Hunting Daylight (9781101619032) (34 page)

Raphael stirred beside me. He slid his arm around my waist and pulled me against him. His lips stopped on my neck. “Anything wrong,
mia cara
?”

“You remember that thing you mentioned? The item your designer friend brought? Well, I think it’s in your bathroom.”

The bedsprings creaked as he rose from the mattress, and then his footsteps brushed over the rug. A few moments later, I heard him climb the metal stairs. He returned, carrying the large frame in one hand, as if it weighed no more than a paper clip. He opened the panel to the balcony and pushed open the door. Rain sprayed across the photo as he heaved it over the balcony. There was a pause, and then I heard a muffled clatter on the pavement.

He got back in bed and cupped his hands on my face. “I only want to be with you.”

“It’s okay, Raphael. Really. Don’t worry.”

“I want you to understand. Sex was always uncomplicated and entertaining. I gave women flowers and my time and my body. But not my soul. Never my soul. If I give it to you, I can’t take it back.”

A long while later, I fell asleep and dreamed about Raphael tossing that picture. I woke up and tried to sort through the meaning in the dream. Raphael’s gesture
seemed pretty damn symbolic. He was throwing away his old life. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that something evil was creeping around the edges of this house, probing for crevices and secret corridors, its treacherous fingers digging through the walls and catching us unaware.

The next afternoon, the rain stopped falling, and a gassy green haze washed over Place des Victoires. As I stood next to the kitchen window, I felt as if I were staring through a glass of absinthe.

I rubbed my forehead. So much had happened since Vivi and I had left Australia. I’d assumed that July would pass quickly and uneventfully. True, I was telepathic, but I would never earn a living as a fortune-teller.

Arrapato whined from the dark hallway. I closed the wooden shutter, blotting out the strange light, and the dog trotted into the room, gripping a scrolled paper in his mouth. He dropped it at my feet. I scratched his ear, then lifted the paper.

I couldn’t help but smile. I’d been gone twenty minutes—a girl has to eat carbohydrates. At least, this girl did. The hem of my blue dress whirled around my ankles as I followed Arrapato up to the third-story library.

Raphael sat on the sofa. He’d showered, and his damp hair hung in blond panels around his chin. He wore a Coldplay T-shirt and gray sweatpants. As I walked by him, he drew me into his lap. He lifted my hair and wound it around his neck.

“I could find my way out of a labyrinth if you were with me,” he said.

My hips shifted over his thighs, and I felt him grow beneath me. Gently tugging my hair, he leaned back onto the sofa, pulling me on top of him.

“You’re insatiable,” I said.

“You’re a hybrid. That’s why you can keep up with me.” His fingers caught the hem of my dress.

“What if someone walks in?” I asked.

Raphael glanced at the floor, where Arrapato glowered at him. “Guard the door, please.”

The dog snorted and turned away. A minute later I heard his toenails snick over the wood floor. The next thing I knew, my underwear was gone and so were Raphael’s sweatpants. He caught my face in his hands.

“No woman has ever made me this happy,” he said.

“Not in a thousand years?” I ran my finger over his bottom lip.

“I’ve been waiting a long time to feel this way. I didn’t think I would.” Keeping his gaze on me, he nipped my finger, then let go. “I feel like I’m eighteen years old and I’ve just discovered sex.”

“Mmm-hmm.” I ran my finger over his bottom teeth. “You can’t bite me.”

He drew back. “Not ever?”

“I could make you ill.” I paused. “Unless you took a Benadryl tablet.”

“I’ll find some later.” He made a playful lunge for my neck.

“No.” I explained about the antigens and antibodies. I even threw in a mini lecture about vampiric neurotoxins.

While I talked, he moved his hand under my dress.

“You have to take antihistamines at least fifteen minutes before you bite me,” I said.

“I’ll order some immediately.” He grinned. “But until the medicine arrives, you can bite me, right?”

Afterward, we lay on the sofa. He traced his thumb along my cheekbone. I rested my hand on his chest, feeling his heart vibrate beneath my palm.

Raphael sighed, and I glanced up. Tiny scabs were forming at the base of his throat, where I’d nipped him.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“I’m really sorry about that photo. I only dated her a week.”

“It’s not a problem.”

“But the woman who put it there might be one,” he
said. “She’ll talk. Loudly and often. The wrong people might find out I’m in Paris. Then you will be at risk.”

“Maybe we should leave,” I said. “Let’s go to New York.”

“Maybe,” he said.

Vivi and I had spent one summer at Raphael’s condo in the Chelsea Mercantile Building. We’d bought groceries at Whole Foods, and every Saturday we’d walked to Barnes and Noble, where Vivi would gather an armful of children’s books. That was the year that Raphael flew to New York and helped me celebrate her fifth birthday. We’d taken her to Alice’s Tea Cup, then we took a carriage ride in Central Park.

“Manhattan might be the last great place to get lost,” I said.

“True,” Raphael said. One side of his mouth frowned; the other quirked up.

“You’ve got that look again,” I said.

“What look?”

“The one you get when you want to tell me something, but you’re not quite ready.”

“We might be leaving Paris, after all.” Raphael squeezed my hand. “Do you remember when Walpole mentioned the other survivor? I’ve located him. Dr. Nick Parnell made it out of the rain forest. He might know something.”

My head filled with a rushing noise. “Where is he?”

“Marrakech.”

“You’re flying down there?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“To see how his version fits with Walpole’s account.”

“You don’t think he told us everything?”

He shrugged. “Discrepancies are just as important as consistencies.”

“Why would Walpole lie?”

“I didn’t say he lied. I think he omitted details.”

“Like what? He told us that Jude was wearing his ring.”

“There’s more.”

“How can you be sure?”

“I’ve got a feeling. Not prescience, but something else. It’s like when the barometric pressure falls, and the east wind smells of ozone. You know bad weather is coming. Sometimes I feel a shift deep inside me. When it happens, I trust it.”

“When are you leaving?”

“I’m not sure. Will you come with me?” He leaned back, watching me. His eyes were as brown as brown can get. I thought of leather, shaved chocolate, roasted espresso beans, rain pattering onto grape vines. River water rushing over umber stones. The dark, burnished gravity of this man pulled me in.

I am in love. After all this empty time, I am in love. And I am coming alive.

VENICE, ITALY

The train pulled into Venice at sunset. Gillian had thought the city would remind her of New Orleans in its pre-Katrina days, another flat, marshy landscape that had been gussied up with ornate buildings, but she’d been wrong.

As she walked away from the station, she decided that Venice was more than a charming city, it was the pulsing heart of beauty itself. Plum-colored clouds drifted over the Italianate palaces and arched bridge, the images quivering in the water, as if a whole other city lay at the bottom of the lagoon.

I love this place so damn much, I might move here
, she thought. She had traveled from Switzerland to Italy as Caroline Barrett, and no one had questioned her. She hadn’t seen any vampires, either. And she’d been looking.
Tomorrow morning, a boat would meet her at the quay and take her to Villa Primaverina.

As she walked by the Grand Canal, a
vaporetto
sliced through the water, leaving a foamy wake.
What a lovely name for a water taxi
, she thought. The sun was going down, staining the water blood red. That was pretty, too. She angled toward Piazza San Marco, and the breeze stirred her sedate beige dress. She was afraid her Caro-like wig would fly off, so she tugged at the curls. When she passed by the arcades, two young men said, “
Bella, bella.
”

They were cute, not vampy in the least, but she kept walking. She’d never been this happy, even though she missed Fielding. Lord almighty, he was a fine man. Not a vamp, but damn close. He’d gone back to London—just until those badass vampires were caught. Then he would fly to Italy.

I’m in love
, she thought. And the guy didn’t even have fangs. She couldn’t wait to start having ginger-haired babies. She’d send Christmas cards to every bitch in Louisiana, a super nice photo-card of her, Fielding, and the kids.

A bell tinkled over her head when she stepped into a gift shop. She bought blue Murano glass earrings for Caro, a pink T-shirt for Vivi, an I H
EART
V
ENICE
key chain for Fielding, a jeweled collar for Arrapato, and green marbled writing paper for Raphael.

When she came out of the store, the alley was dark. She eased around a group of tourists and moved down a fragrant, medieval street. It was narrow, lined with boutiques and cafés. She heard footsteps behind her, and for some reason they sounded menacing. She turned.

A pretty woman with short blond hair strode into a gift shop. She wore a gorgeous outfit—leather and silk.

Gillian felt something stiff and warm brush against her leg. She glanced down. It was a little old cat. Cross-eyed and scrawny. Gillian hunkered down and petted its fur.

“You look half starved,” she said, stroking the cat’s forehead. Poor thing looked like it hadn’t eaten in days. “Stay right here, and I’ll bring you some food, okay?”

She walked into a
trattoria
. Platters were lined up on a buffet table. She took a plate and spooned up anything that looked catworthy—sardines, anchovies, broiled crabs. The restaurant wasn’t crowded, but she couldn’t find a waiter. She sat down at a table and pulled out her Italian phrasebook. How could she say
I need a doggie bag
?

A shadow fell across the table. Gillian looked up. A short-haired blonde held a plate and a glass of wine. A huge shopping bag dangled from her wrist. It was the woman Gillian had seen earlier. Damn, she knew how to rock an outfit: tight leather leggings and a cute white blouse with itty black bows down the front.

“May I join you?” the blonde asked. Her eyes were the prettiest shade of blue, and they gazed longingly at the empty chair.

Gillian hesitated and looked past the woman. Empty tables were scattered everywhere. Well, some people didn’t like to eat alone. And this woman didn’t look like trash or anything. She was wearing close to three thousand dollars in clothing, not including tax. A few weeks ago, Gillian had tried on a pair of those exact same leather leggings at Harrods, $835 a pair. And the blouse was a
Nanette Lepore. Three hundred forty-eight bucks. On the woman’s feet were black Christian Louboutin pumps, and they had black spikes jutting out everywhere like a porcupine. $1,495. Not that Gillian was counting.

“Be my guest,” Gillian said, sweeping her hand at the chair.

The blonde sat down, giving off a sweet herbal smell and something earthier, like copper and salt water. “You have a unique accent,” the woman told Gillian. “What country are you from?”

Gillian almost said
Louisiana
, but she caught herself. Wait, was she still posing as Caro? Or could she be herself? Better to act coy. “Can’t you guess?” she asked.

“That wasn’t my question.” The blonde smiled, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes.

An electrified knot tightened at the base of Gillian’s spine, a feeling she used to get when she lived in New Orleans and walked home from the law library and heard footsteps behind her. A tight coil of energy would ball up in her spine, and then she’d run. She felt like running now, but that was silly. Wasn’t it?