by Meg Cabot
“I’ll be there,” Meena said. “And without him.” She shot Jack Bauer a meaningful look since he was sitting beneath the table, alternately growling at Lucien and looking up at her beseechingly for any crumbs of food she might spill.
“He’s a very loyal companion,” Lucien observed mildly.
“Yeah,” Meena said, taking a sip of coffee. “Something like that. How long do symphonies usually last?”
“If you’re asking because you want to know how long it will be before I once again rend off all your clothing and perform the kind of indecent sexual acts upon your body that I performed last night and that would horrify your mother were she ever to find out, we could do that right now,” Lucien offered.
Meena, who’d been staring at him with cheeks growing ever more deeply crimson as he went on, said, as she pushed herself away from the table, “I can’t. I mean, I-I’d like to. But I’m already late for work. So I…I better go. I’ll see you at seven thirty.”
Lucien laughed and, rising from the table as well, caught her up in his arms. “Did I mention how much I enjoy seeing you blush?”
“Well, that’s good,” Meena said to the center of his chest, since she couldn’t seem to raise her gaze any higher than that. “Since it’s all I seem to be able to do around you. See you tonight?”
“Don’t forget your coat.”
He got it for her from the closet, helped her into it, then walked her to the elevator-it was the kind that came straight up into the apartment. When it arrived, he caught her up around the waist again and pulled her against him, then kissed her deeply, not seeming to mind that she must have tasted of toast and coffee.
“Seven thirty,” he said when he released her. “Don’t be late.”
He smiled as she wandered onto the elevator like a woman in a daze. Jack Bauer, however, strutted stiff-legged onto it, clearly delighted at seeing what he thought to be the last of Lucien Antonescu. The dog turned and gave him a parting warning yip.
“And the same to you, my friend,” Lucien said just as the doors shut.
Meena, alone in the elevator, watched as the numbers above her sank lower and lower. With each one, she felt, sanity returned. When the doors finally opened to the lobby and she and Jack Bauer stepped out of the luxury building’s entrance and into the sunshine of the bright spring day, reality finally sank in.
And with it, the full impact of what she had just done.
Chapter Thirty
9:30 A.M. EST, Friday, April 16
Peninsula Hotel
New York, New York
Alaric swam a hundred laps every morning, freestyle, before breakfast. He might switch to the backstroke if there was anyone of the attractive female variety lounging at the side of the pool.
But with the Peninsula hosting a national conference for designers and salespeople of dental implants, that was most decidedly not the case.
Alaric was on his one hundred and eighty-eighth lap (the pool at the Peninsula was smaller than Alaric was used to, so he’d had to increase his number of laps) when a hand erupted through the crystal-blue water and seized his head.
Alaric’s usual lightning-fast reaction would have sent the person who’d accosted him plummeting over his shoulder and into the pool if he hadn’t looked up at the last minute and realized it was his boss.
“Goddamnit, Wulf!” Holtzman thundered as he strode away, looking for a towel with which to dry his now-soaking-wet arm and shoulder. “Did you have to try to drown me? I was only trying to get your attention. We’ve got a crisis here, in case you’re too busy enjoying your luxury accommodations to notice.”
Panting, Alaric clung to the side of the pool. He tried not to show his delight at the fact that he’d managed to ruin his boss’s incredibly ugly suit jacket.
“What crisis?” he asked. His voice echoed satisfyingly in the glass-enclosed pool atrium.
“Shhh,” Holtzman said. He’d gotten a towel from one of the pool attendants and was rubbing vigorously at himself. “Not so loud. Someone will hear you.”
Alaric shrugged. There were two or three conference attendees around, but they were hardly a threat to Palatine Guard business.
“None of them speaks German,” Alaric said in German. “They’re American dentists.”
“Nevertheless,” Holtzman said. He came to the side of the pool where Alaric waited for him. “There’s been another dead girl found in a park this morning.”
Alaric perked up. “Meena Harper?”
“No, it wasn’t Meena Harper,” Holtzman said. “How could Meena Harper have been found dead? She was with the prince last night, and the prince is here to stop the murders, not commit them.”
Alaric, disappointed, shrugged. Not that he would have liked to have seen Meena Harper dead, of course. She was their only lead to finding the prince, and she was, if he remembered rightly, quite pretty, in her way.
But her death would have connected his case to the prince.
And then the head office might have let him go after the prince, after all.
“They haven’t identified the dead girl yet,” Holtzman said. He had knelt down by the side of the pool, careful to avoid any wet spots on the deck, and was speaking out of the side of his mouth. As if anyone in the pool area might not already realize that Holtzman and Alaric knew one another. “Just like all the others.”
“Then it might be Meena Harper after all,” Alaric said, thinking a little regretfully of Meena Harper’s shapely legs and dark hair.
“It isn’t her,” Holtzman said angrily. “I saw a picture of her. The dead girl has long hair. Meena Harper had short hair. Would you stop with this obsession with Meena Harper?”
“I’m not obsessed with her,” Alaric said. “It’s just that if we’re going to catch the prince-”
“We’re not going to do anything,” Holtzman said. “I’m going to catch him. You’re going after this killer. I want you to get dressed and go look at passport photos of recent émigrés fitting this girl’s general age and description to see if you can get a match. They think because of her dental work that she might be of Eastern European descent, too, like the others.”
“Right,” Alaric said. Waste of time, he thought. “But if I were you, what I would do this morning is go pay a visit to Meena Harper.”
“Oh, you would, would you?”
“Well, what do you think she and Lucien Antonescu did last night? They didn’t go back to her place. She knows where the bat is roosting. Find out where that is, and we’ll have him.”
“I have a better idea,” Holtzman said. “I thought I would just pay a visit to Emil and Mary Lou Antonescu.”
Alaric splashed an enormous wave of water on his boss.
“Stop that!” Holtzman cried, leaping back. “What do you think you’re doing?”
Some of the dental implant salesmen, lounging on nearby chaises, laughed.
“Say one word to the Antonescus, and you’ll have the entire Dracul population of Manhattan on our heads,” Alaric declared. He was angry now, really angry. First Holtzman had ruined his swim. And now he was making even more sweeping bureaucratic decisions that were going to make his job more difficult.
“I don’t know how the prince didn’t see us last night,” Alaric said, “but evidently he didn’t. I know that because the two of us are still alive, and the Antonescus haven’t moved out of 910 Park Avenue. You know how I know that, Holtzman? Because I’m still breathing and I called the building this morning pretending to be the cable repairman asking about a connection in their apartment. And they’re still there.”
Holtzman stared down at Alaric, his brown-eyed gaze troubled.
“I knew I should have put you on psychological leave,” he said. “You aren’t fit for duty. You-”
“I’m the best you’ve got, Holtzman,” Alaric said, hauling himself out of the pool. He reached for the towel his boss had dropped. “I’ll bring your killer in. But more important, I’ll bring the prince in, too. Just let me do my job
without telling me how, for once. No manuals. No rules. Just dead vampires.”
His boss stared at him. Alaric was not unaware that Holtzman’s gaze had gone to his lean, well-muscled torso.
And why wouldn’t it? Alaric took good care of himself, working out regularly with weights besides swimming laps. He cut quite an intimidating figure. Even the dental implant salesmen couldn’t help looking.
Then he noticed Holtzman’s gaze seemed particularly riveted to a rather ugly, raised scar just beneath Alaric’s rib cage, where one of the vamps in Berlin had managed to worry open a section of his flesh-using just its razor-sharp fangs-while Alaric had been trying to pry Martin from the jaws of some of its brethren.
Alaric sighed. He knew why Holtzman was staring.
The Vatican doctors had advised plastic surgery.
But Alaric had refused. He didn’t like hospitals, let alone unnecessary medical procedures.
Holtzman, Alaric supposed, was assuming Alaric had refused to rid himself of the scar for the same reason he’d refused counseling after the Berlin incident.
But the scar served an important purpose: it reminded him every time he saw it just how very much he hated the undead.
And how important it was that he rid the world of them all.
“If you want to find a vampire,” Alaric said, ignoring Holtzman’s stare and the fact that the older man was obviously trying to think of something to say about the scar, “you ask his latest meal. In the prince’s case, that’s Meena Harper, 910 Park Avenue, apartment 11B.”
This seemed to distract Holtzman from the scar. “Quite right,” he said. “That’s why I’m going to her apartment this evening, pretending I’m a-”
“Abraham,” Alaric said, interrupting him. “The bit with the inheritance check from the long-lost relative isn’t going to work. She isn’t going to believe you. Who’d leave an inheritance check for a prince? The guy is richer than Midas.”
“Oh.” Holtzman looked crestfallen. “Right. I hadn’t thought of that.”
“That’s why I’m going to her apartment tonight,” Alaric said. “And I’m going to do the interview my way.”
“I don’t think that’s at all wise,” Holtzman said. “In fact, I forbid you to go. I will not allow it.”
Surprised, Alaric stared at him. “Why not?”
“Because you’re only going to do that thing where you go bursting in with your sword drawn. You know we’ve had quite a few complaints about that, Alaric. People really don’t seem to like it.”
“She just spent the night with the prince of darkness,” Alaric said indignantly. “You really think I’m so scary in comparison?”
Alaric found it disappointing that Holtzman only glanced at his scar again and said nothing. His scar wasn’t so scary. What was really scary, in Alaric’s opinion, was Holtzman’s suit.
Chapter Thirty-one
10:30 A.M. EST, Friday, April 16
BAO
155 Avenue of the Americas
New York, New York
Well, look at this,” Leisha said when Meena appeared before her styling station that morning at BAO (By Appointment Only). “Someone’s been a bad, bad girl.”
Leisha was stretched with her long, bare legs crossed at the ankles like a Nubian queen in her own styling chair, balancing a large grilled-chicken salad in a plastic carry-out container over her bulging stomach, even though the salon’s owner, Jimmy, had a strict no-eating-at-your-station rule.
But Jimmy’s rules didn’t apply to Leisha since she was his most popular hairstylist and seven months pregnant, besides. It would be a disaster for Jimmy-and BAO-if Leisha quit.
Meena pointed wordlessly to the empty chair at the station next to Leisha’s.
“Take it,” Leisha said, waving a hand, her many bracelets jangling, her nails, Meena noticed, recently French tipped. Someone in the salon had been using her fingers for practice. “Ramone took a personal day because he found out his boyfriend hasn’t deleted himself from Grindr. So.” Leisha shot her an aggravated look. “I’m totally pissed at you. Jon said you went on a walk with some guy after the countess’s party, and then you never came back. And then this morning on the news, they said they found another dead girl. Obviously, I’ve been sitting here all morning thinking it was you. At least until you finally texted me back. I was worried sick. You can ask anyone here. Sick.”
Meena looked pointedly at the chicken salad. “Not so sick that you couldn’t order an early lunch without me.”
“This isn’t me,” Leisha said, pointing at her belly. “It’s him! He doesn’t care what happens to you. He’s starving. And kicking me. Oh, my God. You wouldn’t believe how he’s been kicking me all morning. And it’s all your fault.”
“How is it my fault?” Meena asked, leaning down and picking up Jack Bauer and putting him on her lap. He snuggled against her, needing a little TLC. Now that Lucien wasn’t around, he was back to his normal, nongrowling self.
“For putting me through all that!” Leisha declared. “You think Thomas can’t feel how scared I was for you? What were you thinking? You never hook up with strange men. What was going through your head, Harper?”
Meena gave Jack Bauer a good scratching beneath his neck, and he threw back his throat in ecstasy.
“He wasn’t a strange guy, Leish,” she said instead of pointing out that Leisha’s doctor had gotten her baby’s sex wrong, which didn’t seem like it would be helpful. “He was the guy from the other night. With the bats.”
Leisha stared at her. “But that’s impossible.”
Meena was scratching the dog so hard that his hind leg began to thump. She toned it down.
“No,” she said. “Not impossible. Fact. Lucien Antonescu-the guy the countess was trying to fix me up with?-is the same guy who saved me from the bats outside of the cathedral. I know it sounds crazy. But it’s true. And, Leish, I like him. More than like him.”
Leisha shook her head. “No wonder you came straight here instead of going home before work. You’re having a mental breakdown.”
Meena frowned. “How am I having a mental breakdown? Do you think I’m making this up?”
“No. Because that’s so messed up!”
“Because I slept with him?”
“Because it’s so weird that it should be the same guy!” Leisha declared. “Of course you slept with him. And I should hope you like him. Seeing as how you scared us all half to death disappearing into the night with him.” She set her chicken salad down on the rolling hair dryer stand between their two chairs and tried to get as comfortable as a seven-months-pregnant woman could. “So. How was it?”
“It was-” Meena looked up toward the ceiling, which Jimmy had left open, though he’d had all the ductwork painted silver and black and the ceiling behind it painted a deep purple. “Amazing,” she said, sighing. “Really. I don’t know any other way to describe it.”
“Adjectives, please,” Leisha said. “I’ve been having sex with the same man for almost seven years now, and I’m over it. I want details. Did he sink your battleship?”
“Leish!” Meena cried, laughing.
“Seriously,” Leisha said. “I don’t care about anything else. Oh, wait, I do. What’s his expiration date?”
Meena regarded her friend with a face wreathed in smiles. “That’s the best part. He doesn’t have one. Or maybe it’s just…”
Meena let her voice trail off. She’d been going to say, maybe it was just that her ability to foretell people’s deaths was fading.
But she knew that wasn’t true. What about baby Weinberg and the weird feeling she had about her?
She had to tell Leisha. She had to.
But how could she do it without scaring the wits out of her?
“Maybe it’s just what?” Leisha gave her an exasperated look. “What is with you? You look so weird. Are you sure you’re all right? I think you might have a fever or something. Let me feel your head.”
Leisha’s fingers felt cool against M
eena’s forehead. Meena wished she’d keep them pressed there forever. Maybe she did have a fever.
“Hmmm,” Leisha said. “You’re definitely running a little hot. What’d this guy do to you, exactly? Is that the flush of a new love affair? Or did he give you swine flu?”
“Oh, Leish,” Meena said. “He was so great.” She knew she was gushing, but she couldn’t help it. She could still smell Lucien on her skin from where he’d kissed her good-bye. “He’s just so…different than other guys I’ve met lately, you know? I mean, he doesn’t even know what Call of Duty is. And he made me breakfast. He asked how I like my eggs. And he ran a bath for me. And he was nice to Jack, even though Jack behaved like a total lunatic and did nothing but growl at him all night long. And…”
“So it was perfect,” Leisha said, finishing for her.
“It was perfect,” Meena said. Then something occurred to her, and she chewed her lower lip. “Except…”
“What?” Leisha’s dark brows slanted downward. “Don’t tell me. He’s married. He’s got a wife back in Estonia.”
“Romania,” Meena said, correcting her. “And no, of course not. That’s not it. There’s just something…okay, don’t laugh. But there’s something…sad about him.”
“Sad?” Leisha shook her head so that her long black hair, which she’d straightened with a hot comb and then curled into a sassy retro flip, skimmed her shoulders. “What do you mean, sad? Like a loser? Haven’t you had enough of losers after David?”
“No,” Meena said. “Not loser sad. More like something really sad happened to him once. And he never got it over it.”
“Maybe his wife died in childbirth,” Leisha said. Leisha, unlike Meena, loved movies with unhappy endings; the sadder the better. Leisha was a huge Nicholas Sparks fan. “Or died in a tragic car crash just hours before they were supposed to get married! Or was smothered to death in a Peruvian mudslide while inoculating orphans.”
Meena gave her a sarcastic look.
“Coming back to reality,” Meena said, “I think he had a crappy childhood. He didn’t seem to want to talk about it. Afterward-you know-I asked him about his family, and he said both his parents were dead. He said he has a half brother, but they’re not close.”
