Insatiable

“He saved the world, all right,” Jon said. “He tried to hump a maltipoo in the small dog

run at Carl Schurz Park.”

“My hero,” Meena cried, scooping the dog up and hugging him. “Keep showing your

male dominance, even though you’ve been fixed.” She turned to Jon. “So, what did you do

today?”

“I was totally going to make chicken,” Jon said. “But when I got to the store none of the

chickens looked any good.”

“Really?” Meena said, going over to the couch and reaching for the remote.

“Yeah,” Jon said. “They were all past their expiration dates. It was like the Perdue

delivery didn’t come in on time or something.”

“Let’s just order in,” she said. She’d flipped on the news. “We haven’t had Thai in a

while.”

He felt a surge of relief.

“Thai sounds great. Or Indian.”

“Indian sounds good, too,” she said. “Oh, my God, we got invited to the countess’s on

Thursday. If we keep the lights out,” she added, like this was a perfectly reasonable way to

deal with the problem, “we don’t have to worry about them seeing that we’re home under the

crack in the door.”

“Meena.” Jon loved his sister.

But she was totally and completely insane.

And she always had been.

Meena shook her head. “Jon. You know I can’t help but love her. But she’s trying to fix

me up with some Romanian prince her husband’s related to. Come on.”

“A prince?” Jon raised his eyebrows. “Seriously? Is he rich?”

“I don’t want to meet a prince,” Meena said. She sounded mad. She looked mad. “I’m

already having the worst week of my life, and it’s only Tuesday!”

Jon knew Meena well enough to know this wasn’t about Shoshona getting the job, or the

girl she’d met on the subway, or even the show, which she adored.

“What,” he said flatly. “What did you see?”

“Nothing,” she said, throwing him a confused look. “I don’t know what you’re talking

about.”

“You know something,” Jon said. “You know what I’m talking about. Who is it about?

Me? It’s about me, isn’t it? Just tell me. I can take it. When am I going? Is it this week?”

Meena looked away. “What? No. You’re fine. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Jon shook his head. He didn’t think he was wrong. He’d lived with his kid sister long

enough to recognize the signs.

She obviously knew something about somebody now…only who? And why wasn’t she

saying?

“Is it Mom and Dad?” he asked. “I thought you said they were fine. I mean, relatively

speaking.”

“They are fine.” Meena glared at him. “For two people who continue to whoop it up at

happy hour every night down in Boca like they think they’re F. Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald.”

“Then I don’t get it,” Jon said. “Your crazy-ass millionaire neighbor who thinks she’s a

countess invited you to a dinner party at her place to meet a real Romanian prince on Thursday

night. And you’re telling me you don’t think you’re going to get any story ideas out of that?

Are you serious?”

Meena looked at him, her big dark eyes luminous in the light from the sun setting just

outside her windows, turning the sky from rosy pink to a delicate lavender. Finally she smiled.

“You’re right,” she said. “How could I miss such a fantastic opportunity, so rich with the

promise of pretentious buffoonery for me to mock later on Insatiable ? I have a professional

duty to be there.”

“Absolutely,” Jon said.

“I’ll RSVP yes to the countess,” Meena said.

“Way to go.” Jon reached out to ruffle her short, boyishly cut dark hair. “I’ll go order us

some samosas.”

Meena grinned and turned up the volume on the news, which was all about how they still

hadn’t been able to identify any of the victims of what they were now calling the Park

Strangler. They were urging any members of the public who might recognize the women to

come forward.

“After all,” Meena said thoughtfully, clearly not paying attention to the information the

grim-faced anchorwoman was doling out, “Victoria Worthington Stone’s dated plenty of

doctors, lawyers, millionaires, shipping magnates, gangsters, murderers, maniacs, cops,

cowboys, priests, and once even her own half brother—until she found out who he really was.

It’s about time she dated a prince.”

“That’s the spirit,” Jon said, and started dialing.

Chapter Twelve

6:30 P.M . EST, Tuesday, April 13

West Fourth Street

Chattanooga, TN

A laric Wulf wasn’t surprised to find that Sarah, like most women—and men—in love

with a vampire, was initially resistant to the idea of giving up the address of her lover.

“Just tell me where he is, and I’ll let you live.”

Sarah had hedged for a while. Like most victims, she didn’t care anymore about her own

life. Her brain was too nutrient deprived. She cared only about protecting her sire.

Until Alaric finally put his sword to her throat.

The Palatine Guard was listed in most encyclopedias and search engines as a nowdefunct military unit of the Vatican, formed to defend Rome against attack from foreign

invaders.

This was partly true: the Palatine Guard was a military unit of the Vatican.

But it was hardly defunct. And the invaders it had been formed to defend against weren’t

foreign.

They were demon.

And the Guards weren’t defending just Rome from them, but the entire world.

Members of the Guard had different methods for getting victims of these demons, who

were often besotted by their attackers, to talk. Abraham Holtzman—currently the Guard’s most

senior officer, who’d trained both Alaric and Martin—had always preferred deception. He’d

flash a fake card from a fancy (fictitious) legal firm, explaining that he’d been hired by the

vampire’s estranged family to deliver a large inheritance check.

Often the victim was so flustered by delighted surprise that she didn’t notice Holtzman

had never even mentioned the vamp’s name.

That was because he didn’t know it.

But that was Holtzman. Alaric had always suspected that Holtzman could get away with

this because he was so scholarly looking. His Jewish parents had been appalled when he’d

gone to work for the Vatican, though Holtzman hadn’t converted. (Conversion was not a job

requirement. It was difficult enough to find anyone able to keep his head while swinging a

sword at a screaming succubus, let alone someone who was also a devoted Catholic. Palatine

Guard members were of a wide mix of religions…even, like Alaric, complete nonbelievers.)

It helped Holtzman’s ruse, Alaric supposed, that he looked like a lawyer.

Still, there was nothing wrong with looking like a muscle-bound demonhunter…especially if that was what one was. Alaric didn’t have degrees in anything, except

chopping the heads off vampires and returning their victims to full humanity once more.

So Alaric didn’t waste time on ruses the way Holtzman did. Especially not when it came

to Sarah. He got straight to the point…by applying Señor Sticky to her throat.

When she finally stammered, “Felix…Felix lives in a loft over an antiques store on West

Fourth…but please…,” he grabbed her by the back of the neck and stuffed her into the

Читать дальше