Insatiable

And now he’s dead.

Then she thought, I wish I were dead, too.

And then she was wrenched abruptly to her feet by Dimitri Antonescu.

And Meena realized that her wish was about to be granted.

“You’re coming with me,” Dimitri said. His face was a twisted mask of greed and hatred

and something else. Something Meena had never seen before.

Evil, she thought in that part of her brain that had taken over for the rest of her mind,

which seemed to have stopped working since she’d seen Lucien die.

Why, Lucien’s brother is nothing but pure evil.

And then Dimitri scooped her up over his shoulder by the hips, as easily as if she were

made of straw.

Now the world was suddenly turned upside down.

Not that Meena particularly cared.

But she found it interesting, as she dangled there like a limp doll, to observe that Father

Bernard and Sister Gertrude and the rest of the people she’d known from St. Clare’s were

suddenly there among the Dracul in the apse of St. George’s, fighting them with stakes and

crucifixes and holy water…and, in the case of Abraham Holtzman, with a crossbow and a

gleaming Star of David.

Interesting, but not much beyond that. Meena hoped no one would die.

But she knew they would. She’d tried to warn them that they would. They all would.

But none of them had listened. No one ever listened.

And now look at what was happening.

Oh, well. Everyone was going to die eventually. Even her.

It might as well be tonight.

“Meena!”

She heard someone call her name through all the smoke and chaos. She thought it might

be Alaric.

She didn’t care.

Dimitri was taking her somewhere. She didn’t know where. He was probably going to

bite her—and not in a pleasant way, like Lucien had—and then suck out all her blood.

Then he’d be the one to know when everyone was going to die.

Better him than her.

“Meena!”

Why wouldn’t Alaric leave her alone? He really was the most annoying person on earth.

Dimitri appeared to be taking her up the steps to the choir loft. He was probably going to

rape her, too, when they got up there. Wouldn’t that just be the perfect end to a perfect day?

“Meena!”

Alaric was so irritating. He had never let her alone when she was alive, and now he

wouldn’t leave her alone when she was about to die.

Reluctantly, she lifted her head. Alaric was struggling to reach them—no doubt in order

to stop Dimitri, not realizing that Meena wanted this to happen; she wanted to die. What did

she have to live for? No job. No apartment. No Lucien—but Alaric had a vampire hanging off

either arm, holding him back. It actually looked a bit comical, the way the Dracul were trying

to snap at Alaric’s throat.

Warding off their hissing mouths and pointed, saliva-dripping fangs, Alaric had a hand

wrapped around the neck of each of them. He threw Meena a furious glance. He looked

enraged with her.

“Stop being an idiot,” he roared at her. “He’s not dead. Look .”

Meena looked in the direction Alaric had tipped his head. The sanctuary.

And then she saw it.

It was true.

Lucien wasn’t dead. He was getting up.

Slowly. Painfully.

But he was getting up.

Meena saw more than just that in her glance, though.

She saw that the warriors from the Shrine of St. Clare were getting soundly beaten by the

Dracul, who outnumbered them almost three to one. Jon may have gotten off a single lucky

shot into the back of the prince of darkness, but the rest of his shots wouldn’t have hit the side

of a barn if he were standing next to it. Gregory Bane was giving her brother’s face a

pummeling, and seeming to enjoy it, if the movie-star grin he was wearing was any indication.

Stefan Dominic had Sister Gertrude in a head-lock. And Emil Antonescu had three or four

men—who were dressed, oddly, like the kind of guys Jon had used to work with at Webber

and Stern—shredding his suit jacket with their fangs, while Mary Lou tried to hold them off

with a wrought iron candle sconce.

Meena flung out both arms—even the sore one—against the sides of the stairwell up

which Dimitri was carrying her, grabbing the stone walls.

Dimitri wasn’t expecting his formerly semicomatose victim to suddenly come to life.

That was the only way Meena managed to propel herself out of his powerful grip and down

from his broad shoulders, a physical maneuver that required both the element of surprise and a

complete lack of fear of pain on her part…especially since it ended with her falling down the

last few steps and landing on her tailbone.

Dimitri spun around, looking flabbergasted. She’d gone from completely limp to human

projectile in a matter of seconds.

“Get away from me,” Meena warned him, crab-walking as fast as she could from the

bottom of the steps.

But Dimitri was already thundering down the stairs after her, his eyes glowing red as

twin stoplights. Meena scrambled to her feet and whirled around to make a run for it…

…only to careen directly into Alaric Wulf’s wide, solid chest. He’d managed to shake

off his new vampire buddies and had come running over with his sword drawn to help her.

“You’re very popular with the Dracula boys,” Alaric remarked drily. “They all seem to

want to have you for dinner.”

“Less joking,” she said. Dimitri had his dagger out, the blade gleaming in the

candlelight. “More head chopping. And please don’t miss this time.”

“Isn’t this nice?” Dimitri asked Alaric as he tossed the dagger from hand to hand. “We

finally get to finish what we started in Berlin. You ran off with your partner that day before we

were done. It wasn’t at all sporting.”

“Yes,” Alaric said. “Well, I had more important things to do than stick around to kill

you. My partner was bleeding to death, as you might recall.”

Dimitri’s grin broadened.

“I know,” he said. “He was delicious. I’m looking forward to another bite someday.”

Alaric, his face darkening, lifted his sword.

Uh-oh, Meena thought. This isn’t good. Should he be fighting angry? “Alaric,” she said

urgently. “Don’t—”

That’s when they all heard it: a sound like no other—certainly nothing human. But it

wasn’t anything vampire, either.

It came from the apse at the front of the church, where the altar sat. It was so loud it

shook the building to the foundations. So loud dust floated down from the choir loft and the

low ceiling that hung over Alaric’s and Meena’s heads.

Turning slowly, Meena was afraid of what she was about to see—but knew full well

what it was. Of course it was. She was in St. George’s. All her visions had been of fire. And

there were crude drawings of it all over the walls.

She still couldn’t believe her eyes.

But there it was.

A dragon.

On the Upper East Side.

Chapter Fifty-eight

12:15 A.M . EST, Sunday, April 18

St. George’s Cathedral

180 East Seventy-eighth Street

New York, New York

I t was crouched in the apse, its huge body and enormous wingspan filling the entire

space, while its serpentine head perched on a neck that was stretched nearly the height of the

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