Insatiable (4 page)

It meant Shoshona had won.

“
Vampires,
” Meena said. “Real original, Metzenbaum.”

Shoshona stood up, slinging her bag over her shoulder. “Get over it, Harper. They’re everywhere. You can’t escape them.”

She turned and walked out.

And for the first time, Meena noticed the gem-encrusted dragon on the side of Shoshona’s tote.

No. It couldn’t be.

But it was.

The Marc Jacobs tote Meena had secretly been lusting after for half a year but denying herself because it cost $5,000.

And no way could Meena afford—or justify spending—that much money on a bag.

And, all right, Shoshona had it in aquamarine, not the ruby red that would perfectly round out Meena’s wardrobe.

But still.

Meena stared after her, grinding her teeth.

Now she was going to have no choice but to make an emergency run at lunch to CVS in order to restock her secret candy drawer.

12:00
P.M
. EST, Tuesday, April 13
Walmart parking lot
Chattanooga, TN

A
laric Wulf didn’t consider himself a snob. Far from it.

If anyone back at the office ever bothered to ask—and, with the exception of his partner, Martin, none of those ingrates ever had—Alaric would have pointed out that for the first fifteen of his thirty-five years, he’d lived in abject poverty, eating only when his various stepfathers won enough money at the track, and then only if there was enough cash left over for food after his drug-addicted mother was done scoring.

And so Alaric had chosen to live on the streets (and off his wits) in his native Zurich, until child services caught him and forced him go to a group home, where he’d been surprised to find himself much better cared for by strangers than he’d ever been by his own family.

It was in the group home that Alaric had been brought to the attention of, and eventually recruited by, the Palatine Guard, thanks to what turned out to be a strong sword arm, unerring aim, an innate aptitude for languages, and the fact that nothing—not his stepfathers, social workers, priests who claimed to have the voice of God whispering in their ear, or blood-sucking vampires—intimidated (or impressed) him.

Now Alaric slept on eight-hundred-thread-count Egyptian cotton sheets every night, drove an Audi R8, and routinely dined on favorite dishes like foie gras and duck confit. His suits were all Italian, and he
wouldn’t have dreamed of donning a shirt that hadn’t been hand pressed. He enjoyed swimming a hundred laps, then sitting in the sauna every morning at the gym; had an active sex life with numerous attractive and cultured women who knew nothing of his background; collected
Betty and Veronica
comic books (which he had to have specially shipped to Rome from America at a not-unimpressive cost); and killed vampires for a living as part of a highly secretive military unit of the Vatican.

Life was good…

True, he had a life
style
upon which most of his coworkers frowned. The majority of them, for instance, preferred to stay in local convents or rectories while traveling, while Alaric always checked into the finest hotel he could find…which he paid for himself, of course. Why not? He didn’t have any children or parents to support. Was it his fault that an early interest in investing (particularly in precious metals, specifically gold, which he couldn’t help noticing there seemed to be a great deal of around the Vatican) had made him his Zurich banker’s favorite client?

Still, in no way did Alaric Wulf consider himself a snob. He could “rough it” like anyone else. He was, in fact, “roughing it” now.

Sitting in his rental car outside a large discount retail establishment in Chattanooga—Chattanooga; what a name for a city!—Alaric watched as the lunchtime crowd flooded toward the store. A sketchy report from a pair of frantic parents had worked its way to his superiors at the Palatine Guard: A young woman who worked at this particular Walmart had been attacked by a vamp in this very parking lot on her way home from work one night. She still bore the telltale puncture wounds on her neck.

The problem was that she insisted to her parents that the marks were not from an “attack” at all but were the result of a “love bite.”

In other words, she adored her attacker.

Of course,
Alaric thought with his customary cynicism.
They all do
. Society had romanticized vampires to the point that many impressionable young women threw themselves at the actors who played vampires in movies and on television.

Not that it was their fault. Women were genetically programmed
to be attracted to powerful and good-looking men, men with a high testosterone level who would make good providers for their children, which was how vampires—rich, tall, strong, and handsome—were usually portrayed on film.

Alaric wondered if women would feel quite the same about vampires if they could have seen his former partner Martin in the ICU after they’d tangled with the nest of vamps they’d found in that warehouse outside of Berlin. They’d torn half of Martin’s face off. He was still sucking his dinner through a straw.

Fortunately, the demons had left him the use of his eyes, so he would still see the daughter he and his partner Karl had adopted—Alaric’s goddaughter, Simone—celebrate her fourth birthday.

Thus Alaric’s dedication to his work.

Of course, he’d been dedicated before that particular incident. How many other careers allowed you to use a sword? He could think of very few.

And Alaric was very fond of his sword, Señor Sticky. The blade, unlike humans, did not lie. It didn’t cheat, and it didn’t discriminate…even if vampires
were
stupid. Especially American vampires. They hung out in places Alaric himself would never have gone, especially if he were immortal. Such as high schools. And Walmart.

If Alaric were a vampire—and that was never going to happen, because if by some heinous accident of fate he were even bitten enough times for that to occur, Martin was under instructions to kill him instantly, no matter how much he fought—he’d step it up. Target, maybe.

Alaric supposed vampires avoided Target because of the parking lot security cameras. (It was a myth that vampires wouldn’t show up in mirrors or on film. Certainly in the old days it had been true, when silver-backed mirrors and film had been the norm. But now that the world had gone digital—and mirrors were cheap—vampire reflections could be caught just like anyone else’s.) Alaric actually liked Target. They didn’t have Target in Rome. He’d bought a Goofy watch the last time he’d been in a Target. The other guards had made fun of him, but he liked his Goofy watch. It was old-fashioned and didn’t do anything but tell time.

But sometimes all you needed was to know the time.

Alaric’s cell phone buzzed, and he laid down his
Betty and Veronica
comic and fished the phone from his coat pocket, then read the text he’d received with interest.

Manhattan. Reports of completely exsanguinated bodies. At least three dead.
Alaric had to read the message twice to make sure he’d read it right.

Exsanguinated bodies? There hadn’t been a vampire stupid enough actually to
drain
a body completely of blood in a century. At least not that Alaric knew of.

Because that—unlike what this vamp was doing in Chattanooga—was murder, and not simply assault with a pair of fangs.

And assault like that could never even be proven—not in a regular court of law—because the victim had given consent…due to mind control, of course.

But only the Palatine and the girl’s parents would ever believe that.

If some vamp was stupid enough actually to be murdering his victims, that could only mean one thing:

The prince would be crawling out of whatever hole he’d been hiding in for the past century.

He’d have to. He’d never allow something like this to jeopardize the safety of his minions.

Alaric grinned. His week was looking a whole lot brighter.

Suddenly, through the crowds, Alaric saw a uniformed Walmart employee coming his way, toward the car the girl’s parents had described as hers and that Alaric had carefully parked alongside.

Sarah didn’t resemble the photo her parents had provided…at least, not anymore. Being a vamp’s personal blood donor could do that to a woman. Her formerly round cheeks were thin, and her uniform was hanging on her wasted frame. Her curly red hair had lost its bounce, and she was wearing a kerchief of some kind around her neck to hide the “love bite” her new friend had left behind during his last visit.

She was so anemic, she didn’t even notice when Alaric got out of his car and stood there in front of her, a massive figure in the noonday sun,
Señor Sticky carefully hidden—for now—in the folds of his trench coat. She just kept slurping on the large cup of soda she was holding.

She needed all that soda, he supposed. She had to keep building up new plasma if she was going to be someone’s dinner tonight.

“Sarah,” Alaric said quietly.

She stopped short and finally looked up at him, her blue-eyed gaze listless.

Now was the time to show her the sword. Sometimes it was the only thing that got through to them in their ardor-induced stupors.

Alaric pushed back the folds of his coat.

“Just tell me where he is, Sarah,” he said gently. “And I’ll let you live.”

2:00
P.M
. EST, Tuesday, April 13
ABN Building
520 Madison Avenue
New York, New York

Meena stared at her computer monitor.

She was supposed to be working on the dialogue for next week’s explosive scene in which Tabby confronted her mother for sleeping with her riding instructor, Romero, on whom Tabby herself had a crush.

But all she could think about was Shoshona’s promotion and her horrible vampire story line, which Fran and Stan had, of course, approved, agreeing with the network (who agreed with CDI) that it was going to make
Insatiable
more appealing to the all-important eighteen-to-forty-nine female demographic…which would in turn bring in more advertising money. Which would in turn get them all raises (the
Insatiable
writing staff had been under a pay freeze for more than a year).

Then Mary Lou’s e-mail had popped into her in-box.

And Meena lost all ability whatsoever to concentrate on anything else.

Appalled, Meena forwarded the e-mail to her best friend, Leisha.

“Who
is
this person?” Leisha called a few minutes later to ask.

“My next-door neighbor Mary Lou,” Meena said, astonished that Leisha wouldn’t remember. She only complained about something Mary Lou had said or done every other day.

“Oh, that’s right,” Leisha said. “The one you used to like until she started stalking you on the elevator every day—”

“—trying to fix me up with every single guy she knows,” Meena finished for her, “after David and I broke up. Right. Plus, she keeps going on about how she traced her husband Emil’s ancestry back to Romanian royalty. She figured out he’s a count, which makes her a—”

“Countess,” Leisha said. Meena could hear hair dryers buzzing in the background. Leisha worked as a stylist at a high-end salon in SoHo. “Wasn’t she the one on the co-op board of your building who wouldn’t let you and David buy the apartment at first because you weren’t married? But then when she found out you write for
Insatiable,
she changed her mind because she’s a big Victoria Worthington Stone fan?”

“Yeah,” Meena said. She took a bite from the mini-Butterfinger she’d pulled from her secret snack drawer. “And she hates Jon but she pretends she doesn’t.”

“What’s she hate your brother for?” Now Leisha sounded surprised.

“She thinks he’s a mooch for moving in with me,” Meena said. “The real question is, how am I going to get out of going to her party?”

“Uh,” Leisha said, “no offense…but why wouldn’t you go? Last I heard, your social calendar wasn’t exactly jam-packed.”

“Yeah, well,” Meena said, “I don’t have time to be hobnobbing with alleged Romanian princes when I need to be worrying about what’s going to happen next to Victoria Worthington Stone and her vulnerable yet headstrong daughter, Tabitha.” Meena took another bite of her mini-Butterfinger. The important thing was to make each one last as long as possible, which was difficult, because they were so small.

“Stupid of me,” Leisha said. “Of course. So what
is
going to happen
to Victoria Worthington Stone and her vulnerable yet headstrong daughter, Tabitha?”

Meena sighed. “One guess. It came down from on high today. Written on a stone tablet from Consumer Dynamics Inc. itself.”

“What was it?”

“
Lust
started a vampire story arc, and they’re killing us in the ratings. So…”

Leisha let out a little burble of laughter. “Oh, yeah. Gregory Bane. Guys have been asking me to do their hair like his for weeks. Like it’s an actual
style
and not something accomplished with a razor blade and some mousse. People are psycho for that guy.”

“Tell me about it.” Meena spun around in her office chair so she could look away from her computer screen and out over the gray valley of skyscrapers that made up Fifty-third Street between Madison and Fifth. She knew that, somewhere out there, Yalena was finding out that her dreams of a new life in America weren’t exactly turning out the way she’d expected them to. Meena wondered how long it would be before she’d call. Or if she’d ever call. “I don’t get it. The guy looks like a toothpick. With hair.”

Leisha bubbled with more laughter. Meena loved the sound of Leisha’s laughter. It cheered her up and reminded her of the old days, before they’d both ended up with mortgages.

Still, Meena felt obligated to say, “It’s not funny. You know how I feel about vampires.”

“Yeah,” Leisha said, sounding a little bored. “What is it you’re always saying again? In the cult of monster misogyny, vampires are king?”

“Well,” Meena said, “they do always seem to choose to prey on pretty female victims. And yet for some reason, women find this sexy.”

“I don’t,” Leisha said. “I want to be killed by Frankenstein. I like ’em big. And stupid. Don’t tell my husband.”

“Even though these guys admit over and over to wanting to kill us,” Meena went on, “the idea that they’re nobly restraining themselves from doing so is supposed to be attractive? Excuse me, but how is knowing a guy wants to kill you hot?”

“The fact that he wants to but doesn’t makes some girls feel special,” Leisha said simply. “Plus, vampires are all rich. I could deal with having
some rich guy who wants to kill me—but is nobly restraining himself—being super into me right now. Adam doesn’t have a job, but he won’t even help with the laundry.”

“Vampires aren’t real!” Meena shouted into the phone.

“Calm down. Look, I don’t see what the big deal is,” Leisha said. “If someone who can tell how everyone she meets is going to die can exist, why can’t vampires?”

Meena took a deep breath. “Did I tell you Shoshona got the gig as head writer? Why don’t you just twist the knife?”

“Oh, my God.” Leisha sounded apologetic. “I’m so, so sorry, Meen. What are you going to do?”

“What
can
I do?” Meena asked. “Wait it out. She’s going to screw up eventually. Hopefully when she does, the show and I will both still be here, and I can step in and save the day.”

“Got it,” Leisha said. “Hero complex.”

Meena knit her brows. “
What?
”

“Vampires are monster misogynists,” Leisha said. “And you have a hero complex. You always have. Of course you think you’re going to save the show. And probably the world, while you’re at it.”

Meena snorted. “Right. Enough about me. How’s Adam?”

“Hasn’t gotten off the couch in three days,” Leisha replied.

Meena nodded, forgetting that Leisha couldn’t see her. “That’s normal for the first month after a layoff.”

“He just lies there in front of CNN, like a zombie. He’s starting to freak out about this serial killer thing.”

“What serial killer thing?” Then Meena remembered what Shoshona had been talking about in her meeting with Sy. “Oh, that thing with the dead girls, in the parks?”

“Exactly. You know, he actually grunted at me the other day when I asked him if he’d picked up the mail from the box downstairs.”

Meena sighed. “Jon was the same way after he lost his job and had to move in with me. At least he does laundry now. Only because I have a washer-dryer unit in the apartment and you can’t help tripping over the piles on the way to it.”

“I asked Adam when he was going to get started with the baby’s
room,” Leisha said. “Or the baby’s alcove, I guess I should call it, since that room is so small, it’s practically a closet. Still, he has to put a door on it, and the drywall, and paint it and everything. You know what he said? It’s still too early and that there’s plenty of time. Thomas is coming in two months! Sometimes I don’t know if we’re going to make it. I really don’t.”

“Yes, you will,” Meena said soothingly. “We’ll get through all of this. Really, we will.”

Meena didn’t believe this, of course. It had been months since her brother, Jon, had been laid off from the investment company where he’d worked as a systems analyst, and he was no closer to finding a job than he’d been the day of his firing…same as Leisha’s husband, Adam, who’d been Jon’s college roommate before Jon had introduced him to Leisha. The few jobs that were out there in their fields had hundreds, maybe thousands, of equally qualified applicants vying for them.

“Is that a prediction?” Leisha asked.

“It is,” Meena said firmly.

“I’m holding you to that,” Leisha said. “Well, good luck with the prince. I’d wear black. Black is always appropriate. Even for meeting royalty.” She hung up.

Meena set the receiver down, chewing her lower lip. She hated lying to Leisha.

Because things
weren’t
going to be fine.

Something was wrong. Leisha kept telling Meena that her due date was two months away.

And maybe that’s what her doctor had said.

But the doctor was wrong. Every time Leisha said it—“Thomas is coming in two months”—Meena felt an uncomfortable twinge.

The baby—Meena was positive—was coming
next
month. Possibly even sooner than that.

And Thomas! Leisha and Adam wanted to name their baby
Thomas Weinberg
!

That kid was going to be a pretty funny-looking Thomas, considering that it was a girl and not a boy.

But how did you tell an expectant mother that everything her
doctor was saying was wrong…when it was all just based on a
feeling
? Especially when all of your previous predictions had been about death, not a new life?

Easy. You didn’t tell her at all. You kept your mouth zipped up tight.

Turning back to her computer monitor, Meena was confronted again with Mary Lou’s e-mail. Sometimes she found it hard to believe there were still people who didn’t have to work for a living…ladies with
princes
for relatives who did nothing but plan elaborate parties and use their husband’s credit card to go shopping all day.

And then meanwhile there were girls like Yalena, being preyed upon by scumbags like her boyfriend, Gerald, about whom the cops could do exactly nothing….

But these people existed.

And they lived right in her building. Right next door to her, in fact.

Meena resolutely hit Delete, then opened a new document and began to write.