by Meg Cabot
“Meena,” he said, in wonder.
She smiled back at him. “You’re welcome,” she replied.
Which was why she only dimly heard someone say, “Give me that,” from behind her. Emil’s warning shout was distant.
Then she was snatched roughly away from Lucien, and the crossbow Emil had been holding was being pressed to her chest by Father Henric.
She dropped Lucien’s book back into the mud.
“Did you think it was that book that could destroy me?” Father Henric snarled at them “No. It’s him. Only he can destroy me.”
Meena’s gaze met Lucien’s. He seemed as confused as she was. Only the arrow-pointing side of a crossbow wasn’t bruising the skin above his rib cage as it was hers, so she suspected he wasn’t as frightened.
Or possibly he was. His eyes didn’t have a speck of red in them. They’d gone as dark as night.
“Now you know,” Father Henric said as he began to drag Meena toward the arches leading away from the courtyard. “So I suggest you keep a wide distance, my lord, or I will shoot this girl in the heart. Do you understand?”
“I think I do,” Lucien said. “I think I understand everything now.” His gaze never wavered from Meena’s.
“Good,” Henric said. “You won’t be seeing me again.”
“That,” Lucien said in a calm voice, “I’m not so sure of. Wulf?”
Alaric was standing in the middle of the courtyard, his own crossbow raised and aimed at Father Henric’s head, even though he already knew the weapon would have no effect. “What?”
“I know you’ve never liked me very much,” Meena heard Lucien saying in a calm voice.
Alaric didn’t even glance in Lucien’s direction. “That’s right,” he replied.
“And you have no reason in the world to trust me.”
“That is correct,” Alaric said.
“But I know you care about Meena Harper,” Lucien continued. “And you’d do anything for her.”
“Also correct,” Alaric said, still not looking away from Father Henric, whose gaze was darting nervously between the two men.
“In that case,” Lucien said, “I think you know what I need you to do.”
“As much as I would love to,” Alaric said, still not taking his gaze off the priest, “it won’t work. He’s got her at point-blank range. I can’t get the shot off quickly enough. He’ll end up killing her anyway. And frankly, neither one of you bastards is worth that.”
“Stop it,” Father Henric screamed, jabbing the crossbow harder into Meena’s chest. “Whatever you’re talking about, stop it now!”
Talking wasn’t necessary anymore, however. Meena knew what Lucien wanted Alaric to do . . . and what Alaric, miracle of miracles, was refusing to do.
She also realized what Father Henric had meant by Lucien being the only one who could destroy him. She knew what she was going to have to do.
She didn’t want it to end like this. It shouldn’t have to end like this.
But she also knew that this was the only way it could end, thanks to the choices made by a lot of other people . . . some of whom had died long before she’d been born.
Meena wondered if Joan of Arc had felt like this when they’d lit the stake to which, after faithfully serving her king and country, she’d been tied in punishment for heresy. Joan had done nothing but refuse to lie, and in the end, she’d gotten burned.
Literally.
Meena supposed Joan must have felt the way she herself was feeling at the instant when she lifted her foot and slammed her heel as hard as she could into Father Henric’s shin, then felt him pull the crossbow’s trigger in surprise.
Like it just wasn’t fair.
Chapter Forty-one
Lucien didn’t think. He wasn’t even aware of moving. There was nothing to do after he saw what Meena had done except shoot forward with a kind of speed he’d never known he possessed, so fast that he was a blur to everyone watching.
Then he shoved Meena out of the way so that his body, instead of hers, took those four arrows in the heart.
He was surprised that it didn’t hurt.
It was better, he thought, that it end this way. He’d realized it as soon as Meena had shown him the book—that book he remembered so well from the days when he’d been happy—and explained everything to him.
After that, the past had begun to make sense in a way it hadn’t in . . . well, centuries. And when Meena had let herself get shot, he’d known exactly what he had to do.
Sacrificing his life for Meena’s was nothing. His only wish was that they could have had more time together, so that he could apologize for the wrongs he’d done her.
Afterward, she rolled over, apparently unhurt, and peered down at him. Somehow, her hair had changed back to the original brown color it had been when he’d first met her. It was long, and was blowing in the slight breeze.
Overhead, the sky was blue, and filled with white, puffy clouds. This was wonderful, since he hadn’t been able to lie beneath a blue sky in five hundred years. He took a deep breath. That was another thing he hadn’t done in centuries. It felt wonderful.
“Lucien,” she said, tears in her eyes, “I’m so, so sorry.”
He didn’t know why she was apologizing. He was the one who’d hurt her, so many times.
“I’m sorry,” he said, and lifted a hand to smooth some of the flyaway wisps of dark hair from her cheek.
“You were the only thing that could kill him,” Meena said. “But only by dying. That doesn’t seem fair.”
“Yes, it was,” he assured her. “He was the creator of my father’s evil, and the only thing that could extinguish that was good. He knew that . . . and so did you. I had to sacrifice my life in order for his to be destroyed. I didn’t want you to be hurt, though. I might have wanted that at one time, but not anymore.” Lucien looked up at her. She was so beautiful. He didn’t know how they could be talking like this. He should be dust.
“I know,” she said. “You made the right choice, Lucien. Thank you.” She lowered her head to kiss him.
Birds were singing. It was perfect.
He was happy.
Chapter Forty-two
Meena, no!”
Alaric didn’t understand anything that was happening. Lucien Antonescu had asked him to shoot him, and Alaric had refused because there was too much of a risk of Meena being killed instead.
And then Meena had gone insane and deliberately tried to get herself shot anyway.
Although he tried to reach Mauricio in time to stop it, Alaric knew there was no point. Meena was already dead. As he’d tried to point out to Lucien Antonescu, no one—no one human, anyway—could survive the direct hit of four sharpened sticks to the chest, shot at point-blank range by an automatic crossbow.
Except that . . . Meena did. Because Lucien Antonescu got to her first.
And somehow he’d managed to insinuate himself between the arrows and Meena’s body. Which was physically impossible, considering how quickly the shafts had been moving, and the distance from which Mauricio had shot them.
Dimly, Alaric became aware of Henric screaming, “No!”
That was because after the arrows entered Antonescu’s body, there was a blinding bright white. It seemed to emanate from him, then quickly spread all around. It was like the video footage Alaric had seen of nuclear bombs exploding. The light just spread and spread.
Only this light didn’t seem to harm anyone human . . . just demons. When it receded, there was nothing left of almost any of them, except little piles of dust.
In fact that’s what Alaric—who’d already been in midair when he noticed Antonescu had also launched himself at Meena—landed in: the pile of dust where Antonescu should have been.
But instead, there was nothing there but Meena, who was crying.
Alaric couldn’t understand any of it.
Especially why, in the next moment, the dried-out old fountain that—for all the months that Alaric had worked at St. Bernadette’s, anyway—had never produced so much as a single drop of water, suddenly burst to life, spraying pure, crystal clear jets of water everywhere . . . almost like at the miracle of Lourdes.
Alaric didn’t question any of these extraordinary events, however. Instead he wrapped his arms around Meena as the water from the fountain flowed over them, washing away the ashes, pulled her against him, and began to cry, too.
He didn’t even care if anyone noticed.
Part 4
Saturday, October 2
Chapter Forty-three
They wanted to hire her back.
They were offering her twice her old salary, plus a bonus.
Meena said she needed time to think about it.
“What’s to think about?” Jon asked her. He was on the couch in the living room, eating pizza. “We could get a bigger place. Two bathrooms. Something with a balcony. And a view.”
“Are you chipping in on rent?” Meena asked.
“Now that I’m finally solvent,” Jon said, “yes.”
The newly restaffed Palatine—Abraham Holtzman had been made associate director, a promotion allowing him a range of administrative power that made him giddy—had been extremely impressed by the SuperStaker. They were taking on both Jon and Adam in the Manhattan unit’s technical design department. Leisha was beginning to admit that there might actually be such a thing as demons after all. The family was visiting animal shelters to find a dog the baby liked as much as Jack Bauer, and which had Jack’s same extraordinary gift, so that Leisha could feel secure about her husband’s new profession.
“We could finally work together,” Jon said to Meena, with his mouth full. “I think it would be sweet.”
“Yeah,” Meena said, leaning in the doorway to her bedroom. “I don’t know. I think I need more time.”
“Look.” Jon laid down his slice of pizza and regarded her seriously. “You’re still freaked out. I get it. I’m freaked out, too.” He pointed to his shoulder, which was swathed in white bandages. “They won’t even put stitches in this thing for fear of infection. Fortunately I have Yalena now to change my bandages for me.” He got a dreamy look on his face. “She’s on her way over.”
“Okay,” Meena said. She reached for Jack Bauer’s leash. “I need to go for a walk. I’ll talk to you later.”
“It’s all right,” Jon assured her. “So long as it’s really the bandage changing you’re avoiding, and not, you know. Something else.”
She bent down to attach the leash to Jack’s shoulder harness . . . not an easy task, since the dog was dancing around, so excited about his walk, she could barely get him to hold still.
“What do you mean, something else?” she asked.
“Meena,” Jon said. He closed the pizza box. “It’s okay. I get that you’re avoiding the topic. And no one’s going to be sending you in for any psych evals since Dr. Fiske is on psych leave himself for turning out to be a vampire feedbag. But I don’t have to be a shrink to be qualified to tell you it’s all right. He’s gone. You can move on now. You could even, I don’t know, call Alaric. Nothing bad’s going to happen.”
Her gaze drifted toward the bedroom. “It’s hard to believe he’s completely gone.”
Jon followed her gaze. “Okay. I’ll admit, it’s hard to believe he’s completely gone. But think of it this way: You haven’t lost a vampire lover. You’ve gained a guardian angel.”
“Uh,” Meena said, “thanks. That’s very comforting. But I’ve never heard of a guardian angel who leaves a half-million-dollar painting stolen from the Metropolitan Museum of Art on his girlfriend’s bedroom wall.”
Jon shrugged. “It’s your favorite painting. I think it was Lucien’s way of letting you know he’s all right. And thanks. And that you need to get back to work.”
“Maybe,” Meena said, her eyes flashing, “the reason I haven’t told them whether or not I’m going back to work is because I’m really not sure I want to go back to work. And I don’t like pushy big brothers—or so-called guardian angels—telling me what to do. Maybe I genuinely want out of the vampire-hunting racket.”
Jon shrugged. “Alaric Wulf is saying the same thing. But I don’t believe it.”
“Yeah,” she said. “Well, nobody strung you up from a pipe for twenty-four hours.”
“You’re right,” Jon said. “You do need to go for a walk. And pick up some milk on your way home.” He stretched back out on the couch. “We’re out.”
Meena glared at him, then took Jack and left.
It wasn’t that she regretted, even for a second, what she’d done. She’d had to do it. There was no other way.
It was just that every time she closed her eyes, she saw Lucien’s, gazing into hers in that second right before he’d disappeared.
There’d been no reproach or bitterness in his gaze. In fact, in that moment, she’d felt almost as if he understood what she’d done.
Why was it, then, that she couldn’t make the decision about whether or not to go back to work for the Palatine?
Maybe because of that painting hanging in her bedroom.
She could not have been more shocked when she’d come home from that long day, Lucien’s ashes still in her hair, and found it hanging on the wall.
She’d known instantly how it had gotten there.
Yes, Mary Lou and Emil could have done it. But she doubted it. They’d disappeared as soon as Lucien had . . . only not into ash. She’d seen them, soaking wet from the jets of the fountain at St. Bernadette’s, slinking off down the street. They’d gone back to Singapore, or whatever city they next hoped to make their home. Apparently, there wasn’t enough wickedness in their hearts for them to be destroyed along with the rest of the demons in the courtyard. Or maybe the water from the Minetta had, like Lucien, been cleansed of evil, and had washed away their sins, allowing them to survive.
But Meena still didn’t feel a sense of closure about the incident. The police never discovered the real reason behind the disappearances of all those tourists, and a fire at the Pine Barrens destroyed both the hellmouth and any DNA evidence that might have helped them solve the mystery.
Maybe that was the real reason Meena hadn’t agreed to return to her old job. It didn’t seem right, somehow. Abraham and Carolina and the others were eager to get back to work in this new world . . . a world where demons were more human, like Dr. Fiske and all those archbishops Father Henric had duped, who’d been so nonchalant about turning David Delmonico into a vampire in order to catch Lucien, and ultimately destroying the lives of so many people.
Meena wasn’t sure she could work for such people anymore. It was like Lucien’s mother’s book, which she’d retrieved from the mud, and given to Abraham for safekeeping. Dried out, it had cleaned up nicely.
But how could Meena look at its pages again without feeling that they’d been tarnished in some way? It was the same with the painting of Joan of Arc, hanging in her bedroom, and the Palatine. She still admired and even loved them both . . . but neither of them held the same allure for her as they had before.
She supposed she shouldn’t have been surprised when she ended up in front of Alaric’s apartment building. She’d barely seen him since the day of the explosion. She’d been told he’d reinjured his leg and was taking some time to recover.
Beyond that, she knew little else. She supposed Jon was right. She ought to have called him. He had tried to save her life.
But she, who knew so many things, didn’t seem to know what to say to him.
Standing in front of his building—which was, of course, one of the more expensive ones in his neighborhood; Alaric was fond of his creature comforts—she decided that it didn’t matter. At the very least, she could ask Al
aric why he hadn’t yet agreed to come back to the Palatine.
But after Alaric buzzed her in, and then the big metal door to his place opened—it was designed to slide like the door to a freight car—and she actually saw him, she immediately began to have second thoughts.
As always, he looked startlingly tall and muscular.
But because he was wearing a sport coat over his black T-shirt and jeans, and his blond hair was slightly tousled on top, as if he’d just showered, it looked to Meena as if he were on his way somewhere.
Her heart gave a flop inside her chest. A date, she thought. He’s going on a date.
Let’s just keep things professional. She was the one who’d said it first. Now she was paying for it.
“Oh,” she said, “I’m sorry. I was just in the neighborhood. I—”
He held the door open as if her visit had been expected.
“You’re just in time,” he said. “The car to the airport is arriving in an hour.”
“Airport?” She moved hesitantly past him into the loft, Jack Bauer trotting in behind her, his tail wagging happily and his ears perked. “Where are you going?”
“Antigua,” Alaric said. He pulled the door closed. “My beach house. I told you about it.”
“Oh,” Meena said, her heart sinking further.
His beach house in Antigua. Of course. Less than two weeks had gone by since the two of them had discovered a plot to spread vampirism throughout the Catholic church, Lucien Antonescu was dead, and he was leaving on vacation to his beach house in Antigua.
What had she expected?
Alaric Wulf had kissed her once—although he’d been delirious with pain and didn’t remember it—and she hadn’t found the sensation at all unpleasant.
But she’d been having an intimate relationship with a vampire Alaric wanted to kill.
She didn’t have that problem anymore, she realized.
Only now Alaric was leaving for Antigua. Probably with Genevieve Fox.
Well, at least she had a guardian angel who hung paintings from the Metropolitan Museum of Art on her wall. But it still didn’t seem fair.
