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