Acquainted With the Night (9781101546000) (2 page)

“You're tasting my medication,” Nigel said through gritted teeth. “Nitroglycerin and Warfarin. Soon your capillaries will dilate, and your blood will run like wine.”

Teo balled his hands into fists and stepped forward, his incisors glinting in the moonlight. They weren't that big, Nigel noted. Stubby little fangs that matched the man's physique.

“No, let him bleed.” Georgi scooped up the fedora and shoved it onto Teo's head, then turned back to Nigel. “Tonight you will die. Tomorrow, I find your niece. And it will be so sweet.”

The dogs bayed as the men headed down the rocky path. Nigel dragged himself over the cold, rough stones. Perperikon was an ancient place of fire, prophecy, and blood sacrifice—a fitting end for an old tomb raider. But he couldn't die. Not yet.

I must warn Caro. Something only she will understand.
His fingers closed on the penlight; he fit it between his teeth and bit down. The beam sliced over his passport and pens. He grabbed them and searched the book for a blank page. His hand shook as he started to write. She'd need to fit the puzzle pieces together before anyone else did. Before those ghouls found her. He had waited two decades to tell Caro the truth. Now the dogs were closing in, and he only had minutes and a scrap of paper.

COVENT GARDEN
LONDON, ENGLAND

 

Caro dreamed of blood and teeth. She skidded across the icy field, glancing over her shoulder every few seconds at the wild dogs. They loped through high, prickly grass, their breath rising in the chilled air. A tan bitch snagged the edge of Caro's coat and dragged her to the ground. The other dogs closed in, their low, sleek bodies cutting through the weeds.

Uncle Nigel leaped from the shadows, pounced onto the dog, and hurled it into the weeds. The others scooted away, tails tucked under their bellies, and howled. Then their cries morphed into strident ringing.

She lay still, so still, trying to decide if she was awake or asleep or somewhere in between. This recurring nightmare had begun when she was a small girl, right after her parents had died, but in recent weeks, it had grown more violent. Dream or not, she was afraid for Uncle Nigel. Weeks ago she'd begged him to cancel the Bulgarian dig, but he'd patted her head and called her Dame Doom, his pet name for her.

Her shins ached as if she'd really been bitten. She slid her hands beneath the sheet and felt her legs. No wounds. No blood. But the ringing continued, a sharp, stinging sound that echoed through her bedroom.

It was the phone. Again. She tilted the caller display box. The numbers were X-ed out, same as before. Someone had been calling the flat since midnight. She couldn't say why, but she had always attracted unstable people.

She lifted the receiver. The caller laughed, a deep-throated man's laugh. Over his harsh breathing, she heard the distant clang of Big Ben. The same noise drifted through her open window, five peals.

“Why won't you say something, dammit?” she cried. The mattress creaked as she got out of bed and glanced out the rain-specked window. Bow Street was empty. So was the red phone booth on the corner.

The caller meowed.

“Put a bung in it,” Caro yelled. She'd spent her childhood traveling with her uncle to archaeological digs and she knew how to curse in seven languages. She was just getting into a rhythm when the caller hung up with a decisive click.

She rubbed her eyes. If she didn't get any sleep, she'd be a wreck tomorrow. But wasn't it already tomorrow? In a few hours she had to pull herself together and escort forty-two Australians around London landmarks. As a child, she'd imagined numerous careers for herself, but none of them had involved riding around on a double-decker bus spouting historical facts into a microphone. Yet here she was. Only a few weeks ago, on November fifth, to be precise, she'd misplaced twelve Americans at Waterloo Station. Since small children were involved, the police had shut down two city blocks. The media had shown up just as Caro was reunited with the tourists. Unfortunately, her photograph had ended up in the
Observer
, along with an unflattering article.

Her reflection moved across the dark window as she walked to her night table. Her hair looked stiff and angular as an Egyptian headdress. She found a plastic razor in the drawer and began thinning her bangs. The curly, dark blond hairs drifted to her knee. The phone rang again and she lopped off a chunk of hair. A vital chunk. Damned bloody pervert. She'd show him.

She reached down to unplug the jack, then paused. Wait, that wouldn't fix anything. The kitchen phone was next to her roommate's bedroom. Phoebe worked at British
Vogue
and didn't like to miss her beauty sleep. If she awoke, Caro wouldn't hear the end of it, so she took a breath and lifted the receiver, steeling herself for Cat Man's encore performance.

“This is Sir Geoffrey McKitterick from the British embassy,” said a tinny male voice. “I'm trying to reach Miss Caroline Clifford. Is she available?”

“Speaking.” She glanced at the caller display box. It was indeed the main embassy in London. Thank God she hadn't cussed the man, as she had just been about to do.

“Sorry to ring at this hour,” McKitterick continued, “but I had a devil of a time finding you. Sir Nigel stopped by our office before he left for Bulgaria, and he left your number in case of emergency. Unfortunately, he transposed the numbers.”

Pain spiked through Caro's chest, as if her ribs had turned into ivory tusks. Something dreadful had happened to Uncle Nigel. A broken ankle or, God forbid, another heart attack.

“I'm afraid I have sad news,” McKitterick said.

Caro struggled to draw in air, but those tusks were jagged.
Oh, no. Please, no.

“Sir Nigel is dead.”

A ripping sensation tore through Caro's sternum, as if those tusks had cleaved her in half. She pressed a shaking hand over her heart. “He's what?” she whispered.

“I'm so sorry. He was murdered in Bulgaria two days ago. A robbery gone awry at the Perperikon dig site. The Kardzhali police held the news for days. Typical bureaucrats. But the story has already appeared in French and Italian newspapers.”

She sat down hard on the bed, and a slat beneath the mattress rattled against the floor. The man's voice reverberated inside her head. Murdered. As opposed to died. Uncle Nigel had taken her in after the fire. He'd raised her as his own, insisting she wouldn't end up like Pip or Oliver Twist. Now she was twenty-five and found herself orphaned for a second time. The heartbreak of losing her family was happening all over again.

“I'm dreadfully sorry,” McKitterick said. “We're quite fond of Sir Nigel. The British Museum wouldn't have those delightful Syrian artifacts without him. We owe him a debt of gratitude.”

She swallowed. “What happened?”

“The consulate in Sofia will have more details. I assumed you'd want to get to your uncle straightaway. I'm sending a driver to your flat. He'll have your tickets and itinerary, of course, but I'd like to go over it quickly.” He paused. “Are you still there, Miss Clifford?”

“Barely.”

“You've got a seven thirty-five flight out of Heathrow. You'll arrive in Sofia before noon. Someone from the consulate will drive you to the station and make sure you get on the correct train to Kardzhali. You'll be staying at the Hotel Ustra. Is this all right?”

“Yes. I'm sorry. I can't talk. I—” She hung up, then fell face first against the bed and burst into tears. Last spring, she had hurt Uncle Nigel horribly when she'd dropped out of King's College to become a tour guide—an odd career path for a Ph.D. candidate in medieval history, but she'd leaped at the chance to leave her uncle's stone house in Oxford. All her friends were either engaged or married, and some had babies on the way.

Caro had desperately wanted to be on her own for a while, but when Uncle Nigel had learned of her plans, he'd developed chest pains. She'd slipped a nitroglycerin tablet under his tongue and blamed her decision on yet another disastrous romance—which was true, but not exactly surprising, considering she couldn't keep a boyfriend longer than two seconds. After much cajoling, her uncle had arranged for her to move into a Covent Garden flat, saddling her with a roommate who lived on sunflower seeds and indulged in biweekly seaweed wraps at a salon around the corner.

Uncle Nigel had made sure Caro's name wasn't in the phone book or even on the mailbox. Even her friends had trouble finding her. During her weekly visits to her uncle's house, he'd claim that Dinah the cat was pining herself into an early grave over Caro's absence, and then he'd lift the corpulent feline, grunting with the effort, and say, “Nothing but fur and bones.”

He can't be dead
, she thought, dabbing her eyes on the pillowcase. She slid off the bed and began digging through her closet. The few clothes she owned had been bought at the secondhand store. What was the temperature in southern Bulgaria? Cold. It would be icy and cold. She pulled her plaid duffel bag from the shelf and started packing. She'd just slipped into tattered jeans and a striped purple sweater when her bedroom door opened and Phoebe stuck her head through the crack.

“Sorry to wake you.” Caro bit her lip. “I was going to leave a note.”

“Why? What's happened?” Phoebe frowned at the duffel bag.

“Uncle Nigel. He—” Caro couldn't say the words. Three impossible words:
He was murdered.
She opened a drawer, pulled out a black sweater, and tossed it into the bag. Finally, she managed a terse, “He passed away.”

Phoebe's tiny hand slid around Caro's waist, and the lemony scent of Eau d'Hadrien drifted between them: Phoebe's trademark scent. “I'm so sorry,” she said. “Was it his heart?”

Before Caro could answer, the intercom buzzed in the hallway. “That's my ride,” Caro said.

“I'll tell him you're on your way.” Phoebe hurried out of the room.

Caro stood on her toes and reached for the Byzantine icon that hung over her desk. It had belonged to her parents. She traced delicate art. A saint stood at the center, her dark hair streaming down the front of the burgundy robe. She held an ostrich egg in one hand, a gilt-edged book in the other. A bleeding man lay at her feet while the night sky stretched over a vineyard, a castle, and a monk in the distance. Uncle Nigel had attached rules to this relic. If she traveled outside the U.K., the icon went with her. “Keep it with you at all times,” he'd said. “No matter how inconvenient. You don't want a hotel maid to nick it, do you?” Caro hadn't questioned him. It was as if she were protecting her parents, keeping them with her. She wrapped the icon in a plastic dry-cleaning wrapper and slid it into the duffel bag.

“All set?” Phoebe called.

“Just about.” Caro shoved a red hat over her hair, grabbed her mittens, and slung her bag over her shoulder. Phoebe was waiting beside the front door. She straightened Caro's hat.

“There you go. Much better. If you'd stop spinning for two minutes and fix yourself up, you'd find a boyfriend.”

Caro waved her hand. Her last boyfriend had specialized in Jack the Ripper tours and couldn't seem to get enough of her. That is, until he was suddenly distracted by a Soho waitress. A wise move on his part, really, since everyone Caro loved ended up dead.

“Call me,” Phoebe said.

Caro hurried down the stairs and out the front door. A black Jaguar waited by the curb, its windshield wipers ticking back and forth. The door swung open and a portly driver climbed out. Rain drummed against his umbrella as he escorted Caro to the car. She had started to duck into the backseat when she heard her name being called. The sound was coming from across the street. She turned. A man with a dark ponytail stepped away from a blue Range Rover and came toward the Jaguar.

“Miss Clifford?” he called again. One good thing about tour guiding: She had perfected the art of barely glancing at a person and compiling a profile. Tall. Broad shoulders. Athletic build. Early thirties. Dimpled cheeks. Cut-glass British accent. His eyes were an unnerving shade of blue. Rain slid down his ponytail, streaming down a chocolate leather jacket.

“Yes, what is it?” Caro asked.

“Don't talk to him, Miss Clifford,” the embassy driver cried, shielding her with the umbrella. “He's with the paparazzi.”

“I am not,” the ponytailed guy said. “I only need a moment with Miss Clifford.”

“Off with you or I'll ring the police,” the driver said, waving the umbrella. He guided Caro into the backseat, shut the door with a flourish, then climbed into the car. Muttering to himself, he handed Caro her tickets and itinerary. As he steered away from the curb, the Jaguar was nearly broadsided by a white Citroën van.

“Blooming punk!” Her driver hunched over the wheel and eased the car into Bow Street.

Caro glanced out the window. The guy with the ponytail stood in the middle of the road. He was a little too handsome, the type of man who usually ignored her and chased after Phoebe. Caro forced herself to look away and sank down in the seat. Uncle Nigel had just died and she was analyzing a reporter's looks. How sick was that? Her throat tightened and she couldn't catch her breath. She'd never had a panic attack, but this was exactly how she'd imagined one might feel. She burst into huge, racking sobs.

“You poor dear,” the driver said, and held out a box of tissues.

“Thanks.” She pulled out a sheet and blotted her eyes.

“Take the lot,” he said. “I've a feeling you'll be needing them.”

The Jaguar turned onto the Strand, sped by the Charing Cross station, and looped through Trafalgar Square. She glanced down at her tickets. Today was November 29. Last week, Uncle Nigel had called from Kardzhali, Bulgaria. “I'll be home on the twenty-eighth. Let's have tea on November twenty-ninth.”