by Meg Cabot
Alaric did not consider himself an expert in the field, but in his opinion, Vatican Treasures had brought out some of New York City’s biggest phonies, Henrique Mauricio among them.
Most of them were pretending to care about the art, when in reality they were getting drunk, showing off their newest designer clothes, and laughing nervously over what Meena Harper had said about how they were going to die.
To her credit, she was being a good sport about the fact that someone had leaked the information to the crowd about her “gift.” If it had been Alaric, he’d have punched each person who’d come up and said, “Oh, do me next!” in the face.
Meena, instead, said in a calm voice, taking the person’s hand, “If you have a ski trip planned, I’d cancel it,” or “You have a long, long life ahead of you,” or “I think you need to watch your cholesterol intake.”
This usually resulted in a cry of “Oh my goodness, that’s uncanny!” or a delighted titter, or “My doctor just told me that!”
It could not be easy, Alaric realized, being Meena Harper, especially as the whispers and stares began. There were other celebrities in the room . . . an aging rock star, a former mayor, an athlete who’d murdered his wife and been famously acquitted on a technicality, though he was clearly guilty.
But she was the only person there who could look into the future and tell them how they were going to die.
No wonder Padre Caliente was all over her.
Of course, being the biggest phony of them all—except, Alaric supposed, for Lucien Antonescu. But despite Alaric’s suspicions, there was no sign whatsoever of him—Father Henrique lifted up Meena’s hand to kiss it.
“I’ve heard so much about you,” Mauricio was gushing with a smile. The smile was the same self-effacing one Alaric had seen him give Genevieve Fox on the news. “I’m glad we’re finally getting to meet after all of this time.”
“Well, it’s very nice to meet you, too, Father,” Meena said. “Are you enjoying New York?”
“Oh.” Father Henrique looked heavenward. “More than I can say. Of course I miss my beloved Rio, but who could not love the Big Apple, no? As they say, it grabs the heart, and will not let go.”
Alaric rolled his eyes, scouting the next tray of smoked salmon. It was basically the only protein they were serving, and he was starving. The problem was, so was everyone else, so every time the salmon came around, people descended on the trays like vultures.
“Oh,” someone Alaric didn’t recognize was saying, but whom Meena had advised to stay away from boats, “it’s so true. That’s why I’ve always loved New York. And that’s why it’s so wonderful that this show came to New York first.”
Alaric had no idea what this person was talking about. He did not mind art. In fact, he liked paintings of swimming pools and the ocean. They reminded him of the beach house he’d purchased in Antigua, the one he’d told Meena about, and to which he hoped to retire . . . not soon, but eventually. He’d know when the time was right. He had enough money saved to live on without working, and sometimes—on days like today, for instance—he thought he might just pack it all in and catch the next plane for the Caribbean. He didn’t want to end up like Abraham, for whom he was fairly certain his superiors weren’t even bothering seriously to search. He’d seen the look in Meena’s eyes.
There was nothing left of Abraham to look for.
Still, they could at least act like they cared, instead of standing around at this party drinking champagne like nothing had happened.
Getting dragged around to meet phony church officials and donors was bad enough—especially when Alaric had to pretend that he wasn’t actually scanning the room at every moment for danger in the form of the biggest phony of all, Lucien Antonescu.
But now Meena was being urged by some overenthusiastic church publicist to tell Padre Caliente how he was going to die.
Unbelievable.
“Oh no,” she protested gently, as she did with everyone. Alaric could tell that she was tired. It had, after all, been a long day. “He doesn’t want to know that.”
“I do, I do,” the padre insisted. “I have heard of this gift of yours. And I am so eager to know what Heavenly Father has in store for me.”
A meat locker somewhere, Alaric fervently hoped, into which the man would be locked and then mistaken for burger and served to a starving Boy Scout troop. Although that was too good a death for him.
“A long and healthy life,” Meena replied, to Alaric’s extreme disappointment.
Padre Caliente beamed as everyone around him uttered congratulations.
“Well,” he said, “I cannot wait to share these good tidings with my new congregation.”
Alaric could contain himself no longer.
“Speaking of your new congregation,” he burst out, “done any exorcisms since you got here, Padre?”
Looking confused, the priest said, “I’m sorry, I do not understand.”
Was he actually pretending he didn’t remember that complete disaster in that slum in Rio five years earlier? He had to be kidding. Alaric had never seen a grown man run so fast.
“Exorcisms,” Alaric repeated. “Expulsions of demonic spirits from individuals who happen to be possessed by them. Done any since you got here?”
“Uh, no.” Father Henrique glanced uncertainly at Father Bernard, who happened to be the only person left standing nearby, with the exception of Sister Gertrude. “I’m sorry. Should I have? Are exorcisms very common in the city? I thought there had not been so much activity of that nature here lately—”
Father Bernard—a kindly man whom Alaric had seen stake two vampires at once with a wooden candelabrum at the battle at St. George’s Cathedral—seemed to take pity on the younger priest.
“Quite uncommon of late, I would say. I’m not sure what Alaric is referring to.”
Father Henrique’s gaze sharpened on Alaric.
“Alaric,” he said. “Not . . . Alaric Wulf? Why, I remember you!” He stuck out his hand. “How are you? It has been many years, old friend!”
Alaric glared at him. Old friend? If he’d been the padre, he wouldn’t have been as quick to assume the relationship. And he’d have been apologizing, not glad-handing. Had the man really not recognized him?
Or was he still so embarrassed over his cowardly behavior, he’d pretended not to recognize him (the more likely scenario)?
“Yes,” Alaric said mildly. “It has been a few years, hasn’t it?”
“Who would have thought?” Padre Caliente said wonderingly. “All that time ago, in that horrible slum. And now here we are, at this wonderful party, with so many beautiful people, in New York City. How strange life is, yes?”
Alaric stared.
“Yes,” he said again. “Life is strange.” Strange that no one had ever given the padre the swift kick in the rear that he so rightly deserved.
“What you must have thought of me that night!” Henrique looked at Meena, Father Bernard, and Sister Gertrude and said, “Imagine me, a very young priest, with my first congregation. And I get a call that one of my parishioners is possessed—yes, really, possessed—by an evil spirit. I am terrified. I have heard of such things, of course, but only in movies. I have no idea it can be real.”
“Oh,” Father Bernard said, “it’s real, all right. I remember one I had in Brooklyn Heights—”
“Let him finish, Father,” Alaric said. He was interested in seeing how the younger priest was going to excuse his behavior.
“So I get to the house—a shack, really—and there is this sweet, angel-faced little girl. And she is hovering a foot off the bed, in this sort of . . . circle of light. But these voices that are coming out of her . . . I had never heard such voices in my life.” Padre Caliente shuddered. “The things they were saying.”
“What were the voices saying?” Meena asked, owl-eyed.
&
nbsp; The priest looked at her. “Oh,” he said, “you don’t want to know, believe me.”
“Curse words, probably,” Father Bernard said knowledgeably.
Alaric knew what the girl had been saying was far worse than that, but kept this information to himself.
“Anyway,” Father Henrique went on, “there is the girl’s family, weeping, begging me to help. And there is this man.” Father Henrique nodded toward Alaric. “And he was telling me to get out my holy water and cross, and to start praying, and to hurry. Hurry! But I was so terrified. I had never in my life seen anything so . . . so . . .”
Father Bernard clapped a hand on the younger priest’s shoulder. “I know. Pure evil. The first time you see it, you either flee or freeze.”
Or fight, Alaric thought. Or am I the only one who thought of this? Sister Gertrude, he knew, had a set of Berettas hidden beneath her habit, and never hesitated to use them.
But no one had given her a parish on the Upper East Side to run.
“Yes,” Father Henrique said, shooting Father Bernard a grateful look. “I dropped everything, and . . . well, I am ashamed to say, I ran.”
Sister Gertrude shook her head. “Oh, you poor thing,” she said. “Did you really?”
“I did,” the priest said. “I have tried to make up for it since, by fighting against the Lamir in that same district—”
“The Lamir,” Father Bernard said, looking impressed. “I hear they’re quite a handful. South American vampires aren’t like the rest of the species, from what I understand. Very aggressive.”
“Yes,” Father Henrique said. “They are very different from their European cousins. Local legend says they are descendants of the Noctilio leporinus, or great fishing bats, of South America. They’re known for catching their prey by skimming the surfaces of rivers or lakes with their claws, then devouring their flesh—not just their blood—after they’ve caught them.”
“Horrible,” Sister Gertrude said, with a shudder. “And I think you’ve more than redeemed yourself for whatever happened at that exorcism if you’ve taken out a few of those nasty creatures.”
“A few,” Father Bernard cried. “I heard he’s taken out a hundred.”
“Well,” Padre Caliente said modestly, “I try. I could never forgive myself for leaving this man to deal with that nasty business all by himself.” He stepped toward Alaric to grasp his hand. “Thank you, my good friend. I can finally tell you now. Thank you for saving that poor, helpless little soul.”
“I didn’t save her,” Alaric said. He didn’t attempt to disguise his bitterness. “She needed more help than I could give her. That’s why I sent for the local priest. After you ran off, she died.”
There was a short silence. Sister Gertrude crossed herself, and said, “Bless her,” beneath her breath.
Meena, her dark eyes welling with tears, said, “That’s so sad.”
Alaric looked at her in alarm. “Don’t start crying now,” he said. What was the matter with her? She’d been crying on and off all night. He could have sworn she’d been crying in the cab, when he’d given her the necklace. “Here comes the archbishop. And he’s got Genevieve Fox with him.”
“Oh God,” Meena said, and reached up to wipe her eyes, sending a black streak of mascara across both temples. Alaric stared at the smudges in disbelief.
The archbishop, who’d been making his way steadily across the room, finally stopped beside them. So did the camera crew that had been following him.
“Your Excellency,” Fathers Bernard and Henrique said, genuflecting. Sister Gertrude did the same. Alaric stayed where he was.
The archbishop didn’t appear to notice.
“Ah,” he said, beaming at them. “I’m so delighted that you could make it.” He clearly didn’t have the slightest idea who they were, with the possible exception of Father Henrique, with whom Alaric had noticed him schmoozing, and Meena, who’d already informed him earlier that he’d live a long, healthy life. “Thank you for sharing in this very special evening.”
“Your Excellency,” Father Henrique said, springing to his feet, “may I present Alaric Wulf, a very good friend of mine?”
The archbishop eyed Alaric.
“Your name sounds familiar,” he said. Then he seemed to remember why. “Ah, yes,” he said.
But he clearly didn’t dare say more, because of the cameras. The Palatine was, after all, a secret organization. Or perhaps what the archbishop had heard about Alaric wasn’t particularly complimentary. Alaric’s reputation for killing demons was exemplary.
The rest of his reputation wasn’t quite so spotless.
“Bless you, my children,” the archbishop said, and made the sign of the cross over them all.
As soon as he’d moved away, Sister Gertrude said, “Meena, my dear.” She pointed at her eyes.
Meena opened her purse and removed a compact from inside it. As soon as she saw her reflection, she uttered a word that was highly improper to say around members of the clergy. Then, realizing what she’d said, she covered her mouth with her hand.
“I’m so sorry,” she said, looking guilty.
“Oh, it’s all right,” Sister Gertrude said, smiling. “I’ve heard worse. I live in the Village, remember. I was about to go the ladies’ myself. Shall we?”
“Yes,” Meena said, and allowed the older woman to lead the way.
That’s when Alaric’s mobile phone chirped. He pulled it out of his pocket and was astonished—and relieved—to see Holtzman’s name and number flash onto his screen.
“Where have you been?” he demanded, after he’d lifted the phone to his ear. “Everyone thought you were dead.”
All he heard on the end of the line was static. “Holtzman?” he asked. He looked up. The rest of the partygoers were enjoying their drinks and what few snacks they’d been able to snag. He didn’t see a single fellow Palatine Guard anywhere in the room . . . which apparently got terrible reception. He strode toward the nearest door. “Holtzman? Are you there?”
As he shoved open the exit door, he heard another burst of static, then his boss’s voice, saying, “Oh, thank God, someone’s picked up. I can’t seem to get through to anyone at headquarters. Where is everyone? But never mind, you’re there. We’ve . . . disaster . . . ”
“Holtzman.” Alaric stood in the hallway outside the exhibition, the phone pressed to his ear. Between the static, the faint connection, and the frantic tone in his boss’s voice, he could barely hear a word he was saying. “Where are you?”
More static. Then, “ . . . Jersey. You were right. You were right about everything. We found the bodies. And it’s worse than you could ever imag—” More static.
Alaric, thrilled as he was to have his boss tell him he’d been right about something, was more concerned about his well-being, and that of the rest of the team.
“Abraham, can you hear me? Where in New Jersey are you?” Alaric asked desperately. “We’ve got people there looking for you now. For some reason we can’t pick up your GPS locators. Abraham? Are you—”
“Oh no,” Holtzman said, coming in loud and clear all of a sudden. “Of course you can’t. That would be on account of—”
And then the static grew so thick, it turned into a whine that seemed nearly to pierce Alaric’s eardrum.
Then the line went dead.
“Abraham,” Alaric cried into the phone. “Abraham?”
But it was no good. He was gone.
Alaric quickly dialed headquarters. Amazingly, though he let it ring ten times, no one picked up.
Unbelievable. He understood that everyone was out looking for his boss—or attending this function. But at the very least someone ought to have been manning the computers. What was happening to his workplace?
He hung up and redialed, this time the IT department in the main office in Rome. It was staffed round th
e clock, so even though day was just dawning there, he knew someone would pick up.
“What do you want, Wulf?” a woman’s voice asked him crankily in Italian.
“The GPS location of Abraham Holtzman’s cell phone in America,” Alaric said.
“It’s gone.” He recognized the voice as belonging to Johanna, a brilliant computer tech who’d helped him on previous cases, sometimes against the wishes of her superiors. But she rarely left the office, which could make her moody at times. “The satellite can’t find it. And you know all your cell phones are equipped with indestructible state-of-the-art ultrathin real-time GPS trackers with motion sensors that give ten-second updates on your locations that are accurate by up to seven inches. So if the satellite can’t find Abraham, that can only mean one thing.” Then, seeming to remember Abraham was not only Alaric’s boss, but also his friend, she added, “Sorry, Wulf.”
“The satellite is wrong,” Alaric said, trying to keep his voice calm. There was no use taking out his frustrations on blameless Johanna. “Because Holtzman called me from his cell phone not one minute ago. The connection was terrible, but he said he’s still in New Jersey—”
“What?” Johanna sounded much more awake. Also alarmed. And angry. “But that’s not possible. The data I’m getting from the satellite is telling me there’s no sign whatsoever of—”
“I don’t care what the data you’re getting from the satellite is telling you,” Alaric interrupted. “I’m telling you I just got a call from Abraham. So find out where it came from, pinpoint a location for Holtzman and the rest of his team, then notify the search party in New Jersey of their whereabouts and get them out of there. Do you understand me?”
He could actually hear Johanna typing. “Absolutely. It may take me a few minutes, but—”
“Whatever it takes. And be sure to call me, too, as soon as you have any information whatsoever.”
“Of course,” Johanna said. “Alaric?”
“What?”
“What is going on over there?” she whispered. “Is it . . . you know. Him? The dark prince?”
