Insatiable

of them—so foul, the way she’d always imagined death would smell, had she ever smelled

death, which, thankfully, she hadn’t. She’d known so many people for whom death had come

so near, some of whom it had even touched, because she hadn’t been able to save them….

But death had never, ever come that close to her.

And the shrieking…that sound they’d made as they’d come tearing down from the sky,

and then as their bodies had thudded into his…

And those eyes. Those red eyes.

Surely she’d only imagined those.

Meena had now come as near, personally, to death—to hell on earth—as she ever wanted

to.

And she didn’t understand how she’d escaped it. She didn’t understand it at all.

“I’m sorry,” she said, pulling to a stop in front of him and lifting her chin to look him in

the face. She didn’t care about the tears anymore, or the way she must have looked and

sounded. She had to know. She had to know what was going on. “But I don’t understand. How

can you not be hurt? I saw them. There were hundreds of them, coming right at us. I felt them

hitting your body. You should be torn apart. But there’s not a scratch on you.”

He was so handsome, so…nice. How could she ever have thought anything about him,

except that he was what he was? A tall, wonderful stranger who’d saved her life?

“D-don’t get me wrong,” she said, shaking her head. “I’m eternally grateful. What you

did…that was so incredible. I’ll never be able to thank you enough. But… how did you do

that?”

“They were only a few little bats,” he said with a smile.

Only a few little bats.

But…no. It had been more…much more than that. She was sure of it.

As sure as she could be of anything so late at night, after something so traumatic.

“You’re home now,” he said, and nodded toward the automatic brass doors a few feet

away. “I’m sorry for what happened. I’m afraid it was my fault. But you should be quite safe

for the night.”

Meena’s gaze focused, and she realized that, indeed, they’d arrived at 910 Park Avenue.

The familiar green awning stretched over their heads. Through the glass of the doors, she could

see Pradip, still dozing at the reception desk with his face on his textbook.

“But…” She looked back up at her rescuer, confused. “I didn’t tell you where I live. I

never even told you my na—”

Jack Bauer whined, tugging on his leash, anxious to get away from the man who had

saved their lives.

“Of course you did. It was wonderful to meet you, Meena,” the man said, letting go of

her shoulders. “But it would be better for you if you forgot all about this and went inside now.”

Jack Bauer pulled her toward the doors, which opened automatically with a quiet

whooshing sound. Pradip, behind the desk, stirred and began to raise his head. Meena’s feet, as

if of their own accord, began to move toward 910 Park Avenue.

But at the threshold, she turned to look back.

“I don’t even know your name,” she said to the tall stranger, who stood waiting with his

hands in his coat pockets, as if to be certain she made it safely inside before he went on his

way.

“It’s Lucien,” he said.

“Lucien,” she repeated, so she would remember it. Not that it was likely she’d forget

anything about this night. “Well. Thank you so much, Lucien.”

“Good night, Meena,” he said.

And then Jack Bauer pulled her the rest of the way inside, and the automatic doors

closed with a gentle whoosh behind her.

When she turned to see if she could catch one last glimpse of him, he was gone. She

wasn’t entirely certain he had ever been there at all.

Except for the fact that, when she got safely inside her apartment again, she saw that the

knees of her pajamas were dirty from where she’d scraped them diving for the sidewalk.

Proof that what had happened hadn’t been a dream—or a nightmare—after all.

Chapter Seventeen

4:45 A.M . EST, Wednesday, April 14

St. George’s Cathedral

180 East Seventy-eighth Street

New York, New York

I t wasn’t to be borne. They’d attacked him, and in the open, where anyone could have

seen. Someone had seen. Granted, only the human girl, and she was in too much shock from

the extreme violence of what had occurred and her own near brush with death ever to give

anyone a rational account of it…

…in the unlikely event she were to remember it at all, which she wouldn’t.

But that wasn’t the point.

Someone was going to have to pay.

The question was, who?

Lucien stood in front of the cathedral, staring up at the spires. He had circled back after

delivering the girl safely to her home. He hadn’t missed the irony of where she lived. But that

was probably only to be expected. In many ways, Manhattan was a collection of small villages,

just like his home country. People rarely ventured out of their own neighborhoods, especially

young women walking small, fluffy dogs at four o’clock in the morning.

St. George’s. The irony of that wasn’t lost on him either. For hadn’t St. George slain the

dragon?

And now the cathedral stood empty while undergoing renovation. What better time for

the children of Dracul—or “dragon,” in his native Romanian—to desecrate it?

And what better time than now for the Dracul to convey their message to the only fullblooded son of the prince of darkness that they would no longer abide by his rule?

Sighing, Lucien climbed the steps where, just moments before, he’d fended off the attack

from his own kind. They must have put out word of his arrival mere seconds after he’d set foot

on American soil in order to have rallied so many to the cause of destroying him.

It was a bit disappointing to discover that he was so violently disliked among his own

brethren.

On the other hand, he’d never asked to be liked. Only to be obeyed.

Glancing up and down the street to make sure he was alone—no more pretty, pajamaed

dog walkers—he lifted away a section of the blue scaffolding that surrounded the cathedral,

then slipped behind it. The church, badly in need of repair—and even more in need of

cleaning—rose up before him, some of its ornate stained glass windows broken, even where

they were covered in metal wire.

Not that this would keep him out, nor any like him.

They were all gone now, of course. How long they must have waited, knowing he would

pass by eventually, going to or from Emil’s. He could only imagine the bickering. Especially

among the females. The Dracul women had always been venom tongued.

With only a quick adjustment, he was inside the chained doors of the church and striding

down the trash-strewn center aisle. The pews were in disorder, some knocked completely over,

some lying askew like drunken sailors after a night out.

Just as he’d suspected, the Dracul had been inside the church as well. There was a

primitive spray-painted outline of a dragon on what had once been an ornately decorated

marble altar.

Now it was completely ruined. However much the congregation had raised for their

renovation, they would need that much more to have the altar sandblasted.

Lucien shook his head. So much needless destruction. So much disregard for beauty.

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