“Vanity?”

“Maybe a little. She loved him and she thought the elixir would let her stay with him forever.”

“Poor thing,” he murmured.

“Her health was already damaged, but now she can’t seem to digest anything. She’s starving to death, but her body rejects all nutrition.”

He paused, and Brigid glanced over her shoulder. “It’s exactly the same as what happens to vampires. Those who are affected can’t feed their amnis with blood. And the human body can’t retain the nutrients that it needs, either. The elixir starves both the human body and the vampire mind.”

“And you haven’t found a way to detect it.”

She could tell he was frustrated. “Not yet. We haven’t had many humans that we know are infected. We can’t run tests on it. It’s too dangerous. And those humans we do know about are very ill. I tried to get Lucien to share more information about Rada, but it was hard to talk to him after a while. He just kept going on about her scent and how good she smelled.”

A memory pricked her mind. “How good she smelled?”

“Yes, he said she smelled… sweet. Sweeter than she had in the past.”

“Like fruit…” Brigid whispered, and her heart began to race. “She smelled like ripe fruit, didn’t she?”

Carwyn’s eyes narrowed. “Yes. Like… what was it?” He blinked and he sat up next to her. “Pomegranates. He said she smelled like pomegranates. Did Emily—”

“That’s it! I remember thinking when I met her last spring that she smelled delicious, but I’d never seen her as a vampire before. I thought it was just her natural scent. But she smelled like fruit. Something distinctive, but I couldn’t quite place it. It was pomegranates, Carwyn. Why…” Her forehead furrowed in confusion. “Why would she smell like pomegranates?”

Carwyn rose and pulled her up by the arm, tugging her into the house. They pulled on clothes as he ran his fingers through his hair, thinking. “The elixir was made by plant alchemy developed in the Middle East during the ninth century. I’ll bet you that one of the main ingredients is pomegranate.”

“What’s so special about pomegranates?”

“I have no idea.” He stopped in the living room, scanning her bookcases. “Do you have any books about gardening? Botanical… mythology?”

She blinked at him. “Do I look like a gardener?”

“Aargh! Why don’t I have Gio or Beatrice here? They’re both walking encyclopedias about things like this.”

“Can you call them?”

He cocked his head. “I can try. What time is it?”

“Four in the morning.”

“They’ll be awake. Phone?”

She pointed toward the kitchen where her phone lived. She followed Carwyn and sat at the table as he paced and tried to connect. She could hear the ringing on the other line before a woman picked up.

“Hello?”

He punched the button for the speakerphone. “B! How are you, darling girl? I need your help with something.”

“Carwyn… where are you?” The voice was American. This had to be Giovanni’s wife, Beatrice. Brigid felt strangely nervous. She’d met much of Carwyn’s family, but these were his friends.

“I’m in Dublin, and you’re on speaker phone.”

“Who else is there? Is it Deirdre? Hi, Deirdre!”

“No…” Carwyn rubbed the back of his neck. “It’s… um, it’s Brigid.”

The woman’s excited yelp traveled across the Atlantic, and Brigid’s eyes widened.

“Brigid! You’re with Brigid? Gio!”

She could hear the sound of something being thrown across the room. It sounded like fluttering. A book? A low voice with an Italian accent came over the line.

“Why are you throwing paperbacks, Tesoro?”

“It’s Carwyn! He’s on the phone… with Brigid.”

“The mysterious Brigid? Father, you have some explaining to do. She’s been going on and on about this for months now.”

She hid her face in her hands. What had he told them about her? She could hear her husband snickering across the room and she picked up an apple and tossed it at his head. He ducked and burst into laughter.

“What did you say about me?” she hissed.

Beatrice’s voiced jumped out. “He didn’t say anything about you! I tried and tried—once, he let your name slip, but—”

“Brigid, by any chance, was Carwyn writing you letters last fall? Because he was being very secretive about—”

“Hush! Both of you.” Carwyn chuckled and dodged another apple that almost tagged him in the ear. “Gio, does your wife throw things at you? Because mine throws fruit with amazing accuracy, and I just want to know if this is typical behavior.”

Stunned silence filled the room, and Brigid felt the almost irresistible urge to hide under the table.

“Um… she tends to throw books at me. Mass market paperbacks, mostly. And I avoid her when she’s reading Tolstoy.”

“Good to know.”

Another long silence filled the room, until Brigid heard sniffing. She looked around in alarm. “Who’s crying?”

He closed his eyes and bit his lip to keep from laughing. “It’s B,” he whispered. “Don’t worry. She’s a bit of a weeper.”