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eastern Tennessee, where they were raising a small girl.
    Wilkerson sent six of his toughest Bulgarians to murder the Frenchman; the men were supposed to retrieve Vivi, the child, and the stolen artifacts. But the vampires had gone into a frenzy when the lovers had fought back. The house went up in flames. Everything had burned. Vivi, the child, the icon, and all ten pages of Historia Immortalis .
    Now, years later, Vivi’s doppelgänger had gotten her picture in the newspaper for being a little fool. Again, Wilkerson had investigated, on the off chance that she had made it out of the burning house with the artifacts. His in-house detectives had quickly learned the girl’s name: Caroline Clifford.
    Wilkerson’s men had pressured the tour agency for more information. Not only did the director hold a low opinion of Miss Clifford, he swore he didn’t have a London address on file, only an emergency contact at Norham Gardens in Oxford. A rather posh address for a silly guide. Until recently, she’d lived with an archaeologist—supposedly her uncle—but no one knew where she’d gone.
    Vivienne had never mentioned relatives, except for some giddy cousins in Wiltshire. Wilkerson put his head detective on the case. Mr. Underwood learned that Sir Nigel Clifford was Vivienne’s second cousin. But the cousin was excavating in southern Bulgaria.
    Wilkerson had dispatched operatives to Kardzhali with instructions to kidnap the archaeologist and shake him down for information. But they’d shaken too hard.
    Mr. Underwood shuffled into the office, carrying a stack of papers. He was a dainty-boned man who wore off-the-rack suits from Marks & Spencer. Before joining Wilkerson Pharmaceuticals, he’d worked at Interpol, where his talents had been underappreciated.
    He gaped up at Wilkerson and took a step backward. He breathed so hard, the lenses in his thick glasses fogged.
    â€œI thought you were at lunch, sir,” Underwood said in a high-pitched voice. His eyes were completely obscured by the mist.
    â€œWhat do you need, Mr. Underwood?”
    â€œWe should have Miss Clifford soon.” Underwood set the papers on Wilkerson’s desk, then pulled off his glasses. “I traced her mobile phone number to a Covent Garden flat.”
    â€œBrilliant,” Wilkerson said. “Get someone on it.”
    â€œI already have, sir.”
    â€œWho’d you send?”
    Underwood polished his glasses with his tie, as if afraid to meet Wilkerson’s gaze. “Moose Tipper,” he said.
    â€œNot him!” Wilkerson slammed his fist against his desk.
    â€œHe was the only available operative, sir.”
    â€œAnd do you know why, Mr. Underwood? Because he’s a buffoon.” Wilkerson waved an imperious hand. “Ring him this instant. Tell him to back off.”
    â€œI believe it’s too late, sir.”
    Wilkerson’s jaw tightened. “Find him.”
    Underwood’s hands shook as he pulled out his mobile and punched in numbers. The call went straight to voice mail. Wilkerson sneered when Moose’s nasal, Cockney voice boomed from the phone: “Sorry, mate, I can’t take your bloody stupid call. Leave a message if you dare, but I won’t ring you back.”
    â€œMr. Underwood, I want Moose off this case. Send your men to Covent Garden this instant.”
    â€œBut that’s just it, sir.” Underwood’s Adam’s apple clicked. “There’s no one to send. They’re at the Hammersmith facility, getting transfusions. And that’s where Moose will bring the girl.”
    â€œYou’d better hope he does,” Wilkerson said. “Or you’ll end up as a guinea pig in my lab.”

CHAPTER 5
    SOFIA, BULGARIA
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    Caro stepped into the arrival hall at Sofia International Airport and walked past a throng of taxi drivers. A short, stubby man began to follow her, and she flashed a stern glance over her shoulder to