Biting the Bride (7 page)

Scipio sipped the water before he answered. “We don’t know yet. So far all he’s done is kill two humans and check into the Mandarin Oriental hotel.”

Jacob swallowed hard, looking out the window at the sea of lights, each one representing one or more beating human hearts. So many, but only one he cared about. “Does Lazarus know about my assignment? Is that why he’s here?”

“We never found out. “ Scipio pulled at the collar of his white shirt as if it was strangling him. Clothing styles might change with the times, but the vampires wearing them often didn’t. It was the rare vampire who didn’t prefer the clothes of their human era, even if their era included corsets or powdered wigs as tall as fire hydrants. If Scipio hadn’t been trying to blend in he would have been wearing a toga.

“He must not be allowed to get to her, Jacob. “ “Don’t worry, I won’t let him.” Scipio placed a hand on Jacob’s shoulder. “I worry that you have gotten too close to her. ”

“Too close? I’ve only spoken to her once since she was eight years old, and that was an accident. It won’t happen again.”

“If he gets close to her, if it looks like she will join him, she will have to be eliminated.”

“No!” Jacob leaped to his feet. “That’s not going to happen. Even if he makes contact with her, she’ll see him for the evil, malignant creature he is.”

Scipio’s gray eyebrows drew together. The concern in his eyes was obvious, even covered with that strange lacework. “Can I trust you to do this job, Jacob, whatever it may demand of you? ”

Jacob snapped to attention, standing tall and throwing his shoulders back. “I am a yeoman, Scipio, I know my duty. ”

The old vampire’s smile didn’t touch his eyes. “I hope so, my friend. I hope so.”

He pressed a small card into Jacob’s hand. “Here’s the number of my
telefonino.
Call me if you find out anything.”

Chapter 5

Union Square was filled with people who seemed to be in no hurry. Sunday shoppers loaded with bags gawked at the mannequins in the windows of Macy’s and Nieman Marcus, tourists waited in the wrong places for the cable car as it made its noisy, clanging progress up Powell Street, and homeless people stood on the corners with their hands or paper cups extended. Sunni weaved impatiently through them all to get to her gallery.

Tourists rarely passed through the gleaming glass doors of the Marquette Gallery—Fine Art and Antiques, unless they were very rich or very confident. Everything about the place, from the blond wood walls sparsely punctuated with art, to the spiral iron staircase that looked vaguely like prison bars, was designed to intimidate the gawker and the dilettante. Not that Sunni had anything against those people. They just had greasy fingers and an overwhelming urge to touch everything they saw.

Carl, Sunni’s assistant, was part of the ambience. He was a pale young man with shoulder-length hair that was as black as Clairol could make it. He favored shirts with ruffled collars, dark, Victorian-style suits, and thick eye makeup. He spoke with a fake British accent, acquired during a year in Cambridge as a Rhodes scholar.

“Carl, did the Giacometti sculpture come in yesterday … what the hell did you do to your ears?”

Carl’s black-painted fingertips flew from the computer keyboard to his earlobes, where rings the size of Lifesavers had been inserted into the lobes, which were red and swollen.

“I had ear stretchers put in. Do you like them?”

“Do I like them? What part of ‘what the hell did you do to your ears?’ did you not hear?” Sunni came closer and delicately put her pinkie finger through the ring in one of his lobes.

“Every two months they put bigger rings in. You can make your earlobes this big.” Carl made a C with his hand.

“That’s just gross.” Sunni shuddered. “Listen, I’m fine with the makeup, the tattoos, the fingernail polish, the outfits, but you cannot make your earlobes the size of softballs and expect to work here. You’ll alienate the customers.”

“Ping-Pong ball?” Carl asked hopefully.

“Gumball. If that. ”

Her assistant sighed wistfully.

The electronic doorbell rang. Sunni turned around and automatically moved toward the door, as she always greeted every guest personally, but when she saw the man she stopped moving. He was tall and elegant, wearing a three-piece suit with a red bow tie. He looked European, and wealthy. All of these attributes were not unusual in people visiting the Marquette Gallery, but this man had something special, a
presence,
that was so powerful it seemed to fill the room. It took her several seconds to recover her composure enough to continue across the floor.

“Good morning,” Sunni said. “I’m Sunni Marquette. Is there anything in particular I can help you with?”

“I’m Richard Lazarus. Such a pleasure to meet you.” The accent was British, the voice one of the most pleasant she’d ever heard, creamy and soothing as a cup of hot chocolate. Sunni tried not to stare at the man, but failed. He managed to look both entirely up-to-date and as if he’d time-traveled out of another era. Even his suit—an impeccably cut herringbone tweed with narrow lapels—looked stylish now, but could just as easily have been worn in the 1950s or even the 1930s. Likewise his dark hair, which was combed back from his forehead and gelled in place, Cary Grant–style. He was probably in his forties, but he would be handsome in twenty years, or thirty. He was a man you could look at forever.

“I’ve just flown in from London, especially to come here.”

As he shook her hand she breathed in deeply. He smelled wonderful, although she couldn’t possibly have described or defined the fragrance.

“Oh, really? I’m flattered, I must say.” And confused, though she didn’t say that. “London has such fine galleries.”

“Yes, but none are yours, I believe?”

His smile caused Sunni’s stomach to tighten. She could feel her cheeks turning pink. “That’s true. What in particular are you looking for, Mr. Lazarus?”

He paused before answering, as if considering several possibilities. “I’m enamored of the baroque decorative arts. I have a country house in the Cotswolds that I’ve been furnishing.”

Sunni thought of the porcelain vase that was sitting in the viewing room waiting for Dennis LaForge. She hadn’t exactly promised it to him, had she? And, as Izzy said last night, Dennis already had plenty of vases.

“I have a lovely Qing dynasty vase with Louis XV bronze mounts. It’s in the back. Would you like to see it?”

“I certainly would. ”

“Wonderful.” She led him toward the back room. “Can Carl bring you a beverage while you’re viewing the piece?”

“Tea, please.”

“Very good.” Sunni gestured at Carl. “In a pot, with milk and sugar,” she whispered as they passed Carl’s desk.

The vase was in a private viewing room, positioned in an alcove lined with black velvet. Sunni flipped a switch that turned on a spotlight and handed Lazarus a pair of white cotton gloves.

“I bought it last year from the Duc de Montparnasse, at his chateau in the Loire Valley, along with an ormolu desk and some fireplace inserts, but I had to let him keep it until his divorce was finalized. It just arrived.”

“May I?” Lazarus asked. He was holding his gloved hands out in a way that felt to Sunni like he was asking to touch her, not the vase. But that was silly. She nodded, and he carefully lifted the vase, turning it to examine its base.

The doorbell rang again. Sunni ignored it, knowing that Carl would deal with whoever was there. But in another moment she heard Dennis LaForge’s voice boom through the gallery.

“Sunni, we’re here! Where’s that vase you bought for me?”

Sunni cringed.

Lazarus smiled. “You didn’t tell me I had competition.”

“I’m so sorry, these are friends of mine. If you’ll excuse me for just a minute, I’ll go talk to them. Feel free to look at the vase for as long as you like.”

Sunni raced into the gallery, where Isabel and Dennis LaForge were standing in front of Carl’s desk. Dennis was as big as Sunni was small—broad-shouldered and barrel-chested, with springy, untamable black hair turning to gray, hands the size of baseball mitts, and a nose like a squashed cupcake. The nose was earned during an unsuccessful career as a boxer in his twenties, before he discovered his true talent—buying, developing, and selling real estate.

“Hi, Sunni, Isabel says you have a little something from France that I might like?” He smiled, his green eyes sparkling.

“Well, I, um, there’s a slight problem, Dennis.”

“You broke it?” Dennis laughed at his own joke.

“No, that’s not it. I have another customer interested in it.”

Richard Lazarus emerged from the back room and dropped the cotton gloves on Carl’s desk. He approached the group, his eyes fixed on Isabel.

“This is Richard Lazarus,” Sunni said. “He’s just in from London, interested in baroque decorative art. This is Isabel LaForge, and her father, Dennis LaForge.”

Isabel leaned her crutch against her hip and took Richard’s hand. As he gazed into her eyes for what seemed an unreasonably long time, Isabel’s face underwent a transformation. Her blue eyes grew wide and dreamy, and her mouth puckered, as if in expectation of a kiss. Sunni felt an unexpected stab of jealousy.

I saw him first, she thought.

“Nice, nice to meet you,” Isabel stammered.

Richard released Isabel, but not before making sure she had a firm hold on her crutches. He reached a palm out to Dennis. “I believe I’ve heard the name before. Are you associated with LaForge Realty and Development, by any chance?”

“That’s my company,” Dennis said, a little warily.

“Your reputation precedes you, sir. ”

Dennis looked at Richard with considerably more interest. “I’m afraid you catch me at a disadvantage. What did you say your name was?”

Richard inclined his head. “Richard Lazarus, sir.”

“Are you in the business, Richard?”

“I’m a partner in the Harrington Capital Group in London. We invested in an office park in New-port, Connecticut, that your company developed. Very nice piece of work it was.”

Dennis smiled broadly, now that Richard’s star was properly placed in the firmament. “Harrington Group, yes, indeed. Pleasure to meet you.”

Richard turned to Isabel, who was blushing like a twelve-year-old meeting her favorite American Idol. “Are you in the business, Isabel?”

“I help Daddy out when I can,” Isabel stammered.

“Which I’m sure is very often,” Richard said. “I just took a look at the Qing vase, Mr. LaForge. I think it will make a fine addition to your collection.”

“Oh, but if you’re interested I certainly don’t need …” Dennis demurred.

Richard held up a hand. “I won’t hear of it. It’s yours, please enjoy it. But I wonder if you would do me the honor of joining me for supper tonight. I hear Gary Danko is one of the best restaurants in the city.”

Dennis shook his head. “Sorry, Richard, I’m booked up for tonight.”

“What about you ladies?”

Sunni turned so that she could look at Isabel without Richard seeing her face. She gesticulated with her eyebrows, trying to silently ask her friend what they should do. She quickly realized they were going to need to talk.

“I’ve got an engagement,” Sunni said, “but I’ll see if I can break it. I’ll get back to you later this afternoon.”

“Yes, me too,” Isabel said, more reluctantly.

“Could you leave your number with Carl?”

“Certainly,” Richard said. He turned to Dennis. “Do you have any ongoing projects here in the city? I’d love to take a look.”

“As a matter of fact we’re doing a renovation just down on Market Street. It’s interesting, because it’s a historic landmark, but I got a variance to build a fifteen-story building behind the façade …” Dennis paused. “What are you doing right now? Would you like to see it?”

“I’d be delighted.” Richard turned to Sunni and Isabel. “Would you like to accompany us?”

“Of course,” Isabel answered, but Sunni shook her head. “I’ve got work to do here. Izzy, let’s meet at the Golden Dragon later. Say one thirty? ”

The borderline between downtown and Chinatown was delineated by the Dragon Gate: three arches, two for pedestrians and one for cars, topped by jade-tiled roofs. Like almost anything in Chinatown, the observant eye was rewarded with views of small dragons and gilded fish tails on the roofs, which eluded those without an eye for detail. Sunni knew the animals were there, as she knew the underside of the roofs were hung with red paper lanterns, but she didn’t look up to see any of these things as she passed through.

If Union Square was crowded, Chinatown was overflowing, packed to almost immovability with people and merchandise that spilled out of the shops and onto the sidewalks. Many of the stores sold tourist schlock, but mixed among them were the butchers, fishmongers, tea shops, apothecaries, variety stores, and bakeries that catered to the inhabitants of the district.

Sunni worked her way through two blocks of teeming urban commerce to arrive at a green-tiled entryway guarded by a ceramic dragon. A sign on the building read GOLDEN DRAGON RESTAURANT, ESTABLISHED 1927. She opened the door into a cavernous banquet hall, brightly lit with numerous crystal chandeliers. The walls were covered with flocked red velvet wallpaper. Dozens of tables surrounded a burbling stone fountain. The patrons were a mix of tourists and local Asian families. A hostess in a floor-length red brocade cheongsam dress hurried up to her. She was pretty, with high cheekbones, shiny black hair pulled into a neat bun and red lipstick on her shapely mouth.

“Sunni!”

“Hi, Delia.” Sunni embraced her friend. “You’re busy today. ”

Sunni had met Delia about five years earlier when she was looking for a restaurant to cater a reception for a young artist from Beijing. She sat down for a meal with Delia and her father, Sherman Wong, and felt as if she’d found some long lost relatives. Delia was about ten years older than Sunni, and Sherman was far, far older than that. They seemed unlikely companions for Sunni, but the bond they formed that day had lasted and deepened. It turned out they had many things in common, from Sherman’s love of post-Impressionist painting to Delia’s penchant for shoe shopping. She loved watching them together—their easy camaraderie, their competence at running the restaurant. Even when they fought, which was often, they quickly made up and never seemed to hold a grudge. Delia had a boyfriend, but he was an attorney whose work hours were almost as long as Delia’s, so her primary relationships seemed to be with Sherman and the restaurant.