Acquainted With the Night (9781101546000) (48 page)

“Why?”

“Aeneas probably thought he could control you better if a boyfriend wasn't hanging around.” Raphael's gaze sharpened. “So instead of taking you aside to explain about your parents and your hybridism, the monk blurted the news in front of Jude. And planted the seeds that you would not be sexually compatible with him.”

Caro felt the color rise to her cheeks and quickly tried to clear her mind, but she was a beat too late.

Raphael opened a glue pot. “The monk used the oldest trick in the world—he wounded Jude's masculine pride.”

“I'm sure Father Aeneas made that up. Because Jude and I have no problem in that department.”

“The monk told the truth.” Raphael lifted an eyebrow. “Humans are sexually magnetized by vampires—a bit less with hybrids. But hybrids don't have sexual chemistry with humans.”

“Wrong. Jude and I have more than enough.”

“Yes, after you were bitten in Momchilgrad.”

She cupped her hand over her neck, grazing the scabs. Her eyes narrowed. “Did he tell you?”

“I looked into his mind. And yours.” He shrugged. “Sorry, but I was curious. It's most unusual for a hybrid to lust after a human.”

“So I'd feel differently about Jude if I hadn't been bitten?”

“You might have fallen for him, but the lovemaking would have been disappointing. When the Momchilgrad vampire bit you, it triggered a hormonal storm within your system. A pitch-perfect collision of estrogen and testosterone.”

Indeed. “Will it lessen?”

“No.” He grinned. “That's good for you. For Jude, not so much. He is riddled with doubts—your hybridism torments him. But he's a typical guy. He worries even more about his sexual prowess.”

“He shouldn't.” She glared at Raphael until he turned away. He lifted the tweezers, plucked a wooden shard, and moved toward the glue pot.

“I haven't seen him this morning.” Caro's stomach muscles tightened. Actually, she hadn't seen him since last night. Had he left the island?

“He's here.” Raphael looked up.

She felt him reach into her mind. “Stop reading my thoughts. It's rude.”

“I don't want you to fret,
mia cara
. Jude is with Maria. She tried to teach him how to make panettone and focac-cia, but I'm afraid he showed no aptitude for baking.” Raphael slid the shard into place, then gently patted it with the tweezers. “Maria forced Jude to help her plan the
menù di Natale
. Then she insisted that he help her and Beppe put up a Christmas tree. You have never heard such complaining. But I think Jude secretly liked the festivities.”

“I had no idea he was a traditionalist.” She lifted the magnifying glass and examined her palm. The lines were shaped like a martini glass. “He hasn't been drinking, has he?”

“Not at all. Why?”

She didn't answer, and Raphael's gaze sharpened.

Quit snooping
, she thought, but he pressed harder. Her head tipped back, and she began humming “God Save the Queen,” Uncle Nigel's favorite hymn. A moment later, her chin snapped back, as if a suction had broken, and she felt Raphael's mind retreat.

The music changed, and Andrea Bocelli began singing
“O mio babbino caro.”
Raphael set down the tweezers and touched her face. “Forgive me. I did not mean to intrude. I enjoyed long, telepathic conversations with your father, but he could shut me out, too.”

Caro smiled. “Well, I'm glad I inherited something from him.”

“You look so much like the Grimaldis—the straight nose, high cheekbones, long legs. They had blond, curly hair. Odd that yours isn't.”

“Oh, I do.” She lifted a dark strand. “But I needed a disguise.”

“Your father had a head full of curls. My God, women loved him.” Raphael pointed to an icon fragment that showed the vineyard. “The Grimaldis loved wine, too. Their vineyards were famous. In fact, they introduced the Mauzac Blanc grapes to the Languedoc region.”

“If my father was a ladies' man, how did he settle for my mother?”

“Because Vivienne wasn't just any woman. She was his big love. His only true love.”

“What made her different?”

“Philippe had lost the capacity to feel joy, and Vivienne found happiness in small things. Moonlight on a rug. A blooming orchid. A fresh peach.”

“Why did she marry Wilkerson?” Caro scratched Arrapato's ear.

“I asked her that question. I was hoping she'd say that Wilkerson had drugged her and she woke up married. But apparently they met at a bookshop on Portobello Road. Wilkerson collected books and so did she. He romanced her. She was reeling from her parents' deaths. After he won her, he put a checkmark beside her name and moved to the next conquest. Then she met Philippe.”

Caro looked up. “You knew her?”

“Quite well.” He opened a drawer and pulled out a photograph that showed a laughing woman with pewter eyes and shoulder-length dark blond hair. She was sitting on a terrace with shimmering blue water rising behind the balustrades. In her arms was a black puppy with a monkey face.

“I took this photograph the last time they were here,” Raphael said. “Vivi and Philippe had brought me an Affenpinscher puppy.”

Caro looked down at Arrapato. “Him?”

“He was my consolation prize. You see, Philippe and I were both at the Sotheby's auction, bidding on those ten pages to
Historia Immortalis
. I fell hard for Vivi. But I didn't have a chance.”

Raphael spread his fingers, as if to show that something precious had escaped his grasp.

“Your mother was quite upset when I named him Arrapato,” he continued smoothly. “She thought he needed a more dignified name. Then she was gone, and the dog was all that remained.”

Caro placed her hand under the dog's chin. “So you turned Arrapato into a vampire.”

“Love will do that,
mia cara
.” He pulled out another photograph that showed a bald, big-eyed baby with oversized lips. “Vivienne sent this after you were born.”

“This is me?”

“
Il bambino brutto
—the ugly baby. All the Grimaldi babies look this way. The Italians have a saying ‘ugly in the cradle, beauty at the table.' You grew into a goddess.”

“How did my father feel about me? Did he think I was a half-breed?”

“
Mio Dio
, no. He doted on you. The night you were born, he wrapped you in a blanket and sang you a Cole Porter song.”

“Why didn't you tell me you knew my mother?”

“It is difficult for me to speak of Vivi.” Raphael touched Caro's hair. “When she was here, I had a premonition of trouble. She and Philippe were hiding from Wilkerson. And the Grimaldis were furious.”

“They didn't give my mother a chance, did they?”

“They couldn't.” Raphael's hand fell. “It's forbidden for humans and immortals to bond.”

“Says who?”

“Historia Immortalis.”
Raphael's voice took on a scholarly tone as he lectured her about the book's tenets and moral ambiguities—just as in today's world, the ancient vampires didn't keep their own rules.

“Exceptions were made when an immortal fell in love with a well-connected human,” he said. “In other words, if you were in the peerage, if you possessed land or influence, the vamps looked the other way. Greed is a human response to an inhuman dilemma. However, when a high-born vamp romanced a lowly human, the rules were enforced, and the unfortunate lovebirds were ostracized.”

Raphael couldn't cite the cases because apparently the appendix to
Historia Immortalis
was part of those ten stolen pages.

“Who took the pages?” Caro asked.

Raphael lifted his shoulders. “The pope's mercenaries, no doubt.”

“Why did the Church care about that book?”

“
Historia Immortalis
launched the Albigensian Crusade.”

“Wasn't that about the Church versus the Cathars?”

“It worked as a cover. Languedoc was a hotbed of Catharism. The Grimaldis were right in the middle of it. The crusade began centuries after your triptych was painted.”

A lightness filled her chest—finally a subject that didn't involve hybrids. “I briefly studied the Albigensian Crusade. It started when Béziers was sacked.”

“
Precisamente.
Pope Innocent sent Arnaud-Amay to deal with the so-called heretics.”

Raphael's face darkened and he looked away from the triptych. “The knights couldn't tell the difference between Catholics, Jews, and Cathars. They asked Amay what to do. He said God would recognize His own. So they killed everyone. Thousands went to God that day. Meanwhile, Pope Innocent and his criminals cavorted at their summer residence. Not so innocent after all. One thing led to another. The Inquisition began. And more people were slaughtered.”

“I still don't understand how
Historia Immortalis
was mixed up in this.”

“It was at the heart of the crusade and the Inquisition.” Raphael gazed down at the triptych. “The book was a threat to the Vatican.”

“Why? Because the Cathars refused to tithe?” They'd been a plucky and courageous lot, from what Caro remembered of her studies.

“The pope was
always
mindful of his coffers.” Raphael picked up a wooden shard and studied it. “But avarice wasn't the reason the Church stamped out Catharism.”

“If it wasn't money, what was the Vatican's problem?”

“You've known about vampires for only a short while.” Raphael dabbed a bit of glue on the shard and fit it onto the triptych. “You'd never believe the rest of it.”

“Try me.”

“Let's wait until you've had time to absorb your hybridism.”

She rubbed her forehead, feeling more confused than ever. “Surely you're not insinuating that the Cathars were vampires? Or related to them in some near way?”

“No. The Grimaldis were Cathars who just happened to be vampires. And yes, some Cathars were vampires, but most weren't.” Raphael set down the tweezers. “The Grimaldis owned
Historia Immortalis
. And before you ask why anyone would care, the book is connected to one of the missing Gospels.”

“A what?” she asked. But she knew. She'd studied the canonical Gospels. And no, she didn't want to believe Raphael's theory.
If
it was a theory. But it explained why people would commit murder for the book. She put her hands in her lap and twisted her fingers.

“I suppose you know the story of the lost Gospels that were found at Nag Hammadi?” he asked.

“A little.” She glanced at her hands. Her knuckles were white. “Go on.”

“The Bedouins found codices in jugs,” he said. “The manuscripts were Coptic translations of second-century Greek originals. A Bedouin woman used the twelfth volume for kindling, but fragments were found. And they corresponded to passages from
Historia Immortalis
.”

“What passages? And if fragments remained, how could they be compared to
Historia Immortalis
?”

“The twelfth volume was a Coptic translation of the original Greek text—it survived the great fire of Alexandria. There were many Coptic versions.”

“Let me get this straight.” Caro tucked her hair behind her ears. “You're saying
Historia Immortalis
is a Gnostic book, one that was edited out of the Bible?”

He nodded. “It's easy to see why it didn't make the canon, isn't it?”

“But the canonical Gospels are biographies of Jesus and chronicles of His teachings,” Caro said. “Surely
Historia Immortalis
isn't a biography.”

“No, but it's certainly a chronicle. Some scholars believe it was forged by the notorious Carpocratians—a heretical Gnostic sect. But I believe it was written by second-century monks. The language is typical of the era. It reads like a Gnostic Gospel.”

“I don't understand.”

“Well, the book is a treatise about the night, but the theme is resurrection. The first line says, ‘This is the secret Gospel of the night.' Then it goes on to say that whoever finds the correct interpretation of the text will find eternal life.” He leaned toward the carved bench and lifted out a volume. “This is the Gospel of Thomas. It opens cryptically, too, and refers to eternal life.”

“Yes, after death.” Shivers ran down Caro's arms.

“That's why the Church objected.
Historia Immortalis
is a chronicle of people who'd achieved eternal life on earth. Pretty radical, wouldn't you say? The Church fretted endlessly over heresy. But they also had the means to eliminate it.”

Caro exhaled, and her breath made a humming sound. “So that's why it was suppressed?”

“Yes. Fortunately, many vampires were monks—and gifted translators. That's why a number of Coptic versions existed. One found its way to me at Tours. I translated a copy that went into Charlemagne's library. I also made a secret copy with pornographic illustrations. I gave it to the Grimaldis.”

“Is that how the Cathars got mixed up in it?”

“In a roundabout way. Copies were made and distributed—I had a hand in that. An ambitious French monk stole a copy and delivered it to the Vatican. Claimed the Cathars were doing blood rituals and orgies. Pope Innocent elevated the monk to a lofty position—the traitor has a statue in Saint Peter's, by the way. But I digress.” Raphael reached down to pat the dog, his long fingers ruffling the black fur.

“Then the crusade began.” Raphael's nostrils flared. “Pope Innocent got nearly everything he wanted. Many copies of the book were ferreted out and destroyed. Thanks to Philippe, the Grimaldis' tome was safe. As was the triptych. For a while.”