Overbite

by Meg Cabot

  “I’ll go,” Lucien said, and laid a kiss on Meena’s forehead. “I’ll take care of everything.” He began striding toward the steps.

  “I’m not sure that’s the best idea,” Abraham said.

  “Oh, my dears . . .” Sister Gertrude appeared, one hand pressed to her chest as she tried to catch her breath while attempting to weave her way between the soaking-wet people standing around the courtyard. Father Bernard was hurrying behind her. “We came as quickly as we could. The streets are like rivers, so we had to wade to get here. But your brother said there might be trouble. And it looks as if he was right. Are we too late?”

  Meena looked from them to Lucien as he climbed the steps to the building, an expression of grim determination on his face.

  “I’ll let you know,” she said, and raced after him.

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Alaric had known the explosion would plunge them into darkness. It would be impossible to see anything in all that smoke . . . at least for a human being.

  So he’d memorized where each of the guards was standing.

  Then, when the blast occurred, and everything went dark, he was able to reach out quickly and disarm them. After all, he’d been expecting it. They weren’t.

  Suddenly he had two aluminum-stock crossbows, and they had none. This was a vast improvement over the situation he’d been in mere seconds earlier.

  Of course, he also had ears that were ringing from the trauma of the blast, lungs that were quickly filling with acrid-smelling smoke, and he couldn’t see anything. The vampires with whom he was trapped in this hallway had none of these problems.

  So, this was a definite minus.

  On the plus side, he had a thorough knowledge of the layout of the building, even in the dark, because he’d spent so much time in it.

  So as soon as he’d secured the crossbows, he performed a quick front shoulder roll (which kept him off his injured leg) through the door to the main stairwell, where he hoped the air might be a little clearer.

  It was.

  Unfortunately, the guards did not take kindly to having had their crossbows confiscated and followed him.

  It didn’t take long to dispatch them, although Alaric was bitten several times. This was unfortunate, but hard to avoid in conditions of such low visibility. He also lost several arrows. He’d been able to snag the quiver of one of the guards, however, by groping him in the dark. This was an unpleasant experience for both of them, but couldn’t be helped.

  What was even more unpleasant was hearing the door to the stairwell burst open and Henrique Mauricio shouting, “Wulf!” in a voice that sounded not unlike the one that had come from that little girl whose body had been taken over by a demonic spirit the night they’d met.

  Alaric hastily loaded the crossbow, not an easy trick to perform with an unfamiliar weapon while crouched on the landing of a dark, smoky stairwell with an injured leg. Especially when he was distracted by the sound of sirens and the footsteps of people coming down the stairs, another flight up. Doors to the outside had been opened. The smoke, now that it had a place to go, was being sucked past him with even greater force.

  “I know you’re there, Wulf,” Mauricio called up the stairwell. “You might as well give it up.”

  “Or maybe I should run away,” Alaric said. “Like you did the night of exorcism in Vidigal.”

  Mauricio chuckled. “Not one of my finer moments, I’ll admit,” he said. “Baptisms, Communions, masses . . . those are easy enough to fake. But expel the dark beast from the soul of a child? How could I do that . . . especially when the dark beast is my master? You’d have spotted me as a fake in a second. I had no choice but to run.”

  “Wrong choice,” Alaric said. “I spotted you as a fake anyway.”

  “I know. I should have killed you that night.”

  “I should have killed you that night.”

  “Clearly. But instead, here we are. You know, it doesn’t have to be this way. There are advantages to being on my team. You could have a very pleasant life if you chose—”

  “Please don’t try to tell me about all the Vatican gold with which you intend to shower me,” Alaric interrupted tiredly. “I’m already very well off financially, and you are behind the times. The Vatican has been operating at a deficit for years.”

  “That isn’t quite what I mean,” Mauricio said. “I meant that you’re obviously in pain right now. I can hear it in your voice. You’re tired, and I’m certain you’re feeling weak because of the smoke in your lungs. Imagine a life where you’d never have to feel weakness or pain again. Imagine a life where you never feel the need to sleep, never grow a day older, and have superhuman strength. Think how useful those abilities would be in defeating your enemies.”

  “You’re my enemy,” Alaric pointed out.

  “Am I?” Mauricio asked. “I took the liberty of peeking at your personnel file, Alaric, and I think I know who your real enemy is. And it isn’t me, or any vampire. It’s your father, isn’t it, Alaric? The man who abandoned you as a baby? Wouldn’t your becoming a vampire make the revenge I’m sure you must be planning to take on him someday just that much more glorious?”

  “Why doesn’t anyone get it?” Alaric asked, really frustrated now. “I don’t like vampires.”

  He stood up and fired. He couldn’t even see where he was aiming, because of the smoke.

  But he’d been listening closely to Mauricio’s voice, and seen the red glow of the vampire’s eyes. The crossbow was an automatic repeater, which shot multiple arrows one after the other. One of them, at least, must have hit true.

  Then he saw a foot emerge from the smoke and land on the step closest to him. Instinctively, he backed up.

  Especially when the shadowy figure that emerged proved to have been hit by all the arrows he’d shot . . . every single one of them, each projecting dead center from where Henrique Mauricio’s heart should have been.

  And yet he wasn’t dead. He was still coming toward Alaric, a tiny smile playing on his lips.

  “I will say one for thing for you, Wulf,” Mauricio said. “You don’t give up easily. I like that about you. That’s what would make you such a winning asset to my team.”

  “How . . . ?” Alaric was stunned. “How is this possible? You should be dead. All of those arrows hit you in the heart.”

  “I know,” Father Henrique said with a shrug. “There’s only one thing that can kill me, however. And you haven’t found it. Now, let’s talk about where you put that book.”

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  I’m not sure that’s the best idea.

  Abraham’s words echoed through Meena’s head. Even before she’d heard them, she’d known.

  She couldn’t trust Lucien. A part of her would always love him, but she knew she could never trust him . . . not with something that mattered to her as much as Alaric’s life. Especially not now, with all Lucien’s talk about the Mannette. There was something about that place that had made her feel the opposite of the way her dream about Lucien and his mother did.

  And so she raced up the steps after him, despite everyone’s cries to stop.

  It didn’t matter, though. First because, in her haste, she’d forgotten her purse, complete with stakes, holy water, and SuperStaker inside. She’d left it on the bench with Abraham.

  And second because, before Lucien even had a chance to set foot inside the building, Alaric and Father Henrique appeared in the doorway, in as bizarre a manner as Meena had ever seen.

  Alaric was shirtless as well as shoeless, with a crossbow strapped to his back. Another crossbow was in his arms. Father Henrique, in flowing priest’s robes that had once been white, was grappling with him, trying to take this crossbow away. Like Abraham, they were both covered in soot and grime. Neither seemed to notice that they were standing in a doorway, being observed.

  Meena fr
oze, gasping. Not just because there were four arrows sticking out of Father Henrique’s chest, but because the priest was snarling, and the fangs protruding from his jaw were clearly visible, even from a distance.

  Meena was not the only one who was completely shocked to see that Father Henrique was a vampire whom not even wooden stakes to the heart would kill. She heard the deli owner’s son drop his box of water bottles and umbrellas . . . and he did not even know the priest.

  The sound of the box hitting the ground startled Alaric, who seemed to have reached the end of his endurance. He turned his head and looked shocked to see them all standing there . . . particularly Meena. For an agonizing second, their gazes locked.

  And she read all the pain, heartache, and loneliness that he’d been going through for the past twenty-four hours, right there in those ice-blue eyes . . . but also the hope and joy he was experiencing, seeing her there now.

  That was her mistake.

  Because Alaric, bone-tired, allowed himself to be distracted by her gaze, and loosened his hold on the crossbow for a fraction of a second.

  And Father Henrique snatched the weapon from his hands, spun around, seized Meena by the arm, then pointed the crossbow . . .

  At Meena’s head.

  Stunned silence fell across the courtyard. Except for the hiss of the rain, not a single sound could be heard. Even the sirens in the distance had fallen still. All traffic in any nearby streets was blocked, and so the city was, for once, completely without noise.

  Which might be why Lucien’s voice, when he spoke, sounded as loud as a crack of thunder.

  “Release her now,” he said to Father Henrique, “or die.”

  Alaric, who’d fallen back against the door frame—he seemed no longer able to support his own weight—shook his head. He looked defeated, spent, and more bitter than Meena had ever seen him. Her heart twisted for him.

  “He can’t be killed,” Alaric said to Lucien. “Believe me, I’ve already tried.”

  “Well,” Sister Gertrude said, and whipped her twin set of Berettas from beneath her habit, “I haven’t met a bloodsucker yet who hasn’t turned to dust after meeting my pretty silver betties.”

  The vampires standing around her began to back away, snarling.

  “Don’t,” Alaric warned Sister Gertrude. “You might hit Meena.”

  The nun looked offended. “I happened to have qualified as the most distinguished expert out of all the seniors at last year’s finals.”

  “Bullets can’t kill me,” Father Henrique informed them all loudly. “Neither can stakes, immersion in holy water, sunlight, crosses, or fire. My lord”—this was directed to Lucien—“I know what this might look like, but I promise you I have no intention whatsoever of harming this girl . . . so long as you’ll hear me out. Everything that I have done, I have done in service to you.”

  “I’m finding that a bit hard to believe,” Lucien said, exchanging glances with Emil. “But release her, and we can discuss it.”

  “Gladly, sire,” Father Henrique said. He made no move to loosen his hold on Meena, however. “I’m fully aware of how this must appear, but if you’re thinking about that net and the holy water, I can assure you that wasn’t me, my lord. That was the archbishops. They felt the Palatine wasn’t doing enough to flush you out, and decided it was time to take matters into their own hands . . .”

  Even from where she was standing, Meena could hear Abraham, wounded to the quick by this slight against his division, inhale sharply.

  “When I learned of their scheme,” Father Henrique went on, “of course I argued strenuously against it. The old men wouldn’t listen. So I offered instead to step in and supervise, knowing I could help your lordship by making sure their methods were ineffective—”

  “So you infected my ex-boyfriend and sent him after me to kill me?” Meena demanded incredulously. “That was one of the methods you made sure was ineffective?”

  “That was another of the archbishops’ suggestions,” Father Henrique said defensively. “And though I had no choice but to follow through with it, I made certain his lordship wasn’t captured. I am sorry that you were injured, Miss Harper. And that the wife of the gentleman in question was turned, and slipped from our grasp. That was all an unfortunate mistake—”

  “Mistake?” Abraham seemed unable to keep silent a second longer. “Do you expect us to believe that the archbishops mistakenly permitted a vampire to be sent after Meena? Were the bodies we found in the Barrens put there by mistake as well?”

  Father Henrique only smiled. “That’s a matter you’ll have to take up with your superiors,” he said. “All I did was make sure their orders got followed, while at the same time doing nothing that might endanger my own superior . . .” He made a slight bow to Lucien.

  “What bodies?” Meena murmured.

  Alaric answered tiredly, “Of all the dead tourists. He took them out to the Pine Barrens. There’s a hellmouth there. That’s where Abraham and the others were . . . that’s why you couldn’t sense them. Hellmouths are dead zones. Nothing can exist there but evil.”

  Meena remembered Abraham describing hellmouths to her in the car the day before—what seemed like a thousand years ago.

  “I don’t ask for any sort of reward, my lord,” Father Henrique was saying to Lucien. “I did nothing out of the ordinary . . . merely took advantage of the opportunity as it presented itself. If I’ve done well, it was only because of your inspiration. The best way to avoid defeat by the enemy is to infiltrate its ranks and then rise up through them, slowly replacing their troops with your own.”

  Meena, shivering, looked out across the courtyard at all the Palatine Guards she didn’t recognize. They were staring up at Father Henrique with unblinking loyalty.

  Lucien had been right all along: her own employer had been behind the attacks against her.

  The demons she could forgive . . . sort of. They couldn’t help it. But the humans who’d allowed this to happen, blindly promoting Father Henrique while he’d been a vampire all along? How could it have happened? How could it be that no one—except Alaric, who’d always hated him—had noticed?

  Finally, Lucien spoke. His voice wasn’t thunderous anymore.

  “You’ve done well,” he said to Father Henrique. “Just give me the girl, and I’ll leave you to your . . . activities.”

  “What?” Meena could not believe what she’d just heard.

  And she wasn’t the only one. The ripple of indignation that went across the courtyard—from the humans, anyway—was unmistakable.

  “Thank you, my lord,” Father Henrique said, bowing again. He beamed with pleasure. “I knew you would approve, once you learned the truth.”

  “This,” Carolina burst out, from where she stood next to Abraham, “is bullshit!”

  Some of the vampires near her took a step closer, but Carolina had discovered the vials of holy water in Meena’s purse and was holding them threateningly over her head. Sister Gertrude was brandishing her Berettas, while Abraham had found the SuperStaker and soon discovered what happened when the trigger was pressed. They were managing to keep a wide circle around them . . . but how long it would last after they ran out of ammunition was anyone’s guess.

  “Lucien,” Meena said, anxiously scanning his face through the rain for some sign that he was bluffing. Lucien couldn’t possibly intend to allow this . . . thing to get away with what he had done.

  But as he leaned across the steps, holding his hand toward her, she didn’t see the slightest indication on his face that Lucien hadn’t meant a word he’d said to Father Henrique.

  “Come, Meena,” he said, with an impatient wave of his hand.

  “But,” she said as the rain fell between them, “he’ll kill them. He’ll kill them all.”

  Lucien’s voice was hard. “Meena,” he said, “they were willing to let you die. Are you going
to give your life trying to save people like that? I don’t think so. Let’s go.”

  Meena glanced at Alaric. He had slid down the door frame, unable to remain standing anymore. He sat with his back against the doorway, clearly doing everything he could just to stay conscious. Still, he managed to summon the strength to lift his head and say, “Meena. Just go.”

  “You heard the man,” Father Henrique said to her. His dark brown eyes gazed into hers with an expression that she couldn’t read. It reminded her of the look she’d seen him wear during his TV interview with Genevieve Fox.

  It took her a moment before she realized what the expression meant.

  It was triumph. He had won.

  “He wants you to go,” Father Henrique said, smiling.

  “No,” Meena said, shaking her head. “No.”

  “Meena.” Lucien’s voice cracked like a whip. “Come to me. Now.”

  She felt frozen where she stood. What did Father Henrique think he had won? And what had happened to Lucien that had turned him into the opposite of the man with whom she’d fallen in love? A man drawn to darkness instead of light, a man who lived beneath the streets in tunnels carved out by the waters of a forgotten stream?

  And suddenly she remembered what had been bothering her about the Mannette . . . a snippet of information she’d read during her long-ago research:

  When Dutch colonists settled in Manhattan during the 1620s, they learned from local Native Americans about a small brook the Lenape called Mannette. Translated, this meant “Devil’s Water.”

  There were places, Abraham had told her, to which creatures of a malevolent nature were drawn, because they were thought to have direct links to the devil.

  Meena turned toward Lucien, tears streaming down her face along with the rain.

  “Is that what you were doing down by the Minetta Stream all this time, Lucien?” she asked, her voice catching. “Drawing the energy you needed from your master to do this to me . . . and my friends?”

  As soon as she saw the furious look on his face, she knew that she was right. Her desperate hope that there was some other explanation for his behavior—anything other than what she suspected—was just that: desperate.