by Meg Cabot
Displeased and embarrassed by a daughter who told everyone she met how they were going to die, Mr. and Mrs. Harper chose to believe a psychiatrist who counseled that the problem would go away if they didn’t encourage it.
But because Meena was informing her friends and loved ones of their imminent deaths out of a genuine desire to prevent their perishing, not in an effort to get attention, her parents’ withdrawal produced a neurotic, isolated teenager, who then became—as so often happened—a neurotic, isolated writer.
The Harpers’ heaping all of their positive attention instead onto their athletic, popular son, Jonathan, made him a well-adjusted, outgoing young man . . .
. . . until he lost his job as a successful financial analyst.
Mr. and Mrs. Harper decided that this, too, was attention-seeking behavior, that could be solved with a little lesson in tough love, and turned their backs, thinking that their son would get back on his feet sooner if he knew he didn’t have his parents to lean on.
This might have been the correct course of action if Jonathan had lost his job as the result of a drug or performance issue.
But he had been laid off, like so many millions of others, during the recession.
So it was Meena who ended up taking her older brother, Jonathan, in when he was evicted from his apartment, and Jonathan who’d tried to rescue Meena from the Dracul when they attempted to drain her of every last ounce of her blood so that they, too, could predict the future.
Meena loved her brother and would do anything for him, and knew he felt the same way about her. They didn’t have anyone else but each other.
But she also knew there were some things he just couldn’t handle. This was why the Palatine had chosen to employ her, and not him, even though he’d been the one who’d so badly wanted to get a job with them. Precisely because he said things like he did when she walked through the door that afternoon after returning from New Jersey:
“You know, I’m not surprised David Delmonico got vamped and tried to kill you.” Jonathan reached down onto the floor and scooped up a pizza box, which he handed to Meena without once taking his gaze from the television screen. “That guy was such an asshole. I don’t know what you ever saw in him. What was that thing he had with wanting to put veneers on everyone?”
Meena reached inside the box and pulled out a slice. She hoped Jonathan didn’t notice how much her hands were trembling. When was she going to calm down?
Probably not anytime soon, after the things Alaric had told her in the car about all those missing tourists.
“I don’t know,” she said. “He was sweet when I first met him, you know.”
“If by sweet you mean he had a great big expiration date stamped on his forehead,” Jonathan said. “I can’t believe you’re the one who ended up offing him. Didn’t he marry a nurse, or something?”
Meena winced halfway into a bite of pizza. “Yeah,” she said. “Brianna. She’s missing.”
“Missing?” Jonathan looked excited. “No shit! Did David kill her?”
She dropped the pizza crust back into the box.
“You know what,” she said. It was hard to keep her voice steady. “It’s been a long day, and I don’t really feel like talking right now. All I want to do is take a hot bath before I have to change to go out again—”
“Look,” Jonathan said, taking the pizza box off her lap. “If you want me to call Adam and Leisha and ask them to come over a little later, I can. No problem. They’re going to flip out when they hear David’s dead, though—”
Meena stared at him.
“Adam and Leisha are coming over? What are you talking about?”
“The Feast of San Gennaro,” he said, staring back. “Remember? Leisha and Adam are on their way over here with the baby so we can go. Adam’s picking her up from work right now and bringing her back here. We’ve only been planning to go today for about eight weeks. Don’t tell me you forgot.”
Meena reached a shaking hand to rub Jack Bauer’s belly, since the dog had leaped into her lap.
“I forgot,” she said faintly.
“Meena. If you’re about to say you want to cancel, let me just tell you one thing,” Jonathan warned. “Adam was here all day, talking about how much he’s been looking forward to this. They haven’t had a day out of the apartment together in, like, months. Literally. Months.”
Meena flinched. She knew this was true. She also knew, however, that now was the worst time in the world for her friends to decide to start socializing again.
“Jonathan,” Meena said. “You have to call Adam and tell him there’s been a change of plans. Tell them to go home and order Chinese and watch a movie on pay-per-view.”
“What the hell, Meena,” Jonathan said, springing up from the couch. “I’m supposed to call them and say you can’t go because . . . why? You’re so upset that you killed your ex-boyfriend?”
“That isn’t why,” Meena said, glaring at him. “I can’t go because someone’s turning people I know into vampires and setting them loose in the city, and last night one of them tried to kill me. Currently, his wife is missing. You think I’m going to put Adam and Leisha’s lives at risk by inviting them over to hang out with me at some street fair? Especially one that’s supposed to have over a million people attending it this weekend? While they’ve got the baby with them? That’s just crazy. Anything could happen. They shouldn’t even be on the streets right now.”
Jonathan looked sheepish.
“Oh,” he said. “Well, I guess if you put it that way . . . yeah, they’re probably safer staying home. What’s with you and all the undead guys wanting to kill you, anyway?”
“I don’t know,” Meena said glumly as she stroked Jack Bauer’s fur. “I have a special gift.”
“Seriously.” Then Jonathan brightened. “Hey, does this mean they’re sending someone over to guard you? From the Palatine? Alaric, maybe?”
Meena sighed. It seemed like only a few weeks ago that she and her brother had first been informed—at sword point, practically—that dark, paranormal forces existed, and that Meena’s new boyfriend, Lucien Antonescu, was behind them all. Alaric Wulf—the individual sent to inform them—had declared he wasn’t budging from her apartment until she revealed Lucien’s location.
That’s when Jonathan had developed his fascination with the Palatine . . . and his man-crush on Alaric Wulf. Meena wished her brother would find a girlfriend already so he’d get over it, and have a distraction.
But she knew it was hard to find a girlfriend when you were working as a barista and sleeping in an alcove-sized second bedroom of your sister’s sublet in Little Italy. Even when the object of your affections was an aspiring actress from Eastern Europe who, just half a year earlier, had been a slave in a vampire sex ring, and was now working as a seamstress in the church thrift shop.
But Meena couldn’t entirely blame her brother for his man-crush on Alaric. As frustrating as Alaric could be at times, at others—like outside the Freewell police station that morning, for instance, when he’d held her in his arms and been so sweet and strong and reassuring, and made her feel so safe—he could be . . . well, amazing.
Although this, she knew, was not why Jonathan eagerly awaited his arrival.
“Do you think he’ll look at my SuperStaker?” Jonathan asked.
Meena saw that her brother was holding a curious item in his hand. It was her hair dryer.
And yet it wasn’t. Her hair dryer was yellow. This was black.
“I’ve nearly got it working, you know,” Jonathan was saying. He squeezed the trigger. Only when he did, no sound came out of it. No air either. “Well, almost. It’s still got a few kinks. And I haven’t actually been able to test it. Too bad you weren’t carrying it when David came around. He’d have been a perfect test subject.”
Meena didn’t have the slightest idea what he was talki
ng about. But she loved her brother.
“I’m sure,” she said hesitantly, “Alaric will check it when he comes over. He just stopped by his place for a few things. Then he’ll be over to drop them off and pick me up. We have to go to some function tonight. So, listen, while we’re gone, it’s important you don’t go out or invite anyone over. Anyone. You have your stakes, right? And holy water? Keep all the windows closed, and don’t open the door until we get home.”
Jonathan looked shocked. “You’re going out? But if the city is under some kind of vampire attack, wouldn’t it be safer for you to—”
“For work,” Meena said, emphasizing the word strongly. “It’s a work function. Palatine business.”
She had agreed to attend the opening not because Alaric had browbeaten her into it (though of course he’d tried), but because Abraham had stressed the importance of her attendance.
And after hearing Alaric’s theory on what he thought was happening to all those missing tourists, she felt it would probably be prudent to put in an appearance, if only to make sure he didn’t mention it to anyone else.
Lucien might be part monster. But that didn’t make him a beast.
Of course, there was a very small part of her that couldn’t help remembering Lucien’s eyes the night before, when he’d kissed her in her bedroom. They hadn’t looked particularly human.
But didn’t that only prove her point that Lucien couldn’t be the person responsible, if those tourists really were being devoured by some demonic creature? Otherwise, he wouldn’t have looked so famished.
And if someone—or something—really was going around Manhattan, feasting on the city’s tourist population, surely the prince of darkness would know about it. He was the ruler of fiends.
But Meena wasn’t certain, considering the condition Lucien had been in last night, how much ruling he was doing these days. Would he know—or even care—who or what was responsible for the fact that human beings were disappearing at a fairly alarming rate from Manhattan? He hadn’t known who’d turned David.
Meena was more worried than ever about Lucien, especially because he refused to listen to her theory about her dream. It had seemed almost to cause him physical pain when she’d brought it up.
And now that she’d invited him into her bedroom, she couldn’t uninvite him. Something told her he was going to show up there tonight, looking for her.
And not to talk about her dream either.
This wasn’t the only reason, of course, why, when Alaric had declared in the car that he’d be staying over at her place for the foreseeable future, she’d just shrugged and said, “There’s no need, but fine. Whatever.”
She didn’t want him to suspect the truth . . . that Lucien not only already knew where she lived, but that last night she’d invited him inside. Evil spirits could not enter a home unless they were invited. Now Lucien had free rein in the place, and could come in anytime he wanted, just so long as he avoided the crosses and garlic.
But what frightened her even more than this was that after the way Lucien had behaved—the way his eyes had glowed, like there’d been some kind of fire burning inside him—the thought of Alaric being within calling distance in case Lucien did show up again actually seemed a little comforting . . .
What was happening to her? She’d always trusted Lucien, and believed he would never do anything to hurt her. Last night, he’d sworn he still loved her, and there’d been a desperation in his kisses that convinced her he was telling the truth.
So why would she find the thought of having Alaric around—who’d only ever wanted one thing: Lucien’s demise—comforting?
She didn’t know. There was a part of her that was pretty sure she didn’t want to know.
Which might have been why, a few hours later, when she recognized the knock on her door that she and Alaric had arranged, Meena’s heart gave a little lurch. She’d begun to feel almost human again, having bathed and changed into a body-hugging black dress and heels she’d purchased new (though they’d been on sale).
She didn’t understand the lurch. She certainly wasn’t looking forward to seeing Alaric.
“I’ll get it,” she said.
The minute she unlocked the door and saw his face, she knew.
It wasn’t what Alaric was wearing. He looked handsome in the tuxedo he’d changed into, his dark blond hair still damp from the shower. Alaric was fastidious about his wardrobe and grooming.
No. It was his eyes. There was no hint of that boyish mischievousness she was used to seeing in them. For once, they weren’t gleaming with deadly determination either. She didn’t recognize the look in them.
“What is it?” she asked, feeling the lurch again, much more strongly this time. What had happened? Lucien. Had something happened to Lucien? Already? But Alaric had only just arrived. Had Lucien been in the hallway . . . ? Meena tried to peer past one of Alaric’s broad shoulders.
“Turn on the news,” he said grimly.
It was only then that she recognized the look in his eyes. She’d seen it only once before: that night at St. George’s, when Lucien Antonescu had almost killed them.
It was fear.
Chapter Sixteen
Alaric came inside, dropping the duffel bag he’d slung over one shoulder onto the floor, then closed and locked the door behind him. Meena had already lifted the remote from the coffee table.
“Oh, hey, Alaric.” Jonathan emerged from his bedroom alcove, trying to look as if Alaric’s visit were a big surprise.
Except that Meena saw he’d changed from the sweats he’d been wearing to the pressed shirts and khakis he reserved for work. But he had no shift that night, because they’d been supposed to go out with Leisha and Adam.
And he just happened to be carrying that thing he’d invented.
“I didn’t know you were stopping by,” he said. “Sharp-looking tux there, dude. Very Daniel Craig in Casino Royale.”
Alaric ignored him. He sank onto the couch, his gaze glued to the television screen. He didn’t seem to be aware that Jack Bauer—who counted Alaric among his favorite humans, ever since he’d risked his life for the dog’s, knowing how much Meena adored him—had leaped up onto the arm of the couch and was panting happily into his ear.
Meena had turned it to the twenty-four-hour local news station.
“And starting tomorrow tristate residents will have a chance to see one of the world’s rarest and most valuable art collections,” an amiable-looking anchorman was saying into the camera. “The new exhibit—Vatican Treasures: A Journey Through Faith and Art—will be on display through the end of December at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. New York City is the first stop on the exhibit’s American tour. Our own Genevieve Fox is at tonight’s star-studded grand opening. Genevieve?”
Meena, who’d sat down on the couch beside Alaric, looked up at him questioningly.
“Isn’t this what we’re going to in, like, five minutes?” she asked.
He shushed her sharply, taking the remote from Meena’s hand and turning up the volume.
“Hello, Pat,” Genevieve said. She was standing on a red carpet in front of the Met, wearing an evening gown, lots of gold jewelry, and a wide smile. Around her were many other reporters, none of whom was dressed quite as nicely. “I’m here at the opening of the new exhibit, Vatican Treasures: A Journey Through Faith and Art. Many of the artifacts have never before left the Vatican, or been seen by the public. And let me tell you, you can feel the electricity as the celebrity guests and donors arrive for this unprecedented event.”
“Oh, get on with it already,” Alaric growled at the television in frustration.
“This isn’t what you wanted to see?” Meena asked.
“It will be on after this. Just wait.”
“But Vatican Treasures isn’t just about ancient relics, beautifully jeweled chalices, and priceless
works by great artists like Michelangelo and Bernini,” Genevieve assured her viewers. “It gives true believers a chance to connect to their faith up close. Earlier this afternoon, I got a chance to speak to Father Henrique Mauricio—”
“Oh no,” Alaric said. He sank his head into his fists with a groan.
“—who’s come all the way from the archdiocese of São Sebastio do Rio de Janeiro in Brazil to become the pastor of the newly renovated St. George’s Cathedral . . .”
The shot shifted to Genevieve in an attractive sweater set, her hair down, her lips in an intelligent pout as she pointed her microphone into the face of an extremely good-looking, dark-haired priest.
Father Henrique’s English was charmingly halting, his accent breathtakingly foreign.
“It’s a very emotional thing. The artifacts in this exhibit speak to the heart, and reaffirm that which we already believe in. So by seeing them, our faith is supported. And that . . .” His eyes actually filled with tears on camera. A close-up of Genevieve’s face showed that she, too, was visibly moved by Father Henrique’s words. “How do you say it in English? Oh, it’s . . . it’s like a piece of the Vatican has been brought to us, here in New York City, like a gift. You can come here to see some of the greatest, most moving pieces in religious history. And they will, I promise you, restore your soul.”
The shot shifted back to Genevieve, teary-eyed again, standing in her updo in front of the Met.
“Oh, Pat, I can’t tell you how touched I was by those words of Father Henrique. He is so right. What an extraordinary, extraordinary man—”
“Extraordinary ass!” Alaric yelled at the screen. Jack Bauer barked enthusiastically, apparently in agreement.
“And he’s just one of the many representatives from the archdiocese who will be here tonight to show support for this exhibit. And they’re hoping many of our viewers will come experience this unique and, yes, moving show. Back to you, Pat.”