Insatiable

impossibly small body? “Yes,” he admitted. “I’m fairly certain so.”

“So…the new enlightened age isn’t really working out, is it?” Meena asked.

He had never felt such despair. Why was all of this happening now, when he had finally

come so close to grasping a little happiness?

The bargain his father had sealed had achieved immortality for himself and his family.

But what was the point of eternal life if one was destined to spend it alone?

“It’s complicated,” he said. “Blood-lust is strong, especially in the newly turned, so they

long to feed…but I won’t allow them to kill. They know there will be repercussions if they

disobey. But there are so many more of them now than there used to be. I can’t manage them

all. I’ve tried delegating, but…I think my brother is the one behind the rise against me. He’s

done it before. He always wanted the throne.”

Meena reached for the towel he’d abandoned, lifting it to wipe his hair and the back of

his neck. “Like dialogue writers,” she murmured, gently kissing the places where she’d pressed

the towel just seconds before, “always wanting to be head writer.”

He glanced at her in surprise. The touch of her warm mouth against his skin had sent an

electric shock through him. He didn’t know how to react. He wasn’t sure if the kiss had meant

anything….

Or everything.

“I’m sorry?” he asked, stunned.

Her eyes were wide. She looked as surprised by what she’d just done as he was.

“The fact remains, you’re still going to kill my brother,” she said.

“I’m not,” he insisted, taking her hand and pulling her toward him, then dropping his

face into the warm curve where her neck met her collarbone. He was careful not to kiss her

there, though. He’d seen the copy of Dracula on the floor in one corner of her room, as if flung

there with some violence. “Meena, I told you, I love you. I would never—”

“I know you wouldn’t want to,” she whispered into his crisply damp hair. Her voice was

unsteady with unshed tears. “But I also know my brother doesn’t know you like I do. And he’s

going to try to kill you. He wants to join them.”

“Join who?” Lucien’s mind felt woolly. Was this the result of her nearness or the

remnants of her blood still fizzing through his veins?

“The Palatine,” she said.

Lucien barely heard her. Somehow his shirt had come open, and she was kissing his

shoulders as if she couldn’t stop herself, her lips soft as flower petals. All he could think about

was the smoothness of her skin—like a newly poured Montrachet—and the fact that he could

hear her pulse racing in her veins, in his veins, an echo of the heartbeat he once used to have.

So he said only, “I don’t think we need to worry about that happening. Any more than

we need to worry about my killing Jon.”

While he spoke, he lifted her snowy white nightgown over her head, not entirely certain

whether she was even aware of what he was doing.

Now she knelt beside him, fully unclothed, her dark-eyed gaze searching his face. Even

shadowy as the room was, he could see one tip-tilted breast trembling with every throb of her

heart.

The wave of desire that slammed into him was stronger than anything he could ever

remember feeling in his lifetime. Which had been half a millennium long.

“Meena,” he said. His voice was an open wound, his need was so great. He stretched out

a callused hand to capture that quivering breast.

Then, his final reserves of control broken by the feel of her satiny skin under his fingers,

he found himself dragging her toward him, marveling at the quick hot litheness of her body,

and lowering his mouth over hers, overwhelmed with an urge to consume her…devour

her…engulf her.

She let out a small sound—whether of protest or desire, he couldn’t determine—and

flung both hands up against his chest.

He reluctantly tore his mouth away from hers and asked, his eyes half lidded, “What is

it?”

“No biting,” she whispered. “I really, really mean it this time.”

Chapter Forty-four

10:15 A.M . EST, Saturday, April 17

910 Park Avenue, Apt. 11B

New York, New York

J on looked down at the pancake sizzling away in the skillet in front of him. Perfection.

Really.

He was on a roll this morning. A dozen flapjacks, each more golden than the next.

This was going to be a breakfast no one would ever forget.

When he was sure it had cooked all the way through, he added the pancake to the stack

on the plate next to the stove, humming a little under his breath.

He knew he probably shouldn’t feel so cheerful, since his sister was going through such

a hard time.

But could there be anything cooler about the fact that there was a vampire hunter from

the Vatican staying in their apartment?

He looked out of the pass-through to check the dining room table. Oh, yeah. This was

good. Table set. OJ poured into glasses. Napkins folded. Place looked like Sarabeth’s for

brunch. Only no strollers or yuppies or screaming toddlers.

He wished he could call Weinberg and invite him over to have some of his excellent

pancakes. Also tell him what was going on. Vampires, in Manhattan? He’d never believe it.

A secret society of vampire hunters ?

He, like Jon, would want to join up. No doubt about it. Kick a little undead ass!

On the other hand, Weinberg had shown marked reluctance about joining the NYPD.

Maybe he wouldn’t want to join. Maybe he’d just want to stay home and keep watching CNN

and complaining about that serial killer that was—

Jon paused, the pitcher of pancake batter still raised in his hand. The serial killer. The

serial killer Weinberg was always going on about these days.

Of course. It was the same vampire Alaric Wulf was hunting.

Well, not the same one who’d bitten his sister, if Jon understood what was going on—

and Jon still wasn’t sure he understood exactly what was going on.

But a vampire, anyway.

Oh, now he had to tell Weinberg.

Jon put down the pancake batter and grabbed the nearest cell phone and started dialing.

“Is that my phone?” Meena asked, coming into the kitchen fully dressed in jeans, a Tshirt, and a little red scarf and matching flats, her short hair curling damply on the back of her

neck from her morning shower.

Jon looked down in surprise at the cell phone in his hand.

“Oh,” he said, hitting End Call. “Yeah. Sorry. I, uh, put it back together last night after

you went to bed. It works fine. I guess it was just a flesh wound.”

“Give it to me,” Meena said, holding out her hand.

“No way.” Jon cast another glance through the pass-through, into the living room. Wulf

wasn’t there, though. He was still in the other bathroom, showering. He’d left Jon in charge,

with firm instructions not to allow Meena near any telephones, computers, or exit doors out of

the apartment. “You’re still all…infected and stuff.”

“Jon,” Meena said firmly. She looked better in the bright sunshine that streamed through

the windows than she had the night before. She had makeup on, for one thing.

And she wasn’t crying anymore. She actually seemed…well, perky was the only word

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