Insatiable

“Oh, no. But if you’d like to buzz up to the Antonescus,” Pradip said as he lifted the

receiver to the intercom, “I’m sure they’d be happy to—”

“Not necessary,” Alaric said, stretching his hand out in the internationally recognized

sign for stop . “I wouldn’t want to trouble them this late. Maybe I’ll drop by again some other

day, thanks.”

And he turned and left the building, Holtzman following closely behind him.

“Impressive,” his superior said to him. “Nice to see you using one of the techniques I

taught you for a change, instead of simply swinging that sword of yours around.”

“I try to avoid killing the civilian population whenever possible,” Alaric said, shooting

his boss an irritated look. “You taught me that as well, remember?”

“I remember,” Holtzman said. “But what exactly did you accomplish there, aside from

very likely alerting the Antonescus that we’re aware of them? You know that doorman is going

to tell them we were there. And we’re no closer to finding him.”

“No,” Alaric agreed. “But we have the name of the girl.”

“And what earthly good will that do us?”

“Oh,” Alaric said, “quite a lot of good, I imagine. Because she’s going to lead us straight

to him.”

Then he added thoughtfully, “If she lives through the night, that is.”

Chapter Twenty-seven

1:00 A.M . EST, Friday, April 16

Metropolitan Museum of Art

1000 Fifth Avenue

New York, New York

M eena had spent quite a lot of time in the Metropolitan Museum of Art, back when

she’d first moved to the city. She’d been especially drawn to a portrait of Joan of Arc by an

artist called Jules Bastien-Lepage, which hung in the nineteenth-century wing.

The painting showed Joan standing in the yard of her parents’ cottage, staring off into

space, apparently listening to the voices of saints. Ethereal, haloed figures floated behind

Joan’s back, seemingly whispering to her.

The painting wasn’t anything that special. Compared to other treasures the museum held,

it was considered one of the collection’s lesser works.

Still, Meena always made the canvas her primary destination upon entering the museum

and would, when she was feeling especially disheartened or hopeless, stand for nearly an hour

looking at it, in the company of similarly downtrodden souls.

But Prince Lucien didn’t lead Meena toward the nineteenth-century wing when he pulled

her into the Metropolitan Museum that night.

Instead, he guided her toward the medieval art exhibit on the main floor, through the

darkened, hushed Great Hall.

It was strange being in the museum after it was closed. Meena had never seen the halls

so empty…or so quiet.

She could actually hear her own heart thumping steadily with the excitement of what

they were doing—despite Lucien’s insistence that it was fine, she felt that there was something

illicit about their being there. Of course there was!

And now Lucien was holding her hand again.

His grip wasn’t exactly warm—his fingers always seemed a bit cool to the touch—but it

was oddly reassuring, the way it had been that night outside of St. George’s Cathedral.

And yet there was an almost boyish excitement about him, too, an eagerness with which

he seemed to want to show her the treasures the museum held. He playfully held a finger to his

lips as he guided her along.

“Are we going to set off any alarms?” Meena asked nervously, holding a squirming Jack

Bauer in one arm.

“Only if you try to steal something,” the prince jokingly replied.

“Oh, well, I guess I’ll have to restrain myself then,” Meena said, teasing him back. She

was pleased to see that a lively side to him was coming out. He may not have watched much

television, but he knew how to have fun.

Soon they were surrounded by hauntingly beautiful triptychs of the Madonna and child,

and bejeweled golden crucifixes that seemed to glow with the otherworldly light that came

from their display cases. Lucien steered her away from these and toward a collection of

fifteenth-century portraits and woodcuts. Meena couldn’t read the cards on the display cases

attached to the portraits because it was too dark, but Lucien explained, “These are of Prince

Vlad Tepes of Wallachia—you know, the man I was telling you about, the one who’s such a

hero in my country. He lived in the age of the first printing presses, so there’s a great deal of

historical documentation about him. His father, Vlad the Second, was a member of the Order

of the Dragon—established by the king of Hungary in order to unite neighboring kingdoms

against the Ottoman Empire. So Vlad Tepes was indoctrinated in the order as well…at the age

of five, right before his father handed him and his little brother over as hostages to the sultan of

the Ottoman Empire as a personal guarantee he wouldn’t attack the sultan while the boys were

under his roof.”

“Oh, dear,” Meena said, feeling slightly deflated. This story was a bit of a downer.

She supposed she wasn’t surprised to hear of Vlad’s father’s cruelty, giving his sons over

to a sultan in order to preserve peace, considering his image in the portrait. If Vlad Tepes

looked anything like his dad, he couldn’t have been very nice. He had a long, sinister-looking

black mustache and beady eyes.

Or maybe they just didn’t know how to draw very well back then. Meena had always

avoided this part of the museum. Her tastes tended to run more toward the Romantics….

Lucien didn’t seem to notice Meena’s dislike for the subject matter, however. As a

history professor, he was obviously very enthusiastic on the topic of his country’s greatest

forefather.

Lucien went on. “Although his brother was a great favorite of the sultan, the Ottomans

didn’t treat Vlad Tepes very well, I’m afraid. And when he finally did inherit the throne from

his father and return home to Wallachia, he was still quite bitter about the whole thing…and

things didn’t improve much for him after that, I’m afraid. He had an unfortunate life, filled

with much sorrow. His first wife, whom he dearly loved, was a beautiful and innocent young

woman. Some people even whispered that…well, that she was like an angel on earth.”

Meena raised her eyebrows upon hearing this, and she saw Lucien give her a quick

smile.

“Yes,” he said. “I thought you’d like that part of the story.”

He took her hand and led her toward a primitive black-and-white woodcut depicting a

turreted castle with a river running beneath it.

“Unfortunately,” he said in a voice that seemed carefully devoid of emotion to Meena,

“it doesn’t have the kind of ending you like. Vlad and his wife lived in warlike times. Upon

hearing their castle was under siege by the Turks—who were rumored to be unspeakably cruel

to royal female prisoners back in those days—his young bride threw herself out an upper-story

window, preferring death to what she thought she’d face at their hands.”

Meena sucked in her breath, her gaze flying to one of the high turrets pictured in the

woodcut.

“She fell into the river beneath the palace window and drowned,” Lucien continued in

the same emotionless tone. “That river is still referred to today as the Princess’s River.”

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