Insatiable (11 page)

1:00
A.M
. EST, Thursday, April 15
Concubine Lounge
125 East Eleventh Street
New York, New York

T
he 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.”

“Rio,” Lucien said, raising his eyebrows. “Still treading dangerously.”

“What danger? It’s a nightclub,” Dimitri said, emphasizing the word
night
. “Only we call them lounges now. You would love Rio. The humidity! Very good for the skin. Come, you must meet my new friends from TransCarta. You must have heard of it, the private equity firm? They’re brokering a rather large deal at the moment and are in need of some stress relief. So of course they’ve come here. Everyone who works
in finance has such a bad reputation these days. Negative publicity. That’s something you and I know a bit about, don’t we, brother?”

Dimitri laughed at his own joke as he took Lucien’s arm, attempting to steer him toward the booth of middle-aged men being nuzzled by the reed-thin young girls.

“Maybe later for that, Dimitri,” Lucien said. “I’d rather speak privately to you for a moment first. We have much business to discuss, I think, you and I.”

“Nonsense,” Dimitri said. “Pleasure before business! I know what you’re talking about…and why you’re here.” He slapped an arm around Lucien’s shoulder and began steering him toward the booth he’d just vacated. “An unfortunate thing, about these young dead girls. And I’ve asked around—believe me, it’s not good for the club, having a maniac like this loose—and I can assure you, no one knows a thing about it. If they did, don’t you think I’d have taken care of it already? You know me, Lucien. Anything to improve the bottom line!”

Lucien tilted his head toward the girl who’d approached him as he’d come in, the one in the metal halter top. She was now gyrating by herself on the dance floor, off in her own little drug-induced stupor.

“And her? You aren’t doing a very good job of keeping hard drugs out of the place,” he remarked. “Surely that can’t be helping to improve the bottom line.”

Dimitri followed his half brother’s gaze.

“Oh, drugs,” he said, and rolled his eyes. “Well, what are you going to do? They’re everywhere. The government should legalize them already, then tax them and use the money to pay off the deficit and get the addicts the help they need. But why are we talking about such a depressing topic? Come, you haven’t seen Stefan in ages. And you have to meet my very latest project.”

“Your latest project?” Lucien raised an eyebrow. “It isn’t this…lounge?”

“Not at all!” Dimitri guided him toward a table at which sat a somewhat seedy-looking young man and his even seedier companion, both of whom were wearing extraordinarily tight trousers and shirts open to mid-chest beneath leather motorcycle jackets. They were flanked on
either side by pencil-slim young women who did not appear to be wearing much in the way of clothing at all but had exceptionally flat chests and very straight hair.

“A new business venture,” Dimitri announced enthusiastically. “Gregory Bane, meet my brother, visiting all the way from Romania, Lucien Antonescu.”

“Hello, sir.” The thinner of the two young men stood to shake Lucien’s hand. Lucien knew why he was being so obsequious even before he felt Gregory Bane’s skin…or saw the slim dragon tattoo that decorated the inside of his pale wrist.

“A pleasure,” Lucien said unsmilingly.

“It’s all mine,” Gregory Bane said, his eyelids fluttering nervously.

Lucien wondered how long it had been since the boy had turned and who’d turned him. Not Dimitri, surely. His brother was many things…but not that. More than likely he’d seen an opportunity and had one of his many paramours do it. The boy was, Lucien supposed, good looking by the standard set by his current crop of female students, who tended to be slim and unwashed.

The other boy, who wore his dragon like Dimitri’s, in the form of an iron symbol on a leather wristband, stood and extended his right hand….

“Uncle Lucien,” Stefan said a little diffidently.

But then again, the boy had never been all there, Lucien thought as he shook his nephew’s hand.

Whether that was because he’d seen his father murder his mother before his very eyes—it had been a different time and place, when uxoricide hadn’t been all that uncommon, but still, Lucien hadn’t approved—or because he’d been turned too young, Lucien had never been sure.

The young man was a definite disappointment. Dimitri was forever formulating some scheme or another to give him some direction. But he’d never even allowed the boy to use his last name. How could he expect Stefan to exercise any sort of career initiative?

What game was Dimitri playing at now? Lucien wondered. And what did the paunchy financial analysts from TransCarta have to do
with it, if anything? Was it all really just part of his half brother’s new “business venture”?

Or something more insidious?

Oh, Dimitri acted the part of welcoming family, all open arms…. He even ordered bottles of Veuve for the table, though champagne was never Lucien’s favorite. He’d never been fond of bubbles, which vanished immediately on the tongue. He preferred heavier, meatier wines that coated the mouth like…well, a meal.

But it all seemed a little like the champagne, or the young human women who’d draped themselves over Gregory Bane and the hapless Stefan—not to mention over the hedge fund managers in the booth next door—who said nothing but disappeared often to go to the ladies’ room, then came back wiping their noses, their minds as empty as that of the girl who’d tried to get him to dance with her.

Too showy. Not enough substance. Just a lot of air.

After a while, Lucien felt he had seen enough. If there were answers at his half brother’s club, he wasn’t going to get them this way.

He excused himself, saying that he had to go.

Dimitri showed him out through a back exit, since the front was now too crowded with drug-addled partygoers for him to leave without having to push his way through.

“Where are you staying while you’re here?” Dimitri asked—too casually—blowing smoke from his cigar toward the starry night sky, which was just visible from the dark alley in which they stood.

“Emil found me a place,” Lucien said. The less said about where, Lucien figured, the better. He trusted his brother….

But only to a point.

Dimitri gave a chuckle. “Emil,” he said. “Is he still with that idiotic wife of his?”

“He is,” Lucien said.

“Marriage,” Dimitri said. “Now that is the one thing you and I do have in common. No need to get tangled up in
that
. Well. Again.”

“It’s never seemed prudent,” Lucien carefully agreed.

Dimitri stared at him for a second or two before bursting into surprised laughter.

“Prudent,” he cried. “Listen to you! You haven’t changed, have you? Not in all this time.”

Lucien shot him an appraising look.

“No,” he said. “I don’t suppose either of us has.”

Dimitri stopped laughing abruptly and pointed at Lucien.

“I don’t like the sound of that,” he said in a deep voice. “I hope you didn’t come here to stir up trouble, Lucien. Because we’ve been doing perfectly fine on this side of the Atlantic without even a hint of trouble from the Palatine…and without any
interference
from you.”

His eyes, normally every bit as dark as his half brother’s, glowed as red as his cigar as he said the word
interference
.

A second later, a layer of the trash, dirt, gravel, and broken glass lining the alley floor just in front of Lucien began to rise into the air, then swirl more and more rapidly together until it was a towering, violently destructive tornado headed straight at him.

Lucien threw an arm up to guard his face from the debris.

That was when Dimitri found himself thrown back against the side of a Dumpster, as if an unseen wind had lifted him and blown him there. His fall was broken by some empty liquor boxes someone had flattened and stacked before the Dumpster for recycling. Otherwise, he would have slammed against the steel receptacle with as much force as if he’d been shot from a nail gun.

As he lay there, stunned, the vortex Dimitri had created died as abruptly as he’d crumbled, all the pieces of glass and trash falling back to the alley floor.

Lucien strolled up to where his brother lay, pausing on his way to carefully stamp out the cigar Dimitri had dropped, then lift it and deposit it in the Dumpster behind him.

Lucien was furious…but even when furious, he was still conscientious about litter.

“I have no idea what kind of game you’re playing here, Dimitri,” Lucien said, leaning an elbow on the side of the Dumpster and speaking down to his brother in a voice that was almost eerie in its calmness after the violence that had erupted just seconds before. “Nightclubs filled with investment bankers and drug-addicted young women. That’s your
business, and I agreed long ago I’d stay out of Dracul business, so long as there weren’t any human deaths from loss of blood. But now…it’s not the Palatine you need to fear…it’s me.”

Dimitri, slumped against the side of the Dumpster like a piece of garbage waiting to be picked up, winced up at his brother.

“I know that,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’ve always known that. You didn’t have to hit me so hard, you know.”