"A magical container," he repeated, looking pleased.
We already knew that Ashmole 782 was valuable because of its text and its genetic information. If Mulder was correct, there was no telling what else might be in it.
"Have the DNA results come back from the sample you took a few weeks ago, Matthew?" Maybe if we knew what creature the vellum came from, it would shed some light on the situation.
"Wait. You removed a piece of this manuscript and ran a chemical analysis on it?" Lucy looked horrified.
"Only a very small piece from the core of the page. We inserted a microscopic probe into the edge. You can't see the hole it made--not even with a magnifying glass," Matthew assured her.
"I've never heard of such a thing," Lucy said.
"That's because Professor Clairmont developed the technology, and he hasn't shared it with the rest of the class." Chris cast a disapproving look at Matthew. "But we're going to change that, aren't we, Matthew?"
"Apparently," said Matthew.
Miriam shrugged. "Give it up, Matthew. We've used it for years to remove DNA from all sorts of soft tissue samples. It's time somebody else had fun with it," she said.
"We'll leave the page to you, Scully." Chris inclined his head toward the other end of the lab in a clear request for a conversation.
"Can I touch it?" Lucy asked, her eyes glued to the page.
"Of course. It's survived all these years, after all," Matthew said. "Mulder, Scully, can you help Ms. Meriweather? Let us know when you're ready to leave, Lucy, and we'll get you back to work."
Based on Lucy's avid expression, we had plenty of time to talk.
"What is it?" I asked Chris. Now that we were away from his students, Chris looked as if he had bad news.
"If we're going to learn anything more about blood rage, we need more data," Chris said. "And before you say anything, Miriam, I'm not criticizing what you and Matthew have managed to figure out. It's as good as it could possibly be, given that most of your DNA samples come from the long dead--or the undead. But DNA deteriorates over time. And we need to develop the genetic maps for daemons and witches and sequence their genomes if we want to reach accurate conclusions about what makes you distinct."
"So we get more data," I said, relieved. "I thought this was serious."
"It is," Matthew said grimly. "One of the reasons the genetic maps for witches and daemons are less complete is that I had no good way to acquire DNA samples from living donors. Amira and Hamish were happy to volunteer theirs, of course, as were some of the regulars at Amira's yoga classes at the Old Lodge."
"But if you were to ask for samples from a broader cross section of creatures, you'd have to answer their questions about how the material was going to be used." Now I understood.
"We've got another problem," Chris said. "We simply don't have enough DNA from Matthew's bloodline to establish a pedigree that can tell us how blood rage is inherited. There are samples from Matthew, his mother, and Marcus Whitmore--that's all."
"Why not send Marcus to New Orleans?" Miriam asked Matthew.
"What's in New Orleans?" Chris asked sharply.
"Marcus's children," Gallowglass said.
"Whitmore has children?" Chris looked at Matthew incredulously. "How many?"
"A fair few," Gallowglass said, cocking his head to the side. "Grandchildren, too. And Mad Myra's got more than her fair share of blood rage, doesn't she? You'd be wanting her DNA, for sure."
Chris thumped a lab bench, the rack of empty test tubes rattling like bones.
"Goddamn it, Matthew! You told me you had no other living offspring. I've been wasting my time with results based on three family samples while your grandchildren and great-grandchildren are running up and down Bourbon Street?"
"I didn't want to bother Marcus," Matthew said shortly. "He has other concerns."
"Like what? Another psychotic brother? There's been nothing on the Bad Seed's video feed for weeks, but that's not going to continue indefinitely. When Benjamin pops up again, we'll need more than predictive modeling and hunches to outsmart him!" Chris exclaimed.
"Calm down, Chris," Miriam said, putting a hand on his arm. "The vampire genome already includes better data than either the witch or the daemon genome."
"But it's still shaky in places," Chris argued, "especially now that we're looking at the junk DNA. I need more witch, daemon, and vampire DNA--stat."
"Game Boy, Xbox, and Daisy all volunteered to be swabbed," Miriam said. "It violates modern research protocols, but I don't think it's an insurmountable problem provided you're transparent about it later, Chris."
"Xbox mentioned a club on Crown Street where the daemons hang out." Chris wiped at his tired eyes. "I'll go down and recruit some volunteers."
"You can't go there. You'll stick out as a human--and a professor," Miriam said firmly. "I'll do it. I'm far scarier."
"Only after dark." Chris shot her a slow smile.
"Good idea, Miriam," I said hastily. I wanted no further information about what Miriam was like when the sun went down.
"You can swab me," Gallowglass said. "I'm not Matthew's bloodline, but it could help. And there are plenty of other vampires in New Haven. Give Eva Jaeger a ring."
"Baldwin's Eva?" Matthew was stunned. "I haven't seen Eva since she discovered Baldwin's role in the German stock market crash of 1911 and left him."
"I don't think either of them would appreciate your being so indiscreet, Matthew," Gallowglass chided.
"Let me guess: She's the new hire in the economics department," I said. "Wonderful. Baldwin's ex. That's just what we need."
"And have you run into more of these New Haven vampires?" Matthew demanded.
"A few," Gallowglass said vaguely.
As Matthew opened his mouth to inquire further, Lucy interrupted us.
"The page from Ashmole 782 changed its weight three times while I was standing there." She shook her head in amazement. "If I hadn't seen it myself, I wouldn't have believed it. I'm sorry to break this up, but I have to get back to the Beinecke."
"I'll go with you, Lucy," I said. "You still haven't told me what you've learned about the Voynich."
"After all this science, it's not very exciting," she said apologetically.
"It is to me." I kissed Matthew. "See you at home."
"I should be there by late afternoon." He hooked me into his arm and pressed his mouth against my ear. His next words were low so that the other vampires would have to strain to hear them. "Don't stay too long at the library. Remember what the doctor said."
"I remember, Matthew," I promised him. "Bye, Chris."
"See you soon." Chris gave me a hug and released me quickly. He looked down at my protruding stomach reproachfully. "One of your kids just elbowed me."
"Or kneed you." I laughed, smoothing a hand over the bump. "They're both pretty active these days."
Matthew's gaze rested on me: proud, tender, a shade worried. It felt like falling into a pile of freshly fallen snow--crisp and soft at the same time. If we had been at home, he would have pulled me into his arms so that he, too, could feel the kicks, or knelt before me to watch the bulges of feet and hands and elbows.
I smiled at him shyly. Miriam cleared her throat.
"Take care, Gallowglass," Matthew murmured. It was no casual farewell, but an order.
His nephew nodded. "As if your wife were my own."
*
We returned to the Beinecke at a statelier pace, chatting about the Voynich and Ashmole 782. Lucy was even more caught up in the mystery now. Gallowglass insisted we pick up something to eat, so we stopped at the pizza place on Wall Street. I waved to a fellow historian who was sitting in one of the scarred booths with stacks of index cards and an enormous soft drink, but she was so absorbed in her work she barely acknowledged me.
Leaving Gallowglass at his post outside the Beinecke, we went to the staff room with our late lunch. Everybody else had already eaten, so we had the place to ourselves. In between bites
Lucy gave me an overview of her findings.
"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 collector, 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 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."
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 accep
t 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.