Hunting Daylight (9781101619032) (7 page)

I thought a minute. “Sheep?”

“No, my dear. God’s favorite word is
time
. I’m not talking about clocks. I’m talking about a continuum in which everything happens. Ecclesiastes 3:1 says it all. Just count how many times the word
time
is used. There’s a time for weeping and laughing. Mourning and dancing. And all that lot. Basically this means that life is a great wheel. As it passes by you, it will bring different things. It depends where you are in the wheel. Joy, weeping, dancing, sorrow. All of it is moving around and around little Caro.”

“I don’t understand,” I said.

“Let’s forget the wheel for a moment,” he said, rubbing his beard. “Do you remember the day we went to Glastonbury Abbey?”

I nodded.

“It took the builders a long time to build that monastery. Some people believed the Holy Grail was hidden there.”

“Why did it fall down?”

“A king decided that he wanted all of the nice books and treasures in the abbey. His soldiers removed the goodies, then they wrecked Glastonbury. Some accounts say it was burned. Some say that it was torn down. And bits of it were sold.”

I drew in a breath. “That was mean.”

“But that’s what happens in the great continuum of time. Some men build cathedrals. Others burn them.” Uncle Nigel drew a circle in the air. “The great wheel keeps moving. A time to build. A time to tear down.”

I’d never heard such craziness, except in
Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland
. I frowned. “The king didn’t have to hurt Glastonbury.”

“I agree. You might say that Glastonbury was in the right place at the wrong time. A different king might have had a different reaction. And Glastonbury wouldn’t be a ruin. Each time the great wheel turns, we don’t know what it will bring. To quote one of my colleagues, ‘Timing is everything.’”

“I bet the abbey people were sad,” I said.

“I’m sure they were. It was an insurmountable loss. Yet parts of the monastery were so durable, they refused to crumble. They withstood fire and pillaging. Those soaring Gothic arches are still standing.” He paused. “You see, Caro. A fire can’t take everything.”

Uncle Nigel’s summer fieldwork called him away from England, but he refused to leave me with a nanny. He took me on digs to Corfu, Yaxta, Tatul, Innisfallen Abbey, and Hadrian’s Wall. At night he wove history into bedtime stories, and by the time I started primary school, I had a firm understanding of the past. Well, everyone’s past but my own. To misquote Dickens, I knew a “smattering of everything and possessed a knowledge of nothing.”

Eventually, I discovered a few things: My father had been a vampire, and my mother had left everything to be with him. The night of the fire, she’d stashed an icon and
ten pages of an eighth-century illustrated manuscript into my backpack, along with a note to my uncle Nigel.

Years later, Jude and Raphael had helped me retrieve the rest of the manuscript. My old Byzantine icon turned out to be part of a triptych, one that was mixed up in that appalling prophecy.

I didn’t let myself dwell on those days. They were over. But I knew that Jude and I would be hunted for the rest of our days if I hid those artifacts the way my parents had. Both relics possessed a dangerous kinetic energy. I didn’t want any part of that chaos, but at the same time, I wanted the objects to be safe.

Before Vivi was born, I gave everything to the Salucard Foundation. This powerful organization was dedicated to the preservation of the immortals’ history, and they would keep the manuscript and the triptych in a guarded, temperature-controlled vault. The president of the organization was a distant relative of my father’s, and I knew I’d done the right thing. However, he warned me to take care, that he could not control their cabals.

I thought the absence of those relics would bring calmness, but the Sinai Cabal continued to dispatch alarming threats, though no monk ever appeared at our apartment.

Jude and I were determined to protect our daughter, so we went into hiding. We couldn’t take chances. Now I realized that we’d unwittingly blundered down the same perilous route that my parents had taken. Except for one critical difference. Jude and I weren’t hiding historical objects—we were trying to protect the key player in an apocalypse. As Jude always said, if the prophecies were
true, then it didn’t matter who triumphed—humans or vampires. A war would mean annihilation.

Ten days later, I still hadn’t heard from Jude. I looked on his desk for the Al-Dîn Corporation’s toll-free number. A clipped, automated voice answered in Turkish and didn’t offer an option for other languages. I punched in 0, hoping it would connect me to an operator. It didn’t.

I put down my cell phone and dropped my head into my hands. Where could I find someone who spoke Turkish? Was Jude all right? Why hadn’t he e-mailed?

A knock at the door made me jump. I edged into the sunny living room, as if too much movement would splinter the glass knot that had suddenly formed inside my chest.

Father dos Santos stood behind the screen, the breeze kicking up the hem of his dark cassock. I felt sick to my stomach. This wasn’t a social call. The priest had come to tell me that Jude was injured—or worse. I pulled in a breath and opened the door.

“I have anguishing news,” Father dos Santos said.

Angústia.
He’d spoken in Portuguese, and the word summoned images of the Inquisition. Heresy, dungeons, burning flesh. I sat down abruptly on the rattan sofa and clenched my hands in my lap. “Is Jude hurt?”

“No, no,” Father dos Santos said. “He is missing.”

I blinked, trying to make sense of the world. Missing as opposed to injured. The knot in my chest hardened. No, I couldn’t panic. People went missing all the time, and they were found. Jude wasn’t an ordinary person. He had a superior immune system. He was trim, fit, and tough,
190 pounds of muscle on a six-two frame. He wouldn’t be missing long, and he would come back to me.

“The corporation has lost contact with your husband’s team, and it is feared that harm may have come to them,” Father dos Santos said. He explained that a representative from the Al-Dîn Corporation had phoned Our Lady of Grace Cathedral early that morning. Apparently the rep had called my cell phone but kept getting a busy signal. That seemed odd, but I tried to keep an open mind. Maybe the priest had misunderstood.

Father dos Santos kept talking, but his words flew past me like metal shavings. A rescue party was looking for Jude and the other scientists, but the party had been hampered by Gabon’s terrible infrastructure. The Birougou National Park was a come-as-you-dare place, no park officials, no roads, just paths that dead-ended into rivers.

Perspiration slid down my forehead. I opened my hands and rubbed my palms against the sofa, leaving wet smears on the cotton fabric. A headache stabbed through my skull, and then I felt sick.

I vaulted off the sofa, ran out the front door, and hurried down the veranda steps. The fruit bats began to chatter when I leaned against a cacao tree and gagged. My morning coffee splashed onto the grass.

The sky whirled around me as I walked across the yard and lay down in the red dirt road. I squeezed my hands, and the bones felt like chicken gristle.

No, Jude can’t be missing. He will walk down that road. My tears will summon him.

Beneath the din of the bats, I could almost hear the tap-
tap
-tap of Jude’s shoes, each step distinct and
irreplaceable. The wind carried his voice, the words stamped with a Yorkshire accent, curled and burred, a noise that brushed so sweetly against my ears. I didn’t want those sounds to leave this world. I didn’t want
him
to leave.

My throat closed, and spit trickled down the corner of my mouth. It tasted bitter and metallic. Maybe I’d had a stroke. Maybe I’d die right here. Uncle Nigel and Raphael would have to raise Vivi.

The sun pricked against my flesh, as if bugs were crawling over me. Then I realized that something
was
crawling on my neck, shoulders, and ankles. I lifted my hand, and a black ant moved across my palm.

Father dos Santos’s footsteps clapped over on the veranda. “Caro, would you like me to call a family member?” he shouted over the screeching bats.

My family were all dead, except for the few who were undead. No need to explain that to the priest.

“Could you call Raphael Della Rocca?” I called in a tiny voice. If an ant could speak, it would sound just like me. “His number is on my cell phone,” I added. “It’s on the kitchen counter.”

I heard him shuffle back into the house. I was tired of talking. Tired of thinking. Tired of breathing. I didn’t believe in fate, I believed in choices. If I’d told Jude about my nightmares, he wouldn’t have gone on that expedition. I could have stopped this from happening. But I hadn’t said a word. I’d let him go.

My fingers tunneled into the packed dirt and I felt myself slide into chaos. Jude was all around me, welling up behind my eyes, a wavering shadow just beyond reach.

BIROUGOU RAIN FOREST

GABON, AFRICA

It was Jude’s tenth night in the bush, and he was halfway to hell.

Stinging insects converged on his face as he moved through the darkness. His Babongo guide strode ahead, his unbuttoned shirt whipping behind him in the damp air. As they passed near a troop of sleeping gorillas, the guide put his finger to his lips and gazed up at a tree, where the harem and babies slept in a twiggy nest. Then he pointed at the ground. The males were hunkered on a thick layer of vines and torn branches.

“Do not look,” the guide whispered. “If the silverback wakes, get on your knees. Lower your head. And maybe he will not kill us.”

Two kilometers beyond past the Ngounie falls, the
guide stopped at the edge of a lush, treeless
bai
. The moon cut through the clouds, brightening the distant, razored cliffs of the Chaillu Massif mountains. Across the clearing, lights spangled in the trees.

The guide led Jude through the tall grass. The camp began at the edge of the
bai
, where hardwoods had been cleared to make room for the tents.

That’s odd
, Jude thought.
Why go to all that trouble?
The big field would have been a logical choice to pitch a human camp. Then he remembered what
The Survival Guide to Illumination
had said about the dangers of a rain forest. The canopy provided some protection from the brutal equatorial glare, but ultraviolet rays still penetrated. A
bai
would receive twelve hours of scorching daylight. That was why the camp had been pushed back into the trees. Vampires needed maximum coverage.

A man with bushy red hair came out to meet Jude. His thin, boyish frame was engulfed by his baggy white T-shirt and camouflage pants.

“Are you Dr. Barrett?” he asked. A port-wine birthmark spilled across his right cheek.

“Call me Jude.”

“Great. I’m Lenny. One of the team leaders.” He offered a feeble handshake, his palm moist and cool, a diamond cluster ring sparkling on his finger. “So, Jude. Did you run into problems getting here?”

“A few.”

“Did you lose your guide?”

“No, he’s—” Jude broke off. The grass was tamped down where the guide had been standing.

“He probably ran off,” Lenny said. “That happens. Come on, I’ll give you the grand tour.”

They walked through the brightly lit camp. Spotlights hung down from metal poles, shining on the forked paths, pushing back the darkness. The layers of sound felt invasive—trilling, buzzing insects; wind creaking through the branches; laughter rising from tents; the rhythmic hammering of generators.

“Few people see this part of the Birougou,” Lenny said. “No planes fly overhead. No poachers. It’s nature’s biochemistry lab. Thousands of flora and fauna and other organisms. Many haven’t been classified.”

Jude nodded.

“You can get bottled blood over there.” Lenny pointed at a large mess pavilion. It was crowded and noisy, men jammed around metal tables, lanterns hanging from the domed roof.