Insatiable

never understood your reluctance to do the same.”

Lucien’s expression twisted into one of disgust. “Perhaps because I want nothing to do

with the Dracul,” he said. “Nor do I see anything admirable about being a direct descendant of

someone who killed tens of thousands of innocent women and children in his lifetime, and who

was, quite rightly, eventually put to death for it.”

Dimitri looked bored. “Well,” he said, “I suppose if you’re going to put it that way.”

“And you’re telling me that neither you nor your son had anything to do with the

Dracul’s attempt on my life in front of St. George’s Cathedral?” Lucien demanded.

“Brother.” Dimitri shook his head, his expression crestfallen. “What did I ever do to you

to make you distrust me so?”

“I believe it was when you tried to have me buried alive at Târgovi te,” Lucien

remarked.

“Ancient history,” Dimitri said. “You always did hold on to grudges for far too long.

Father thought so, too.”

“Strangely, I don’t put much stock into anything Father said,” Lucien remarked. “If he

hadn’t been so loose with his lips, the truth about our existence would never have been leaked

to that fool Stoker, and we wouldn’t have the Palatine after us and have had to change the

family name.”

Dimitri’s brows lowered in an expression Lucien recognized. “There are ways around

the Palatine,” Dimitri said. “They aren’t as almighty as they like to think.”

Lucien reached out and, taking hold of his half brother by the throat, lifted him into the

air. Not just off his feet, but until he was holding him over the side of the fire escape, fifty feet

from the pavement below. Dimitri, panicking, grabbed at Lucien’s sleeves, looking down

desperately and gasping. He’d dropped the cigar, which tumbled to the ground and exploded

with a shower of red sparks when it hit the cement.

“Father used to brag that the Palatine would never catch him either,” Lucien said. “And

look what they did to him. Is that what you want to happen to you?”

“I-I didn’t mean it,” Dimitri gargled. He wasn’t in the most comfortable position,

dangling by his neck so many feet above the ground. “Stop fooling around, Lucien. P-put me

down.”

Lucien tightened his grip. “You may actually have something to worry about, Dimitri,

besides the Palatine…because just this morning I woke up with the strangest feeling that all of

this—the dead girls, the attack on my life—somehow points back to…you.”

Dimitri made a gagging noise. He appeared to be saying, No. No, it’s not me….

But Lucien only grinned.

“Oh, yes,” he said. “I’m really quite sure of it, in fact. I can’t prove it…yet. But I will.

And when I do, I will do worse than decapitate you, I can assure you…as well as anyone I

discover who may have helped you. I’ve turned a blind eye to your instigating rebellion against

me in the past because you’re my brother, Dimitri, and family is…well, family. But things

have changed now. You don’t need to know how, just that I won’t do it anymore. Not when

human lives are being lost and others are at stake. Do you understand me?”

Dimitri nodded. He didn’t look happy about the situation. “Of course,” he said, choking.

“ My prince .”

“That’s a good boy,” Lucien said.

Then abruptly he opened his hands and let his brother fall.

Dimitri, as Lucien had known he would, tumbled only a few feet before turning into

something black and sleek, all wings and teeth and claws, that swooped in a graceful spiral

before finally landing on the ground beside the abandoned cigar…

…then turned back into the shape of the brother he knew so well.

“Damn you, Lucien,” Dimitri said, rising to his feet while brushing off his suit. He

looked furious. “You know how I hate it when you do that!”

Lucien smiled to himself. Now who had gotten soft?

He turned and knocked on the emergency exit. Marvin, ever accommodating, opened the

door to let him back in. While his brother’s method of egress had been quicker, Lucien

generally preferred to take the stairs.

Chapter Forty-one

1:00 A.M . EST, Saturday, April 17

910 Park Avenue, Apt. 11B

New York, New York

M eena lay in the dark of her bedroom, blinking up at the ceiling, Jack Bauer resting his

head on her shoulder.

She was trying hard not to think about anything, because every time she remembered

what was actually going on—why, for instance, she could hear the faint sounds of two men

talking in her living room, along with The Fast and the Furious DVD Jon was playing—she

wanted to start crying.

The muffled sounds from the other room seemed harmless enough: two grown men

enjoying a film about cars and guns. They’d somehow managed to scrape together the Chinese

food that hadn’t spilled out of its cartons and were enjoying it, so she could smell that, too, the

mingled odors of moo shu and fried dumplings. Just a typical Friday night at her place, while

outside a thunderstorm was brewing. She could hear the wind stirring in the treetops below and

the far-off rumble of thunder, and see the occasional flash of lightning against her wall through

the slits in the shades over her window and the gauze curtains that covered the panes in the

French doors to her balcony.

But she knew perfectly well what was really going on. Alaric Wulf was guarding her

front door to keep her from sneaking out to go see Lucien. He was doing it for the same reason

he’d smashed all her phones. (She hoped he hadn’t thought of e-mail. If he smashed her laptop,

she’d find a way to sue. She didn’t care if his boss was the Pope.)

But Alaric needn’t have worried about her trying to sneak out. She wasn’t particularly

anxious to have a confrontation with Lucien. She’d even taken a weapon into bed with her: a

single wooden knitting needle left over from a brief and ill-fated attempt at crafting she and

Leisha had once embarked upon.

She held the knitting needle tight in one hand while with the other, she absently stroked

Jack Bauer’s head, watching the shadows dance against her ceiling, as the occasional slice of

moonlight shone through the clouds.

What exactly she planned on doing with the knitting needle, she wasn’t sure.

But stabbing it through the heart of any man who came into her bedroom—human or

vampire—seemed to be a good plan. Meena wasn’t feeling too warmly toward any members of

the opposite sex at that moment.

She still hadn’t exactly come to terms with everything that she had discovered during the

course of the evening. She wasn’t sure she’d ever really be able to understand—much less

believe—it all.

All she knew for sure was that, after everything she’d seen and all she’d been through

that night, she was feeling quite tired, and she wanted to rest.

But—even after changing into her softest white nightgown—the minute she’d lain down

and pulled her comforter up to her chin, sleep became impossible. She felt wide awake, and

not because of the thunder or the muted noises she could hear coming from the living room.

All she could think about was the fact that the man of her dreams—the guy she’d

thought was so perfect…the guy whom, if she were really being totally honest with herself,

Читать дальше