“Two to six hours,” Raphael said. “Depending on camel traffic.”
“I have arranged for the finest Bedouin guide,” Haji told Jude. “And good-tempered camels.”
They drove through the security checkpoint to the mountain and climbed out of the car. Haji called out to a young Bedouin. He jogged over, his white keffiyeh swirling around his feet.
“This is Abdulla, your guide,” Haji said.
“I am honored.” Abdulla’s narrow face split into a smile.
“Take care of them,” Haji said.
“Yes, yes, I shall,” Abdulla said.
Caro turned to Haji. “Will you be joining us?”
“I am sorry, no. Abdulla will escort you down the mountain at dawn.” Haji bowed. “El salamo alaikom.” Peace be with you.
Abdulla helped Caro climb onto a kneeling camel. She gripped the wooden pommel as the animal lurched to its feet.
“Yella!” Abdulla cried, and the camel started up the trail, Siket El Bashait, a camel path.
Around the bend, traffic picked up. Tourists jogged up the path, Americans in checkered headcloths, and they were followed by two Bedouins who kept shouting, “You want camel?”
When they reached the summit, Abdulla pointed to a mosque and a red granite chapel. It was surrounded by a crooked iron fence. “I will take you inside, yes?”
Jude tipped back his head. “Is it open to the public?”
“It is open to us,” Abdulla said.
“Raphael wants me to see something,” she whispered. “It’s important.”
They walked by people who were kneeling in the rocks, their heads bowed. Others stood on flat boulders and stared into the dark valley. Caro looked back and saw lights winding up the trail. All those people climbing in the dark, trusting the Fates. If God couldn’t be found here, perhaps He didn’t wish to be found.
Jude and Abdulla helped her over the fence, and they walked over the rocks to the chapel. “How old is this building?” she asked Abdulla.
“It was built in 1933, the year my grandfather was born. There is much graffiti inside.”
She pulled Jude into the dark chamber. Abdulla pressed a halogen flashlight into her hands, then scooted back to the doorway, as if guarding it. The beam hit the wall and set the fresco to dancing. She stepped back, studying the violent images.
“What is it?” Jude asked.
“A fresco.” She explained Raphael’s theory about the triptych’s panels signifying the past, present, and future. She hesitated, wondering if she should add that it was possibly the future of their unborn child—but she couldn’t tell him about the baby in front of this disturbing artwork.
Jude whistled. “Look how the art runs together.”
“Like a Salvador Dali painting,” she said, fanning the light over the images. She didn’t see a fair-haired child. No woman. No flames. But blood was everywhere. There were two armies—men on horseback attacked hordes of ambulating skeletons, but the men were victorious. One carried off a baby in a gilded cage—a war prize or captive?
Her pulse sped up, thrumming in her ears like bongo drums. The art seemed to pool behind her eyes, and suddenly she understood the prophecy. Raphael was right. A woman would be the link between humans and immortals—and her baby would have the power to save or destroy them all.
She studied the figures on the battlefield. A puzzle piece is missing.
Jude walked up behind her. “What sort of battle is this?”
“This isn’t a battle,” she said. “It’s an apocalypse.” She could almost hear thundering hoof beats, the cries of wounded men, and a baby’s plaintive wail. In the future, humans would be pitted against the immortals. And somehow her baby was involved. She placed her hand on her stomach and took a deep breath.
From the doorway, Abdulla stirred. “Come, it’s time to find a place in the rocks or they will all be taken.”
Jude rented blankets at the refreshment hut, and when he gave one to Abdulla, tears welled up in the man’s eyes.
“Sleep,” Abdulla told them. “I will wake you at dawn.”
Jude found a flat rock and helped Caro get settled. He pulled the blankets around them. She pushed the fresco out of her thoughts. For all she knew, teenagers could have painted it—wild, drug-induced graffiti.
“The stars look so close,” she whispered. The air was thinner, and she struggled to catch her breath. A Babel of voices floated around them, hushed and reverent. Even the wind sounded like a chant. Caro felt something powerful swelling up from the mountain, and from the people. If Uncle Nigel was up there, she hoped he would help her find the right words.
“Jude?” she said. “Do you notice anything different about me?”
“Your eyes.” He smoothed her hair. “They don’t look silver tonight. Your irises are shot through with turquoise. When I was young, I made a blue fire with copper chloride. It was a clear hue. The color of your eyes.”
“Mmm-hmm. Anything else?”
“Your cheeks are pink. But it’s a cold night.” He glanced at Abdulla. The little guide was curled up on a rock, the blanket tucked around his shoulders. His eyelashes lay on his cheek like sable paintbrushes.
“Caro.” Jude cupped her cheek. “We need to talk.”
Do we ever, she thought, but she just nodded.
“Can you ever forgive me?”
“For what?”
“I acted like a bloody bastard that night at Varlaam. And in Venice.”
“You don’t have to explain.”
“I know it’s happened so fast. But I can’t hold back another second.” He inched closer. “I’m in love with you, Caro.”
She traced his upper lip. “I fell a while ago. That first night in Momchilgrad. But you already knew that, didn’t you?”
“I need to hear it,” he said.
She took a breath and released it. “You’re the one I’ll always love.”
He kissed her face, wet with tears, then drew back. “What’s all this?” he asked, running his finger through a damp streak.
“I need to tell you something. But I don’t know how.”
“Just say it, darling.”
“Okay.” She took a breath. “We’re going to have a baby.”
He stared so long that she began to panic. “Baby?” he asked.
“I wanted to tell you sooner, but I was frightened. I thought—”
He pressed his fingers to her lips. “Don’t say what you feared. I couldn’t bear it. I gave you reasons to doubt me. But if I could go back to the day we met and do it over, I wouldn’t change a thing. I want our baby. Because I love his mother. And I will never stop. Not in a thousand years.”
His hand pressed against her belly. She was afraid to be this happy. Too much happiness was a jinx. She remembered her dream of the blue-eyed child, his laughter in the garden. She fell asleep to the singing voices. A long while later, she felt a presence standing behind her.
The vampires have found us, she thought. A hand grasped her shoulder. She sat up and pulled away, but it was only Abdulla. His face split into a grin.
“The sun, she is coming,” he said.
Jude helped Caro to her feet. A gold slash broke over the mountains. People chanted and prayed; others sang. As the different languages passed through the light, a kind of metallurgy occurred, each voice hammered and shaped, rising into one sound.
CHAPTER 64
ST. CATHERINE’S MONASTERY
SINAI PENINSULA, EGYPT
Pink clouds cast a reddish stain over the mountain as Abdulla led the couple down the path to St. Catherine’s. The sudden drop-offs made Caro dizzy. One wrong step and she would plunge over the edge.
“How much longer?” she asked.
“We’ve gone one hundred steps. Only two thousand nine hundred to go.”
“How did we make it up here without falling?”
“You trusted that you would not stumble,” Abdulla said.
By the time they reached the outer walls of St. Cath
erine’s, the sky had turned muddy blue. They walked past Bedouins selling trinkets and herbal cures. Tourists sat on the low walls by the center tower, waiting for the monastery to open.
“What time is it?” she asked Abdulla.
“Eight A.M.”
The camels blended into the sand, their legs tucked beneath their massive girth. One beast lunged forward, showing crooked yellow teeth, and bit another camel. It hissed, flinging out a rope of saliva. The Bedouin man said something to the animals and they settled down.
Abdulla pointed to mountains behind the monastery. “Tomorrow, I take you to the caves to see the wall paintings. It is very dangerous terrain. Bandits and weapon trafficking. But worth it.”
“How far are the caves?” Caro asked.
“A thirty-minute camel ride. Just beyond the palm trees.” Abdulla steered them past a guard in a black beret and led them across the quad. They moved through a dark corridor that smelled of freshly baked bread.
“Are all of Saint Catherine’s monks vampires?” Caro asked.
Abdulla laughed. “No, no. Most of the fathers are human. The blood drinkers shave their heads and have tattoos. They are devout, but in an extreme way. They call themselves the brethren and belong to a cult. Very elite and high-born.”
Jude pressed his lips against her ear. “The Princes of Darkness,” he said.
She pinched his cheek and grinned.
Abdulla’s keffiyeh billowed as he led them to another courtyard. He pointed to a ragged bush that jutted up from a bowed rock wall.
“I present you the Burning Bush,” he said. He plucked a leaf and held his lighter beneath it. A broad grin spread across his face when the leaf did not ignite. He escorted them to the guest quarters. Jude handed him the beaded bag, and the guide reached into his pocket and pulled out the leaf.
“For luck,” he said, then hurried across the veranda and disappeared around the corner.
A note was taped to Caro’s doorknob. She reached for it.
Caro and Jude—
Welcome back from the mountain. After you have rested, please join us in the library at midnight.
—Raphael
“Why so late?” She yawned and rubbed her eyes.
“Vampires don’t keep banker’s hours,” Jude said.
“I suppose not.” She laughed, then tucked the note in her pocket and opened her door. “I’d invite you in, but the monks haven’t allowed a woman inside these walls in centuries. We should probably sleep in separate rooms, right?”
“Yes, absolutely.” He nodded. “I’ll fetch you a little before midnight.” She hadn’t realized how tired she was until she flopped onto the bed and tumbled into a place that smelled of blood and dirt. The dogs were closing in, their red incisors clicking. She clawed her way out of the dream and sat up. Perspiration slid down her backbone. Moonlight cut through the thin curtain and fell into her eyes. The basilica was outlined against a dark lapis sky. Was it dawn or dusk? How long had she slept? She was forgetting something. But what?
From the courtyard, she heard a gagging sound. She strained to listen, but she heard nothing else but faint chanting from the basilica. The four A.M. mass. Damn. She’d slept through the midnight meeting with Raphael. She pulled on a dress, grabbed the pashmina, ran onto the veranda, and opened Jude’s door.
“We overslept,” she said.
“Bloody hell,” Jude sat up in bed and pushed back his hair.
“Maybe I can still catch Raphael.”
He rubbed his eyes. “I’ll catch up with you in the library.”
“I’ll be waiting.” She draped the pashmina over her head and shut his door. The sky had darkened and the narrow moon was starting to set. She walked down a corridor, stirring the petrol lights as she hurried toward the library.
“Caro?” a voice called.
She tilted her head and listened, as if straining to hear music. Was Raphael sending her a message? No, this wasn’t his voice. It was feminine and eerily familiar.
“Come to the Burning Bush, Caro.” The words held in the air like a clap. “Hurry, my darling girl.”
Vivienne had called her my darling girl. Caro’s heart thrummed like a cello string. No, it wasn’t possible. Her mother hadn’t survived the fire. Caro felt dizzy and placed one hand against the rough wall. But what if her mother had escaped? What if she was here? That wasn’t crazy, was it? Everything that she had believed about herself had been a lie. In this new, fantastical world, anything was possible.
Caro followed the voice into a courtyard. The Burning Bush fanned out against the stones, the leaves trembling as the monks’ voices rose and fell on the other side of the wall. A man squatted beside the bush, his face hidden beneath a brown hood.
“Are you all right?” she asked and stepped closer. The man raised his head, and the hood fell. Curly red hair tumbled out. A broad, masculine face looked up and grinned, his canines pressing into his bottom lip.
She ran toward the corridor, but icy hands pulled her back. A rough palm clapped over her nose and mouth. His sweaty flesh reeked of ketones. Vampire. She stamped at his feet, but he shifted out of the way.
“Be still.” He wrenched her elbow, and pain throbbed into her injured shoulder.
“You’re hurting me,” she said into his palm. How had he known what her mother had called her?
He mewed. “I sound like Tom Kitten himself, don’t I? Your flatmate thought so.”
Caro breathed in his sour-sweet smell. He’d murdered Phoebe? Her lungs contracted as she struggled to draw in a breath. If he didn’t loosen his grip, she’d suffocate.
“I’ve got you now, ducky,” the vampire said.
“Don’t hurt her, Moose,” a man said, his cut-glass English accent echoing. He stepped out of the shadows and smoothed his cropped gray hair. “Lovely to finally meet you, Caro. I’m Harry Wilkerson. Your father.”
Father? He’d been Vivi’s husband? Caro whipped her head from side to side.
“Yes, I was rather shocked to find out about you, too.” Wilkerson pulled duct tape from his pocket. He picked at the roll with his fingernail, then tore off a strip and stepped toward her. She barely had time to draw in a breath when he pressed the tape over her lips.
“Scream, if you like.” He smiled. “But not too loud. Moose hates screamers. He’s already killed one loudmouth tonight.”
A tear slid down Caro’s cheek. She wasn’t listening. Had Raphael or one of the monks come this way? What was that shadow by the far wall? A body? She twisted her head, trying to see. She tried to pull away from Moose, but his grip tightened.
“I never wanted a child. Yet here you are.” Wilkerson’s smile widened, but it didn’t touch his eyes. “Vivienne broke my heart. I gave her everything she wanted, and she left me for a dead man. She took a few things that belonged to me. She took my artifacts. And she took you.”
Caro shook her head. No, Philippe was her father.
“I would have found you sooner if I’d known that Vivienne had relatives. How clever of her to stash you with Sir Nigel. But not that clever.” His eyebrows went up. “Do you have any idea how much I paid for those bloody pages? One point two million pounds. Think what they’re worth now. At least ten times that amount. And I don’t even need them anymore. My scientists are worth twenty books. But it’s the principle of the thing. I paid for the book, I might as well keep it.” His eyes shimmered. “You don’t know what I’m talking about, do you? Your Greek monk stole your ten pages. Then he tried to keep me from them. A big mistake. He won’t be bothering me again, will he, Moose?”
“Not bloody likely, mate.”
“Those pages were rightfully mine—and so was the icon.” Wilkerson leaned closer. “Do you have it?”
Caro flinched as the smell of whiskey hit her face. She shook her head.
“A pity. But I’m sure you won’t mind if I take a little of your blood.” His eyes held a glint of wildness.
Oh my God. He’s going to bite me. Caro focused her thought
s to a pinpoint. Raphael, help me.
“Don’t pull a face.” Wilkerson laughed. “Moose is the vampire, not me. I want your blood for the DNA—to see if you are Grimaldi’s bastard. You do know that your mum was a world-class slut? She had a weakness for vampires. Your father could be anyone, alive or dead.”
Wilkerson snapped his fingers. “Moose, hold her down.”
The vampire pushed her against the wall and flattened her right arm against the stones. She screamed and screamed, but the tape across her mouth muffled the sound.
“Hold her steady, Moose.” Wilkerson tied a tourniquet around her arm, then slapped the inner curve of her elbow until a blue vein popped up. She barely felt the prick when he jabbed a needle into her flesh. Blood swirled into the Vacutainer, a flash of red. Wilkerson was a madman. Off the rails.
“There we go.” He withdrew the needle and released the tourniquet without bothering to bandage the nick. Blood streamed down her arm, curved to her wrist, and splattered against the stones.
“Don’t look, Moose.” Wilkerson chuckled.
The vampire cursed. Caro released a lungful of air, and the harsh breath loosened a corner of the duct tape. She ran her tongue on the inside of the tape, trying to undo the adhesive.
Wilkerson’s eyes glittered. “Do you remember the night your mother died? My Bulgarians let Vivienne watch as her immortal beloved was decapitated. Not so immortal, after all.”
Raphael, hurry.
“They told me how Vivienne begged for his life,” Wilkerson continued. “Funny, but she didn’t mention you. Not a single time did she ask for your life to be spared. So much for maternal love. But she burned. She burned with her fanged lover.”
Two veins appeared on Wilkerson’s forehead. “Come now, my darling daughter. We can make this easy or hard. Where is the icon? Don’t be bashful, or I’ll start taking lives.”
“It’s gone,” she yelled into the tape.
“Didn’t quite catch that.” Wilkerson tilted his head.
“Want me to rip off her gag, mate?” Moose glanced up. The sky had lightened to that colorless time between night and dawn, the clouds gray and rippled like an oyster shell.
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