Acquainted With the Night (9781101546000)

by Maitland, Piper

  “Sì,” Caro said.

  The woman’s eyes went to the Band-Aid on Caro’s neck. “He is desperately in love with you,” she whispered in Italian.

  “Desidero,” Caro said. I wish.

  “What did she say?” Jude lifted his eyebrows.

  “That you’ll be sorry if you leave me,” Caro said.

  “Shall I wrap the necklace?” the woman asked.

  “I believe the lady will wear it,” he said.

  Caro looked down at the stone. It quivered on her chest like a beautiful ticking clock, each woeful beat pushing her away from Jude. They left the shop and turned down Calle Valleresso. A girl with blue-tipped hair squeezed through the crowd outside Harry’s Bar. She lifted a giant strawberry daiquiri, and the contents sloshed over the edge of the glass. “Scusa, scusa!” she cried. She surged around another group and plowed into Caro. The glass flew out of the girl’s hand and smashed on the cobblestones.

  Italian words flew out of the girl’s mouth as she leaped back. Caro glanced at her dress. A red stain covered the front, bits of ice clinging to the ruffled hem.

  “Let’s get you cleaned up,” Jude said, and steered Caro away from the shards, into the bar. They dodged a waiter and hurried down a staircase, into a dim hallway. A carved door stood ajar, spilling a wedge of light onto the terrazzo floor. The hinges squeaked as Jude pushed open the door and led her inside.

  “We took a wrong turn,” Jude said. “This is the wine cellar.”

  The walls were lined with corkscrews and dusty wine bottles. A long pine table stood at the far end, piled with napkins. Jude grabbed one and dabbed it against her collarbone. Their eyes met. She studied the brown flecks in his left iris. Oh, how she loved them. She pressed her hand against his cheek, the dark stubble prickling her palm.

  “I’m so afraid you’ll forget about me,” she asked. “Or maybe that’s what you want.” Where’s your pride, Clifford? Let him leave. You’ll pick up the pieces and put yourself back together.

  He shook his head. “Never.”

  “I can’t get through this without you,” she said. He looked away.

  She lifted his chin. A tear curved down the side of his nose, over his lips. She touched the tear and slipped her finger into her mouth.

  “Don’t do that,” he whispered. “Or I shall go mad.”

  His broad Yorkshire accent had an intoxicating effect, like tossing down shots of whiskey. She walked to the door and bolted it.

  “Unlock it,” he said.

  “No.” She lifted her chin. “Make love to me,” she whispered. “One last time.”

  “Here?”

  She crossed the room and looked up at him. “Yes,” she whispered. She grabbed his belt and pulled him against her. His warm, wine-scented breath stirred her hair.

  “You’re seducing me,” he said.

  She wrapped her arms around him and held tight. At first, he didn’t move, and then she felt his hand slide over her back. His mouth found hers, and his tongue began moving in a slow, familiar waltz. He lifted her skirt and drew it over her thigh. The sweet dance picked up speed, and she felt dizzy. Her thoughts scattered like wild birds. All she knew was his touch, his kiss, his smell.

  He unzipped his trousers and pushed them down. She stepped between his legs, feeling him against her hip bone. He led her to the oak table and raised her dress one inch at a time, his fingers gliding under the damp fabric, brushing against her bare stomach. His gaze dropped to her legs and moved up.

  “Turn around,” he said. “And bend over the table.”

  So that was how it was going to be. He didn’t want to look at her face. He was drawing a bold line between sex and love. She leaned over and flattened her hands against the table, feeling the smooth grooves along the wood. She felt him move against the backs of her legs. He pulled up her dress, then grasped one edge of her lace panties and tugged. As he pulled them down, she felt his hot breath on the small of her back. His lips moved up her spine, each kiss searing her skin.

  His hands dropped to the swell of her hips. “Spread your legs,” he whispered. She braced her feet apart. His body pressed close, and then he was inside her. The wine bottles started rattling in their wooden cradles. She wanted to see his eyes and fall headlong into the color blue; chips of sky, a swirling current in the Aegean, the haze of distant mountains, forget-me-nots scattering in the wind. He stopped, and the wine bottles quit rocking. She felt him move away from her, and she looked over her shoulder. Before she could ask what was wrong, his hand closed over hers, and he spun her around. He lifted her into his arms, her skirt billowing, and set her on the table, nudging her legs apart. He reached into the space between them, found her center, and entered her. She pushed her hands beneath his leather jacket and squeezed his chest, feeling dense muscles beneath his sweater.

  “Please come back to me,” she whispered.

  “I haven’t left yet.” His lips crushed against hers. His hands flitted over her cheeks, shoulders, hips, breasts. Her hips rose from the table, and she wrapped her arms around his neck. The air around them seemed to ignite. She was running through fire, and there was no turning back. She arched her back and spread her legs wider, taking him deeper and deeper.

  He gasped, then whispered in French, “I’m going to come, I’m—”

  His thighs trembled violently, and he pulled out of her. Something warm jetted against her thigh. He wasn’t going to risk having a quarter-vampire bastard. He pressed his forehead against hers.

  “I know you care for me,” she whispered.

  “What if I do? You heard what Father Aeneas said. I can’t satisfy you.”

  “You just did.”

  “It’s not me.” He shook his head. “It’s not. What if I’m keeping you from your true love?”

  She smoothed back his hair. “You are keeping me from him.”

  He looked down and groaned. He was growing. “Not possible,” he said.

  A fierce arousal swept through Caro, and it had a scent, a musky, sugar-coming-to-a-boil smell. Her knees trembled. She grabbed the table, and the pendant skimmed over her damp chest. Clock’s ticking, she thought.

  “I’ve got to have you again,” Jude said. His pupils dilated as he took her with a ferocity that left them shaking. She collapsed against him, panting. He lifted her hair and blew on her neck.

  The doorknob shook, and a man cursed in Italian. Jude and Caro pulled apart, adjusted their clothing, and walked to the door. Jude threw the bolt, and they stepped past a startled waiter. She started up the stairs, then reached back for Jude’s hand. Static electricity crackled, and her fingertips buzzed. He pulled away. Had he felt it, too?

  He stared at his palm and made no comment. They walked out of the bar and started up Calle Valleresso. At the corner, two men with short platinum hair strode down Salizada San Moisè. A burly redheaded man ran after them.

  “Hold on, wankers,” the redhead yelled in a Cockney accent. “That’s not the way to the San Gallo.”

  Jude’s eyes darkened with recognition. He wheeled around and seized Caro’s arms; he pressed his lips to her ear. “Don’t move,” he whispered.

  “Why, what’s wrong—”

  He silenced her with a kiss and his hands tightened on her arms. She tried to squirm away but he gripped her tighter. The wounds in her neck began to throb. Something was dreadfully wrong. Over his shoulder, she saw the redheaded man cut down Seconda Calle de la Fava, trailed by the skinny guys. They weren’t looking at Caro, but she felt pulled in their direction. The holes in her neck thrummed. Vampires.

  A girl in a green dress hurried down Seconda Calle de la Fava. Her high heels clicked as she turned the corner. The blond vampires shot after her.

  “Leave it, you grot bags,” the redheaded man yelled.

  Their footsteps faded to a distant clap as they ran after the woman. Jude’s lips were still jammed against Caro’s. “They’re gone,” she said, her voice echoing in his mouth.

  He pulled back. “Did y
ou see those men?” he asked.

  “Yes, of course. You know them?”

  “The big ginger guy came to my lab in York. He held me down while the Bulgarians cut my tendons.”

  “How did they track you to Venice?”

  “They’re not after me.” He grabbed her hand. “We’ve got to get to the hotel and warn Father Aeneas.”

  “They’re moving that way.” She pulled him in the opposite direction, down to Campo San Moisè, and stopped in front of the Hotel Bauer. Off to the side, gondolas bobbed in a narrow canal.

  “Let’s hide in the Bauer,” she said, pulling him toward the glass doors. The lobby was jammed with people. Jude and Caro stepped around luggage racks and angled to the pay phones. Caro dialed the Hotel San Gallo and tapped her fingers against the marble ledge while the operator connected the call. Jude walked over to a map of Venice that hung on the opposite wall.

  “Father? This is Caro—there’s a lot of noise. Can you speak up?”

  “Where are you?” Father Aeneas cried. “Demos has been looking everywhere.”

  “We ran into a snag.” She explained about the vampires and their connection to Jude.

  “Is he certain?” Father Aeneas cried.

  “Yes.”

  “But why are his attackers in Venice?” Father Aeneas asked.

  “They’re tracking me. You and Demos could be in danger, too.”

  “I am not worried for myself.”

  “Just be careful. We spotted the men by Saint Mark’s Square. They were headed to Hotel San Gallo.”

  “You are certain?”

  “One of them mentioned it.” She wrapped the phone cord around her wrist.

  “When are you coming back to the hotel?”

  “I’m not. I’ll just get a room at the Bauer.”

  “Should Demos fetch the vellum sheets and icons from your room?”

  “They’re with me. I’ll take good care of them, Father.”

  “You are so like your uncle. Meticulous and brave. Sir Nigel would be proud.”

  Caro glanced toward the map. Jude was tracing his finger over Murano, then out to the lagoon. “I’ll call tomorrow.”

  “Go with God,” Father Aeneas said.

  She hung up and stepped over to the map. “The lobby is jammed. We shouldn’t linger.”

  “I found Isla Carbonera.” He touched a tiny dot on the map. “It’s in the north lagoon. Between the airport and Murano.”

  “Seriously?” She leaned forward, and a wild flutter moved up her spine. Sure enough, there was the island. She squeezed Jude’s arm. “Let’s go.”

  “Now?”

  “Why not?”

  “Why not? Because those vampires are lurking. And we don’t know if Villa Primaverina is on that island.”

  “Let’s ask the concierge,” Caro said.

  “Twenty quid says she’s never heard of that villa,” Jude said.

  “You’re on.”

  They walked to the concierge’s desk. The woman smiled and ran one hand over her shiny blond hair. Her smile changed into a frown when Caro asked about Villa Primaverina.

  “It’s on one of the islands,” the concierge said with a faint German accent.

  “Isla Carbonera?” Caro asked.

  The woman gave a short nod.

  “What’s the best way to get there?” Caro asked.

  “You can’t.” The concierge narrowed her eyes. “It is private. No tourist boats go there.”

  “Surely you can arrange a water taxi.”

  “Are you a guest at the Bauer?”

  Jude slid a fifty-euro note over the woman’s desk. “Does the Signore Raphael Della Rocca live at Villa Primaverina?” he asked.

  “He owns the island.”

  “Who is he?” Caro asked.

  “A rich man who hates tourists.”

  “We need to see him,” Jude said.

  “You would have better luck at the Vatican.”

  “It’s important.”

  “I can arrange a private water taxi, but it will be expensive.” The concierge tapped an ink pen against her palm. “Make sure the boat stays. You don’t want to be stranded.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s a long swim back.”

  CHAPTER 50

  HOTEL DOMUS CAVANIS

  VENICE, ITALY

  Moose put his fingers into his ears, trying to block the sound of the girl’s screams, but the hotel’s walls were thin. The Zubas were in the next room, and each time the girl wailed, the men told her to squeal louder.

  No one will ring the bloody police, Moose thought. Not in this stink-hole.

  “Put a bung in it!” He threw a shoe at the wall.

  Everything had gone pear-shaped earlier that night after the Zubas had butchered the young couple. Next, they’d stalked a girl in a green dress and dragged her to their room. Moose didn’t know what they were doing, but it wasn’t love bites or the old rumpy-bumpy. Drinking blood was one thing, dismemberment was another.

  He cringed as one of the Zubas yelled something in Russian. The woman shrieked. Moose wished he had an iPod. He’d turn it up full blast, listening to Leona Lewis sing “Bleeding Love”—God, what a set of pipes.

  The girl whimpered. There was a pause, and the Zubas laughed.

  Moose’s mobile phone vibrated, skidding on the table’s smooth surface. He snatched it up and grimaced when he recognized Wilkerson’s number. Pip-pip, cheerio, and all that rot, he thought.

  “You’re blown,” Wilkerson said. “Find the Zubas and meet me at the airport.”

  “Now? But I thought the Clifford girl was here.” Moose glanced at the wall. The pictures were shaking.

  “You can’t track her now. The police are looking for you and the Zubas. Someone reported a disturbance at the Hotel San Gallo—were you there?”

  “Not by myself, mate.” Moose exhaled through his teeth. “I told you not to bring the Zubas. They’re wreaking havoc. First off, they killed a couple. Said it was the Clifford girl and her fellow. I told them they had the wrong people, but no, the Zubas think they’re bright sparks. They butchered the pair. Dumped their body parts into the canal.”

  “Why didn’t you stop them?”

  “Two against one?” Moose cried. “Against them? I told you I wouldn’t be piggy-in-the-middle. And you said you’d take care of it, that you’d drug them.”

  “It was supposed to work. I don’t understand.” Wilkerson sighed. “Were there any witnesses?”

  “There always are.” From next door, a screech rose up. Moose rolled his eyes. Cor blimey.

  “Did you clean it up?” Wilkerson asked.

  “Yes, ducky. And it will cost you extra.”

  “Find the Zubas and bring them to the airport.”

  “They’re engaged at the moment.”

  “Doing what?”

  “They snatched another girl. They’re with her now.” Moose held out the phone for a moment. “Do you hear the yelling? And that’s just the love bites, I’m afraid.”

  “Ruddy fuck!”

  “I’m sure they did that, too, before they—”

  “Never mind,” Wilkerson snapped. “Get them.”

  Bugger that. I’m out of here. Moose disconnected the call. Next door, the screaming snapped off. He dug through the desk and found the number for the Venice police.

  “Two men have butchered a woman at the Hotel Domus Cavanis. Room forty-five. Hurry.”

  He left the hotel, cut across St. Mark’s Square, and caught a water taxi to the airport. Two police boats sped by, toward Vaporetto No. 1, where he’d just left. That was quick, Moose thought, and leaned against the tufted seat.

  When he stepped on the Learjet, Wilkerson was sitting in the back, reading USA Today. He lowered the paper, and his glasses slid down his long nose. “Where are the Zubas?”

  “Apparently someone heard the woman’s screams and called the police.”

  “The police have the Zubas?”

  “It’s possible, ma
te.”

  “I’ll tend to them later.” Wilkerson folded the newspaper and stood. “I’ve got to tell the pilot to submit a new flight plan. We’re flying to Bulgaria.”

  “Is that where the Clifford girl has gone?”

  “No, she’s still in Venice. But your work here is finished.”

  “Because of the blooming Zubas?”

  “Not entirely. I’ve got to see a man about a dog,” said Wilkerson.

  “A real dog?” Moose squinted.

  “No, Moose.” Wilkerson started down the aisle toward the cockpit, then turned his head. “You have absolutely no sense of humor, do you? It’s just my way of saying ‘Sod off,’ but in a kinder, gentler way.”

  Moose smirked. “Aren’t you the lad.”

  CHAPTER 51

  ISLA CARBONERA

  LAGUNA VENETA

  The water taxi skidded past Isla Murano toward a brightly lit island with a steep, medieval wall. The driver pointed, shouting into the wind, “Villa Primaverina.”

  The taxi puttered around the wall toward a rectangular landing. Behind it, the villa rose up. It reminded Caro of a floating hotel, a four-story Italianate the color of oyster shells. Grand, curved steps plunged down to the water.

  Nearly every window in the villa glowed. A generator? Caro wondered. Underwater cables? The taxi passed a sign: Proprieta Privata—Guardi da dei Cani. Guard dogs? The concierge hadn’t been kidding. Signore Della Rocca didn’t want guests. The boat chugged around floats and buoys and approached the rock landing. A tall man with a crew cut stepped out of the shadows. He smoothed his hands down the front of a white dinner jacket, then he straightened a red bow tie.

  The Signore? Caro mused.

  Lights shone down on the man’s scalp, the fine hairs jutting up like wires. His long chin was knobby and dented like a potato. As the water taxi coasted to the landing, Caro saw a sailboat, a yacht, and a speedboat. The tall man glared. “Proprietà privata.” The driver’s knees shook as he explained that Caro and Jude were behind the insubordination.

  “Vaffanculo!” The tall man lifted one finger and drew a circle in the air.

  “What’s he saying?” Jude asked.

  “The island is private. He told us to leave, but in a rude way. I’m telling him about my uncle.” Caro stood up and the boat swayed. “Ascoltami!” she called. “Il mio zio è un amico del Signore Della Rocca.”