Alaric had given them American names to go with the American dreams with which he felt sure each of them had traveled to this country:

First was long-haired Aimee, found early one morning just ten days ago in the Ramble at Central Park.

Then red-haired Jennifer, found a few days later by a park employee in Bryant Park.

The final victim he called Hayley. Her photo was perhaps most disturbing of all to Alaric, because she bore more than a passing resemblance to Martin’s daughter, Simone. Both were dark skinned, with black hair that spiraled around their faces in similar tight corkscrew curls.

She had been found just last weekend in Central Park, like Aimee… Alaric, studying the photos in his hotel room, had seen what the general public-and few members of law enforcement, beyond the coroner’s office-had not. There was no question of cause of death and no question, once the photos had been e-mailed to the Vatican, who-or rather what-was responsible for those deaths.

The only question was, would the Palatine be able to exterminate him-or them, because Alaric, upon seeing the photos, became convinced there’d been more than just one attacker-before the prince could?

It still seemed mind-boggling to Alaric that a vampire could actually be in New York on a mission similar to his own. Not just any vampire, but the prince of darkness.

But, Alaric supposed, the prince didn’t care about the dead girls. To him, the murders of those three girls only meant possible exposure to the public of his kind. Discovery by the rest of humankind that vampires were not some invention of Bram Stoker’s feverish imagination-something that, if Alaric was honest, he had to admit the Vatican was at just as great pains to prevent as the vamps. They didn’t need another panic like the one that spread through Eastern Europe during the 1700s, when ignorant villagers, goaded by charlatan “vampire exterminators,” were led to believe their own family members were actually undead and, after being coerced into buying expensive “vampire weapons,” dug them up from their resting places and decapitated them.

It made a certain kind of sense, Alaric supposed, that the prince would be there, trying to stop the killer-or killers-same as the Palatine. He had to be as worried as the Vatican that word could get out about the truth of his species’ existence.

Still. It made Alaric feel livid, the fact that he might have the same goal as the prince.

Of course, Alaric had another goal, in addition to finding, and stopping, whoever or whatever was doing this: he intended to destroy the prince, as well. Whether his bosses at the Palatine approved or not.

He’d spent a lot of time working out his frustrations over his assignment in the hotel pool but had followed it with an excellent lunch at Per Se.

So while he wasn’t happy with his current circumstances, he was at least eating well.

And he certainly wouldn’t starve to death while he stood around staring at the entrance to 910 Park Avenue, waiting to see if the prince actually showed up.

He was even beginning to think he might-grudgingly, of course-approve of the people he’d assigned himself to watch. The Antonescus were rich-stinking, filthy rich. Like him, they seemed to find no shame in enjoying the finer things in life. They had the summer place in Romania-not too shabby, judging by the photos-and appeared to enjoy going to upscale restaurants. Last night they’d dined at the Four Seasons.

Well, “dined” was a relative term. Of course they hadn’t eaten much, being the foul breathless beasts of Satan that they were.

The wife was the head of 910 Park Avenue’s cooperative-some kind of board that chose who would be allowed to live in the building-undoubtedly so that she could keep out the “riffraff” (people like himself, Alaric supposed).

Still, no one to whom Alaric had spoken had anything negative to say about her…and none whatsoever picked up on his hints that she might possibly be a member of the undead. (Not that she’d have needed to sleep in her own coffin or have the earth from her grave near her. These were other old myths Stoker had gotten wrong in his book.) Either she wasn’t a vampire, or she and her husband had assimilated better than any demons he’d ever seen. She even served on several charitable boards, one that helped pay for children with cancer to go to summer camp in the countryside.

Children with cancer. Nice cover, for a bloodsucker.

The husband owned and managed numerous real estate holdings throughout the city and often escorted the wife to benefits, like ones for the cancer camp.

Vampires who attended benefits to raise money for summer camps for children…with cancer! Hilarious. Even more hilarious than Betty and Veronica.

Now, he’d told Martin, he’d seen everything.

Simone had grabbed the phone while Alaric had still been chuckling with her father over the benefit-attending vampires and said, “Uncle Alaric?”

“Yes, sweetheart?”

“Are you going to get the people who ate my daddy’s face?”

“Yes,” he’d said, sobering instantly. “Yes, I am.”

Just like he was going to get whatever had killed Aimee, Jennifer, and Hayley…or whatever the victims’ real names were.

Because that was what it was all about. If these Antonescus really were related to this Lucien Antonescu, and he really was the prince of darkness, Alaric was going to destroy them. All of them. He didn’t care what his superiors at the Vatican wanted or how much money the Antonescus had donated so that children with cancer could go to camp. They were still parasites-like ticks-that had to be exterminated for what they’d done to Martin. To that girl, Sarah, from the Chattanooga Walmart. To those unidentified dead women, lying in the morgue.

And to countless others like them whom Alaric had seen abused and victimized over his years with the Palatine. They had to be destroyed like the vermin that they were. Because they would only create more creatures like themselves, who would in turn victimize more people like Martin and Sarah and those girls.

Vampires were filth. And they spread their filth-and disease-to everything and everyone they touched.

They all had to be eradicated.

There wasn’t much more to it than that.

In the meantime, Alaric would stand there outside of 910 Park Avenue and wait. He didn’t care how many little old ladies walked by him and asked what he thought he was doing. He’d show them the pictures of Aimee, Jennifer, and Hayley if he had to.

And maybe, while he was at it, a photo of where Martin’s face used to be.

That would shut them up.

Chapter Twenty-five

12:30 A.M. EST, Friday, April 16

910 Park Avenue, Apt. 11A

New York, New York

Mary Lou and her husband did an admirable job of making sure Meena’s wineglass was never lower than half full throughout the evening.

But Meena was careful to drink from it only sparingly. The last thing she wanted was to get plastered in front of people she had to see in the elevator every day…

Not to mention in front of the prince.

It wasn’t until Mary Lou was asking if anyone cared for coffee that she realized it was past midnight. Meena noticed her brother, Jon, looking surreptitiously at his watch. Apparently his dinner companion, Becca, hadn’t been able to take his mind off his celebrity crush, Taylor Mackenzie, which was no surprise. Few could.

“Oh,” Meena said with genuine regret. “I’m so sorry. I have to go. I have work in the morning. And I still have to get home and walk my dog.”

“I’ll do it.” Jon volunteered, hopping up from his place on the couch with a speed that Meena found a little embarrassing.

“I’ll join you, Meena, if you don’t mind some company,” Lucien said, setting down his wineglass. “I’d enjoy stretching my legs a bit after that delicious meal.”