Bauer was a Pomeranian-chow mix Meena had insisted on bringing home from the ASPCA the first time they’d ever set foot in it, “just to look,” after David had walked out on her and she’d been pretty much comatose with depression. The tiny mutt had been sitting in a big empty cage by himself, his huge brown eyes so filled with anxiety that Meena had remarked that, with his blond fur, he resembled Kiefer Sutherland during a particularly dramatic moment on the television show 24.
When the dog had fallen into her arms as soon as the cage door was opened, showering her face with grateful kisses, the inevitable adoption was sealed, and the name Jack Bauer stuck, because the anxious look in the mutt’s eyes rarely vanished all the way, unless he was lounging in the apartment by Meena’s side.
“He saved the world, all right,” Jon said. “He tried to hump a maltipoo in the small dog run at Carl Schurz Park.”
“My hero,” Meena cried, scooping the dog up and hugging him. “Keep showing your male dominance, even though you’ve been fixed.” She turned to Jon. “So, what did you do today?”
“I was totally going to make chicken,” Jon said. “But when I got to the store none of the chickens looked any good.”
“Really?” Meena said, going over to the couch and reaching for the remote.
“Yeah,” Jon said. “They were all past their expiration dates. It was like the Perdue delivery didn’t come in on time or something.”
“Let’s just order in,” she said. She’d flipped on the news. “We haven’t had Thai in a while.”
He felt a surge of relief.
“Thai sounds great. Or Indian.”
“Indian sounds good, too,” she said. “Oh, my God, we got invited to the countess’s on Thursday. If we keep the lights out,” she added, like this was a perfectly reasonable way to deal with the problem, “we don’t have to worry about them seeing that we’re home under the crack in the door.”
“Meena.” Jon loved his sister.
But she was totally and completely insane.
And she always had been.
Meena shook her head. “Jon. You know I can’t help but love her. But she’s trying to fix me up with some Romanian prince her husband’s related to. Come on.”
“A prince?” Jon raised his eyebrows. “Seriously? Is he rich?”
“I don’t want to meet a prince,” Meena said. She sounded mad. She looked mad. “I’m already having the worst week of my life, and it’s only Tuesday!”
Jon knew Meena well enough to know this wasn’t about Shoshona getting the job, or the girl she’d met on the subway, or even the show, which she adored.
“What,” he said flatly. “What did you see?”
“Nothing,” she said, throwing him a confused look. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You know something,” Jon said. “You know what I’m talking about. Who is it about? Me? It’s about me, isn’t it? Just tell me. I can take it. When am I going? Is it this week?”
Meena looked away. “What? No. You’re fine. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Jon shook his head. He didn’t think he was wrong. He’d lived with his kid sister long enough to recognize the signs.
She obviously knew something about somebody now … only who? And why wasn’t she saying?
“Is it Mom and Dad?” he asked. “I thought you said they were fine. I mean, relatively speaking.”
“They are fine.” Meena glared at him. “For two people who continue to whoop it up at happy hour every night down in Boca like they think they’re F. Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald.”
“Then I don’t get it,” Jon said. “Your crazy-ass millionaire neighbor who thinks she’s a countess invited you to a dinner party at her place to meet a real Romanian prince on Thursday night. And you’re telling me you don’t think you’re going to get any story ideas out of that? Are you serious?”
Meena looked at him, her big dark eyes luminous in the light from the sun setting just outside her windows, turning the sky from rosy pink to a delicate lavender. Finally she smiled.
“You’re right,” she said. “How could I miss such a fantastic opportunity, so rich with the promise of pretentious buffoonery for me to mock later on Insatiable? I have a professional duty to be there.”
“Absolutely,” Jon said.
“I’ll RSVP yes to the countess,” Meena said.
“Way to go.” Jon reached out to ruffle her short, boyishly cut dark hair. “I’ll go order us some samosas.”
Meena grinned and turned up the volume on the news, which was all about how they still hadn’t been able to identify any of the victims of what they were now calling the Park Strangler. They were urging any members of the public who might recognize the women to come forward.
“After all,” Meena said thoughtfully, clearly not paying attention to the information the grim-faced anchorwoman was doling out, “Victoria Worthington Stone’s dated plenty of doctors, lawyers, millionaires, shipping magnates, gangsters, murderers, maniacs, cops, cowboys, priests, and once even her own half brother—until she found out who he really was. It’s about time she dated a prince.”
“That’s the spirit,” Jon said, and started dialing.
Chapter Twelve
6:30 P.M. EST, Tuesday, April 13
West Fourth Street
Chattanooga, TN
Alaric Wulf wasn’t surprised to find that Sarah, like most women—and men—in love with a vampire, was initially resistant to the idea of giving up the address of her lover.
“Just tell me where he is, and I’ll let you live.”
Sarah had hedged for a while. Like most victims, she didn’t care anymore about her own life. Her brain was too nutrient deprived. She cared only about protecting her sire.
Until Alaric finally put his sword to her throat.
The Palatine Guard was listed in most encyclopedias and search engines as a now-defunct military unit of the Vatican, formed to defend Rome against attack from foreign invaders.
This was partly true: the Palatine Guard was a military unit of the Vatican.
But it was hardly defunct. And the invaders it had been formed to defend against weren’t foreign.
They were demon.
And the Guards weren’t
