“I believe the words anointer of all that is unholy were used in reference to you,” Meena said. “Maybe I’m wrong, but to me, that doesn’t suggest anything good.”
“The Palatine are hardly unbiased where I’m concerned,” Lucien said wryly. “But I’ve worked hard since rising to my position to bring about a new, enlightened age to my people, to protect both their interests and those of humanity.”
“I saw a photo,” Meena said, “of a Palatine guard with half his face eaten off. Alaric”-she nodded her head toward the bedroom wall-
“said it was from a vampire attack.”
Lucien nodded, his shoulders drooping. Alaric. Alaric Wulf.
“Yes. I know of this man. And,” he added, unable to keep his shock that all of this was happening from showing, “his partner. That was the Dracul who attacked them.”
“Was it the…Dracul”-she said the word like it was distasteful to her-“who attacked us outside St. George’s the other night?”
“Yes,” he replied. “Not us, though. Me. They were after me. You were never in any danger.”
Meena let out a small, mirthless laugh. “Well, you weren’t in any danger while I was there,” Lucien said, amending his statement.
“And is it the Dracul who are murdering those girls?” Meena asked.
He looked down at her. How could such a forceful personality be wrapped into such an impossibly small body? “Yes,” he admitted. “I’m fairly certain so.”
“So…the new enlightened age isn’t really working out, is it?” Meena asked.
He had never felt such despair. Why was all of this happening now, when he had finally come so close to grasping a little happiness?
The bargain his father had sealed had achieved immortality for himself and his family.
But what was the point of eternal life if one was destined to spend it alone?
“It’s complicated,” he said. “Blood-lust is strong, especially in the newly turned, so they long to feed…but I won’t allow them to kill. They know there will be repercussions if they disobey. But there are so many more of them now than there used to be. I can’t manage them all. I’ve tried delegating, but…I think my brother is the one behind the rise against me. He’s done it before. He always wanted the throne.”
Meena reached for the towel he’d abandoned, lifting it to wipe his hair and the back of his neck. “Like dialogue writers,” she murmured, gently kissing the places where she’d pressed the towel just seconds before, “always wanting to be head writer.”
He glanced at her in surprise. The touch of her warm mouth against his skin had sent an electric shock through him. He didn’t know how to react. He wasn’t sure if the kiss had meant anything…
Or everything.
“I’m sorry?” he asked, stunned.
Her eyes were wide. She looked as surprised by what she’d just done as he was.
“The fact remains, you’re still going to kill my brother,” she said.
“I’m not,” he insisted, taking her hand and pulling her toward him, then dropping his face into the warm curve where her neck met her collarbone. He was careful not to kiss her there, though. He’d seen the copy of Dracula on the floor in one corner of her room, as if flung there with some violence. “Meena, I told you, I love you. I would never-”
“I know you wouldn’t want to,” she whispered into his crisply damp hair. Her voice was unsteady with unshed tears. “But I also know my brother doesn’t know you like I do. And he’s going to try to kill you. He wants to join them.”
“Join who?” Lucien’s mind felt woolly. Was this the result of her nearness or the remnants of her blood still fizzing through his veins?
“The Palatine,” she said.
Lucien barely heard her. Somehow his shirt had come open, and she was kissing his shoulders as if she couldn’t stop herself, her lips soft as flower petals. All he could think about was the smoothness of her skin-like a newly poured Montrachet-and the fact that he could hear her pulse racing in her veins, in his veins, an echo of the heartbeat he once used to have.
So he said only, “I don’t think we need to worry about that happening. Any more than we need to worry about my killing Jon.”
While he spoke, he lifted her snowy white nightgown over her head, not entirely certain whether she was even aware of what he was doing.
Now she knelt beside him, fully unclothed, her dark-eyed gaze searching his face. Even shadowy as the room was, he could see one tip-tilted breast trembling with every throb of her heart.
The wave of desire that slammed into him was stronger than anything he could ever remember feeling in his lifetime. Which had been half a millennium long.
“Meena,” he said. His voice was an open wound, his need was so great. He stretched out a callused hand to capture that quivering breast.
Then, his final reserves of control broken by the feel of her satiny skin under his fingers, he found himself dragging her toward him, marveling at the quick hot litheness of her body, and lowering his mouth over hers, overwhelmed with an urge to consume her…devour her…engulf her.
She let out a small sound-whether of protest or desire, he couldn’t determine-and flung both hands up against his chest.
He reluctantly tore his mouth away from hers and asked, his eyes half lidded, “What is it?”
“No biting,” she whispered. “I really, really mean it this time.”
Chapter Forty-four
10:15 A.M. EST, Saturday, April 17
910 Park Avenue, Apt. 11B
New York, New York
Jon looked down at the pancake sizzling away in the skillet in front of him. Perfection. Really.
He was on a roll this morning. A dozen flapjacks, each more golden than the next.
This was going to be a breakfast no one would ever forget.
When he was sure it had cooked all the way through, he added the pancake to the stack on the plate next to the stove, humming a little under his breath.
He knew he probably shouldn’t feel so cheerful, since his sister was going through such a hard time.
But could there be anything cooler about the fact that there was a vampire hunter from the Vatican staying in their apartment?
He looked out of the pass-through to check the dining room table. Oh, yeah. This was good. Table set. OJ poured into glasses. Napkins folded. Place looked like Sarabeth’s for brunch. Only no strollers or yuppies or screaming toddlers.
He wished he could call Weinberg and invite him over to have some of his excellent pancakes. Also tell him what was going on. Vampires, in Manhattan? He’d never believe it.
A secret society of vampire hunters?
He, like Jon, would want to join up. No doubt about it. Kick a little undead ass!
On the other hand, Weinberg had shown marked reluctance about joining the NYPD. Maybe he wouldn’t want to join. Maybe he’d just want to stay home and keep watching CNN and complaining about that serial killer that was-
Jon paused, the pitcher of pancake batter still raised in his hand. The serial killer. The serial killer Weinberg was always going on about these days.
Of course. It was the same vampire Alaric Wulf was hunting.
Well, not the same one who’d bitten his sister, if Jon understood what was going on-and Jon still wasn’t sure he understood exactly what was going on.
But a vampire, anyway.
Oh, now he had to tell Weinberg.
Jon put down the pancake batter and grabbed the nearest cell phone and started dialing.
“Is that my phone?” Meena asked, coming into the kitchen fully dressed in jeans, a T-shirt, and a little red scarf and matching flats, her short hair curling damply on the back of her neck from her morning shower.
Jon looked down in surprise at the cell phone in his hand.
“Oh,” he said, hitting End Call. “Yeah. Sorry. I, uh, put it back together last night after you went to bed. It works fine. I guess it was just a flesh wound.”