“Maybe I’ve finally matured enough to admire a strong woman.”
“And her ass is just a bonus?”
Andre’s mouth opened to object, but a fierce growl from his stomach silenced him.
“Wow. She does make you hungry. Haven’t you been feeding?”
“Never mind that. We need to find Pedro.”
Kos stood quickly, almost knocking his chair over. “Bel’s upstairs. I’ll send him to Pedro’s house.”
Bel could go out in the daylight; they were lucky to have him there. Still, the plan did not put Kos completely at ease.
Andre drummed his fingers on the dining room table. “Davo. What if the Hunters got him?”
“Let’s see if Bel can find him first.”
Kos darted upstairs at full speed. When he’d called last night to warn Bel that Lena would be taking up residence at the beach house, Bel had returned to Kaštel. Now, Kos looked for him in the south wing where the household lived, as far from Andre as he could get.
Kos caught his brother’s not quite human scent emanating from behind a closed door and knocked. Wordlessly, Bel opened the door and sidestepped, making room for Kos to pass. What he saw surprised him—Bel had raided the linen closet and draped white sheets over the chairs and dressers.
“What the hell?”
“This place is a fucking shrine to the house on Šolta. It gives me the creeps.”
Bel had been only fifteen when Hunters had driven them from their home. In the years preceding that tragedy, he’d stewed in adolescent indignation, blaming Andre for the death of his mother. The home of their childhood was probably the last place he would ever enshrine.
His phone rang. “Give me a second, Kos.” Bel answered the phone. “Speak.”
“Hey, we’re all getting on the plane now.” Kos recognized the voice of Bel’s second-in-command, Vania.
“Good.” Bel opened the window blinds and peered across the highway. Pointing at the bald hilltop on the other side of the two-lane road, he tilted his head at Kos in question.
Kos squinted in the bright morning light. What was he looking for? Some kind of Hunter lookout? No humans were visible on the big boulder. He shook his head and Bel nodded.
“Boss? You still there?”
Bel leaned against the sill. “I’m here. Two vans will be waiting at the airport for you. The usual set up.”
“You bought vans?”
Vania had a charmingly posh British accent, and if Kos had never seen her, he would have pictured Princess Diana, not the tiny leather-clad Indonesian badass lieutenant in Bel’s little band of mercenaries. He’d found the combination intriguing for five whole days on a visit to his brother’s a few years back.
“We’ll be here for a while,” Bel replied.
“Staying at your father’s, are we?”
Kos could practically hear her eyebrows arching. Bel must have confided about his less than congenial fatherly relationship.
“What’s the assignment?” she asked.
Bel locked gazes with Kos when he replied. “Hunters have found my father’s estate.”
She whistled so loudly the phone speaker crackled. “So an evacuation job?”
Bel grabbed a still-folded white sheet off the bed and covered the frame. As the sheet ghosted over the footboard, Kos recognized the pattern of carved triangles as the same one that had adorned Bel’s bed frame on Šolta.
He straightened the corners of the sheet precisely. “My father and Kos need to stay here if at all possible.”
Her response came through the phone so fast that Kos took a step back.
“But it’s not possible. It’s never possible.” She paused and then continued more slowly. “Now that the Hunters have found them, they’ll never stop coming. We could kill hundreds, and they’ll never stop.”
Kos turned away from the hopelessness on Bel’s face and squinted at the hilltop again in search of his enemies.
“I know, Vania, but I’m wondering if Trys can put up some permanent protections around the estate. There’s gotta be some way to supplement her power—”
Kos vaguely remembered the witch named Trys, with straw-colored hair. Bel had casually mentioned she could cast magical force fields, and when Kos scoffed, Bel insisted that magic was simply a way of controlling nature not yet understood by science. What Bel hadn’t seen was the witch waving her middle finger at him from behind.
Vania’s grave tone pulled Kos back into the present. “Bel, I know how hard it is when they have to give up everything to flee, and I know it’s your father. But it’s not his homeland. He’s already a refugee. Why is it so important that he stay?”
“Just believe me, it’s important. Not just to him—to all the refugees from Croatia. Maybe even all vampires.”
Kos didn’t understand what Bel meant, but the possibility made the back of his neck itch.
“Okay. Well, we can certainly hold them off and buy you some time, even if it’s not a permanent solution. That’s a start, right?”
“Right. Did you remember Trys’s chocolates?”
“Of course. Five hundred quid worth.” Vania’s voice pitched higher. “Is Kos there?”
He froze—why was she asking about him?
Bel laughed. “He’s here. Planning to rekindle an old flame?”
She and Kos had gotten pretty kinky with her pyrokinesis, and suddenly Kos wished he’d never breathed a word of it to Bel.
“Ha, ha,” Vania said, her voice still flutier than normal.
“I’m serious. Should I invest in some aloe vera?”
I’m going to kill you, Kos mouthed silently to Bel.
Vania remained unaware Kos was eavesdropping. “Like vampires need aloe.”
“Well, I hope you’re not disappointed, but he has a new houseguest.”
“Seriously?” She chuckled, her voice dropping to her normal pitch. “I’d love to meet the girl that can keep his attention.”
Kos’s face grew warm. Lena certainly was the girl to keep his attention, but he’d never managed to capture hers. And with that bucket of cold water dumped on his head, Kos had had enough. Pedro needed their help. He coughed and sliced his finger across his neck in the universal sign meaning, Get off the damn phone.
“Vania, I’ve got to go. See you tonight.”
“Yeah. See ya.”
“You’re a bad sport,” Bel said as soon as he ended the call.
“Gossip about my love life later. We’ve got a problem.”
“Yes, you do.”
“No. Another one. We expected Pedro at the meeting with Zoey this morning. We’re worried the Hunters got him. It’s not like him to be late, much less disappear.”
Bel’s hands slid to his side, and all ten fingers curled into fists. “Shit. I liked that bloody Spaniard. He didn’t take any of Andre’s bullshit.”
“Don’t say didn’t. Maybe we can find him.” Even to his own ears, Kos sounded pleading.
“You know that’s unlikely. If he’s still alive, there’s no telling where they’re keeping him. By the time we find him, they’ll have given him to one of the initiates.”
“We have to do something.”
“I’ll go to his place, see what I can find.” Bel pulled on shoes. “Kos, will he break? They’re highly skilled at getting information.”
“I don’t know. He’s tougher than he looks. And, he’s loyal. He loves Andre like a father.”
Kos regretted the words instantly, even before Bel said, “How nice for him.”
“Bel, I didn’t—”
“No. I’m sorry.” Bel pressed his palm to his forehead and sighed. “Andre brings out my worst. But, I’m glad to hear Pedro’s tough. They’ll keep him alive as long as they think he has information.”
“Krist. But what will they do to get that information?”
Bel’s look said Kos was right to worry. “I’ll go now.”
It was sweltering in the shed. Pedro had freed his hands by sawing the duct tape against
the metal leg of an old worktable, which had allowed him to take a piss in the corner and not down his own leg. His mouth was a desert even though he was sweating heavily, which would only dry him out faster. If he stood, he felt dizzy, and it was hard to put his thoughts in a logical order.
He was startled out his delirium by the sound of the padlock being opened. The door swung wide and Lucas Bennett stormed toward him.
“I’m sorry.”
Pedro saw Lucas mouth the words to him, before his fist connected with Pedro’s face, cracking into his right eye.
Pedro made a misstep: he put one arm up to protect his face and therefore failed to block the second hit to his gut. He doubled over in pain, angry with himself for the poor defense. Lucas’s other fist barreled into his nose and Pedro heard it crack. Blood poured out of his nostrils into his mouth and onto the ground. From his bent position, he tried to use a shoulder to throw Lucas. Pushed backward, Lucas retreated a few steps. Then Lucas planted a sharp elbow between Pedro’s shoulders, taking him down. On the ground, instinct made Pedro curl up to protect his head and gut. Lucas kicked him in the back again and again.
Every time Lucas’s boot made impact, it amped up his anger. He kept his mind occupied by assessing the damage; it was a tally of reasons to hate Lucas. Broken nose, likely several cracked ribs. He grunted with pain. There went another one. Bruised kidneys. He would be pissing blood for days. If he survived for days.
Lucas—what kind of asshole says he’s sorry and then whales on me like he wants to kill me? The beating was worse than any he had experienced as a boy because there was no hope, no end in sight. When it was over, he would remain a prisoner simply waiting for the next round of abuse. All those play-yard beatings had made him promise himself he would never feel like a victim again. It made the experience of powerlessness even worse. Most of all, he hated Lucas Bennett.
“That’s enough, son,” Pedro heard a man say. It was the mean son of a bitch who’d broken into his house. He pulled Lucas off Pedro. “If you kill him, we can’t question him.”
With Pedro curled into a ball, they began the interrogation.
“How long have you worked for the vampire?”
“Vampire?” Pedro coughed and spluttered blood. “What?”
Stephen kicked him. “Don’t bullshit us. You know he’s a vampire.”
“Who’s a vampire? You’re crazy. There’s no such thing as vampires.”
Then Lucas kicked him again and Pedro passed out. They revived him by dumping a bucket of water over him. It stung all the places his skin had split open, but it was cool.
Then Lucas shouted at him, making his battered head pound. “Tell us what you know about Maras. It will be much easier. We can do this all day and all night.”
“You guys think Andre is a vampire? Are you kidding me?”
“Have you seen him eat? Does he go out during the day? Wake up asshole, he’s a vampire!” This was from the father.
“He has some kind of disease. He can’t go out in the sun.”
“Yeah, a disease called being a vampire.”
“What’s the wine for? Why does it matter?” Lucas asked.
“It’s a winery. We make wine. What do you mean, ‘what’s it for?’” Pedro had begun to sit up. Lucas knocked him back down.
“Don’t be a smart ass. I’ll give you some time to decide if you’re going to talk or if you want another beating instead.”
Then Pedro was alone again. His head was pounding. He should try to stay conscious, but he couldn’t keep his eyes open. He laid his head down and passed out.
In his office, Andre stacked and restacked papers, searching for a task engrossing enough to distract him from his fear for Pedro and his hunger for Zoey until Kos strode in, slamming the door behind him.
“Bel went to look for Pedro.”
“What did he say?”
Kos leaned against the doorframe looking all one hundred and eighty-three years of his age. “He wasn’t hopeful. He seemed certain it was Hunters, and that they’d kill him before we could find him.”
“This is my fault,” Andre said. “I should have told him he was in danger long ago.”
“It wouldn’t have changed anything. He wouldn’t have run away.”
“Probably.”
“For certain.”
Kos went to the bookshelf, the one he always browsed when he was nervous, even though there weren’t any of his kind of books on it.
“How much wine have you had?” Kos asked.
“Ten or twelve gallons.”
“Is it working?”
“I am keeping it down.”
“Are you stronger?”
“I do not know. I feel good. I am positively tingling with an energy that I have not felt since Croatia. But maybe it is fear for Pedro, or—” or the burning need for Zoey, or “—I’m afraid it is a delusion. I want it to work so badly.”
“You look bigger, younger.”
He stretched his hands over his head, pleading his muscles to answer with limber strength. “Christ, Kos, what if it works?”
Kos’s finger came to rest on the spine of a narrow burgundy silk-bound book, one he had given Andre—a limited edition of Tate Adams’s Diary of a Vintage. Andre easily brought to mind the haunting prints of winemaking in Southern Australia, the gnarled vines and pines so very like his own estate. Tate’s black and white images captured something sinister that rang true for Andre as he wasted away, tending his anemic vines. How Kos had known it would be so heartrending, Andre didn’t know, but its poignancy made it one of the dearest gifts Kos had ever given him.
“It’s not working for me,” Kos said, emotion cracking into his deep voice.
No! Andre needed this to work, he needed Kos to be well. “Are you sure?”
Kos nodded.
“Then I must be imagining it.”
At the shelf, Kos turned to look at him. “I don’t think you are. Look, the buttons on your shirt are straining.”
Andre looked down to see his shirt pulling tight across his chest. He straightened, noticing it also felt snug in the shoulders and arms. The evidence made his stomach sink. “That doesn’t make any sense. Why would it work for me and not for you? I turned you within feet of where I was turned.”
“Just one more infuriating mystery of the wasting disease.”
“Is the wine making you sick?”
“No.”
Maybe he just needed more. “How much have you had?”
“About the same as you—at least ten gallons. On the bright side, it feels great to take a piss after so long.”
Andre refused to smile at Kos’s attempt to lighten the mood. He was ten times older, and yet his son felt he had to shield him from bad news. Did he still fear Andre would give up on living?
Kos pressed. “Today is the first time I’ve ever used a toilet. Damn handy. Shall we drink to that clever invention?”
It was useless being sullen in the face of his absurdity. “Pour me a glass.”
Just as they clinked their glasses, Kos’s phone signaled a message. He read it and cursed. “Bel’s at Pedro’s. The door was wide open, no one’s there, signs of a struggle.”
The stem of Andre’s wineglass snapped in two. “Davo.” He downed the wine, and sucked his bleeding finger into his mouth. “We have to go. We’ll start in Forestville, where you saw the initiates.” He dropped his broken glass into the trashcan.
The phone buzzed a second time. “It’s Bel again. He’s going to the airport now to meet his crew, and he’s going to send two of them to Pedro’s to try to track him.”
“So we wait?”
“I think so. For now.”
Andre nodded, examining his now healed finger. “I hate waiting.”
“I know. Listen, if Bel’s seeing to Pedro, I need to check on Lena. She’s been at my place all day alone. I’m sorry to leave.”
“Of course. I appreciate you rescuing her from me.”
“I don’t think that’s
how she sees it.”
“She will.”
When Kos left, Andre went to the wine-red book his son had fingered; a golden quail was embossed on its cover, just like the ones that scurried around Kaštel. He found his favorite print, the slope of the hill so precisely similar that he had trouble believing it was not his own vineyard.
Ten years ago, he had stood on that hill, right at the very edge of his land. The windy, clear night carried the smell of Šolta from a neighboring vineyard. Sulfur, and soil, and sun-bleached plants, everything smelled the same. He had sat on a boulder by the spring and allowed himself to hope—if he bought that land, grew his Croatian vines, with enough time maybe a wine would contain enough of Šolta to slow the disease. A cure was too much to hope for.
For a decade, the vines produced passable fruit. But it was not his fruit. It did not make his blood sing with the power of his homeland. Pedro grumbled when he sold off the grapes, rather than making the wine at Kaštel. Privately, Andre cooed to the vines, he stroked them, he called them Ulysses and promised them their home. And then, last year, it happened. They meshed fully with the rootstock, they blossomed something fierce, and Andre supervised every moment of the bumper harvest, the press, the fermentation, and the aging.
He had been hasty to bring Zoey here before they knew for certain. For that matter, he could have hired any number of public relation firms that were not run by his ancient enemies. But she was there, she was the one he wanted, and she might very well be the best. Now, he prayed to Kos’s God, and the gods of his father, and he threw in Tate Adams, divine printmaker, for good measure, please let his wine save Kos, and himself, and all his old friends, wherever they were.
Chapter 19
ZOEY WORKED AT THE DAINTY ANTIQUE DESK in her room. Beside her sat a green glass bottle full of red wine and sealed with foil. A medallion of light shone through the neck and onto the keyboard of her computer. The bottle’s label read Kaštel Estate Old Vine Zinfandel in blocky Roman letters. The style was perfectly fine, but nothing special. She called her designer about the labels Andre had liked.
When they hung up, she tried to read as much as she could about winemaking in Croatia, looking for references to a Maras family. No luck. Her shoulders bunched up. Wasn’t there some kind of law that everything had to be on the Internet? She searched for information about ethnic conflicts in Croatia in the nineteenth century, but couldn’t find anything.
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