I let out a sigh when I spotted Vivi beside the bridge. I remembered that long-ago night when Raphael had shown up at São Tomé. He’d led me out of the cottage, Vivi asleep on his shoulder. Now she stood just ahead of me, her pink hair stirring in the wind, but she still looked like my baby.
As I moved toward her, I took a breath and tried to channel Dame Helen. What came out was vintage momster: “Thank goodness you’re all right.”
Vivi’s shoulders hunched. “It’s daylight. All the Italian vampires are in their crypts.”
“You’re just tired. Let’s go to the hotel.” I put my arm around her.
She leaned away. “Why did you make my father officially dead? You know he’s gone. Why did you need it on a piece of paper?”
So that was the real problem. We’d discussed the situation about Dalgliesh many times, but she was too caught up in her own misery to care about a pile of rocks. I knew how she felt. I’d spent so many years in mourning, I wasn’t ready to move on. I wouldn’t know how. What did legally dead mean, anyway? A document hadn’t changed anything.
She narrowed her eyes. “I don’t want to go to Scotland. There’s nothing but heather and men in kilts. Maybe that’s why we’re going. So you can fall in love.”
I wrapped my arms around my waist. An image from one of my dreams rose up. God, what was wrong with me? Actually, I had a theory. I was thirty-nine years old, on the cusp of my sexual peak, a dicey place for a hybrid, and my dreams were a manifestation of a hormonal storm. Yes, indeed. A summer away from Raphael would give distance from my prurient thoughts.
“The East Lothian coast has long, bright days,” I said.
“Alaska is sunny this time of year.”
“We’ll go there someday.”
She looked away. “No, we won’t. We’re gonna run forever. Because of that stupid prophecy, right?”
“I shouldn’t have told you about that.”
“No, I’m glad. Because at least I understand. And I’ve been thinking. Maybe you’re scared of vampires the way you’re scared of your silverware not being matched up. Don’t make a face, Mom. Seriously, when has a mean vampire ever bothered us? See? You can’t name a time. Maybe you’re worried for no reason.”
She had a point. No bald, bearded monks had shown up in a decade. Maybe they’d lost faith in the prophecy, or maybe they’d zeroed in on another hybrid.
“I like the idea of putting down roots,” I said. However, when it came to geography, I had to stop thinking of myself. Vivi was a teenager, not a little girl. From now on, I would ask her opinion before I made plans. “We’ll find a place we both like,” I added.
“That sounds good, Mom.” All of her teenage bluster was gone. Her eyes shimmered, but the tears just stayed there and didn’t run down her cheeks.
“Scotland isn’t the only thing that’s upsetting you,” I said. “What’s wrong, Meep?”
She wiped her eyes. “I had a dream about Mr. Keats last night. We were looking for rabbit holes. Not that I’m worried about him or anything. My brain is just telling me that we shouldn’t have left Australia. Right, Mom?”
“Right.” I hated lying, but I didn’t think she was in the mood for a dissertation. Hybrid vampires have Freudian dreams like anyone else, but sometimes we see future events. Unfortunately the images are buried in symbols, and interpreting them is a highly individualized process. A dream about apples would make me think of temptation or Aphrodite’s golden apples. Vivi might think of Snow White, a young girl who’d been victimized by adults. Or she could develop a craving for an apple tart.
She reached for my hand. “Can we get gelato?”
“Sure.” I was still troubled about her dream, and I let my gaze linger on her face. Mothers aren’t hardwired to see their child’s chronological age. When I looked at Vivi, I didn’t see a teenager with black hair and chunky pink bangs. I saw a toddler in my high heels and Jude’s bowler hat, her diaper sagging past her knees. I saw a girl with shiny chestnut pigtails, tying her shoelaces for the first time. I saw a six-year-old flying ahead of me on a pink bicycle in Central Park.
If my mother had lived, she wouldn’t see me as a grown woman. She’d see a curly-haired girl with gooseberry jam on her face; a kid who needed protection from wasps and rogue vampires.
Women learn how to be mothers from the people who raised them. My mother had sung a lullaby to me, and I’d sung it to Vivi, but I hadn’t known when to stop. Some part of me was still chewing on those words.
Mother, may I go out to swim?
Yes, my darling daughter.
Hang your clothes on a hickory limb.
And don’t go near the Water.
CHAPTER 8
Edward Keats
INNISFAIR HORSE STATION
HAHNDORF, SOUTH AUSTRALIA
An icy wind tugged at Keats’s jacket as he opened the white mailbox. He pulled out a postcard and grinned. The glossy front showed a picture of the Tuscan hills; on the back, he recognized Vivi’s back-slanted, minuscule handwriting. He hoped the little corker was all right. But he couldn’t read her handwriting without his glasses, and he’d left them at his house. He tucked the card into his pocket, then climbed into his truck and drove toward the north pasture.
Every Wednesday after breakfast, he rode the fence line at Innisfair, looking for loose boards. A stallion paced restlessly in the tall, dry grass, his breath steaming in the morning air. Behind him, the land sloped upward to the red-roofed mansion, where yellow leaves skated over the lawn.
Keats sighed. Now that the Barretts were gone, the house looked sad and empty. Keats’s small stone cottage sat below the main house at the bottom of the long driveway, but the cats on the front porch made it seem welcoming.
As he drove along the fence row, he saw a brown, motionless heap in the distance. A dead horse, most likely. A ball of tension gathered in Keats’s chest. When he got closer to the animal, his palms slid over the steering wheel.
It was Ozzie. He’d been ripped from throat to belly.
Keats got out of the truck. The afternoon light fell at a slant, suffusing the field with gold. His heart thudded as he squatted beside the horse. Ozzie’s eyes were glazed, his mane stiff with dried blood.
Keats shut the gelding’s eyes, then dug his boot heels into the grass and pivoted, blinking down at the grass. A massive wound like this should have pooled, but the ground was dry, except for a heap of entrails.
He turned back to Ozzie, studying the gelding’s legs. No bite marks. No broken bones. What had brought him down? Years ago on Fraser Island, a large pack of dingoes had killed a horse, but there had been a lot of blood then, and Keats couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen a dingo at Innisfair.
He rocked on his haunches, the sun beating against the top of his head. The wind picked up and the leaves spun in eddies. Dark blue clouds roiled over the Adelaide Hills. A storm was coming, and he needed to tend to Ozzie. Sighing heavily, Keats took out his cell phone and punched in numbers.
That evening, as rain sluiced down, he drove away from the barn. His headlights picked through the downpour, sweeping over his stone cottage. He shoved a bush hat onto his head, got out of the truck, and ran up to the veranda. Two striped barn cats always slept on the wooden swing, but the cushion was empty. He checked their kibble bowl. It hadn’t been touched. He stared for a minute, his head lowered, water pouring off the brim of his hat.
He pulled off the hat, hung it on a nail, and walked into the cottage. In the kitchen, he tested his glucose. Three hundred twenty-six—way too high. He ate cheese and cold cuts, then walked toward the refrigerator to fetch his insulin. As he passed by the window, he saw a luminous glow. He pushed back the lace curtain. Through the rain-smeared glass, lights blazed from the manse. The house had been dark since the Barretts left. Caro had locked up, set the alarm, and put the key in his mailbox, same as always. She never varied her routine. Keats had the feeling that she was careful and precise all the time. But this year, she’d been ups
et about something. Maybe she’d overlooked a detail.
He leaned over the sink and pushed up the window, expecting to hear the burglar alarm. Nothing but the rain tapping in the trees. Then a figure passed by a window. He pulled in a breath, and his throat burned, as if he’d swallowed drain cleaner.
Trespassers.
Keats dialed the Hahndorf emergency number, but he knew it would take the police twenty minutes to arrive—longer if the road washed out. He hurried into the den, opened his gun cabinet, and grabbed a double-barreled shotgun. As he dropped a handful of shells into his pocket, he forced himself to breathe. He’d protected Mr. Raphael’s estate for eleven years, and he planned to protect it for eleven more. Though his adversaries usually were rabbits, not thieves.
He decided not to drive, so he put on a black vinyl poncho and walked to the porch. He lifted his hat from the nail. The rain had slacked off, and fine white flecks were visible through the darkness, like bits of sawed bone. He strode up the hill, hanging back under the trees. Fog drifted past the house and moved toward a dark clump of evergreens.
These intruders were either dumb or desperate, he thought. He crouched next to the boxwood hedge and surveyed the courtyard. A black Toyota Camry sat in the driveway. In Vietnam, he’d been known as “Quiet Keats,” and he could still move soundlessly. He edged forward, his boots moving silently over the gravel.
An Avis decal was pasted on the windshield, next to an Adelaide International Airport sticker. The visitor wasn’t Mr. Raphael; he always arrived in a hired limo. Also, he would have notified Keats if he were coming. If Caro and Vivi had returned, they would have phoned, too. Maybe they’d tried; he’d been gone most of the day. He looked at the vehicle again. Had Vivi talked her mother into returning? But a Town Car always took the Barretts to and from the airport.
Better not to make assumptions, he thought. He eased around the side of the house. The back door stood ajar. He stepped into the kitchen and paused. Everything was tidy. No luggage in the hall. No umbrellas or galoshes. No grocery bags. The house was too quiet. If the Barretts were here, Vivi would be watching television and Caro would be cooking dinner.
Keats lifted his hat and set it on the counter. A scraping noise came from the study, as if a chair had been dragged over the floor. He made sure the gun’s safety was off, then crept down the hall. His mouth went dry, a sign that his blood sugar was rising. He spun into the room, holding the shotgun in both hands.
A woman with short blond hair stood beside the bookcase. His gaze flicked over her. Pale skin. Late twenties. Shorter than him. Maybe five-six and 125 pounds. She turned, her eyes expressionless, as if she’d been caught folding the laundry, not breaking and entering.
He drew a bead on her. “Stop where you are or I’ll put a hole through you.”
Her blue eyes narrowed for an instant, and then she raised her hands in the air. The cuffs on her black leather jacket pulled up, showing her wrists.
“Please don’t shoot.” She spoke with a mild Eastern European accent, but on top of it was something plainer, as if she’d been born in Russia or Ukraine but had been educated in the United States, or had spent time there. Her right cheek twitched as if an ant were crawling toward her eye.
“Are you alone?” he asked.
“Why?” Her gaze sharpened, brazen and alert, like a dingo watching sheep. She seemed to be waiting for his answer. Well, she wasn’t getting one. Keeping his eyes on her, he moved one hand away from the gun, shut the door, locked it, and returned his hand to the gun.
The room was quiet, except for water dripping from his poncho. But he smelled her. She gave off the stink of old fruit, the kind where the flesh has turned soft and watery. A ketotic smell. Was she a vampire? Diabetic? On one of them fad diets?
“You’re trespassing,” he said.
“Wrong. I was invited.” Her full lips curved into a smile.
“Step against the wall. Keep your hands in the air.”
Her leather pants swished as she moved against the bookcase. Her hair was damp, curling around her ears. “Sir, please let me explain.”
Keats’s finger hovered over the trigger. “You’ve got thirty seconds.”
“I apologize for this misunderstanding.”
Right. A misunderstanding. Mr. Raphael had occasionally brought girlfriends to Innisfair, but this one wasn’t his type. Maybe he’d dumped her. She looked like the kind who wouldn’t go away without causing maximum damage.
“Twenty seconds,” he said.
“I’m Tatiana Kaskov. Raphael said he’d made all the arrangements for my arrival.”
Keats didn’t comment. This felt all wrong. Mr. Raphael would have phoned.
“How did you get inside?” Keats asked. “How did you turn off the alarm?”
“Raphael gave me a key.” Her eyes darted to the left.
She was a cool liar. He held the gun steady. “One more time. Why did you break in?”
“Is this how you treat all of Raphael’s guests?”
“I’ll call him right now.” Keats moved to the desk, shifting the gun to one hand. He lifted the receiver and punched in 1 and 8. He heard a cracking noise and looked up.
Tatiana had moved to the other side of the desk, and she held a tangled cord. It took him a second to realize that she’d pulled the plug out of the jack.
He frowned. “Get back against the—”
She sprang at him, a blur of pale limbs and black leather—how could she move so fast? The receiver hit the desk. He barely had time to lift the shotgun and squeeze the trigger. The blast stabbed through his ear canals, pricking like needles, followed by a clanging noise. The stink of gunpowder climbed into his nose.
Tatiana lay on the ground, screaming and clutching her left leg. Blood splattered the wall behind her. She began to rock. Crimson threads streamed through a hole in the leather, just above her knee.
Keats’s stomach muscles tensed. Damn, he’d shot a woman. But she’d rushed him. What kind of drug was she on? He broke open the barrel, smoke curling up. The empty casings clattered to the floor and rolled under the desk.
She got to her knees, grabbed at the curtain, and missed. Then she fell back down. Christ, she was tough. He reached in his pocket for more ammo, and Vivi’s postcard glided to the floor.
Tatiana vaulted to her feet and lunged across the room. She pulled the gun out of his hands and threw it against the bookcase. Her cold, damp fingers circled Keats’s neck. She lifted him off the floor and grinned up at him, her lips moving like blood-fattened leeches.
“You’re fucked,” she said.
Keats’s chest tightened. His lungs felt like dried gourds, seeds rattling against his ribs. He’d shot her. How was she standing? How had she lifted him?
She’s a vampire, he thought.
He reached toward her, trying to grab her neck before he blacked out.
Her grip slackened, and he crashed to the floor. His mouth opened, and he sucked in air.
“Do you know that Raphael is a vampire.” Tatiana leaned closer.
Keats tried to keep his face expressionless.
She smiled. “Guess what, old man? So am I.”
Keats forced himself to look at her. “You’re trash.”
“No, I need blood.” She pinched his cheek. “Your blood. But we’ll party later. First, I will ask a few questions. Your answers will determine how you’ll die.”
So, that was how it would be. Steady, old boy. Fear wouldn’t make him a better soldier.
“When did Caro and Vivienne leave Australia?” Tatiana asked.
“Why are you interested in them?” he said. Only one theory was plausible. Tatiana had been spurned by Mr. Raphael and assumed that he’d taken up with Caro.
“I’m asking the questions,” Tatiana said. “When did they leave?”
He started to get up. She moved back to the desk, lifted a bronze horse statue, and slammed it against Keats’s knee. A cracking noise held in the air. Pain exploded in his whole leg, as if som
e part of the statue had moved inside him, galloping through his bones. He pursed his lips, trying to hold back the scream, but it burst through his teeth.
Tatiana smiled and tilted her head, as if listening to music.
The bitch was enjoying it.
“That’s for shooting my fucking leg,” she said. She reached inside her jacket and pulled out a narrow, curved knife. “When did they leave?”
Why did she care? What did she want from the Barretts? Whatever it was, he wouldn’t give it to her. He licked his lips—they were so dry. But he was a soldier, and soldiers pushed on.
“A month ago.” He paused and caught his breath. “Two months. I can’t remember.”
“I hate a liar.” She raised the knife, and Keats saw a gold ring on her thumb. A man’s ring? Something she’d stolen?
Everything seemed to move slowly. She dragged the blade over his hand. A streak of coldness passed through his flesh. His thumb was dangling by stringy red cords, and then they broke loose and the stump hit the floor, blood jetting onto the carpet.
Strangely, he didn’t feel pain. Not yet. He knew soldiers who’d been tortured by the North Vietnamese regulars. Too much pain could turn into pleasure.
Tatiana picked up his detached thumb. She put the bloody end into her mouth and sucked, as if drawing meat from a crab’s leg. She tossed the thumb over her shoulder. “Your blood is sweet. A delicacy. Can’t wait to drain you.”
“Rack off,” he said.
“Sure, I’ll leave. If you tell me what I want to know.”
He still did not feel any pain. “A soldier never talks.”
Tatiana tossed the knife to her other hand. “You’re a soldier without a war. Next question. Where did Caro go?”
“Are you one of those vampires who can’t read minds?”
Her eyes turned glossy and cold, like melted ice in the bottom of a cooler. “Do you know about Caro, old man? She’s a half-vampire, and her daughter is a freak?”
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