sensed fear, anger, sorrow, regret. Ravenous desire.
“I don’t regret a bloody thing,” she whispered.
CHAPTER 46
VENICE, ITALY
As the ship approached Venice, Caro walked to the starboard deck and leaned against the rail. Afternoon sun blazed through the clouds, brightening a row of terracotta palaces. Why had Uncle Nigel directed her to Venice? What was waiting at the bank? This could be a wasted trip. But she hadn’t given up on Jude. He could have left her alone in Meteora, yet he’d stuck by her.
The ferry puttered down the wide canal, looming over tiny water taxis filled with luggage and tourists. She felt a hand on her elbow, and Jude squeezed in beside her, looking handsome in his leather jacket. “Lovely day,” he said, turning his face up to the sun. “I ran into Demos and Father Aeneas at the Internet café. They booked rooms at the Hotel San Gallo. It’s near the bank.”
They took a water taxi to San Marcos Pier no. 15. As they walked around St. Mark’s Square, pigeons flew up at a slant, blotting out the dome. Jude headed toward Rusolo Campo, and she hurried after him. The Hotel San Gallo was just beyond an old well, nestled at the end of the empty courtyard, a white, three-story building with lime-green shutters framing the windows. Just around the bend, she could see the ornate façade of the majestic Banca Nazionale del Lavoro.
Caro pinched Jude’s sleeve, digging her nails into the leather, and struggled to keep up with his brisk pace.
He stopped abruptly, his brow furrowed. “Am I walking too fast?”
“You’re practically jogging,” she said breathlessly, but her gaze sent a different message. You’re running away from me.
“I won’t go far, lass. Not with these bum ankles.” His eyes seemed to say, I’m damaged goods.
“I still can’t keep up. I’ll get lost.” No matter what I do, you’ll leave. And I’ll be alone.
The truth was, she was an expert at being alone. She’d always had a wide-open space inside her—Dame Doom’s black pit—but now, finally, a radiant streak had forked into the gloom. She didn’t know much about human nature, didn’t know who or what she was; but she knew how love felt, and it flowed around her, buoyant as the notes in a Puccini aria. No, she couldn’t return to the dark. Not now. Not ever.
She gripped his jacket a little harder and breathed in his cologne. “Jude?”
He gazed down at her. “The answer is no,” he said in a soft voice.
“But I haven’t asked a question.”
“Yes, you have.” He took a breath and held it, as if he were smelling her, too, and then his face relaxed. “If we’re alone, we’ll make love. And we can’t.”
“I always avoided men who say ‘can’t’ in a cultured, I-went-to-Eton way. But you make it sound alluring.” She flashed a coy smile. “Do word pheromones exist?”
“At one time, I didn’t think vampires existed.” A wry smile flickered across his lips. “I never thought I’d be standing in Rusolo Campo, trying to hide a hyper-aroused condition.”
“You needn’t hide anything.” She smiled. “The campo is empty.”
“You’re relentless.”
“If you stop pushing, I’ll stop pushing.” She released his jacket.
“You’re always talking in riddles. I haven’t moved an inch.”
“I’m quite aware of your position.” She cupped her hands over his hands, as if she were holding baby birds, their hearts fluttering against her palms. “I don’t want to be alone tonight.”
“You’ll be on your back in two seconds, Clifford.” The vein in his neck leaped against his collar.
“That’s your favorite position, not mine.”
He winked. “I know.”
She felt encouraged by that wink. With his hips pressed up against her, a quivery sensation began in her belly and she couldn’t think straight. She locked her hands behind him and looked up into his eyes, studying the brown chips caught in the blue. “Let’s take this indoors,” she whispered. Yes. Say yes.
“I can’t.” There was that word again. It brushed past her ear, feather soft, barely above a whisper.
“And I know why. Because you love me.” She cringed. Big mistake, Clifford. She knew better than to pin the L-word on a moving target. Jude would probably think she was stoned on bat-nip, filled with insatiable cravings.
“We’ll only get hurt,” he said.
“I’ll handle it.”
“Is it that easy for you?” He pulled away from her, his eyes hard. “It’s not me you want. You’re flooded with hormones. Right now, you’ll sleep with anyone. Check back with me in a few days.”
“I’ll feel the same.”
“Right.” He didn’t look convinced. “Until then, pull yourself together. Look at yourself. You’re a wreck.” She felt a prickling behind her eyes. Maybe it was hormones or plain old tiredness, but she was going to cry. Dammit. Son of a bitch. She strode ahead of him, down the stone walkway and opened the hotel’s heavy wooden door.
In the lobby, a sleepy-eyed clerk stood behind the desk, twisting her long blond hair around her fingers. She pushed a clipboard across the marble counter and yawned while Jude wrote down the confirmation number.
Savory aromas wafted from the restaurant, lemony fish with rich undertones of sautéed onions and pancetta. The seasickness had vanished, and Caro was starving. She picked up a hotel brochure to see if the restaurant’s hours were listed.
The clerk dropped two enormous brass keys onto the counter.
“Passaporti, per favore,” the woman said, stifling another yawn.
Jude tossed down his passport, and Caro slapped hers on top of his. He grabbed a key and left hers on the counter. Then he walked toward a dark staircase.
“Shouldn’t we wait for our passports?” she called.
“This i
s Italy,” he said over his shoulder. “We’ll get them later.”
Caro lifted her key. It was heavy, shaped like a giant toothbrush. Then she hurried toward the stairs. She caught up with Jude on the landing. On either side, halls twisted off into dim passageways. According to the brochure, Hotel San Gallo had only twelve rooms, but they were tucked into corners and at the ends of steep staircases. Her room was three doors down from Jude’s.
“I’ll see you in thirty minutes,” he said. “Then we’ll talk to Father Aeneas.” His tone was businesslike and dismissive. He fit the huge key into the lock and stepped into his room.
“Make it thirty days,” she called after him, and then she closed her door a little too hard.
CHAPTER 47
MARCO POLO AIRPORT
VENICE, ITALY
The medicated blood was kept in a chilled compartment in Harry Wilkerson’s private jet. Instead of having labels, the bags were color coded.
Moose sat in the back of the plane, transfusing himself. During the flight to Venice, he had sampled the lot. The yellow bags had lessened his finger licking and toe tapping, but they withered his dangly parts. The green bags had been reserved for the Zubas, but Moose had stolen one. The blood had given him a rush reminiscent of his psychedelic days at Piccadilly Circus.
Wilkerson’s phone kept ringing, presumably with updates about the girl. When the jet landed at Marco Polo Airport, he briefed the vampires. “My contact just informed me that Miss Clifford will be staying at the San Gallo. She’s registered as Noelle Gaudet—but don’t go near her. Just hang back and watch.”
“I thought you wanted us to kidnap her,” Moose cried.
“And risk another cock-up?” Wilkerson shook his head. “Follow Miss Clifford for the next twenty-four hours. She’ll start to feel complacent. If I want you to snatch her, I’ll ring you. In the meantime, do try to stay out of trouble.”
Wilkerson took off for the Hotel Cipriani, leaving Moose and the Zubas to fend for themselves.
“Now I’m in charge of you fucking sods,” Moose said. He tossed two yellow bags to the Zubas, then he selected a bag with a green label for himself.
“Wilkerson told us to take the green ones,” said the Zuba with the nose ring. The other fiend stood in the background, rubbing sunblock over his hands—each finger bore a tattoo with some type of fucked up Cyrillic.
“He did, did he?” Moose laughed. “Well, Mr. Toffee Nose isn’t here. So you’ll get the yellow.”
Moose opened a cabinet, pulled out the IV equipment, and slogged to the front of the plane. Something cold hit him between the shoulders, and he turned just in time to see a yellow bag hit the floor.
The Zubas rushed past him in a blur, leaping over the seats, into the aisle. They climbed off the jet and loped across the tarmac. What a pair of donkeys. They needed a big telling-off. They weren’t trackers, they were murderers. Moose lifted the green bag and hooked himself to the IV.
He followed the Zubas’ distinct smells of blood, sex, menthol, and Dunhill cologne to Campo di Santa Margarita. They stood in the shadows outside the church, dabbing on sunblock.
“So, what are you lot up to?” Moose said.
The Zuba with the nose ring pointed to a medieval building. “We tracked the girl. She is outside the tobacco store with her lover.”
“You’re sure it’s them?” Moose studied the couple. The girl had frizzy, dark blond hair, and she was smiling up at a man. His brown ponytail streamed down his back as he leaned over and kissed her.
The Zubas’ mouths opened, fangs slightly extended.
Wankers, Moose thought, and then he grimaced. Ever since those transfusions, his bloody temples had throbbed painfully while the rest of his whole body had grown numb. Had he gotten a bad batch of O negative?
The tattooed Zuba pivoted on his heels and ogled a redhead in tight black pants. She hurried around a corner.
“Hey, stop acting lewd. You’re on duty,” Moose snapped.
The trio put on reflective capes and followed the couple to the canal. Moose frowned when the people stepped into a gondola. A man in a striped shirt pushed a pole into the water and the boat surged forward, merging with a dozen other gondolas, all of them floating toward a bridge.
“Hurry, duckies, or we’ll lose them,” Moose said. The Zubas ran behind him along the water. They crossed the bridge and cut down a tangled lane. The gondola skated into a narrow waterway lined with saffron and peach houses. The couple leaned together and kissed. The girl looked like the one in Wilkerson’s picture. Yet something just wasn’t on.
He and the Zubas jogged along the canal, tracking the gondola. It curved back toward Campo di Santa Margarita. The couple got off the boat and wandered to a gelato stand. Moose’s head jerked up when he heard their voices. This wasn’t right. The lad with the Clifford girl was supposedly a Briton. These people were Americans.
“That’s the wrong couple,” Moose told the Zubas.
“No, you are wrong,” the tattooed Zuba said.
“You’re barking insane. It’s not them.” Moose pulled out his new iPhone and got the number for the San Gallo. When the hotel operator answered, he cleared his throat. “Hello, dearie,” he said in a perfect imitation of a woman’s voice. “This is Mrs. Gaudet. My daughter is a guest at your hotel.”
He made up a cock-and-bull story about how the daughter shouldn’t be disturbed, that Mrs. Gaudet was merely double-checking her precious girl’s room number.
After he’d gotten the information, he caught up with the Zubas at the gelato stand. They were still watching the wrong freaking couple. The boy led the girl down a narrow cobbled lane, both of them licking their gelati. The girl’s cone was the color of blood but smelled fruity. The tattooed Zuba swaggered after them, and the one with the nose ring followed. Moose grabbed the tattooed vampire’s jacket. His hands hit a solid hardness.
The Zuba turned, his eyes flat and cold. Empty.
“You’re driving your geese to the wrong pond,” Moose said. “Let’s go.”
“No, you go,” said the nose-ringed Zuba. “We stay.”
“But you’ve tracked the wrong people,” Moose said. “The real ones are out there, riding in bloody gondolas and feeding pigeons. You’re wasting time.”
“We will catch up with you later,” said the tattooed Zuba, showing his teeth. “After we feed.”
“Whatever,” Moose said. His temples pounded, and little fishhooks of pain were spreading into his forehead. He waited until the discomfort faded, then he lifted his iPhone and punched in the number for the San Gallo again. Harry Wilkerson would pay for serving nasty blood. And his daughter would pay with her life.
CHAPTER 48
HOTEL SAN GALLO
VENICE, ITALY
Caro paced in front of the shuttered windows, her shadow dashing over the yellow walls, flitting over blue damask draperies. She fretted over the upcoming bank visit. Then her thoughts turned to Jude. If only she hadn’t made a fool of herself in the campo. Maybe it was hormones, but she needed to feel his warm breath on her cheek, his mouth on her mouth, his body inside her body. But that wasn’t going to happen because he saw her as an invading, conquering presence.
She turned away from the window and leaped onto the nearest queen-sized bed. The mattress took her body with a slap, setting off unbearably pleasant sensations. She breathed in little sips of air and beat her fists against the pillow until the pulsing in her limbs slowed. After a long while, she slid off the bed, walked to the ornate French desk, and forced herself to look in the mirror.
White face. Mussed hair. Eyes ringed with black mascara. She was a dead ringer for a raccoon. Her pupils were still large and light sensitive, but the flu-like symptoms had vanished. Heaving a sigh, she pushed back her dark brown mane. It had grown longer overnight, falling just past her shoulders, courtesy of Georgi. He was dead, yet his molecules were still alive, burrowing into her DNA.
Her mouth felt dry, as if she’d dipped her tongue in alum, and a
glossy sheen covered her palms. The internal changes were beyond her control, but she refused to let a vampire influence her hairstyle from the grave. By damn, she’d cut it off. She started toward her bag, then remembered that Jude had the scissors. She stopped abruptly, but her hair kept moving, snaking around her arms. She needed herbal shampoo and a long, soapy shower. But she didn’t trust her body chemistry. What if the dye faded? Actually, that would be a blessing. The straightening solution was another matter. If her militant curls returned, she’d resemble her photograph on Sky News. But if she went to the bank without tidying up, the teller might not reveal information about Uncle Nigel’s lockbox. Which was worse—a smelly bandit with straight locks or a clean-smelling girl with crooked hair?
When she was halfway to the bathroom, the phone rang. She sprinted back to the desk, hoping it was Jude. I’m removing the word “can’t” from my lexicon, he’d say. We can, and will, be together. Right before she picked up the receiver, she remembered to answer in French. “Oui?”
She heard a faint mewing, followed by a click, then the line hummed. She jolted, and the receiver fell from her hand. Exactly one week ago, when she’d learned that Uncle Nigel had died, someone had called her flat and meowed.
Breathe, breathe, breathe. Don’t get paranoid. Murderers don’t impersonate kittens. The caller was a Venetian cat lady who’d dialed the wrong room. Caro wanted to dive onto the bed and yank up the covers, but she forced herself to walk to the bathroom.
She’d just dried her hair when she heard three sharp raps on the door, followed by two softer ones. “It’s me,” Jude called.
“Just a moment!” She fluffed her hair. The color and texture were intact, and it fell in cold slices against her neck, soothing the wounds.
“Coming,” she called and put on an outfit that matched her mood—black jeans and a blacker sweater—then grabbed her bag and hurried out the door.
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