Rise of the Blood (5 page)

We had a
three-hour
layover in New York. I was dead tired by the time we got there and yet wired, as though if anyone touched me, I’d flare up and short out. It was a fragile feeling that I didn’t like one bit.

After an internal slugfest between my id and my ego, I decided on an over-the-counter sleep aid for the nine-hour flight from New York to Athens. I’d already been up for almost twenty-four hours at that point, and I knew that if I didn’t get some sleep soon, I’d be insufferable…assuming
that
ship hadn’t already sailed. Plus, Nick deserved me passed out on his chest so that he could sleep himself. Jesus was on his own. Yes, he’d left drool on my shirt. I showed him the pic I’d snapped with my cell phone on airplane mode. All I’d had to say was “company website” for all the lost color from earlier to flood back into his face in a furious blush.

I grinned evilly.

“You’re a wicked, wicked woman,” he said.

“Don’t I know it.”

The sleep aid didn’t kick in until well after takeoff on the next leg of the trip, but once it did, I slept like a baby until the wheels touched down in Athens, jarring me awake. I cried out, and Nick’s arm tightened around me. I was crushed up against his chest, seatbelt buckle digging into my hip and no armrest between us. When I lifted my head, I saw that Jesus wasn’t the only one to drool. I wiped my mouth, trying to look like I
wasn’t
swiping away spittle, and patted Nick’s shirt as if I could blot it dry with my bare hands.

“Don’t worry about it,” Nick said. “I’m not.”

That was the other great thing about him. As a police detective, he’d been faced with all manner of bodily fluids. A little spittle was nothing.

There was no coffee between us and customs. None. There
was
a terrifically long line of people. But it moved surprisingly swiftly. I understood why when we got to the front. After looking over our paperwork and asking a perfunctory question about the nature of our visit, the customs agent rubber-stamped us and sent us through. I didn’t really know what it was supposed to accomplish. Did they really expect someone to give “terrorism” or “smuggling” as the reason for their visit? Was it just to be able to say, “Ah ha, caught you in a lie!” when people were nabbed later?

Anyway, we were through and on to the baggage claim area when I spotted a placard with my name on it—last name at least—in the oversized hands of a suited-up chauffer who looked like the right-hand man of some Bond villain.

Of course, we
were
in Greece, where the name Karacis wasn’t exactly the oddity it was in America, so I wasn’t necessarily the target audience.

“Here!” Jesus said before I could think it through. He waved a hand so there could be no mistake where “here” was. “We’re Karacis.”

“Vittoria?” the chauffer asked, turning toward me.

“Tori,” I answered. “And you are?”

“I am Viggo. Your Uncle Hector has sent a car.”

My shoulders dropped about half a foot in relief. We weren’t about to be spirited off to some evil lair. (“No, Mr. Bond, I expect you to die.”)

But my
Uncle Hector
. He was nearly a myth, a barely remembered figure tossing me in the air and giving me pony rides until my sides hurt from laughing. But then there’d been some scandal with some princess or contessa or something, and he’d dropped off the face of the earth. I’d been too young to remember the details, and no one was going to share such secrets with me then. By the time I was old enough to ask the right questions, I was busy getting into trouble of my own. But rumor had it that he was richer than Midas and at least twenty thousand times cooler. I felt a childish glee about seeing him again…even if he
was
the one financing Apollo’s return to the big screen and, at least temporarily, my life.

“He’s here?” I asked stupidly.

“He sent a car and waits for you at the hotel, where he’s throwing a special reception.”

“A reception?”

I hadn’t gotten the memo. In fact, my plan had been to rent a car, drive to the hotel and fall facedown onto a bed to sleep the night away before making the two hour trek up to Mount Parnassus the next day for some sightseeing before the wedding festivities got under way. At the moment, I was most excited about the facedown, quickly unconscious part of that whole equation. I was hot, I was tired, and I probably still had slobber tracks on my face. I was not ready to face the family in my current condition.

Nick took in my shell-shocked look. “Yes on the car, pass on the reception,” he said for me.

“I’m afraid it’s a package deal,” he said with a smile.

“Now wait—” I was jet-lagged, and the heavy-handed tactics were making me cranky on top of it. Jesus held a restraining hand to my arm to keep me from unleashing a can of verbal whoop-ass.

“Did I mention that your uncle is picking up all accommodations and has arranged a limo to take you all to your destination on the morrow?” Viggo asked, sweetening the pot.

On the morrow
… Who talked like that?

Before I could speak, Jesus jumped in to accept on our behalf. I gave him a completely ineffective death glare. “What?” he asked. “We go, we sip champagne, we vanish into the night.
Quelle horreur
.” He was Spanish…speaking French…in Greece. Well, why not.

I sighed. “Fine, I’m too tired to argue.”

“I didn’t even know that was possible,” Nick said. “But I’m noting it for future reference.”

I smiled tiredly at him and led the way to our baggage carousel, where for once I let someone else wrestle my baggage from the belt. Viggo was built for it, after all. In fact, in his huge hands, my big, hard-sided bag looked like a mere briefcase.

The car, when we got to it, was a sleek white thing with what looked like a boomerang mounted on the front. I knew that meant something about the make or model, but I was too fuzzy headed to think what. But the long and short of it was that it was fancy-schmancy, and where it swooped inward at the sides it was accented with silver-gray paint. It almost looked like one of the clouds that had practically smothered us on the trip over. I shivered.

“Cold?” Nick asked, already shrugging out of his shirt.

I shook my head, but I didn’t explain. I should be thankful about Uncle Hector’s generosity. I didn’t have any rational reason to distrust it, except that in Greece we knew the expression wasn’t, “
Never
look a gift horse in the mouth,” but
always
. After all, we’d taken Troy that way.

Just to be on the safe side, I called Yiayia as soon as we got into the car.

“
Anipsi
, you are here!” she said in lieu of “hello.”

“I am,” I admitted. “I’m, uh, on my way to the reception.”

“Wonderful! I should be up momentarily as well. We’re just putting the finishing touches on our couture.”
We?
“I understand that your friends have put in an appearance. You didn’t tell me—”

The phone seemed to move away from her mouth, and I heard a bit of a scuffle in the background. Or maybe not a scuffle, because…was that giggling? At her age?

“Yiayia,” I shouted, “What friends? What are you talking about?”

But then there was a
thwump
, as if the phone fell to the floor, and then…nothing.

Stunned, I hung up and tried again, but the phone just rang and rang and went to voicemail.

“Step on it,” I told Viggo. “Please hurry.”

My internal alarms weren’t blaring, but I still didn’t know the rules. Did they only go off when
I
was in danger? Was there some kind of range? Even without them, I had a bad feeling about things.

What friends could Yiayia be talking about?
Zeus
?
Poseidon
? Both were known to be able to change their forms…or at least had done so frequently when they were at full power to seduce a woman in the guise of her husband or by trickling in as a golden mist through a locked door. Could they be crashing the party? But how would they have gotten out of the States so quickly given their fugitive status? And why pose as friends at all?

“Something’s wrong,” I told Nick.

“What?”

“I don’t know, but Yiayia sounded…strange. And her phone went dead.”

“Maybe she lost reception?”

“Maybe. I’ll just feel a lot better when we’re there. How far are we?” I asked Viggo.

“Ten minutes,” he answered, holding up all ten fingers to show, leaving none on the wheel.

I gulped as another car barreled past, nearly smashing us against a white-washed concrete wall that was too close for comfort. I nodded quickly to show that I got it, the better to return his hands to the wheel as quickly as possible. He recovered his mastery of the road, and overtook the car that had overtaken us, as though they were in some kind of street race he was bent on winning. Just as he pulled past, he swung quickly right, off onto an exit that took us onto a much quieter street that led to another, and then past Hadrian’s Gate and the Temple of Olympian Zeus. Oh, I’d missed Athens, where antiquity and the everyday sat side by side and there was beauty everywhere you looked.

“Is that—?” Nick started to ask, pointing up a hill overlooking the city that was capped by stunning near-ruins.

“The Parthenon,” I answered with a smile, suddenly feeling a lot less weary. “Yeah.”

His look of awe made me so proud of my country…well, my
other
country. I’d been born in America, but this was the culture I’d been born to and
this
was what ran in my blood. This. Beauty. Antiquity. Home.

But I was still worried as hell about Yiayia.

Viggo pulled into the miniscule drive before a big, white-pillared hotel that overlooked the Temple and Hadrian’s Gate. I jumped out before he even had the engine turned off, trusting that the guys could handle the luggage. I ran to the front desk, but was too jet-lagged to remember to speak Greek until I’d already started in English. “The Karacis/Galanos reception? Where is it?” I knew they’d never give me Yiayia’s room number, but even if she hadn’t made it up to the party, someone there would know where to find her, and these
friends
of mine…

“Garden Terrace, top floor,” the woman behind the counter answered back, also in English.

I thanked her and hit the button for the elevator, but lost patience with it when it didn’t arrive instantly and instead dashed for the staircase just beside it. I reached the top sweatier than I’d intended, but there’d been very little air in the staircase, and even less in my lungs by the time I reached my goal. The stairwell let out on a small alcove, and I followed the noise—and the signs—through a beautiful restaurant enclosed on three sides by glass to take advantage of the views, and out onto a devastatingly beautiful terrace. The outer door was on the Parthenon side of the city, and the view…stunning didn’t even begin to cover it.

But I wasn’t there for the view. In fact, I’d have been just as happy to turn tail and run.

The party was in full swing and none of it safely
inside
the restaurant. All of the partygoers were packed together on the terrace balcony enjoying the beautiful evening and the city’s most amazing sights. I took a deep breath, then another, trying to get my panicked reaction under control. Just the thought of stepping out onto that balcony—so high, a dead drop below, teeming with people who might accidentally jostle me over the edge… I knew it was irrational, that the hotel would have built the balcony walls high enough to prevent that, but fears weren’t rational, and heights…that was a phobia pure and simple. I didn’t look out the windows in airplanes. I’d never climb to the top of the Empire State Building, and I didn’t want any part of that balcony.

Still,
Yiayia and answers
. It was a toss up which would be stronger, my fear or my curiosity.

I made myself take a step, then another. And another. Toward the balcony. Toward the press of people, looking for familiar faces to latch on to. I didn’t recognize a good half of the people, and avoided everyone’s gaze, familiar or not, in my search for Yiayia. I didn’t see her. I ignored the waiter who stepped in front of me offering cocktails and stopped dead when I heard a tinkling little laugh.
I knew that laugh
. My head whipped around searching for the source, and I found her up against the terrace rail—my best friend Christie, and right beside her, hand resting on the small of her back, was Hermes.

Apparently, I’d found the friends Yiayia was talking about. Some of the tension eased up out of my shoulders, as my most immediate sense of pending doom started to ebb. I should have known from the lack of internal alarms that Yiayia couldn’t have been talking about Zeus and Poseidon, but how could I ever have guessed it would be Hermes and Christie?

“Christie?” I said, raising my voice to carry.

She turned from the rail and spotted me even from across the terrace. A smile burst over her face. “You’re here!”

The party seemed to part for her, and then she was kissing me on both cheeks in the European way.

“I’m here,” I answered. No debating that. “But why are you? Not that I’m not happy to see you, but what about your big shoot over in the Riviera?”

“I’ll get there! But it’s days away. Usually I get in a few days early to acclimate, but Greece…France…close enough! When your friend called and offered up his private jet—well, that beats a commercial flight any old time.”

I eyed Hermes. “Private jet?” I asked.

“Being the CEO of a worldwide messenger service has its perks.”

“What I don’t get is why
you
didn’t take advantage,” Christie said.

I wondered what story he’d given her, but all I got from the look on his face was a challenge. Was I going to blow his cover or maintain his secret identity? There was no fear of the outcome, only interest.

“Yeah,” he said prodding. “You know you can take advantage of me any time.”

Christie swatted at him. “Oh, you!” Like she’d already grown used to his flirting. Like it was old hat. Like it was
cute
. I gave Hermes the hairy eyeball.