Acquainted With the Night (9781101546000) Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  CHAPTER 34

  CHAPTER 35

  CHAPTER 36

  CHAPTER 37

  CHAPTER 38

  CHAPTER 39

  CHAPTER 40

  CHAPTER 41

  CHAPTER 42

  CHAPTER 43

  CHAPTER 44

  CHAPTER 45

  CHAPTER 46

  CHAPTER 47

  CHAPTER 48

  CHAPTER 49

  CHAPTER 50

  CHAPTER 51

  CHAPTER 52

  CHAPTER 53

  CHAPTER 54

  CHAPTER 55

  CHAPTER 56

  CHAPTER 57

  CHAPTER 58

  CHAPTER 59

  CHAPTER 60

  CHAPTER 61

  CHAPTER 62

  CHAPTER 63

  CHAPTER 64

  CHAPTER 65

  CHAPTER 66

  THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

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  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  ACQUAINTED WITH THE NIGHT

  A Berkley Book / published by arrangement with the author

  PRINTING HISTORY

  Berkley premium edition / December 2011

  Copyright © 2011 by Michael Lee West.

  All rights reserved.

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  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  ISBN : 978-1-101-54600-0

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  PROLOGUE

  PERPERIKON ARCHAEOLOGICAL COMPLEX

  EASTERN RHODOPE MOUNTAINS, BULGARIA

  Nigel Clifford dragged his trowel through the frozen rubble, coaxing potsherds to the surface. The freezing November wind scraped over the excavation site, tugging at his fedora and chilling his hands. Nigel put on gloves and kept digging. He’d just celebrated his seventy-second birthday, and he was better suited to armchair archaeology than fieldwork, but he loved dirt: its texture, the loamy smell, the way it packed under his nails, and the sour, acidic flavor it left in his mouth. The soil yielded more than history; it was the repository of man’s secrets.

  He worked until sunset, tagging the pottery bits. As he gathered his tools, darkness seeped out of the ground, twisted through gnarled branches, and plunged the mountain into leaden dusk. A ticklish sensation crept up his neck and he cut his gaze to the ledge above him. A figure melted into the shadows. Pebbles hit the path and skittered into the ravine.

  Nigel’s heart stuttered. Someone was watching, he was sure of it. Despite the glacial evening air, perspiration slid down his neck. He squinted at the ruins. A whirring noise echoed as bats swarmed out of the cave and skimmed over the excavation pit. Nigel tipped back his fedora and watched them scatter into the bruised sky. He’d never seen large colonies in the Rhodopes, especially in November—why so many? And what had disturbed them?

  His chest tightened and pain stitched down his left arm. Damned ruddy angina. He pulled off his gloves, pushed a nitroglycerin tablet under his tongue, and hummed “God Save the Queen.” He’d come to Perperikon to clear his mind with clay idols and bronze arrows, but after a fortnight of digging, he’d found nothing but potsherds. A pity he couldn’t stay in Bulgaria, but a distressing personal matter awaited him in England.

  After the spasm passed, he lifted his backpack, climbed out of the pit, and hurried toward the path. He didn’t notice the men until they stepped onto the flat boulders above him and stared down with toothy smiles. In the fading light, the duo resembled an Eastern European version of the Blues Brothers—sunglasses, skinny black ties, sport coats. Years ago, Nigel’s niece had loved that old film, but the chaps on the rocks weren’t cinema actors. They emanated a stygian stink, of earth and beetles and rot.

  Steady, old boy. The professor tipped his fedora and strode past the boulder, praying this would be the end of it. The men stood motionless until Nigel passed directly beneath their position, and then they moved swiftly. Too swiftly to see. He started to run, but a black haze blurred past him. Dust spiraled into the air as the men thudded onto the path.

  Like the bats. A twinge shot to Nigel’s elbow and he grimaced.

  “I’m looking for a British archaeologist,” the taller man said, each word drilled with a Balkan accent. The wind shifted, carrying the echo of a howling dog. The barbed notes sharpened, and a second animal moaned in the distance.

  “How may I help you?” Nigel’s breath stamped the air. His right knee shook violently, and the tip of his boot dented the rubble. Not to worry, old boy. Not yet. Though it could get sticky if these chaps were thieves.

  The man glided forward, his coat rustling. “Where are you hi
ding your niece?”

  Oh, no. Please, no. Nigel’s vision narrowed to an obsidian dot. “Sorry, I don’t have a niece.”

  “Yes, you do. Caroline Clifford stole ten pages from Historia Immortalis.”

  The man knew her name, knew about the book. What were the odds? Nigel’s jaw tightened and he nipped his tongue. If you didn’t wish to grow old, if you preferred a short but interesting life, get yourself mixed up with Historia Immortalis. Each cursed page attracted death—ironic for a tome that celebrated immortality. Twenty years ago, Caro’s parents had died because of it, and she’d barely escaped.

  The tall fellow waved two long fingers. “Teo, check his backpack.”

  “Da.” Teo wrenched Nigel’s bag from his shoulders. Everything spilled onto the path. Pens, documents, tools, medicine bottles, his tattered copy of Herodotus.

  Blood oozed into Nigel’s mouth. He swallowed, tasting the iron. Two decades of plotting and planning had just gone tits up, and this was how it would end? He gazed past the men, down the winding path. Could he make it down the mountain? He had to try. His need to protect Caro was stronger than life. Stronger than the threat of his own death.

  Teo smashed Nigel’s mobile phone against a rock, then lifted a medicine bottle. “Georgi, what is Warfarin? We can sell it, yes?”

  “Take it.” Georgi waved his bony hand.

  Teo kicked aside a British passport, reached for a tattered leather wallet, and pulled out a photograph. Nigel swallowed again as he gazed up at Caro’s much-younger face. She was his heart, this clever slip of a girl. He remembered the day that picture had been taken and how she’d struggled to tame her wiry blond hair into a strict, shining knot.

  “No niece?” Teo laughed and held up another snapshot. It had been taken a few months prior in London. Caro had grown into a beauty, all legs and cheekbones, with her mother’s gray-blue eyes. The corkscrew curls were still incorrigible and tumbled past her shoulders. She was just like that hair, feisty and resilient, but she was no match for these fiends.

  Georgi grabbed the picture and licked it. “Nice,” he said.

  “Go after her,” Nigel said, “and you’ll get a bite more than you can chew.”

  Georgi shoved the photograph into his pocket and pulled out a knife. Teo knocked off Nigel’s fedora, then threw him to the ground and pulled off his boots.

  Nigel felt a violent tug on his ankle, as if a meat hook had snagged it. White-hot spasms pulsed in his heel, rippled into his calf, and throbbed behind his knee. He arched his back and screamed. Bile spurted through his teeth and splashed onto the rocks. Had they hacked off his leg? His head jerked convulsively as he glanced over his shoulder. Blood jetted from a gash above his heel. Dear God, they’d severed his Achilles tendon.

  “He wails like a girl,” Teo said, then threw his weight onto the professor’s legs. Georgi dragged the knife over Nigel’s other tendon. A stinging burst of pain slammed into his groin. His bladder let go and warmth gushed down his thighs.

  Damn them to hell. To distract himself from the raw ache, he hummed “God Save the Queen.”

  “Shut up, old man,” Georgi cried.

  Nigel’s lips wobbled, then he began to sing as loud as he could. “From every latent foe / From the assassins’ blow / God save the Queen!” And God save Caro, too.

  Sour breath hit his face as the men fell on him, one on each side. His voice didn’t falter until the men bit his neck. He tried to push them away but his arms wouldn’t move. Even his feet went numb. A blessing.

  Georgi veered away and spat onto the rocks. “Your blood tastes bitter.”

  Teo jerked back and began dry-heaving onto the stones.

  “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.

  CHAPTER 1

  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.

  For the love of God, stop, no, you mustn’t.

  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.