Acquainted With the Night (9781101546000) (6 page)

Caro leaned closer to the window. The capital was just as she remembered, tidy and modern for an eight-thousand-year-old city, with Byzantine architecture juxtaposed against gray, Stalinist-era buildings. But the traffic! Just then, a green car cut across two lanes and plowed into the side of a lorry.

“Welcome to Bulgaria,” Mr. Hughes said.

 

Harry Wilkerson sat on the edge of his desk and watched the flat-screen television on the far wall. A BBC reporter stood in front of a Covent Garden flat, the site of an early-morning murder. The victim was described as a twenty-five-year-old woman. Her name was being withheld pending notification of relatives.

Wilkerson looked away from the television and put one hand over his eyes. He had no doubt who the victim was or who had committed the crime. Moose. That pervert had killed the Clifford girl, and now the police had her body. Wilkerson would never know if she'd been his daughter. He'd never find his icon or those ten priceless pages of
Historia Immortalis
.

This was Underwood's fault. He shouldn't have sent that obsessive-compulsive oaf to Covent Garden. Years ago, when Moose had worked at the Hammersmith laboratory, he'd been banned from participating in bone marrow aspirations or biopsies on patients because he couldn't control his feeding frenzies. What had Underwood been thinking? He should have sent a human technician.

Wilkerson lowered his hand, then traced his finger along the blue veins that forked below his knuckles. Having vampires on the payroll carried risks, so he'd found a way to deal with their hunger and manage them. He'd implemented a company policy requiring all vamps to receive daily transfusions at the Hammersmith facility. This allowed his researchers to perform covert studies, mainly clinical drug trials. It was a risky project, because if the vamps knew the truth, they'd revolt. In minutes they could overpower the scientists and guards.

That was why Wilkerson had ordered SSRIs to be added to the transfusions. It was best to keep the immortals cheerful, but they were discouraged from setting foot in Wilkerson Pharmaceutical's headquarters on Waterloo Road. Some of the bolder ones paid no attention to rules. As a precautionary measure, Wilkerson hired a bodyguard, a Cambodian named Yok-Seng, who could put his foot through a man's chest. No immortals, not even the Zuba brothers, messed with Yok-Seng.

Wilkerson glanced back at the telly. The BBC reporter was still talking about the murder. Wilkerson poured scotch into a crystal glass. If he could live for centuries—never aging, never succumbing to disease—he would accumulate a staggering fortune. He wouldn't let anyone, or anything, threaten his dynasty, and that included loose ends.

The dead girl on Bow Street was more than a loose end. She'd been Wilkerson's last chance to find
Historia Immortalis
. The book was much more than the history of vampirism: It held secrets to longevity and, interestingly enough, methods of destroying the immortals. If the tome fell into the wrong hands, it would pit science against religion. Men would lash out against vampires, depriving them of rights, but the battle would inevitably disintegrate into a predictable man-against-man conflict. Some humans would oppose the immortals, and some would offer support—or even breed with them.

Initially, the outing of vampirism would cause a social upheaval. The affluent, centuries-old clans would be ostracized. After all, the royals were a bit finicky about bloodlines. However, that would be the least of the vampires' problems. The wealthy and common alike would go into hiding. While they reorganized, they'd be sought by fringe groups and bounty hunters. Enthusiasts might hunt them for sport.

Wilkerson took a sip of scotch, grimacing as the liquid burned his throat. It would be gratifying to watch the predators become prey, but the carnage would be short-lived. Humans were no match for the vampires' longevity and superior physical abilities, not to mention their otherworldly skills such as telepathy and telekinesis. The lot were canny survivalists. For thousands of years, they'd endured in a symbiotic relationship with humankind. They'd restrained themselves. If they got the upper hand, humans would be openly slaughtered, and as the earth was depopulated, widespread panic would erupt. A polarized society is a weak society. Civilization would disintegrate. The immortals would roost in Buckingham Palace, feeding on animal blood, and humans would go the way of the Neanderthal.

But this won't happen,
Wilkerson thought. He was developing a biochemical means that would give humans like himself an edge. He took another sip of scotch and walked to the framed black-and-white photographs that lined the far wall. Each picture featured an herb or plant associated with longevity: water droplets sliding down an ephedra leaf, snow on mayapple blossoms, a spiderweb laced over ginkgo biloba. Higher plants were the foundation of many pharmaceuticals, and “green,” natural drugs were fashionable. As always, Wilkerson Pharmaceuticals would be on the cutting edge, creating products for aging baby boomers.

He patted his thickening midriff and frowned. He was getting older, and bursitis was settling into his joints. His Romanian biochemists were working on a promising drug. They called it “a facelift in a pill.” No surgery, no needles, no allergy testing. The effects were temporary, of course, but once the medication was perfected, women would line up at clinics, demanding prescriptions. Wilkerson would rise to the top of the Fortune 500 list.
Time
would name him “Man of the Year.”

The Romanian facility was also toying with stem cells, searching for biochemical ways to control aging—something far more permanent than an antiwrinkle pill. He'd recruited promising researchers from around the globe, and they were near a breakthrough in genome therapy. When that happened, Wilkerson would spend eternity without plucking gray hairs or enduring Botox and collagen injections. Laugh lines, his girlfriend called them. She should know, she had a few. Wilkerson didn't. His face was a tight, unlined mask. He never laughed. Laughter was for bloody fools with nothing better to do.

Wilkerson walked back to his desk and glanced at the television. Perhaps Yok-Seng could handle Moose. If not, Wilkerson would have to bring in the Zuba brothers. God, he hated to do that. The Zubas were two Russian vampires with impulse control issues. When vampirism collided with any type of neurosis, the results were unpredictable. Savage, you might say.

From the desk, the intercom phone clicked, and his secretary's tinny voice rose up. “Mr. Wilkerson? I have Mr. Underwood on line two.”

Wilkerson tossed down the scotch and picked up the receiver. “Yes?”

“Sir? We have a situation.” Mr. Underwood's voice sounded quivery and high pitched.

“Go ahead.” Wilkerson lifted his glass and held it up to the light. Just a dribble of scotch remained.

“It's the Clifford girl,” Mr. Underwood said. “She's alive.”

“Are you sure?” Wilkerson sat up straight. A pulse ticked in his neck.

“Quite sure,” Underwood said. “Her passport surfaced on the grid. Heathrow's cameras show a young woman fitting her description in Terminal Five. She's flying to Bulgaria.”

“Make sure there's a greeting party at the airport.” Wilkerson poured another shot of scotch. Well, why not? He had a reason to celebrate. A few moments ago, the wheel of fortune had scraped the bottom, but now it was turning upward. The way it always did, always would.

 

Caro was leaning against the steel railing in the mezzanine bar, watching for the ministry representative, when a man in a brown leather jacket strode through the doors and up to the reception desk.

She drew in a ragged breath. It was the ponytailed man from Heathrow—Jude something-or-other. Caro couldn't decide if she should get his attention or spy a bit longer. Why was he really here? He might not be a reporter but he was acting like an archaeological groupie. Better to hang back, right?

She grabbed her duffel bag and stepped into the shadows, watching as Jude rested his elbows on the fake marble counter. He had a square face with a boyish, cleft chin. The collar of his jacket stood up against his neck, a tender, boyish neck. He shifted, and his ponytail fanned across his back. Dense shoulders filled out his jacket, the kind of biceps you'd see on a rugby player.

He looked up at the mezzanine and smiled at her. Dimples. God, she couldn't stand it. He passed under the chandelier, and the lighting washed over his face. His nose was straight except for an endearing bump near the bridge.

Breathe, Caro. Count to twenty.
But he was already climbing the steps, his glossy ponytail spilling down his back. He stopped in front of her and extended his hand.

“I was hoping to see you,” he said.

She shook his hand. Firm grip. Smooth palm. No calluses. Just how tall was he? She was almost five foot eight, but his chin could easily fit on top of her head. This morning his face had been smooth, but now there was a grainy shadow along his jaw. Through the stubble, she saw a tiny white scar on his chin. His eyes had a sleepy, jet-lagged look, and she felt an urge to sit him down with a cup of tea and a biscuit.

“You look lovely tonight,” Jude said. He slipped one hand in his pocket, and his jacket parted, showing a cornflower-blue sweater.

“So,” she said. Small talk wasn't her métier. Ask anyone and they'd confirm that she was a cut-to-the-chase sort of girl. Not one of her better qualities. Not by a long shot.

“Do you have time for a sit-down?” He stepped closer, and light from the chandelier passed over his face. He no longer resembled an exhausted boy who needed coddling. He looked like a man who wanted to get laid.

“I'm waiting for a ministry official,” she said. “But I really want to see my uncle's letters.”

“We could talk later. Over dinner, perhaps?” He smoothed one hand down the front of his sweater, the gesture of a man who was accustomed to wearing a suit and tie. But wasn't he a biochemist? Maybe he was into polo, pageantry, the peerage.

“I don't know how long the meeting will take,” she said, but she was thinking,
I'm vulnerable tonight. I don't trust myself with you
.

“Not to worry. I'm in room three fourteen. Ring me, if you get a moment.” He unzipped his backpack and pulled out two creamy envelopes.

“Your uncle's letters,” he said.

She started to thank him, but her uncle's boxy handwriting caught her attention. The first envelope was addressed to Dr. Jude Barrett in Lucerne, Switzerland.

When she looked up, Jude was halfway down the stairs. She stepped closer to the railing and watched him stride toward the elevators. Caro stuffed the letters into her duffel bag. Just then, the black entry doors swung open, and an entourage stepped into the lobby: A balding, pear-shaped man marched past the front desk, followed by three men in uniforms. The bald man wore an official-looking black coat, but he was gripping a red backpack under one arm. The ministry official, no doubt. As he stopped beneath the chandelier, light bounced off his round eyeglasses. He looked up, spotted her, and walked up the stairs.

“Miss Clifford?” he asked.

“Da. Dobar vecher,”
she said in halting Bulgarian.

“I speak English.” He produced a business card and waited while she tucked it away. “We meet under sad circumstances.”

He turned toward the windows, where club chairs and glass tables were grouped into conversation pits. Behind them, snowflakes hit the glass and instantly melted. Caro hadn't realized how tired she was until she sat down and tucked one leg beneath her hips.

“Would you like wine? Have you tasted our Mavrud?” Velikov draped his overcoat on the back of his chair, then sat down. “It is a spicy red.”

“I've sampled your national drink. Some type of fruit brandy?”

“Rakia.”
He smiled and wrinkles fanned out from his eyes. “I think you will prefer Mavrud.”

A waiter set napkins on the glass table and took their drink orders. After he left, Velikov set the backpack on the table. “Your uncle's personal items,” he said.

Caro leaned forward to examine the bag. It looked new. When had Uncle Nigel bought it? He'd hated shopping alone. Before she'd taken up tour guiding, she'd always helped him select his jackets and trousers. She placed her hand on the zipper and wondered if she had the nerve to open it. Not just yet. She folded her hands and leaned back in the chair.

Velikov tilted his head and swallowed. “Miss Clifford, I have difficult questions.”

He paused as the waiter set down their wineglasses. “I did not know if you wanted your uncle's remains cremated or returned to England. If you prefer cremation, it is offered in Sofia. Otherwise, I will arrange a casket and a flight. It will take a week to do paperwork on both.”

“No cremation.” She reached for her napkin and dabbed at her eyes. “I'm so sorry.”

“Please, do not apologize for your grief,” Velikov said.

She lifted her glass, hoping the alcohol would help her relax, and took a long swallow. Over the rim she saw a tall, gangly man step into the bar. He had thick black hair and wore a black dinner jacket over a red floral Hawaiian shirt and jeans. Wait, she'd seen him at the airport with the purse snatcher. He sat down in one of the chairs and crossed his bony legs.

Velikov turned sideways in his chair. He glanced at the man and swiveled back to Caro. “Is he bothering you?”

“I saw him today at the Sofia airport. He was with a man who tried to steal my bag.”