Hunting Daylight (9781101619032)

by Maitland, Piper

  “What if they come into the sewer?” La Rochenoire asked.

  “Let them,” Raphael said, pulling me along.

  “Wait. Let me check your arm,” I said, aiming the flashlight on his sleeve.

  “The bullet creased me. It’s nothing.”

  He was right. His shirt was damp, the color of burgundy wine, but the wound had stopped bleeding. It was about three inches long, the width of red yarn, and a scab was trying to form.

  “Let’s keep moving,” he said. “We need to get you away from the Place des Victoires.”

  We turned down a narrow passageway, past an open concrete trench where muddy liquid rushed by, giving off a methane stench. The walls were damp and glistening. Raphael’s flashlight swept over a rat. It scuttled into a crevice.

  Les egouts de Paris. I almost expected to see the ghost of Jean Valjean.

  We followed Rue des Petits Champs for a long time, water pattering over our heads, our shoes wet and squishy. Above us, pipes gurgled. Finally we made our way past Rue Saint-Honoré. I needed to catch my breath, so we sat down on a metal staircase, beneath a sign for Rue de Louvre. I handed Arrapato to La Rochenoire, then put down my plaid bag and rolled up Raphael’s sleeve. The wound had scabbed.

  La Rochenoire squatted beside us, petting the dog. Raphael caught his gaze.

  “When we get out of Paris, will you take Arrapato to Villa Primaverina?”

  The majordomo gave the dog a doubtful stare. “Yes, monsieur.”

  “Both of you will be safe there,” Raphael said.

  “What about Madame Barrett?” La Rochenoire asked.

  “She’s going with me.”

  La Rochenoire’s bottom lip began shaking. “These assassins garroted the limousine driver and the guards,” he said, his voice shaking with rage. “I think they killed the servants. What was the purpose of this attack?”

  “They were looking for Vivi and Caro,” Raphael said.

  “Bâtards.” La Rochenoire spat on the ground. “They sounded American. And they wore bulletproof vests. Tactical gear. Were they human?”

  “Mostly. They were special ops,” Raphael said. “A few were vampires.”

  We emerged from the sewer near the Louvre. We caught a taxi near the Pont Neuf. The driver went six yards, then slammed on the brakes and ordered us to get out. We crossed the Seine, ignoring curious stares of tourists, and walked toward the Latin Quarter. I’d packed clothing for Raphael and myself in the plaid bag, so I had an outfit for La Rochenoire.

  We ducked into a sushi bar. I handed clothes to the men. I tucked Arrapato into my bag and stepped into the restroom. I didn’t have a wig, I smelled like the bowels of Paris, and our security team had been slaughtered, but I refused to lose hope.

  I emerged ten minutes later in jeans and a hooded long-sleeved T-shirt. Arrapato’s fur was damp, smelling of industrial soap. The men waited by the door in clean shirts and trousers. I looped my arm through Raphael’s, and we walked out into the night.

  CHAPTER 31

  Vivi

  ST. PAUL DE VENCE, FRANCE

  The noon sun pushed against the top of Vivi’s head like a fist. Sabine had picked the hottest day in July to take a road trip, but she didn’t seem to mind the heat. She breezed through the gates of St. Paul de Vence and walked up a cobbled path, into the walled village.

  Vivi rushed behind her, panting. The Rue Grande was jammed with tourists, so they turned down a narrow alley. Boutiques and studios stretched out on both sides, and in the distance, the sun brightened a row of tall sand-colored buildings, their pale blue shutters propped open, potted ferns on the windowsills.

  A tall man stepped out of a black door, trailed by a Yorkie. “Allez, allez,” he told the dog. Both of them hurried down the alley.

  “People actually live here?” Vivi said.

  Sabine glanced over her shoulder. “A lucky few.”

  They turned into a fruit store and bought pears, then headed up a steep lane. Vivi lifted her straw hat and pushed back her bangs. She was tired and sticky-hot. How could a woman Sabine’s age have so much energy?

  “Where are we going?” she called.

  The doctor angled toward another lane, her copper hair shining. “To the du Puy Plateau,” she said. “A delightful cemetery.”

  Vivi’s mouth went dry. She didn’t want to see a graveyard.

  “You’ll love the view,” Sabine said.

  Vivi was a sweaty mess by the time they’d climbed the steps to the cemetery. It was long and narrow, hemmed in by a wall. Inside, monuments were crammed into rows. The wind tugged at Vivi’s hat, and she grabbed the brim. She moved closer to the wall, looking down at hills and valleys and rooftops. A slash of blue water shimmered in the distance.

  “Is that the Mediterranean?” she asked.

  Sabine nodded. “Lovely, isn’t it?”

  “Oh, yes.” Vivi’s thoughts soared. A pulse ticked in her ears. She had never felt this euphoric. Holding on to her hat, she moved in a circle, looking at the living people who milled down the paths.

  “This way,” Sabine said, walking down the first row of graves, past a cypress tree. She stopped next to a flat, white tomb, where stones were scattered across the top. “Marc Chagall is buried here.”

  She bent over, lifted a pebble from the path, and set it on the tomb. “He was a famous artist.”

  Vivi put a brown stone next to Sabine’s.

  “St. Paul de Vence was a fortress,” Sabine said.

  “I like it,” Vivi said. Maybe one day she would live here. She’d have a Yorkie, too. Her mom could visit all the time. Caro would love St. Paul de Vence, with its clear, dazzling light.

  Mom, I miss you like crazy, she thought. But I’m glad to be with Sabine and Lena. Vivi felt her mouth curve into a huge smile. She was enjoying her Induction lessons, but she preferred the day trips to Nice and Cannes. Grasse was pretty cool, too. Sabine and Lena had taken her to three perfumeries, and they’d bought jasmine soap.

  The wind felt cool on her face as she followed Sabine around the cemetery. She wondered what Lena was cooking for supper. Vivi shut her eyes and pictured Sabine’s house. It was nestled in the hills, and a long, curvy road stretched out to Valbonne.

  “Okay, I’ve seen the graveyard,” she told Sabine. “Let’s get something to eat.”

  Sabine lifted the pears from the paper bag. They ate in silence, watching the tourists take pictures of each other. Vivi angled the hat over her face, then stepped behind a cypress tree. She held still, trying to make herself small and inconspicuous.

  “You needn’t be scared all the time,” Sabine said, then bit into her pear.

  Vivi’s chest puffed out. She wasn’t scared, just super cautious.

  Another group of tourists walked up the path. A teenage guy lagged behind a middle-aged couple, obviously his parents, their stiff blue jeans making swishing noises. Fanny packs were slung over their hips, and matching I HEART PARIS caps were perched jauntily on their heads.

  The woman turned and waved at the boy. “Elijah, get up here and take me and your daddy’s picture.”

  Elijah looked down at his feet and shrugged. His hair was dyed green, stiffened by gel, and his bangs rose straight up. It looked as if broccoli were growing from the top of his skull. He wore sunglasses, shorts, and a Gym Class Heroes T-shirt.

  Sabine touched Vivi’s arm. “I wonder if Elijah’s eyes are blue, brown, or green.”

  “Who cares?” Vivi said.

  “I pick brown,” Sabine said. “Now, Induce him to take off his sunglasses.”

  Vivi frowned. “No. I might hurt him.”

  “You’ve aced your lessons,” Sabine said. “You’re ready for a live subject.”

  “You mean victim.” Vivi put her half-eaten pear into the paper bag. “I won’t do it.”

  “I’ll buy you a whole baguette.”

  “I’ll buy my own.”

  “You can Induce him, Vivi.”

  “You’re whacked.”

  �
��Fine. Have it your way. I will Induce the young man to walk over here and flirt with you.”

  “He’s not even my type. Besides, I’m not ready to Induce a real person.”

  “I’ll be the judge of your readiness.”

  “This is wrong on all kinds of levels. Even if I don’t hurt him, it’s still wrong.”

  “It’s wrong for executioners to hunt you.”

  Vivi winced. “Different kind of wrong, and you know it.”

  “You’ll have to eventually test your abilities on a human.”

  “That guy might not even be human. He could be a hybrid.”

  “With those parents?” Sabine shook her head. “I don’t think so. And before you ask how I know, I looked into their thoughts. Elijah is miserable. He’s sixteen years old and touring France with his parents. They treat him like a five-year-old.”

  “Duh, wonder how that feels. Maybe you should Induce them to lighten up.”

  “No, I’ll Induce you to Induce him.” Sabine looked at her watch. “You’ve got one minute to decide.”

  “You’re a psychic-criminal,” Vivi said, then she glanced toward the tourists. The mother stood beside Elijah.

  “Be careful,” the mom was saying. “You don’t want to fall and get a boo-boo.”

  “Whatever.” Elijah shrugged.

  “Forty-five seconds,” Sabine said.

  “You’re a control freak,” Vivi said. “A dangerous one. I hope you don’t make Elijah bleed. I hope you know how to do CPR.”

  “Forty seconds.”

  “Quit pressuring me. I need longer than forty seconds. What if he’s a hemophiliac?”

  “Thirty-four seconds.”

  “Okay, okay. I’ll do it.” Vivi stared at Elijah. Oh, she hated this. The wind rushed around her, and she took a big gulp of air. Then she concentrated on the guy’s sunglasses. A humming noise began inside her head, as if a tuning fork were quivering between her ears.

  Take off your sunglasses, Elijah.

  She held her breath, fully expecting his head to explode.

  “Breathe, Vivi,” Sabine said.

  Elijah took off his sunglasses.

  “Keep breathing,” Sabine said.

  Vivi’s chest rose and fell as she looked at Elijah. No blood. At least, not yet. She tried not to smile, but her lips twitched upward.

  “Elijah has lovely brown eyes,” Sabine said.

  “I’m still waiting for the hemorrhage.” Vivi’s gaze shifted to his parents. They looked perfectly fine. The mother kept motioning for Elijah to join them by the wall.

  Sabine grinned. “You get an A-plus. Are you starting to see how Induction works?”

  “I was totally focused on Elijah. And I felt something vibrate inside my head.”

  “Good.” Sabine nodded.

  “In my mind, I told him to remove his sunglasses, and at the same time, I grunted a little. Just like you said to do. Like I was holding back a burp.”

  “Perfect. Always address the subject by his or her name, if you know it. And remember to breathe.”

  “Why can’t I hold my breath?”

  “It causes the energy to build. You would have over-Induced him. And he would have bled.” Sabine smiled. “I didn’t think your training would move this swiftly. You’ll be finished by the end of summer.”

  “That’ll make my mom happy.”

  Sabine dropped the remains of her pear into the bag, then smiled at Vivi. “Let’s find you a baguette.”

  CHAPTER 32

  Caro

  MARRAKECH, MOROCCO

  Night air blew around Raphael and me as we walked through the crowded streets of Marrakech. We passed through the medina, where Berber storytellers’ voices mingled with the snake charmer’s music, and then we turned down a narrow alley. Two Moorish guards followed at a distance.

  We stopped in front of Riad le Pavilion. It was an eighteenth-century house, the color of burnt cinnamon. A brass knocker dominated a carved wooden door. I touched it.

  “How unusual,” I said. “Why is the knocker shaped like a human palm?”

  “It’s a Hamsa,” Raphael said. “A symbol that spurns the evil eye.”

  “We’ll need it.”

  Our Berber houseman carried the luggage into a second-story bedroom. After he left, Raphael and I fell onto the mattress, then pulled off our clothes and drew the gauzy mosquito netting around us.

  Two nights later, we’d barely moved, except to wander through the Djemaa el-Fna Square. Although many blond-haired couples were wandering in the medina, Raphael hadn’t wanted to draw attention our way, so we’d worn traditional Moroccan attire, tucking our hair under the hoods.

  The warm evening breeze stirred the hems of our black djellabas as we passed through open-air food stalls, where steam wafted up into the darkness. We worked our way through the souks, the colors fanned out like spilled crayons, the aisles rimmed with silk slippers, brass bells, baskets, rugs, and silver teapots.

  By the third evening, I’d almost forgotten why we’d come to Morocco. The 112-degree heat had made me drowsy. That night, Raphael and I lay in bed, the mosquito netting stirring around us, tepid air skimming over our sweaty limbs. Through the shuttered window, I heard the final call to prayer.

  “That’s the Isha,” Raphael said. “The twilight prayer.”

  The tinny voice spiraled from the minaret at the Koutoubia Mosque, a shimmering, ethereal sound, intricate as the threads in a silk slipper. I rested my cheek on Raphael’s shoulder, and my hand drifted along his arm. His bullet wound had faded to a pink line.

  He lifted my hair. “I’m trying not to read your mind,” he said. “But you seem pensive.”

  “I was just thinking about Brideshead Revisited,” I said. “Didn’t Sebastian Flyte come to Marrakech?”

  “And to Fez.” Raphael wove a strand of my hair around his wrist.

  The call to prayer ended, and I heard the snake charmer’s music uncoil from the medina. I slid my fingers up to Raphael’s neck and brushed over the stubble, past his chin, and traced the outline of his mouth.

  He kissed my fingertips. “I love you, mia cara.”

  I turned up my face, remembering the night I’d waited in the cellar passage. I still hadn’t pinned the L-word on him. Why was I afraid?

  “I love you, too,” I said.

  “You mean, you’re falling in love with me,” he said.

  “I’m already there, Raphael.”

  The sheets rustled, and then he pulled me on top of him. He stared into my eyes. “Say it again, mia cara.”

  “I’m in love with you, Raphael Della Rocca. I am so in love with you.”

  I leaned in to kiss him, and he caught my face in his hands. “I can’t lose you. Ever.”

  “You won’t.”

  “You’re not immortal.”

  “No.” I frowned. I thought we’d settled this—for now, anyway. I rolled off him and moved to my side of the bed.

  “But you want to be with me forever, don’t you?” he asked, pulling me against him.

  “It doesn’t matter what I want. I saw what Jude went through after he’d been transformed. He had stomach pains, headaches, nausea.” I paused. “You and I are on the move. I don’t know where we’ll be in a week. And I’ve got to think of Vivi.”

  “But when you are ready—and I hope you will be someday—it doesn’t have to be a difficult process. I talked to Dr. Nazzareno. You can receive immortal blood through an IV infusion.”

  How long had he been thinking about this? Before or after we’d made love? Dr. Nazzareno lived in Venice. When had Raphael talked to him? And why hadn’t he mentioned it sooner?

  I pulled away from him and lay on my side. As I traced my finger over a wrinkle in the sheet, I glanced at him. “When did you talk to Dr. Nazzareno?”

  “I called him before we left Paris.” He turned on his side and inched closer to me. “Please don’t be angry.”

  “I’m not. But immortality is a dead issue, so to speak.”
<
br />   “I’m pushing you too hard, aren’t I?”

  “A little.”

  “I don’t mean to. And I would never do anything to endanger my godchild.” He sighed. “I can’t stop thinking about the time we have left. I want to live with you for a thousand years.”

  I ran my fingers over his lips, brushing against his teeth. They were white and radiant, with slightly prominent incisors. Sometimes when we made love, I would become so aroused, I bit him—not hard, of course, just a nibble. But I hadn’t allowed him to bite me. I was too frightened of the biochemical backlash. If only we’d thought to bring antihistamines; then he could give me a little nick, and I would give him one—at the same time. To a vampire, the mutual exchange of blood was equivalent to simultaneous orgasms. But my blood would make him ill. Besides, where could we find Benadryl in Marrakech?

  “Un momento.” He scooted out from under me and dropped his arm over the side of the bed. I heard him fumbling in his leather travel bag, and then he brought up a small square box. “I brought an EpiPen, too,” he said.

  I tried to hide my surprise. “You’re just full of secrets,” I said.

  I imagined his teeth on my neck, and something streaked through my belly.

  He shook the box. “Are you ready for a field trial?”

  I nodded. “Just don’t bite too hard, okay?”

  “Never.” He opened the box, ripped open a bubble pack, and swallowed two pink pills. Then he lifted my arm and glanced at my watch. “Fifteen minutes,” he said. “Might as well be fifteen thousand.”

  I put my arms around his neck and drew his mouth toward mine. Our lips touched and his tongue moved in lazy circles, searching and probing. I sucked the tip, and a low moan started in his throat.

  I slid my hand away from his neck and touched his throat, feeling the soft vibrations move against my palm. I breathed faster and faster. His hand covered mine, and he guided it lower, down his chest, through the springy, blond hairs, across his flat belly, to the silky curls between his thighs.

  Still kissing me, he placed my hand against him. The girth of this man never failed to surprise me. When I curled my fingers around him, they were separated by a wide gap. His hand dropped away, and a moment later, it pressed firmly into my buttocks.