by Meg Cabot
She believed him. “I know you will,” she said. “But at least let me…here.”
Impulsively, she loosened the scarf she’d been wearing around her throat.
Alaric looked down as she began tying the delicate strip of red material around his wrist, the one that she’d been holding.
“What is this?” he asked, his voice sounding…well, strange.
A token, she thought. From milady, for St. George, about to do battle with the dragon for her.
She knew she was losing what frail grip she’d once had on her sanity.
There was no chance she was going to say that milady stuff out loud to Alaric Wulf, however.
“I don’t know,” she said, trying not to let him see the tears that were still in her eyes. “For luck, I guess. If you really are going and really won’t let me come with you.”
“Oh, I’m going,” he said with assurance as Meena pulled his sleeve back down over the scarf. “And alone. The Palatine leave no one behind. This includes dogs.”
“This is for luck then, too,” she said in a tear-clogged voice.
She rose onto her tiptoes and placed a kiss on one of Alaric’s cheeks.
One dark blond eyebrow raised, his small mouth pressed even smaller than usual in…surprise? Disapproval?
She couldn’t tell.
“Meena Harper,” he said, looking down at her very intently.
“Yes?” she asked.
“This is for you,” he said, and slipped something long and hard into her fingers. “Don’t be afraid to use it.”
Then he opened the front door to the rectory, looked around outside, and stepped through it, shutting it firmly behind him.
He was gone.
Meena examined what Alaric Wulf had placed into her hand.
It was a pointed wooden stake.
She couldn’t help smiling to herself.
He was just so…annoying.
So why was she standing there crying?
“There you are.”
Her brother, Jon, had come out into the hallway. He was holding several empty plastic milk jugs.
“They want someone to fill these with holy water,” he explained. “I volunteered you for the job. So can you go scoop some out of the font in the baptistery?”
Meena, reaching up hastily to wipe the tears from her cheeks, slipped the stake into the back pocket of her jeans and said, “Sure.”
She knew what she had to do. What she should have done long ago.
Tremulously, she asked, “Jon?”
He’d already started down the hall. At the sound of his name, he turned back. “Yeah, Meen? What?”
“Nothing. Just…” She shuffled toward him, letting her head hang and dragging her feet. “I’m kind of scared. Can I have a hug from my big brother?”
“Aw, of course,” he said, holding his arms open wide.
Once he’d enveloped her in his embrace, he asked, over the top of her head, “Is this crazy or what? I always thought your psychic thing was weird. But vampires?”
“Gee, thanks, Jon,” Meena said drily, her ear over his heart. “You always know just the right thing to say to make a girl feel better.”
“Well,” Jon said with brotherly awkwardness. “Yeah. Sorry about that. You know what I mean.”
“Yeah,” Meena said. She pulled away from him and gave him a tearful smile. “I do. And thanks. Sorry about getting our lives destroyed.”
“No big deal.” Jon ruffled her hair. “And don’t worry. I’m sure Alaric will be back with Jack soon, and both of ’em will be just fine. Now go fill these up.” He practically threw the milk jugs at her. “I have to go; Abraham is going to teach me the best way to cut off a vampire’s head.” He hurried back into the kitchen.
Meena watched him go. Then she lifted her hand. In it was her cell phone, which she’d managed to pick from the pocket of his jean jacket while he’d been hugging her.
She checked to make sure the battery was still charged. The cell phone thrummed to life.
Perfect.
She had an important call to make.
Chapter Fifty
8:30 P.M. EST, Saturday, April 17
Concubine Lounge
125 East Eleventh Street
New York, New York
Lucien Antonescu had listened as calmly as possible to the information from his cousin Emil that his wife, Mary Lou, had known all along about Meena Harper’s ability to predict death-had known it well before ever setting up the two of them. That it was, in fact, the reason she’d set them up.
That Mary Lou should have chosen for him a young woman of her acquaintance who was in possession of such an…unusual talent was flattering, to say the least.
But the fact that Mary Lou had told everyone she knew about Meena’s talent, putting Meena in a position of such danger?
That Lucien couldn’t accept calmly.
Lucien had already come to several decisions in the wee hours of the morning as he’d watched Meena sleep, before ever speaking to his cousin Emil.
The first was that he would not, of course, be able to return to his teaching position in Romania or to any of his homes there.
Not now that the Palatine knew who he really was.
Obviously, he was going to have to change his name.
Again.
Surprisingly, he was not as irritated by these things as he might have been had he not met Meena. The fact that she was in his life now made everything that would have once seemed unbearable a mere annoyance.
Of course, the Palatine was no longer an organization that merely hunted its prey on foot, satisfied with an old-fashioned stake to the heart, and then left it at that.
Oh, no. Not anymore.
They now used sophisticated technology to track their quarry’s financial and real estate assets as well, monitoring bank accounts even in countries that criminalized the violation of their banking privacy laws, such as Switzerland and the Cayman Islands. If the Palatine could not snare the monster, they would find ways to seize his money. And they did so with a ruthlessness that would make the CIA green with envy…were the Palatine not such a highly secretive organization that even the CIA knew nothing of its existence.
The money, more than anything, was an issue. Starting over without any money would have been fine, had it just been himself.
But he couldn’t ask it of Meena. That would be impossible.
And he wasn’t going anywhere without Meena…despite her insistence that they no longer see each other.
She would never be safe now. Every vampire in the world would want a taste of her. Any chance to be able to experience what Lucien had-the ability to foretell the death of a human, and not by vampiric hands-would be irresistible to them. It wouldn’t be irresistible for the same reasons it was to Lucien…it allowed him in some small way to make up for the sins of his past-such as when he’d taken away that boy’s car keys, saving his own life-or even because it was just something, anything different after centuries of sameness.
But because it was something they might be able to use to their own advantage. Lucien had no doubt that his brother Dimitri would find a way to use Meena’s gift of prophecy to prey on the human race’s very real fear of mortality, and somehow profit financially from it.
Then there was the fact that Meena’s blood coursing through Lucien’s veins hadn’t just afforded him the ability to predict how humans were going to die. It had heightened his other senses as well, in a way no other human’s he’d tasted ever had, making him feel for the first time in centuries as if he were alive again.
He knew this was something he could never share with anyone. Because if this got out, Meena Harper would become demon meat…the most hunted mortal on earth.
The fact that Meena was his might have been protection enough under ordinary circumstances. But these weren’t ordinary circumstances. The Palatine had their hands on her…and had found him out. How could he protect her properly? He couldn’t even find her, let alone get in touch with her. H
is frantic phone calls to her had all gone straight to voice mail. Her apartment, according to Emil, whom Lucien had ordered to stay put until Meena’s whereabouts could be traced, was empty, except for her little dog. It didn’t, Emil had reported, look like anyone-anyone human, anyway-had been there all day. Had they abandoned the place? Surely not. Lucien would know, would sense it if something had happened to her…
But he sensed nothing…nothing except dread and a tightness in his chest where his heart had once been. He hadn’t felt anything in that spot in centuries. Not since Meena Harper had come into his life.
Then he received the call from Emil that changed everything:
A weeping and repentant Mary Lou, intent on trying to rectify her wrong and give help where she could, had seen a gossip piece while surfing the Internet that an altercation had taken place at a midtown eatery involving a man with a sword…
…and a certain popular soap opera star’s best friend.
This, surely, could only have been Meena’s Palatine guard.
And Dimitri’s son, Stefan.
There was no other explanation.
Lucien had only had to hear the name Dimitri and he was in one of Emil’s black cars, headed downtown for his brother’s club. If he discovered that his brother had anything, anything at all, to do with Meena’s disappearance…if he or that idiot son of his had harmed so much as a hair on her head-
There wasn’t a hole on earth deep enough into which Lucien could throw them.
But when Lucien got to Concubine, it was closed.
Not that this particularly bothered Lucien. Given his mood, he merely kicked the doors in.
The club was quite a different place empty than when it was occupied. With all the lights on, and no dry ice, it lost something of its mystique. The only shine to the large room, surrounded by black velvet curtains, was the metallic top to the long bar. The place wasn’t as clean as it could have been; the floor was a bit sticky.
Perhaps the cleaners hadn’t yet arrived. There was no one around.
And yet Lucien, his senses heightened because of Meena, felt that there were quite a few souls around-human, and in the gravest of danger…
…and not just because of him.
“Hello?” he called. Where were all these people? Why couldn’t he see them?
His voice echoed hauntingly around the dance floor, the bar, the VIP room. No one.
Nothing.
Where was his brother? Why had he felt such a powerful pull to this distasteful place if the certain source of all his problems-Dimitri-wasn’t even here?
Then Lucien heard it. Heavy footsteps, coming from the front of the building. He turned expectantly.
“Can I help you?”
It was Reginald, Dimitri’s three-hundred-pound bodyguard/ bouncer, still wearing his gold chain with his name emblazoned proudly across it. His dark head gleamed, newly shaved.
“Hello there, Reginald,” Lucien said, genuinely pleased to see him. This was going to be easy. Some humans-like Meena, for instance-were impossible to control, their minds too damaged or crowded with mental baggage. But Reginald’s was a vast, open plain.
“How did you get in here?” Reginald had a Hollywood-gangster-style grip on his gun, raising it sideways to shoot at Lucien instead of straight on, using his other hand to steady it for better aim.
Lucien felt even more cheered. Poor Reginald.
“Put the gun down, son,” he said. “You remember me. I was here the other night, to visit my brother.”
Reginald lowered the gun obediently. “Oh, yeah,” he said, recognition dawning. “You messed Mr. Dimitri up.”
“That’s right,” Lucien said, smiling fondly at the memory. “I’ve come back to do it again. You wouldn’t happen to know where Mr. Dimitri is right now, would you?”
Reginald shook his head, putting the gun back into the waistband of his sweatpants…not the most propitious place to keep a loaded firearm, in Lucien’s opinion. “Naw,” Reginald said. “Everybody got all excited about something and took off a little while ago and just left me here. They didn’t say when they’d be back or nothing. I don’t even know if I’m supposed to open up tonight or what.”
“Interesting,” Lucien said. “And would you happen to know what it was they got ‘all excited about,’ Reginald?”
“Hell, no,” Reginald said. “No one tells me nothing around here.” Lucien reached into the man’s brain with his own mind and probed gently. Reginald was telling the truth. He knew nothing…except…
“Reginald,” Lucien said. “Are we the only people here?”
“No,” Reginald admitted. Lucien could feel the man’s fear. It was as sharp and as pointed as a knife. “There’s the folks in the basement.”
“The basement,” Lucien repeated. “Would you take me to the basement, Reginald?”
Reginald’s fear stabbed him. “Mr. Dimitri said none of us is supposed to go down there,” Reginald protested. He did not want to go down to the basement.
“It’s all right, Reginald,” Lucien said calmly. “I’ll be with you. Nothing bad will happen to you in the basement if I’m there with you.”
Reginald believed him…but only because Lucien was there in his brain to comfort him. Reluctantly, he went to the bar to get the keys to the basement, then led Lucien to a door that he unlocked with hands that still shook, despite Lucien’s presence.
Whatever was in the basement, the human employees of Concubine, who weren’t supposed to know about it, not only knew about it but feared it.
Lucien followed Reginald down the narrow concrete staircase, sensing approaching death more closely with every step. He couldn’t just smell it…he could feel it, oozing through his pores the way moisture seeped from the basement walls. This had been what he’d noticed when he’d entered the club: the thump of human heartbeats, quivering with life…and impending doom.
Was this what Meena Harper felt every day of her life, walking down the street, getting on the subway, going about her daily business?
How could she stand it?
They came to two doors. Behind one of them Lucien could hear the heartbeats thundering so loudly, he wanted to fling his hands over his ears.
Behind the other, he heard…nothing.
He nodded toward the door where there was only silence.
“Open it,” he said to Reginald.
Reginald, holding the keys like they were a rosary, looked like he was about to cry. “I really don’t want to, sir,” he said. “Please don’t make me.”
Lucien nodded, understanding. There was only so much the human mind could take.
He lifted his foot and smashed down the heavy metal door with a single powerful kick.
Inside the darkened room, on concrete mortuary slabs, lay the seven financial analysts from TransCarta to whom his brother Dimitri had introduced him the night before.
Only they were no longer alive.
On the other hand, they weren’t quite dead, either.
They were in a place between life and death. Someone had turned their stiff white shirt collars down and bitten each one neatly along the carotid artery, not once, not twice, but three times.
And along each man’s mouth, Lucien saw faint traces of blood.
They were turning. They were currently in a metamorphic state. When they woke, they would be vampires.
And they’d be hungry as hell.
“Who did this?” Lucien demanded, turning to face Reginald, who, unable to control his curiosity-even terrified as he was-stood peering in past the broken door, which hung by its hinges.
“I have no idea,” he said. “What the hell is wrong with those guys? Why are they just laying there like that, all bitten on the neck? Are they…are they-” Reginald couldn’t bring himself to say the word.
“Yes,” Lucien replied.
He swept from the room and back out into the hallway to face the second door, the one behind which he could hear so many heartbeats.
Reginald s
tared at him.
“I know you’re not going to kick that door down,” Reginald said. “If there were vampires behind that first door, what’s going to be behind that door? Don’t even think about-”
Lucien kicked down the second door.
Behind it blinked a half dozen young women, all very much alive, all in various states of semi-dress, stretched out across cheap mattresses, seeming very weak and confused to see so much light streaming into the room all of a sudden. The smell was not very pleasant.
None of the girls, Lucien could tell, was a vampire. Yet.
But all of them had been bitten and drained, just enough to keep them compliant.
The mystery about what the vamps next door would eat when they awoke was solved.
“Gerald?” one of the girls asked in a bewildered voice.
“Is not Gerald,” another said, sounding even more bewildered.
All of them looked terrified.
Lucien turned around and signaled to Reginald.
“Get them out of here,” he said. “Start taking them upstairs. Wait for me there.”
“Okay,” Reginald said, affable now that the mystery of the basement had been solved. “But what about-” He nodded his head toward the room next door.
Lucien looked around the tiny cell in which the girls had been held, clearly for quite some time, and with no toilet facilities that he could see, save for a bucket. He saw a rickety chair and smashed it to pieces.
“This will do,” he said, lifting one of the chair legs and examining the pointiest end. “Now go.”
While Reginald went to work corralling the girls up the stairs-they needed a lot of assurance that it wasn’t a trap and that they were being set free-Lucien set about his own task.
It was grim work. He had no idea if the men had asked to be turned or if his brother was forming some kind of indentured vampire investment banker army to handle his finances.
Knowing his brother, he guessed the latter.
In any case, these men were not going to wake immortal, with superhuman powers, and thirsting for human blood.
They were never going to wake again at all.
When Lucien was finished with his foul task, he threw the chair leg away, washed himself off as best he could-humans who had not quite turned still exuded massive amounts of blood-and turned to leave the concrete room, giving it one last glance over his shoulder.