by Meg Cabot
And while it was true that she could take care of herself-the odd bat attack aside-it was terribly gallant of Lucien to try to protect her. It made her feel warm and feminine.
Who said chivalry was dead?
“What sort of surprise?” Meena asked, containing her glee with effort.
“One I think you’ll like,” he said. They were headed up Seventy-ninth Street, toward Fifth Avenue. That part of town was devoted exclusively to deluxe apartment buildings, hotels, and Central Park…
And one other building, located at Eighty-second and Fifth, which they were fast approaching.
“The Met?” Meena looked up at Lucien curiously. He’d reached for her hand as they crossed Fifth Avenue and started toward the enormous building, sitting so imposingly lit up against the night sky. A few people sat along the steps, chatting, smoking, even reading books in the glow from the illuminated columns. Trying to ignore the tingle of excitement that shot up her arm at the touch of his skin to hers, Meena stammered, “But…but the Met…it’s closed this time of night.”
She wasn’t certain that as a foreigner-even one who taught at a university and read the classics for fun-he fully understood.
“To most people,” Lucien said with a mysterious smile. “Follow me.”
And, still holding her hand in his own, he guided her up the long steps that led to the front doors of the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Meena, distracted by Lucien’s touch, forgot to hold on to Jack Bauer’s leash as tightly as she should have, and just as they got to an unobtrusive side door, he managed to dart off.
“Oh!” she cried. “Jack!”
She dropped Lucien’s hand to chase after her dog. Jack ran only as far as a group of students who were sitting a few yards away, listening to one another’s iPods and sharing a pizza, in which Jack was extremely interested. By the time she’d caught the dog up in her arms and apologized to the students, who smiled warmly at her, she turned back and found Lucien standing with the door open, waiting for her to join him inside the darkened museum.
“Oh,” she said, glancing behind her. No one on the steps appeared to have noticed that her date had just broken into a New York City landmark.
Or so she supposed. Surely the prince didn’t have a key to the Metropolitan Museum of Art.
Or did he? Maybe all Romanian princes-slash-professors did. “You can’t just…How did you…?” She broke off, laughing. “Lucien, how did you get in there?”
He held up a black card with a magnetic strip on the back. “I told you,” he said. “A friend of mine is giving a lecture here this week. I thought you might want to see what he’s talking about. Come in. It’s quite all right.”
She still hesitated, glancing around her. “But…aren’t there security guards?”
“Don’t worry about them. I’ll take care of them.”
Meena raised her eyebrows. He would take care of them? What did that mean?
Oh…that he would bribe them. Of course.
Lucien was a prince. He was rich. He was used to getting his way. With everyone. Especially staff.
She supposed he had dozens of staff. Maids. Butlers, even. Staff for his summer palace. Pilots for his private jet.
Meena had staff-a housekeeper who came once every other week and refused to do laundry.
“But,” she murmured lamely, “I’ve got the dog.”
“No one cares about a little dog.” He looked incredibly handsome, standing there with the darkness behind him, one hand stretched out to her, the other keeping the door open for her. “Trust me, Meena.”
The incredible part was that she did. She hardly knew him at all.
But she did trust him.
Why wouldn’t she? He’d already saved her life, and had done so by risking his own.
What was a little breaking and entering, compared to that?
But Meena had never been a risk taker…not on her own behalf. Leisha had nailed it on the head when she’d accused Meena of having a hero complex. Meena would do anything to help save the life of someone else (if only they’d allow her to).
But when it came to herself? Though she could look into the future of complete strangers, she’d never been able to see what fate had in store for her.
And so too many times she’d done what was easiest-stay with a boyfriend who didn’t really love her; not complain about a coworker who was taking advantage of her-instead of what she knew, deep down, was right.
And now?
She knew if she slipped her hand into Lucien Antonescu’s, she wouldn’t just be risking possible arrest by the New York City Police Department.
She’d be risking her heart.
Was she really going to do this?
But what other choice did she have? Was she just going to sit on the couch like Jon for the rest of her life, waiting for the perfect person, the perfect job, the perfect life to come along?
How did she know that perfect person wasn’t standing in front of her right now? How did anyone know?
Easy. They didn’t. They took a risk.
She slipped her fingers into his.
Maybe she couldn’t see into her own future.
But that didn’t mean she didn’t have one.
“All right,” she said with a smile. “Show me. Show me everything.”
Chapter Twenty-six
12:45 A.M. EST, Friday, April 16
910 Park Avenue
New York, New York
Alaric saw them come out of the building together-the tall, dark-haired man and the petite brunette with the short hair and the tightly cinched trench coat. She was walking a Pomeranian mix. The dog looked like it was foaming at the mouth in its desire to attack the dark-haired man…
…who looked exactly like the author photo of Lucien Antonescu that Martin had e-mailed him earlier.
Alaric dropped the Archie comic into his pocket and straightened. He wasn’t going to go for his scabbard. Not yet. He’d follow them and see where they went, if the guy tried anything.
Then when he did-and he would; Alaric knew he would, knew it as surely as he knew that his sword arm would never fail him-Alaric would slice off his head and have the pleasure of watching the prince of darkness finally turn to dust.
The only problem was, when Alaric took a single step toward the couple, a heavy hand fell upon his shoulder. Startled-it wasn’t often Alaric was taken by surprise-he spun around, his sword half out of its sheath…
Only to come face-to-face with his boss.
“Goddamnit, Holtzman,” Alaric said, lowering his blade. “What are you trying to do, get yourself filleted?”
“You’re in violation of orders, Wulf.” Abraham Holtzman was a balding man who’d dressed for the assignment of shadowing the ruler of all that was unholy in jeans and sandals. With socks. At least he had the sense to wear a Star of David at his neck. “You’re not supposed to be here.”
“Nice socks,” Alaric said. “Very unobtrusive. No one in Manhattan will notice you or think you’re from out of town. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go kill the prince of darkness before he gets away.”
“Stop!” Holtzman threw out a hand to halt Alaric just as Lucien Antonescu put out his own hand and, his gaze falling on Alaric and Holtzman, steered the dark-haired young woman in the opposite direction, away from them.
Had the prince seen the two of them? Alaric didn’t know.
But he had felt a sort of chill just as that dark-eyed gaze had rested, however briefly, on him.
Had the prince known who, or what, he and Holtzman represented? Did he know that the Palatine Guard was watching him?
Alaric would never know. Because Holtzman was reaching into his suit coat and pulling out the only thing in the universe Alaric dreaded more than a pack of vampires whipped into a frenzy by the smell of fresh human blood.
The Palatine Guard Human Resources Handbook.
“No,” Alaric said, a spurt of irritation coursing through him. “For God’s sake, Holtzman. We don’t ha
ve ti-”
“Look here, Wulf,” Holtzman was already saying. “It says right here on page fourteen of the handbook, ‘If an officer should witness his partner wounded in the line of duty, he will be required to take a minimum of no less than two weeks’ leave for psychological R and R as well as undergo mandatory counseling,’ which we both know you’ve dodged, as usual. And it says that he will not be allowed back on duty until he’s completed both of these. Now, we all know what a workaholic you are. You haven’t had a vacation in years. And God knows what Martin went through in Berlin was horrific. You stalked that entire nest by yourself afterward…don’t deny it, I saw the report. It’s not your fault they went underground and were never found…undoubtedly because they didn’t relish the idea of being stalked by you. So we’ve been willing to turn a blind eye to your refusal to follow the rules. But when it comes to the prince of darkness, you’re going to have to stand back and let us-Alaric! I say, Alaric!”
But Alaric had already heard more than he could stand and had sprinted off after the couple who had just disappeared around the corner.
Except of course by that time he’d lost them.
Which shouldn’t even have been possible. The man was over six feet tall and the woman a diminutive five-four in heels, at the most. They made a striking couple and certainly stood out in a crowd. She’d been toting along a golden-brown walking fuzzball of a dog.
How could they just have vanished? “They’re gone,” Alaric cried when Holtzman came rushing up beside him. “They’re gone. And it’s your fault, you bureaucratic buffoon. If you hadn’t stood there quoting the HR handbook at me-”
“They aren’t gone.” Holtzman scanned the street. “He’s playing with us.”
“What?” Alaric shook his head. He’d always have some respect for the training his boss had given him during his early days as a vampire hunter. But the man’s refusal to do things any way but by the book had always made Alaric’s blood boil.
“He saw us,” Holtzman said. “And he’s thrown up a glamour to protect himself.”
Alaric was taken aback. “Of course. Why didn’t I think of that?”
Holtzman shook his head sadly. “Because you’re too personally involved in this, Alaric. Why do you think I asked you to concentrate on the case to which you’ve been assigned-finding the killer of the dead girls-and not the prince? Your desire to wipe out the entire vampire race for what they did to your partner…it’s made you ineffective at your work. Now go back to your hotel. Which, I’ve heard, is the most expensive one in the city…as usual. I hope you don’t think Accounts Payable will accept receipts from a place like that. There’s no earthly reason why you couldn’t have stayed downtown at the rectory at St. Clare’s, like me.”
Alaric set his jaw. He didn’t like being told what to do, not even by his oldest mentor.
Or that he ought to stay in a barren church rectory on his employer’s dime instead of the luxurious hotel he was paying for himself.
Nor did he like being told that his personal feelings were making him ineffective at his job…even if there was a slight possibility that it was true.
But most especially, he didn’t like the fact that he’d encountered a vamp with the kind of casual power Lucien Antonescu seemed to possess. The ability simply to turn invisible on a less-than-crowded sidewalk? And to make the woman he was with-and her dog-invisible too?
Alaric had battled some pretty powerful vampires in the past-the South American ones, he remembered, had always been particularly awe-inspiring-but none with those kinds of abilities.
“We don’t even know if he’ll come back,” Holtzman complained irritably, staring off toward Fifth Avenue. “He’s seen us now. He’ll know we know about the Antonescus. We’ve lost him.”
Holtzman didn’t come out and add, And it’s your fault, Wulf. But Alaric could tell he was thinking it.
“We’ve still got them,” Alaric said. “Mary Lou and Emil Antonescu. We can use them to find him.”
“They’ll never talk.” Holtzman sounded sorrowful. “Especially not if I leave you in charge. You’ll whack off their heads before I even get a chance to ask them anything. I know you.”
Alaric shook his head. He squared his shoulders and turned around to head back to 910 Park Avenue.
“Wulf?” Holtzman seemed startled by his protégé’s sudden activity. He hurried after him. “Wulf. I was kidding about whacking off the Antonescus’ heads. They could still prove to be vital sources of information to us. Let’s not do anything to tip our hand. They don’t know yet that we’ve discovered them. Lucien might not really have seen us or figured out who we are. Don’t do anything rash-”
Alaric strode up to the red carpet in front of 910 Park. As soon as he stood in front of the double brass-framed doors, they opened with a whoosh, and the doorman in the dark green livery, reading a textbook entitled The Art of Sensuous Massage, looked up from it and smiled.
“How can I help you, sir?”
“Yes,” Alaric said, grinning broadly. “I could have sworn I just saw my best friend from college come out of this building-the tall, dark-haired guy-but he jumped into a cab before I could get his attention. Was that him, Lucien Antonescu, or am I crazy?”
“Lucien Antonescu?” The doorman kept right on smiling. “Lucien Antonescu? I’m afraid we don’t…Oh, you must mean the tall gentleman who was visiting Mr. and Mrs. Antonescu tonight! Yes, yes. There was a Mr. Antonescu on the list.”
“I knew it,” Alaric said, just as Holtzman came hurrying in behind him. “I knew that was Lucien!”
The doorman, whose nameplate said Pradip, looked down at a list on his desk. “That’s right,” he said. “There was a Lucien Antonescu at Mr. and Mrs. Antonescu’s party tonight.”
“See, Dad,” Alaric said, turning to Holtzman. “I told you it was him.”
“Dad?” Holtzman said. Now it was his turn to be taken aback.
“And that beautiful young lady, the one with the dog, who was with him,” Alaric said, turning back to the doorman, “must have been his wife. I can’t believe it. He never told me he got married!”
“Oh,” Pradip said, laughing. “No, that was Miss Harper. She lives here in the building. Oh, no. No, Miss Harper’s not married.”
Alaric let his face fall. “Are you serious?” he asked. “That wasn’t Lucien’s wife?”
“No, no,” Pradip said. He was having a grand old laugh now, as if the thought of Miss Harper marrying Mr. Antonescu was the funniest thing he’d ever heard in the world. “No, Miss Meena Harper lives here with her brother, Mr. Harper. She and your friend just met tonight, at the Antonescus’ party, I think.”
Alaric’s estimation of 910 Park Avenue went up another notch. Pradip the doorman was observant, indeed, but a little too forthcoming with total strangers about the personal lives of his tenants… Alaric now knew that the woman accompanying Lucien Antonescu tonight was named Meena Harper, that she lived in the building, and that she lived with her brother. No small amount of information considering that all he’d volunteered about himself was the lie that he’d been Lucien Antonescu’s college roommate.
“Well, I’m sorry I missed him,” Alaric said. “You know what? I’m going to see if I can look him up on Facebook.”
“Oh, that’s a great idea,” Pradip said. “You know, you can get in touch with practically anyone on Facebook these days. I was on there the other day, and I managed to get in touch with an old friend of mine I hadn’t seen since kindergarten. Can you believe that?”
“You see, Dad?” Alaric grinned at Holtzman. “Facebook. That’s how it’s done.”
Holtzman looked dazed. “Facebook?” he echoed.
Alaric winked at the doorman. “Thanks, Pradip,” he said. “You wouldn’t have any idea where Lucien is staying while he’s here in the city, would you?”
“Oh, no. But if you’d like to buzz up to the Antonescus,” Pradip said as he lifted the receiver to the intercom, “I’m sure they’d be happy to-”
“Not necessary,” Alaric said, stretching his hand out in the internationally recognized sign for stop. “I wouldn’t want to trouble them this late. Maybe I’ll drop by again some other day, thanks.”
And he turned and left the building, Holtzman following closely behind him.
“Impressive,” his superior said to him. “Nice to see you using one of the techniques I taught you for a change, instead of simply swinging that sword of yours around.”
“I try to avoid killing the civilian population whenever possible,” Alaric said, shooting his boss an irritated look. “You taught me that as well, remember?”
“I remember,” Holtzman said. “But what exactly did you accomplish there, aside from very likely alerting the Antonescus that we’re aware of them? You know that doorman is going to tell them we were there. And we’re no closer to finding him.”
“No,” Alaric agreed. “But we have the name of the girl.”
“And what earthly good will that do us?”
“Oh,” Alaric said, “quite a lot of good, I imagine. Because she’s going to lead us straight to him.”
Then he added thoughtfully, “If she lives through the night, that is.”
Chapter Twenty-seven
1:00 A.M. EST, Friday, April 16
Metropolitan Museum of Art
1000 Fifth Avenue
New York, New York
Meena had spent quite a lot of time in the Metropolitan Museum of Art, back when she’d first moved to the city. She’d been especially drawn to a portrait of Joan of Arc by an artist called Jules Bastien-Lepage, which hung in the nineteenth-century wing.
The painting showed Joan standing in the yard of her parents’ cottage, staring off into space, apparently listening to the voices of saints. Ethereal, haloed figures floated behind Joan’s back, seemingly whispering to her.
The painting wasn’t anything that special. Compared to other treasures the museum held, it was considered one of the collection’s lesser works.