PRAISE FOR
ACQUAINTED WITH THE NIGHT
“Piper Maitland skillfully crafts edge-of-your-seat, otherworldly suspense laced with a wicked sense of humor.”
—Lori Wilde, New York Times bestselling author
“This book is fantastic. A perfect blend of Dan Brown’s religious intrigue, Michael Crichton’s scientific thriller, and Anne Rice’s vampire novels. The writing is wonderfully done, keeping the reader engaged, not letting go until the last page has turned. The science and explanation behind how vampires came to be and their folklore is believable, and by the end of the story, readers may find they are checking over their shoulders to see if a vampire is close behind…excellent.”
—Portland Book Review
“Bulgarian vampires and nonstop sex (not with the Bulgarian vampires), PLUS an illuminated lost manuscript in a twisty tale of family mystery, murder, and corporate greed.”
—Diana Gabaldon, New York Times bestselling author of the Outlander series
“A twisted and complex take on vampire lore and legends…If you’re a fan of unusual vampire stories, this action-packed and fast-paced book will please you immensely.”
—Fresh Fiction
“A fantastic read. Smart and sophisticated…A DaVinci Code–esque adventure with a fresh take on vampirism and an emotional, sexy romance.”
—Virna DePaul, author of Chosen by Sin
“A singe-your-fingers page turner. Don’t miss this one.”
—Shirley Hailstock, author of Some Like Them Rich
“This is an exciting action-packed Brownian fantasy with several twists that keep the reader obsessed with a need to know what’s next.”
—Midwest Book Review
“Maitland puts her more literary spin on the UF genre with this rich, compelling novel. She’s a talented storyteller and the ending leaves open the possibility of sequels. I for one would enjoy visiting this world again!”
—RT Book Reviews {}
Berkley titles by Piper Maitland
ACQUAINTED WITH THE NIGHT
HUNTING DAYLIGHT
HUNTING
DAYLIGHT
PIPER MAITLAND
BERKLEY BOOKS, NEW YORK
THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
Published by the Penguin Group
Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
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HUNTING DAYLIGHT
A Berkley Book / published by arrangement with the author
PUBLISHING HISTORY
Berkley premium edition / February 2013
Copyright © 2013 by Michael Lee West.
Cover design by Rita Frangie. Photo composition by S. Miroque.
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ISBN: 978-1-101-61903-2
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ALWAYS LEARNING PEARSON
Table of Contents
Prologue: The First Expedition
Part One: Jude and Caro
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Part Two: Hunting Daylight
Chapter 5
Part Three: Ten Years Later
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Part Four: Heart-Shaped World
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Part Five: Bloodstream
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Part Six: Tear in My Hand
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Part Seven: Timing is Everything
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
PROLOGUE
THE FIRST
EXPEDITION
BIROUGOU RAIN FOREST
GABON, AFRICA
JANUARY 10
The first time Dr. Ray-Bob Campbell died, he was fifty-two years old, a tenured zoology professor at Auburn University, a big-shot bat expert who resembled the creatures he studied. The jocks called him Dr. Squeak. They made fun of his gangly arms, tapered ears, and wide-set eyes, each one no bigger than a raisin.
Probably he’d still look that way if he hadn’t taught that night class and squabbled with a skinny Goth co-ed. Jesus, what a bitch. He’d given her an F; she’d turned him into a vampire.
Actually, Campbell didn’t mind being undead. That little catch in his right knee had gone away, and his blood pressure returned to normal. His face seemed different, too, just this side of handsome, and women were always calling his house now, suggesting dinner or more
toothsome activities.
He might have stayed in Alabama forever if he hadn’t taken a job with the Al-Dîn Corporation. They’d offered him fifty thousand dollars just to poke around in an African rain forest and study bats. Not bad for a thirty-day gig, he bragged to his girlfriends. Not bad at all. The expedition started on January tenth, and he’d be home by Valentine’s Day.
On a chilly January night, the company jet flew Campbell to Franceville, Gabon, first class all the way, right down to the blacked-out windows and plush layovers. When he arrived, he was given an English-speaking Baka guide and a cooler with A negative blood. That night, he and the guide took a dirt logging road to Birougou National Park. The truck rattled over potholes, bugs splattering against the windshield, bushes clawing at the tires.
The red dirt path ended in the forest, and the guide unloaded the gear. Campbell strode ahead, moths swarming around his lantern, primates shrieking alarm calls from the dark trees. He felt like a man of the jungle, but with a conservationist twist. If Tarzan and Al Gore had a baby, it would be Campbell.
He was supposed to hook up with the expedition team just beyond the Ngounie waterfalls, but like he told the guide, he’d get there when he got there. It wasn’t like he was dawdling. This part of the Birougou wetlands hadn’t been mapped, and it was impossible to see a damn thing because the rain kept falling in punishing torrents. Twice he skidded in elephant dung, but he pressed on. As he hacked through vines and leathery bushes, he thought about those fifty thousand dollars. He’d buy a red BMW and find a big-titted woman.
On Campbell’s fifteenth night in the bush, he heard the rushing sound of the Nyanga River. He stepped into a narrow clearing. The moon glowed through tangled limbs, and far below, luminous ripples cut across the black water. He heard a scrabbling sound and raised the lantern. Light spilled over the bank, past rustling weeds and darting shadows.
Nothing was out there. Nothing he couldn’t handle.
The guide loaded equipment into a small boat, then waded around to the bow and held it steady while Campbell climbed aboard. He heard a loud splash and hoisted the lantern. A sixteen-foot crocodile punched through the water, and its jaws crunched down on the guide’s shoulder. The man screamed, the kind of sound dogs make when they get hit by a truck. Blood jetted across the front of Campbell’s shirt. He felt disoriented as he breathed in the coppery tang.
The croc threw itself onto the starboard bow, and the stern jerked out of the water. Campbell skidded down the port side, his lantern swinging in his fist, bright arcs cutting over the flailing guide.
Screw this, Campbell thought. He hadn’t come to Africa to get bitten by a handbag. He clambered backward, moving aft, his boots ringing against the boat’s metal bottom. The croc wiggled off the bow and hung in the air for a moment, then pulled the wailing guide under the water. The stern clapped back down against the surface, and the boat rocked violently. The lantern flew from Campbell’s grasp. He jumped out of the boat, landed on the dark, weedy bank, and crouched for a moment, gulping the muddy air. He’d avoided death for a second time, death by crocodile, and nothing would destroy his ass.
But where there was one crocodile, there were more. He scrambled to his feet and raced along the tree line. He didn’t see crocodiles or hippos, just bones; some looked human. The air had a dank, weighted feel, like the crypts in a New Orleans graveyard, but he kept running.
Three klicks past the waterfalls, he saw lights at the edge of a grassy bai. The wide clearing should have been filled with hulking shapes of antelopes and forest elephants, but it was empty. By the time Campbell got to the camp, he had a bad feeling, nothing he could pinpoint, just a crawly sensation on his spine. He moved past tents, spotlights, and a roaring generator. Off in the shadows, he saw a man sucking a guide’s neck. Near the back of the camp, he found the supervisor’s tent. A redheaded man came out, zipping his trousers. He was short and wiry, built like a boy. His name was stitched over his shirt pocket: DR. G. O’DONNELL.
“I’m looking for Kaskov,” Campbell said. “Or is this the latrine?”
“You could say that.” O’Donnell’s gaze swept over Campbell’s bloody shirt, and then he pointed at the tent. “Kaskov’s in there. Good luck.”
Campbell walked through the flap. Inside, halogen lanterns hung from wire hooks, spilling light over a cot, a dartboard, and a satcom on a tripod. A blond-haired woman sat behind a metal desk. The surface was astringently neat, except for an ashtray, where smoke curled up from a cigar. A wooden plaque read TATIANA KASKOV.
He clamped his lips together, trying not to smile. This pretty little gal was Kaskov? Her hair was cut just below her chin, and her bangs were shot through with platinum highlights.
She reached for the cigar and looked up. Her eyes were an electric blue, and something flickered behind them as she stared at Campbell. “Are you the bat expert?” she asked.
“Actually the term is chiropterologist.” He glanced at her pale, toned arms. She had a tattoo above her left wrist, a green snake curling around a black infinity sign.
How long has she been a vampire? he wondered. She appeared to be in her early thirties. Not a girly-girl, but damn cute. Just his kind of babe.
She rose from her chair and sat on the edge of the desk, puffing the cigar. Her khakis were tight, showing the outline of her thighs. “We expected you two days ago,” she said. “Did you stop for coffee?”
Campbell sighed. Okay, maybe he wasn’t her type, but she didn’t have to hassle him. “I’ve been in the jungle two weeks,” he said. “My socks are wet. I’ve got blisters.”
“News flash,” she said. “You’re not in a resort. You’re in an African rain forest.”
“You don’t have to be condescending.” He plucked at his shirt. “See this blood? A crocodile killed my guide.”
“That’s a relief. I thought you ate him. The guide, I mean.” Her voice was cold, but her eyebrows moved in a teasing arch.
Maybe she does like me, he thought. First, he needed to change clothes and find some blood. Then he’d put the moves on her.
She swept her bangs to the side. “Is this your first trip to the Gabonese Republic?”
“Yeah. I’ve never been out of the U.S.”
“Urban rules don’t apply in the bush, Dr. Campbell. Abandon all ye know.” She puffed her cigar, smoke curling around her ears. “Did the Al-Dîn rep explain the situation with the bats?”
“Not really.” Campbell shrugged. “I’m supposed to observe them.”
She blew a smoke ring. “These bats have an eight-foot wingspan. Our last chiropterologist thought they were an unclassified vampire species.”
The last chiropterologist? How many have they had? Campbell cleared his throat. “Vampire bats aren’t indigenous to this continent. Well, except for false vampire bats, but they’re small. A three-inch wingspan, max. The bats you’re referencing are probably flying foxes. Better known as fruit bats.”
Tatiana pointed to a red welt on her forearm. “See this? Some kind of lizard bit me. The little bastard had wings. It’s an undiscovered species. No family or genus. Why can’t a vampire bat exist in Gabon?”
He clasped his hands behind his back. Was she a nut job? The kind who believed in UFOs and Sasquatch? You couldn’t reason with those types, but he wanted to try.
“If they’re as big as you say, why hasn’t anybody noticed them by now?” he asked.
“Oh, we’ve got a specimen. Mr. Al-Dîn shot one a month ago.”
Campbell felt a prickle of excitement. “Did you preserve it?”
“The remains went back to South Africa with Mr. Al-Dîn. But not before he touched the disgusting thing. He came down with Marburg Virus.”
Campbell’s mouth went dry. He stepped back, tucking his arms closer to his body. Fruit bats were vectors for hemorrhagic fevers. Marburg had a six percent mortality rate in vampires. Not that risky, but still. His gaze swept over Tatiana. Her eyes were clear. No jaundice or bleeding.
“Don’t pa
nic. Mr. Al-Dîn was the only one who got sick, and he recovered. Somewhat.” She stubbed out the cigar. “Let’s find your tent. When dawn hits, it isn’t pretty.”
She grabbed a halogen lantern and walked out of the tent. Her light swept over the ground, where driver ants ripped apart a millipede. The redheaded man walked by and gave her a thumbs-up, then he waded into the grassy field.
“You’ll meet Greg O’Donnell later,” she said. “He’s our smartass biochemist. We have a latrine, but he likes to piss in the wild. He’s bunking with me tonight, so you can have his tent.”
A whirring noise made Campbell glance at the clearing. A dark cloud raced across the brightening sky. The cloud broke apart into hundreds of black smudges, and then the smudges spun off into dots. A breeze rushed by him, carrying faint echolocation clicks.
Bats. Hundreds of them.
“Move!” Tatiana pushed him toward a tent. “Get under a cot and stay there.”
“Are you kidding? I’m gonna watch.”
“You’d better find a gun.”
Campbell frowned. A gun? Was she kidding? “These are bats,” he said.
“I know.” She sprinted over to a group of Congolese mercenaries. Above her, slate-colored blotches whizzed through the camp, knocking over spotlights. Campbell felt confused. Bats were superb navigators, but these creatures were crashing into everything.
At the other end of the camp, shouts rose up, followed by the tat-tat-tat of an AK-47. Campbell’s scalp tightened—a bullet would cause a real death. He dove into a tent, zipped the flap, and crawled on his belly to the small mesh window. His legs trembled as he inched up. The air had begun to pale, and he saw obsidian slabs plunge through the camp. What the hell were they? Further out, in the bai, he heard a scream. It was coming from O’Donnell. The little guy raced across the field, punching his fists at the bats. Right before he reached the edge of the camp, amorphous shapes engulfed him. He shrieked, twisting from side to side. Then he was lifted into the air and carried toward the cliffs.
Campbell pissed himself. He sank to the tent floor and put his hands over his head. Bats had picked up a man? O’Donnell was a small fellow, but still. A Martial Eagle had a 2.6-meter wingspan, but it didn’t carry prey into the trees, didn’t hunt in groups, and didn’t live in rain forests.
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