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