Insatiable

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 No writer would ever use an outdated author photo.”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 Sighişoara,” Martin went on. “A castle, people say.”

“Who doesn’t own a castle in Sighişoara 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 wheeler-dealer. 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 Sighişoara 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. “Look, I know how you feel. You think it’s not killing me to be out of action while all this is going down?”

“This is bureaucratic bullshit,” Alaric declared, and hurled his empty water bottle at the place on the wall where the offensively bad art had once hung. Irritatingly, the bottle didn’t even break. It was plastic.

“I know,” Martin said into his ear. “But look at it from Holtzman’s perspective. You can hardly be considered impartial anymore. And you don’t exactly follow protocol when it comes to demon hunting, do you? Nor is impulse control one of your strong suits. What did you just throw?”

“Nothing,” Alaric said, getting out of bed and going to pick up his sword. “And I resent the implication that in a one-on-one with the prince of darkness, I’d be anything but strictly professional.” He pointed his sword at the pretty vampire boy on the television screen. “I’m eminently capable of keeping my emotions in check while severing that bastard’s head from his body.”

“I know,” Martin said. “Why do you think I sent you that e-mail in the first place?”

Alaric shook his head. Damned bureaucrats. He loved his job, but one thing he could never understand was how the higher-ups couldn’t see that they only made things more difficult with their damned red tape.

Take Martin, for instance. He still had to keep the fact that he was married to a man a secret from their superiors. Not from Holtzman, of course … Holtzman, like Alaric, couldn’t have cared less who his fellow guards went home to at night, as long as they got the job they’d been trained to do done (although in Holtzman’s case, he preferred them to do it under budget).

But times—and attitudes—were changing all over the world. One could only hope they’d change soon in the Papal Palace.

“Look, just remember,” Martin said. “You didn’t get that e-mail from me. Understand?”

“Yeah,” Alaric said, sheathing his sword. “Thanks. How are you feeling, anyway?”

“Been better,” Martin said. “Been worse. I gotta go. Simone wants her nap. What are you going to do today?”

Alaric grinned. “Oh, the usual. Check out. Fly to New York. Save the world.”

Chapter Nineteen

2:00 P.M. EST, Wednesday, April 14

ABN Building

520 Madison Avenue

New York, New York

I already know.” Cheryl’s lower lip began to tremble. Just a little. “Shoshona told me last night.”

“Don’t cry,” Meena said, plunging her hand into a nearby box of tissues and then passing a wad of them to Insatiable’s leading lady. “Seriously. You know how your makeup runs when you cry. And we’re in high def now.”

“It’s fine,” Cheryl said. But she took the tissues and dabbed at her eyes just the same. “They can spray it back on. I just can’t believe after all these years, they’re selling out by going with a vampire. For Taylor.”

“It came down from the network,” Meena said. Although she didn’t know why she was defending Shoshona. “CDI wants it. I’m sure there’s some kind of new tie-in product they want to market. …”

“That just makes it worse,” Cheryl said with a sob.

“Look, don’t tell anyone,” Meena said, trying to sound encouraging. “But I think I’ve thought of something for you. Something fantastic.”

She just wasn’t willing to say it out loud. Not yet. She didn’t know why, exactly.

Well, all right, she did know why: the network was going to hate it.

And okay … maybe Leisha’s reaction over the phone when Meena had called her earlier in the day to tell her what had happened outside St. George’s had shaken her confidence a little.

“Bats?” Leisha had echoed.

“Yes,” Meena had said emphatically. “Bats.”

“In front of St. George’s Cathedral,” Leisha had said, as if requesting confirmation. “And this random guy just threw himself over you to protect you from them?”

“And Jack Bauer,” Meena had said, reminding her.

Leisha ignored her. “And he didn’t get a scratch on him, even though all of these bats attacked his face?”

“Yes,” Meena had said. “And then he walked me back to my building. Even though I never told him where I lived. It was like he just knew.”

“Okay, look,” Leisha had said. The sound of hair dryers blowing in the background was loud, as usual. “There’s a totally rational explanation for the whole thing: You took the sleeping pill, even though you don’t think you did. And then you took the dog for a walk. And you had a waking nightmare.”

“Except I didn’t take the sleeping pill.” Meena had insisted. “Leisha, I took it when I got home. I had to; I was shaking so badly from everything that happened. How else do you think I got to sleep after something like that? I was a wreck.”

“Well,” Leisha said, “there’s no other explanation. Because none of what you’re describing could have happened. Huge flocks of bats—or whatever it’s called when it’s bats and not birds—do not just go swooping down out of nowhere, attacking people in Manhattan. And how could he possibly have known where you lived—and your name, which you also said he knew—even though you didn’t tell him? There’s no such thing as mind readers, Meena. Except Sookie Stackhouse, and she’s made up. All you can do is tell how people are going to die, which isn’t nearly as useful or cool. You took the pill before you went out and just don’t remember, and then dreamed the whole thing. You’re working on a story line about vampires, remember? It’s natural you’d dream about bats. Vampires, bats. I’m surprised the guy you dreamed up wasn’t wearing a big black cape or sparkling or something.”

“He was in Burberry,” Meena said, knitting her brow. “But he definitely didn’t sparkle. He was very polite, though. And strong. He kept his arm around my shoulders the whole way home. It’s the only reason I didn’t fall down. He was so in control.”

Thinking about how strong and in control Lucien had been brought back feelings of warmth, even when Meena remembered it in the daytime. Except for one thing.

“But Jack Bauer hated him. Why would I dream that?”

“God, I’m just glad you’re all right,” Leisha had said, sounding concerned. “Whatever happened last night. You shouldn’t be out so late, even with Jack Bauer. What if the guy hadn’t been so polite or such a gentleman? Did you tell Jon about it?”

Meena had frowned as she’d sipped her morning soda. “No. I mean … sort of. I told him I saw some bats outside the church. That’s all.”

“You didn’t tell him because the guy was hot.” It was a statement.

“No! Leisha, come on. I barely talked to him.” She didn’t mention the feelings of warmth she got when she thought about how strong and in control he’d been.

“What? You’re mumbling! Over some guy you met in a dream! I can’t believe it. You like him.”

“If it was a dream,” Meena had said defensively, “parts of it were really vivid. And why shouldn’t I like him? He saved my life. And Jack Bauer’s,” she’d added hastily.

Leisha had said, “I knew all this crazy soap opera writing would catch up with you someday, and now it has. Meena, you’re in love with a guy your subconscious made up for you. A superman who saves you from bat attacks. God, it’s so obvious. He saved you from having to write about vampires, which you hate! Especially now, with Shoshona being your new boss.”

Meena had gotten up to throw her soda can away. She’d paused as she was about to toss it over the lip of her office recycling can.

“Well,” she’d said, “I guess I never thought of it that way. But … now that you mention it, the bats could represent my deep and abiding loathing for vampires.”

“Right,” Leisha had said. “Of course. Doesn’t that make more sense than any of it actually having happened?”

“Maybe,” Meena had said. “But then how do you explain the knees of my pajamas? They were filthy when I got up this morning. Obviously I was on the ground at some point. …”

“You really did go out to walk Jack Bauer, and you knelt down to scoop up some of his poop?” Leisha had suggested. “And don’t remember it?”

Meena had made a face. “You really know how to kill the romance in a story, don’t you?” she’d said.

“That’s what best friends are for, sweetie,” Leisha’d said. “It’s a dirty job, but somebody has to do it.”

But now, sitting in Cheryl’s dressing room, Meena wondered. …

Had it all been a dream? Her subconscious working out her frustration over having to write about something she hated, like Leisha said?

And if it was … well, why not let it work to her advantage?

“Look,” Meena said. She glanced around the veteran actress’s luxurious dressing room as if she was worried someone might be eavesdropping. But there was only Cheryl’s vast doll collection—all dolls from the Madame Alexander Victoria Worthington Stone collection—watching. “Don’t say anything to Shoshona, because I haven’t written anything up yet—but I was thinking of having Victoria meet … well, a prince, actually.”

“A prince?” Cheryl was so astonished, she actually stopped crying. “What kind of prince?”

“A … Romanian one,” Meena said.

The truth was, ever since she’d gotten up that morning—still woozy from her ordeal the night before, even though Leisha was probably right and it had all been a dream brought on by her frustration over having lost out on the head writer job and having taken her sleep medication before, and not after, Jack Bauer’s walk—she hadn’t been able to get Lucien, and his ever so slightly European accent, out of her head.

And okay, so it was possible he was a figment of her overactive imagination, a manifestation of how she envisioned her creative self (weird that her creative self was a hot guy in a black trench coat, but whatever), who went around saving her from bats, also known as vampiric story lines thought up by Shoshona (who was wearing fishnets today, and they probably weren’t even control-top).

But Meena had felt so secure and protected in his arms. She hadn’t felt that way in so long. It always seemed lately as if the wolves—or bats—were bearing down on her. If it wasn’t the bills coming due at the end of the month, it was Shoshona, getting all the promotions but doing none of the work at the office.

Meena suspected Cheryl probably felt the same, since she suddenly sighed, gazed at her reflection in her dressing room mirror, then tugged on her décolletage.

“I don’t know, kiddo.” Cheryl looked skeptical. “No offense. But you against the network? I don’t think so. They let Gregory Bane kill off Beverly Rivington from Lust the other day. Twenty-five years she’d been on that show, and they had some scrawny kid with a funny haircut suck all the blood out of her. If that’s not an analogy for the way my career is going, I don’t know what is.”

“I know,” Meena said. She’d been hoping Cheryl hadn’t heard about Beverly. But that was ridiculous in a business like this, where everyone carried an iPhone and was connected to E! Online twenty-four/seven. “But I’m not going to let that happen to you.”

“Oh, really?” Cheryl raised an eyebrow. “How?”

“I’m going to write in a Romanian prince vampire slayer for Victoria to hire to kill off her daughter’s vampire boyfriend,” Meena said dramatically.

Meena knew she was treading on thin ice. Introducing a new character solely to kill off Shoshona’s character? The vampire who was supposed to save Insatiable from the beating they were taking in the ratings from Lust? The vampire the network wanted?

Was she insane?

Except that she had never felt more sane in her life.

Cheryl evidently didn’t agree.

“It’s your funeral, hon,” she said dubiously.

“It spells Daytime Emmy to me,” Meena said.

Cheryl looked modest. “Oh, sweetheart. From your lips to the Emmy voters’ ears. Well.” She gave her highly stylized hair a pat. “I guess I better go out there and suck face with that priest.”

Meena followed Cheryl out into the hallway. But instead of heading for the studio, she turned to go back upstairs to her own office. She needed to get started writing about Lucien, the Romanian prince who was going to kill off Shoshona’s vampire, right away. Who knew almost being killed by a lot of bats could be so creatively inspirational?

But it wasn’t, she knew, the bats that had gotten her creative juices flowing; it was Lucien’s warm brown eyes. …

Maybe while she was at it, she thought, she should write a Craigslist Missed Connections ad. How else was she ever going to see Lucien again?

It was as she was trying to figure out how she’d describe those warm brown eyes in her ad that she almost smacked into Taylor, coming out of the elevator in full costume and makeup for a scene she was shooting in the riding stables with her character’s current love interest, Romero, her riding instructor.

“Oh my God, Meena!” Taylor cried, flinging both her arms around Meena. “Thank you so much!”

Meena, feeling a little strangled, hugged Taylor back. “Of course. Any time.” Thank you for what?

“You just don’t know,” Taylor said, finally releasing her and peering down at her with tears brimming her wide blue eyes, “how much it means to me to snag this fantastic story line. I’ve just been so jealous of Mallory Piers on Lust for getting all this press for those scenes she’s been doing with Gregory Bane. And now I’m getting a vampire of my very own!”

“Oh,” Meena said. “That. Yeah.” Meena ran a hand through her short hair distractedly. She couldn’t help but feel a little guilty about the fact that she’d just been heading upstairs with the intent of killing off Taylor’s new love interest. “Well, that was more the network’s idea. CDI’s, actually …”

“I know,” Taylor said. “Shoshona already stopped by and told me.”

I bet she did, Meena thought. Shoshona seemed to have been all over the building, flapping her mouth.

“I think it’s so great that the two of you are working together to put some young blood back into Insatiable,” Taylor said, reaching out to squeeze Meena’s hands.

“No problem,” she said to Taylor. She didn’t think now would be a good time to point out that she was planning on writing a romantic lead for Cheryl who was going to put a stake through the heart of Taylor’s new on-screen boyfriend.

“Thanks again,” Taylor said. “And thanks, too, for all the deli sandwiches you keep dropping by my dressing room. But you know, they really aren’t part of my new diet. Let’s do sashimi sometime!”

She ran off, her thighs so slim they looked like they belonged on a gazelle. Meena got into the elevator with a hint of a scowl on her face, only to find Shoshona already in the car.

Great.

“Hello, Meena,” Shoshona said with a kittenish smile.

“Hello, Shoshona.” Meena couldn’t help noticing that Shoshona was carrying her Marc Jacobs dragon tote. Up close, Meena could see it had the perfect detachable messenger-bag strap, too, so no matter how much junk you stuffed into it, it wouldn’t cut into your shoulder. “Going up?”

“Of course,” Shoshona said. “Looking forward to meeting our new Maximillian Cabrera on Friday?”

“Who’s Maximillian Cabrera?” Meena asked, bewildered.

“Taylor’s vampire lover,” Shoshona said, rolling her eyes as if Meena were stupid for not knowing. Except that Meena hadn’t seen the breakdowns for the vampire story line. How could she, since in her usual fashion Shoshona hadn’t even given them to Paul to write? “Stefan’s coming in to read for the part on Friday. You were there when I told Sy about it. Remember?”

Meena, annoyed, kept her gaze on the numbers above their heads as they lit up. “Oh,” she said. “Right.”

“And Stefan told me that Gregory himself might come with him,” Shoshona added.

“Oh, goody,” Meena said. Maybe she would bring Jon to work with her on Friday. He couldn’t do worse at the audition than some friend of Gregory Bane’s.

And God knew Jon was better looking. Not that Meena would ever have admitted this in front of Jon.

“I’m really glad you’ve decided to be a team player about this, Meena,” Shoshona said. “You scratch my back, and maybe someday, I’ll scratch yours.”

I bet you will, Meena thought cynically.

Chapter Twenty

1:00 A.M. EST, Thursday, April 15

Concubine Lounge

125 East Eleventh Street

New York, New York

The club was dark and the techno music pounding, louder even than in most discos in Bucharest.

Not that Lucien frequented such places … if he could help it. They were too smoky for his taste and tended to attract a rough crowd, lured by the promise of copious amounts of cheap liquor and scantily clad women. Those kinds of clubs were more for students. It made Lucien uncomfortable to be spotted in the same places as his students. It wasn’t, he felt, appropriate.

Particularly when his female students threw their legs over his and began rubbing their groin over him, a dance move popularly referred to as “grinding.”

Lucien had seen many dance styles come and go, usually with more amusement than alarm. But of all of them, he hoped “grinding” would be of shortest duration. There really wasn’t anything attractive or sexually alluring about it.

However, as he stood surveying the crowded dance floor of Concubine, he saw that grinding was as popular in the States as it was in Bucharest. It was a bit difficult to tell because of the smoke from the dry ice machines. But it certainly seemed that way from all the bodies writhing up against one another.

When one body, garbed only in black leather pants and a metal bikini top, detached itself from the others and wriggled up against him, Lucien asked, “Where’s Dimitri?”

The girl ran a black-nailed hand along his flat abs, pulling his white shirt from his trouser belt. She looked up at him through her spiky blond bangs as she began grinding against him in time to the music and said flirtatiously, “We don’t need him. Unless you like it that way.”

Lucien reached up and caught her wrist in an iron grip before she could dip her fingers into the waistband of his trousers.

“Where,” he asked again, his eyes flaring red, “is Dimitri?”

The girl stopped grinding and said, her voice rising to a fearful whine, “He’s over there. God! I was just trying to be friendly.”

Lucien let go of her wrist and strode toward the VIP area, where she’d pointed with a shaking finger. He hadn’t meant to frighten her.

On the other hand, she’d been high and hoping he had drugs on him to get her even higher. Beyond that, her mind had been empty as the Sahara. Lucien couldn’t help being reminded of the dog walker from the night before, whose mind had been just the opposite—impenetrable as a jungle.

He wondered why he couldn’t seem to stop thinking about her. He told himself it was only because she and the dancing girl were close in age and both attractive.

The resemblance ended there, however. He’d given up feeling sorry for addicts like the dancing girl. There were too many of them these days.

The VIP area where Dimitri was sitting was separated from the dance floor with black velvet ropes and featured a series of elegant, high-backed booths that formed a retreat from the loud music and gyrating bodies on the dance floor. On the soft black leather seats lounged a half dozen middle-aged men—much too middle-aged, and far too paunchy, for the extremely young and slender women who were draped all over them, their doe-eyed gazes as blank as that of the girl who’d just attempted to grind upon Lucien.

In a neighboring booth sat a few much younger men. One of them looked up and smiled as Lucien approached …

… just as two heavyset bodyguards attempted to block Lucien’s path.

“Sorry, sir,” said one of the men, who weighed nearly three hundred pounds and was wearing a gold chain around his thick neck with the name Reginald emblazoned on it. “This area is for VIPs only.”

“I can see that, Reginald,” Lucien said. “I’m here to see Mr. Dimitri. And you’re going to let me pass.”

“Of course I am,” Reginald said, and he moved aside. “I’m very sorry, sir.”

Reginald’s partner, who weighed nearly as much as Reginald, all of it muscle, was appalled.

“Reggie!” he cried. “What are you doing?”

Reginald explained, as he unhooked the velvet rope for Lucien to pass, “You heard the man. He’s here to see Mr. Dimitri.”

Dimitri had risen from his booth and come to meet Lucien. A tall, dark-haired man in a business suit that fit as perfectly as any of Lucien’s, he wore a white shirt that was open at the throat, revealing a leather cord from which hung a small iron dragon symbol.

“Brother,” Dimitri said, stretching out a hand to take Lucien’s in his. “This is a surprise. It’s been too long. When did you get in?”

“Dimitri,” Lucien answered coolly. He shook his half brother’s hand, pointedly ignoring the question. “You’re doing well, I see.”

“Oh, this?” Dimitri’s wide gesture with his left hand (in which he was holding an expensive Cuban cigar; he’d always, Lucien remembered, had a fondness for smoking, one that matched Lucien’s own fondness for fine wines) encompassed Reginald and his partner, the VIP area, the whole of the club. “This is nothing. I have four more nationwide, and am opening another one in Rio de Janeiro next month.”