“Wilfrid Voynich bought Yale’s mysterious manuscript from the Jesuits in 1912,” she said, munching on a cucumber from her healthy salad. “They were quietly liquidating their collections at the Villa Mondragone outside Rome.”
“Mondragone?” I shook my head, thinking of Corra.
“Yep. It got its name from the heraldic device of Pope Gregory XIII—the guy who reformed the calendar. But you probably know more about that than I do.”
I nodded. Crossing Europe in the late sixteenth century had required familiarity with Gregory’s reforms if I had wanted to know what day it was.
“More than three hundred volumes from the Jesuit College in Rome were moved to the Villa Mondragone sometime in the late nineteenth century. I’m still a bit fuzzy on the details, but there was some sort of confiscation of church property during Italian unification.” Lucy stabbed an anemic cherry tomato with her fork. “The books sent to Villa Mondragone were reportedly the most treasured volumes in the Jesuit library.”
“Hmm. I wonder if I could get a list.” I’d owe my friend from Stanford even more, but it might lead to one of the missing pages.
“It’s worth a shot. Voynich wasn’t the only interested buyer, of course. The Villa Mondragone sale was one of the greatest private book auctions of the twentieth century. Voynich almost lost the manuscript to two other buyers.”
“Do you know who they were?” I asked.
“Not yet, but I’m working on it. One was from Prague. That’s all I’ve been able to discover.”
“Prague?” I felt faint.
“You don’t look well,” Lucy said. “You should go home and rest. I’ll keep working on it and see you tomorrow,” she added, closing up her empty Styrofoam container.
“Auntie. You’re early,” Gallowglass said when I exited the building.
“Ran into a research snag.” I sighed. “The whole day has been a few bits of progress sandwiched between a two thick slices of frustration. Hopefully, Matthew and Chris will make further discoveries in the lab, because we’re running out of time. Or perhaps I should say I’m running out of time.”
“It will all work out in the end,” Gallowglass said with a sage nod. “It always does.”
We cut across the green and through the gap between the courthouse and City Hall. On Court Street we crossed the railroad tracks and headed toward my house.
“When did you buy your condo on Wooster Square, Gallowglass?” I asked, finally getting around to one of many questions about the de Clermonts and their relationship to New Haven.
“After you came here as a teacher,” Gallowglass said. “I wanted to be sure you were all right in your new job, and Marcus was always telling stories about a robbery at his house or that his car had been vandalized.”
“I take it Marcus wasn’t living in his house at the time,” I said, raising an eyebrow.
“Lord no. He hasn’t been in New Haven for decades.”
“Well, we’re perfectly safe here.” I looked down the pedestrians-only length of Court Street, a tree-lined, residential enclave in the heart of the city. As usual, it was deserted, except for a black cat and some potted plants.
“Perhaps,” Gallowglass said dubiously.
We had just reached the stairs leading to the front door when a dark car pulled up to the intersection of Court and Olive Streets where we had been only moments before. The car idled while a lanky young man with sandy blond hair unfolded from the passenger seat. He was all legs and arms, with surprisingly broad shoulders for someone so slender. I thought he must be an undergraduate, because he wore one of the standard Yale student uniforms: dark jeans and a black T-shirt. Sunglasses shielded his eyes, and he bent over and spoke to the driver.
“Good God.” Gallowglass looked as though he’d seen a ghost. “It can’t be.”
I studied the undergraduate without recognition. “Do you know him?”
The young man’s eyes met mine. Mirrored lenses could not block the effects of a vampire’s cold stare. He took the glasses off and gave me a lopsided smile.
“You’re a hard woman to find, Mistress Roydon.”
18
That voice. When I’d last heard it, it was higher, without the low rumble at the back of his throat.
Those eyes. Golden brown shot through with gold and leafy green. They still looked older than his years.
His smile. The left corner had always lifted higher than the right.
“Jack?” I choked on the name as my heart constricted.
A hundred pounds of white dog pawed out of the backseat of the car, hopping over the gearshift and through the open door, long hair flying and pink tongue lolling out of his mouth. Jack grabbed him by the collar.
“Stay, Lobero.” Jack ruffled the hair atop the dog’s shaggy head, revealing glimpses of black button eyes. The dog gazed at him adoringly, thumped his tail, and sat panting to await further instruction.
“Hello, Gallowglass.” Jack walked slowly toward us.
“Jackie.” Gallowglass’s voice was thick with emotion. “I thought you were dead.”
“I was. Then I wasn’t.” Jack looked down at me, unsure of his welcome. Leaving no room for doubt, I flung my arms around him.
“Oh, Jack.” Jack smelled of coal fires and foggy mornings rather than warm bread, as he had when he was a child. After a moment of hesitation, he enfolded me within long, lean arms. He was older and taller, but he still felt fragile, as though his mature appearance were nothing more than a shell.
“I missed you,” Jack whispered.
“Diana!” Matthew was still more than two blocks away, but he’d spotted the car blocking the entrance into Court Street, as well as the strange man who held me. From his perspective I must have looked trapped, even with Gallowglass standing nearby. Instinct took over, and Matthew ran, his body a blur.
Lobero raised an alarm with a booming bark. Komondors were a lot like vampires: bred to protect those they loved, loyal to family, large enough to take down wolves and bears, and ready to die rather than yield to another creature.
Jack sensed the threat, without seeing its source. He transformed before my eyes into a creature from nightmares, teeth bared and eyes glassy and black. He grabbed me and held me tight, shielding me from whatever loomed behind. But he was restricting the flow of air into my lungs, as well.
“No! Not you, too,” I gasped, wasting the last of my breath. Now there was no way for me to warn Matthew that someone had given our bright, vulnerable boy blood rage.
Before Matthew could hurtle over the car’s hood, a man climbed out of the driver’s seat and grabbed him. He must be a vampire, too, I thought dizzily, if he had the strength to stop Matthew.
“Stop, Matthew. It’s Jack.” The man’s deep, rumbling voice and distinctive London accent conjured up unwelcome memories of a single drop of blood falling into a vampire’s waiting mouth.
Andrew Hubbard. The vampire king of London was in New Haven. Stars flickered at the edges of my vision.
Matthew snarled and twisted. Hubbard’s spine met the metal frame of the car with a bone-crushing thud.
“It’s Jack,” Hubbard repeated, gripping Matthew by the neck and forcing him to listen.
This time the message got through. Matthew’s eyes widened, and he looked in our direction.
“Jack?” Matthew’s voice was hoarse.
“Master Roydon?” Without turning, Jack cocked his head to the side as Matthew’s voice penetrated the black haze of the blood rage. His grip loosened.
I drew in a lungful of air, struggling to push back the star-filled darkness. My hand went instinctively to my belly, where I felt a reassuring poke, then another. Lobero sniffed at my feet and hands as if trying to figure out my relationship to his master, then sat before me and growled at Matthew.
“Is this another dream?” There was a trace of the lost child he had once been in his bass voice, and Jack squeezed his eyes shut rather than risk waking up.
“It’s no dream, Jack,” Gallowglass said softly. “Step away from Mistress Roydon now. Matthew poses no danger to his mate.”
“Oh, God. I touched her.” Jack sounded horrified. Slowly he turned and held up his hands in surrender, willing to accept whatever punishment Matthew saw fit to mete out. Jack’s eyes, which had been returning to normal, darkened again. But he wasn’t angry. So why was the blood rage resurfacing?
“Hush,” I said, gently lowering his arm. “You’ve touched me a thousand times. Matthew doesn’t care.”
“I wasn’t . . .this . . . before.” Jack’s voice was taut with self-loathing.
Matthew drew closer slowly so as not to startle Jack. Andrew Hubbard slammed the car door and followed him. The centuries had done little to change the London vampire famous for his priestly ways and his brood of adopted creatures of all species and ages. He looked the same: clean-shaven, pale of face, and blond of hair. Only Hubbard’s slate-colored eyes and somber clothing provided notes of contrast to his otherwise pallid appearance. And his body was still tall and thin, with slightly stooped, broad shoulders.
As the two vampires approached, the dog’s growl turned more menacing and his lips peeled back from his teeth.
“Come, Lobero,” Matthew commanded. He crouched down and waited patiently while the dog considered his options.
“He’s a one-man dog,” Hubbard warned. “The only creature he’ll listen to is Jack.”
Lobero’s wet nose pushed into my hand, and then he sniffed his master. The dog’s muzzle lifted to take in the other scents before he moved toward Matthew and Hubbard. Lobero recognized Father Hubbard, but Matthew received a more thorough evaluation. When he was through, Lobero’s tail shifted from left to right. It wasn’t exactly a wag, but the dog had instinctively acknowledged the alpha in this pack.
“Good boy.” Matthew stood and pointed to his heel. Lobero obediently swung around and followed as Matthew joined Jack, Gallowglass, and me.
“All right, mon coeur?” Matthew murmured.
“Of course,” I said, still a bit short of breath.
“And you, Jack?” Matthew rested a hand on Jack’s shoulder. It was not the typical de Clermont embrace. This was a father greeting his son after a long separation—a father who feared that his child had been through hell.
“I’m better now,” Jack could always be relied upon to tell the truth when asked a direct question. “I overreact when I’m surprised.”
“So do I.” Matthew’s grip on him tightened a fraction. “I’m sorry. You had your back turned, and I wasn’t expecting ever to see you again.”
“It’s been . . . difficult. To stay away.” The faint vibration in Jack’s voice suggested it had been more than difficult.
“I can imagine. Why don’t we go inside and you can tell us your tale?” This was not a casual invitation; Matthew was asking Jack to bare his soul. Jack looked worried at the prospect.
“What you say is your choice, Jack,” Matthew assured him. “Tell us nothing, tell us everything, but let’s go inside while you do it. Your latest Lobero is no quieter than your first. He’ll have the neighbors calling the police if he keeps barking.”
Jack nodded.
Matthew’s head cocked to the side. The gesture made him look a bit like Jack. He smiled. “Where has our little boy gone? I don’t have to crouch down anymore to meet your eyes.”
The remaining tension left Jack’s body with Matthew’s gentle teasing. He grinned shyly and scratched Lobero’s ears.
“Father Hubbard will come with us. Could you take the car, Gallowglass, and park it somewhere where it’s not blocking the road?” Matthew asked.
Gallowglass held out his hand, and Hubbard put the keys into it.
“There’s a briefcase in the trunk,” Hubbard said. “Bring it back with you.”
Gallowglass nodded, his lips pressed into a thin line. He gave Hubbard a blistering look before stalking toward the car.
“He never has liked me.” Hubbard straightened the lapels on his austere black jacket, which he wore over a black shirt. Even after more than six hundred years, the vampire remained a cleric at heart.
He nodded to me, acknowledging my presence for the first time. “Mistress Roydon.”
“My name is Bishop.” I wanted to remind him of the last time we’d seen each other and the agreement that he’d made—and broken, based on the evidence before me.
“Dr. Bishop, then.” Hubbard’s strange, multicolored eyes narrowed.
“You didn’t keep your promise,” I hissed. Jack’s agitated stare settled on my neck.
“What promise?” Jack demanded from behind me.
Damn. Jack had always had excellent hearing but I’d forgotten he was now gifted with preternatural senses, too.
“I swore that I’d take care of you and Annie for Mistress Roydon,” Hubbard said.
“Father Hubbard kept his word, mistress,” Jack said quietly. “I wouldn’t be here otherwise.”
“And we’re grateful to him.” Matthew looked anything but. He tossed me the keys to the house.
Gallowglass still had my bag, and without its contents I had no way to open the door.
Hubbard caught them instead and turned the key in the lock.
“Take Lobero upstairs and get him some water, Jack. The kitchen’s on the first floor.” Matthew plucked the keys from Hubbard’s grasp as he went past and put them in a bowl on the hall table.
Jack called to Lobero and obediently started up the worn, painted treads.