Insatiable

Behind him, he heard something and whirled, his lightning-fast reflexes a fraction slower

than usual from all the energy he’d had to exert during the encounter outside the church.

But fortunately it was only a dove, fluttering up from between the riotously disturbed

pews, that interrupted Lucien’s solitude now. The Dracul had all gone, no doubt frustrated by

their ineffectual attempt to assassinate him.

Relieved he would not be called again to defend himself so soon, he let his shoulders sag

a little. It had taken every ounce of power he’d had left after the attack to heal himself from the

wounds he’d received from the Dracul. It wouldn’t have been right to have allowed the girl to

see the gouging his face and body had undergone, and so he’d taken care to repair himself even

as the wounds were being inflicted. There were those humans who could take in stride the

sight of a man’s face shredded by an attack of flesh-eating bats….

And then there were those who could not.

The dog walker had definitely fallen into the category of not . She had seemed like a

good sort of person—or someone who strived to do the right thing, anyway. Though her

thoughts, for some reason, had been as difficult to penetrate as a rain forest.

Some humans were like that. Some had minds as dry and arid as a desert, and just as

easily navigated. Others had psyches more like the dog walker’s, only accessible with a

machete.

It was strange that such a pretty, vivacious girl would have so much emotional baggage.

He trusted, however, that whatever dark secrets she was harboring, they wouldn’t get in the

way of the memory wipe he’d conducted upon on her, which would guarantee that she’d

remember none of the incident and go happily about her business as if the attack had never

happened.

He wished he could be as fortunate.

Lucien stood in the ruins of the cathedral, contemplating his next move. The sun would

be coming up soon. He needed to go to ground, then have a few words with his half brother,

Dimitri.

And of course make out a generous check to the St. George’s Cathedral Renovation

Fund.

Chapter Eighteen

8:45 A.M . EST, Wednesday, April 14

The Tennessean Hotel

Chattanooga, TN

A laric, just back from his morning swim, stared down at the message on his computer

screen. It seemed entirely too good to be true.

YOU ARE CORDIALLY INVITED….

WHAT: A fancy dinner at our place, 910 Park

Avenue, Apt. 11A

WHEN: Thursday, April 15, at 7:30 P.M.

WHY: Emil’s cousin, the prince, is in town!

“Where did you get this?” he asked Martin over his mobile phone.

“The IT department found it during their routine scanning and thought it might be

something.”

The Vatican had gone high-tech some time ago and now employed an entire fleet of fulltime computer programmers and analysts for the Palatine, taking their battle against the forces

of evil to the cyber as well as street level.

“And what makes them think,” Alaric asked in Italian, “that this has anything to do with

our prince?”

Martin sounded annoyed. And no wonder. It was nap time in Rome, at least for Martin’s

daughter, Simone. And probably for Martin, too. He’d been sleeping a lot while recovering

from his wounds, thanks to all the painkillers he’d been prescribed by the Vatican surgeons.

“They’re checking the passenger manifests of every incoming flight, private as well as

commercial, to New York City, and there was a Lucien Antonescu, professor of ancient

Romanian history, on a flight from Bucharest last night. First-class seat.”

“So?” Alaric was bored already. His kill the day before hadn’t been all that exciting—

except for the part where Alaric had crashed through the window, which of course he’d

enjoyed. And the breakfast buffet, which he’d checked out on his way back to the room from

the pool, had been uninspiring, to say the least.

“They’ve looked into this Professor Antonescu,” Martin said. “Rumor has it he’s been

teaching at this university—night classes only—for thirty years. But they got hold of a copy of

his last author photo…the guy looks thirty-five, at the oldest.”

Alaric snorted. “Oh,” he said sarcastically. “His author photo. Well, that cinches it. No

writer would ever use an outdated author photo.”

“He has a summer place in Sighi oara,” Martin went on. “A castle, people say.”

“Who doesn’t own a castle in Sighi oara these days?” Alaric asked. He picked up the

remote from his hotel bed and began flipping through the channels. The Tennessean, which

had promised to be a luxury hotel, offered only one premium cable channel, HBO, and there

was nothing good on it, except, predictably, a show featuring vampires. Alaric watched the

Hollywood vampires for a while, smirking at how attractive and self-restrained they were. If

only people knew the real story.

“I think this one might be legitimate, Alaric,” Martin said. “The woman who sent it, her

last name is Antonescu. She’s a Manhattan socialite. Her husband’s a big real estate wheelerdealer. We’ve never had any reason to suspect them before, except that the techno geeks got a

hit with the names, the word prince, and the flight today. Anyway, it can’t hurt to check out the

party, is what they’re saying from above. Everyone says this guy is a royal. He’s got to be the

prince from the e-mail. I mean, this woman claims her husband’s descended from the

Romanian royal family, and that she’s a countess. They’ve got property in Sighi oara as well.”

“Romanian royal family.” Alaric’s finger froze as he was flipping away from the

Hollywood vampires.

“Exactly,” Martin said. “That’s why Johanna sent it my way. She thought you’d want to

see it.”

“Why didn’t she just forward it straight to me?” Alaric asked, confused.

“Why do you think, dumbass?” Now Martin sounded not only annoyed but amused. “It’s

not your case. You’re supposed to be finding the serial killer. Besides…”

Alaric leaned forward. “Besides what?” he asked. He hadn’t slept well. The pillows of

his hotel bed hadn’t been very comfortable. He’d piled them all up against one another, and

they still didn’t equal the luxuriousness of his goose-down-filled pillows from home. Alaric

hadn’t even wanted to think about what he’d find if he ran a blue light over the bed’s

comforter. He’d wadded it up and stashed it in the closet anyway along with what had passed

for the room’s wall “art.”

“Holtzman’s ordered that you be kept on the Manhattan serial killer. Johanna says

there’s a feeling you might be too personally invested in all this to be allowed to go after the

prince.” Martin finished quickly. “Sorry, old bud.”

Alaric nearly choked on the swallow he’d taken from the bottle of sparkling water he’d

plucked from the minibar.

“I know,” his former partner said soothingly as Alaric spurted out a few choice curses.

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