Overbite (7 page)

Chapter Eight

W
hy are
you
here?” she demanded.

He thrust a cup of coffee at her. “I thought you might need this.”

The truth, however, was that
he
needed it. Especially now that he’d seen the scarf.

“I called Abraham, not
you,
” she said rudely.

“I noticed,” he said. “Do you want the coffee or not?”

She looked down at the cup. “Light?”

She had on sunglasses, so he couldn’t see her eyes. But he guessed from the throatiness in her voice that she’d been crying.

“I think I know by now how you take your coffee,” he said stiffly.

She took it from him. “Thanks,” she grumbled.

They stood outside the station house in silence, drinking coffee and watching the good people of Freewell drive by on their way to work . . . or wherever they were going so early on a Saturday morning.

The police department was a fairly new building, on a grassy embankment attractively landscaped with new trees. Birds sang prettily in the treetops, oblivious to the impending doom. Alaric reflected that, if they had been in front of a station house in the city, police officers would have been hauling transvestite hookers past them. Instead, a squirrel, foraging for nuts for the winter, hopped nearby.

“Are you going to tell me what’s going on,” Alaric asked, “or am I supposed to guess?”

“It’s not what you think,” Meena said.

“I thought you could only tell how people are going to die, not what they’re thinking.”

“You’re not exactly hard to read, Alaric,” she said.

This stung. He said, “Well, as it happens, neither are you. The last time you wore a scarf like that around your neck, it nearly cost me a leg. So I’d appreciate a little heads-up this time, since I happen to enjoy being able to walk.”

Her cheeks went almost the same color pink of the scarf.

“All right,” she said, reaching up to remove the sunglasses. Beneath them her dark eyes, which she’d carefully made up, were nevertheless red-rimmed from crying. “Yes. I did get bitten last night. But it wasn’t by Lucien, Alaric. Not this time, I swear.”

He felt the sidewalk sway beneath him. He didn’t understand this, because despite his protests that they should get to Freewell as quickly as possible, Abraham had pulled into a fast-food drive-through in the Prius (Alaric would never get over the indignity of having been forced to ride in such a vehicle) along the way, insisting that breakfast was the most important meal of the day, and they’d need the protein.

Now Alaric was glad, even if the alleged “McMuffin” he had eaten was sitting like a rock in his stomach.

“Impossible,” he said to her. “We haven’t had a vampire sighting in the city—in North
America
—in six months. We killed all the Dracul. You know that. You were there.”

“This wasn’t a Dracul,” she said.

Alaric shook his head, confused. “But there’s never been another clan reported in—”

“Well,” Meena said, “then someone needs to alert Homeland Security. Because last night I had a close encounter with an illegal immigrant of the very fanged kind.”

“Why didn’t you call it in until this morning?” Alaric demanded. “What’s going on, exactly, Meena? Abraham wouldn’t tell me anything. He said you’d tell me.
If
you chose to.” He didn’t mention how angry this information had made him. What had Holtzman meant,
if
Meena chose to tell him?

And why had Meena chosen to tell Holtzman anything instead of him? He was the one who’d saved her life at St. George’s, not Holtzman. Was this all because he refused to believe her theory about Antonescu?

But who could? It was crazy. Demons were inherently evil. They were not capable of free will. He didn’t care what Saint Thomas Aquinas had written eight hundred years ago.

“Look, I appreciate the coffee, but can we just go inside?” Meena said, suddenly looking less mulish, and more tired. “It took me forever to get a cab from the train station, and now I’m late, and I’m sure everyone is wondering where I am.”

“Abraham’s already inside,” Alaric said. “He’s told everyone he’s your lawyer.”

Meena rolled her eyes and tossed her coffee cup into a nearby trash can. “Great. My lawyer. Now it looks like I did something wrong.”

Alaric caught her by the wrist as she started to walk past him and into the building. Her bones felt as small and fine as a bird’s.

“
Did
you do something wrong?” he asked, his gaze burning down into hers. He didn’t want to ask it. He knew it was wrong of him, and he probably shouldn’t have.

But he couldn’t help it.

She reached up with her free hand to push some bright copper hair from her eyes. Eyes that, he saw, were suddenly brimming with tears. “I guess that depends from whose point of view you’re looking at it. Yours? No. My own? Yeah. Yeah, I definitely did.”

He felt a sudden wave of tenderness toward her that, had it been anyone else, he’d have ignored. He
tried
to ignore it. She’d violated every rule in the book.

Then again, so had he, at one time or another.

But this was different. She’d also put herself in danger. And then she hadn’t called him. It hurt his feelings . . . even though he’d go to his grave before he’d admit it.

But now she was shaken and upset about something. And she’d called
Holtzman
.
He
wanted to be the person she turned to when she was shaken and upset. Not
Holtzman
.

How could he have let everything go so wrong? And how could he possibly fix it?

She looked pointedly down at the wrist he was holding. Instantly, he released it. She turned away and started to walk past him, into the building.

He should have let it end there. But he couldn’t.

So instead, he reached out and wrapped an arm around her shoulders, pulling her toward him in an embrace that was awkward as much because she wasn’t expecting it as because Alaric Wulf was not used to hugging people, and wasn’t very good at it.

“It’s all right,” he said, in what he hoped was a soothing voice. He stroked her hair. The fine threads, a little coarse from all the dye her friend Leisha had been using on them lately, were hot from the sun. “Whatever it is. It’s going to be fine.”

She finally seemed to realize what he was doing and stopped trying to pull away. To his surprise, he actually felt her relax in his arms. Something warm and wet touched his neck, and he realized, with a shock, that it was her tears.

“I don’t think so, Alaric,” she whispered. “I really don’t. Not this time.”

He didn’t know what to do. He’d gotten so accustomed to her giving him the cold shoulder that for her to completely drop all her defenses and melt against him like this was a little unnerving. He almost preferred the hostile glances and sarcasm. It was certainly better than tears. Hundreds of women had cried in front of him before, and it had never bothered him.

But this was awful.

He tightened his grip and said, lamely, “It can’t be that bad.” Then he wanted to kick himself. Actually, it really could be that bad. What did he know?

A squad car pulled up beside them. A Freewell police officer got out from behind the wheel, then walked around to haul a surprisingly tall and colorfully dressed—for suburban New Jersey—drag queen from the backseat.

“Honey,” the drag queen said to Meena as the officer escorted her into the building, “you save me a piece of that boy’s ass. I will be right out to get it.”

Alaric looked skyward, thankful he had taken Holtzman’s advice not to bring his sword.

“I think we should go inside and find Abraham,” Meena said in a small voice, stepping away from him.

“I think that’s an excellent idea,” Alaric said, and hurried to open the door for her. He didn’t understand the look Meena gave him when he did this, one that seemed to be of mingled shock, gratitude, and something else that he could not identify.

But it did not make him feel any better.

Chapter Nine

M
eena, followed closely by Alaric, walked into the impeccably clean, high-tech Freewell Police Department. She wondered why every head in the room did not swivel toward her as she came in. That’s how loudly her heartbeat was slamming inside her ears. She felt as if everyone in the whole world must be able to hear it.

But apparently, she was the only one who could.

She could see Abraham Holtzman sitting in the conference room the polite receptionist led them to, speaking to a sleepy-looking woman in a beige suit, and to David’s parents, who appeared decades older than they had the last time Meena had seen them.

Of course they did. Because their son was dead. Although they didn’t know it yet.

Meena swallowed and tried to plaster a warm smile of greeting on her face.

It was difficult to do so, however, when she was so hyperaware of Alaric Wulf behind her. She’d never forget the look in his eyes when he’d seen the scarf she’d tied around her neck to hide the ugly bruise David’s bite mark had left behind. She’d thought he was going to throw the coffee he was holding right into her face.

That he was only half wrong about how the bite had been acquired—since she
had
seen Lucien last night—caused her cheeks to burn. She wondered if he noticed.

“Ah, here’s Ms. Harper now, along with one of my associates, Mr. Wulf.” That gaze of Abraham’s was like a pair of lasers beneath the overhang of those shaggy eyebrows, so unkempt that they gave the appearance of a disordered mind.

And yet Meena knew better than anyone that Dr. Holtzman’s mind was very ordered indeed.

And that meant she was in big trouble. Because though she’d finally done her duty and reported last night’s “vampire-related incident,” she’d only reported
one
of them. She was determined to keep Lucien’s name out of it for as long as she could.

But between Abraham Holtzman and Alaric Wulf, both of whom were the most stubborn men—in their different ways—she’d ever encountered, she wasn’t certain how long she was going to be able to.

“Sorry I’m late,” Meena said, nervously, looking around. This was just like a scene from a TV crime show where they interviewed murder suspects.

But there were no two-way mirrors in the Freewell Police Department’s conference room, just a bank of windows looking out over the pleasantly landscaped lawn in front of the station house, and some photos scattered across the table . . . photos of David and Brianna that Meena presumed the Delmonicos had brought along with them.

They were recent studio portraits in which the baby was only a few months old. The attractive couple looked blissfully happy, beaming into the camera without a hair—or tooth—out of place.

David’s specialty was veneers. He’d always wanted to put some over Meena’s slightly crooked front teeth, but when he’d explained that to do so, he’d actually have to cut into her gums, she’d declined the offer.

“I’m still not sure,” Mrs. Delmonico was saying in a querulous voice, “why she had to bring so many lawyers along when all she said was that she just wanted to meet us here to—”

“We’re all just here to help, Mrs. Delmonico,” Abraham interrupted, in a soothing voice. “Ms. Harper, meet Detective Rogerson—” Abraham gestured to the tired-looking woman, who gave the impression of wishing she’d rather be anywhere but sitting with all of them. Meena didn’t blame her. “And of course you remember the Delmonicos.”

As David’s parents’ gazes landed on her, bruised and bewildered, Meena lost all ability to control her mouth. Her smile vanished, and she could only mutter, “Hello,” softly as she lowered herself onto the hard plastic chair Abraham offered her. She barely managed to keep herself from murmuring
Sorry for your loss.

Because of course the Delmonicos didn’t yet know they’d had a loss . . . perhaps two.

And
she
certainly wasn’t going to be the one to tell them.

“So, Ms. Harper,” the detective said in a businesslike tone. She flicked a glance at Alaric, who, rather than taking a seat at the conference table, perched himself on the windowsill, where he could best take in the view. He then whipped out his cell phone to check his text messages, appearing not in the least interested in the proceedings.

The detective looked away, then flipped open a notepad in front of her. “Mrs. Delmonico here says you might have some information about her son, who didn’t come home last night. What can you tell us about that?”

Meena glanced quickly at Abraham.

“Um,” she said. “I thought . . . on TV, they always interview the suspects in separate rooms.”

Detective Rogerson stared at her unsmilingly, her pen poised over her notepad. “This isn’t TV, and you aren’t suspected of anything, Ms. Harper, because at this time, no crime has been committed. Unless you’re the one who vandalized Mr. Delmonico’s car in the city last night.”

“Well, that is hardly likely,” Abraham said, “given my client’s small stature and the extreme strength it would have taken to do the sort of damage—”

Detective Rogerson shot Abraham a look. He smiled at her pleasantly.

“Well,” Meena said hastily, “that’s true. I had nothing to do with what happened to David’s car.”

Realizing she’d already made a strategic mistake, Meena was careful to look Detective Rogerson in the eye the whole time she was speaking so that she could not be accused of lying. She’d read this was one way the police could detect if you were telling the truth.

Then she explained how she and David had arranged to meet the night before so that she could give him the “belongings” of his that she’d found, and that afterward she had sat in David’s parked car for a few moments, just to “talk.” It was then, she said, that she’d noticed David was a little intoxicated. She’d felt it best that David not drive home, and he’d agreed.

Mrs. Delmonico inhaled sharply at this, even though Meena avoided mentioning the rest of it—what David had done to her in his car. No way was she bringing
that
up . . . not ever. Especially not in front of Mrs. Delmonico, who really was wearing her pearls, exactly the way Meena had pictured. She was twisting them so tightly as she listened to Meena that her fingertips had turned purple. Meena half expected the strand to break at any moment.

Then there was David’s dad, who looked close to tears, his nose redder with broken capillaries (from drinking, Meena suspected) than ever. The couple looked upset enough at her mentioning David’s drinking—even though she’d significantly downplayed it.

There was
no way
she was going to make things worse by saying he’d attacked her, too. They’d never have believed it, for one thing.

And for another, now that she was employed by the Palatine—a
secret
demon-hunting branch of the Vatican—she couldn’t. She was forbidden by her employers from ever admitting in front of civilians the existence of vampires.

So even if she’d wanted to, she could not say that David had not only been drunk, but had apparently been turned into a member of the undead, and that he had attacked her.

But of course she didn’t want to.

Because what Meena wanted, above all, was to keep from dragging Lucien into any of this. Not only was none of it his fault—it was
her
screwup, after all—but he’d risked his own neck by coming out of hiding after so many months just to rescue her from David, when he apparently—for reasons he would not reveal to her, but it seemed obvious enough—was not even well.

And now Alaric Wulf was involved. Alaric was one of the Palatine’s best guards, and as such, had heard a lot of stories from a lot of victims, many of whom were as deeply in love with the vampires who were using them as human feed bags as she was with Lucien, and wouldn’t hesitate to lie to protect them.

But this was different. Lucien hadn’t been the one who’d attacked her last night. And he didn’t want to eat her. He loved her.

That’s why she had to keep his name out of this. Even though he’d been the one who’d saved her, no one at the Palatine—particularly Alaric—would understand that. None of what had happened had been Lucien’s fault.

But they’d end up blaming Lucien, just the same. The Palatine, just like any bureaucracy, had its blind spots.

Meena had hoped that by phoning Abraham directly after receiving Mrs. Delmonico’s call, and not the Palatine’s main emergency line, she could keep things under some semblance of control. She was just, she’d explained, filling him in about an unfortunate incident that had occurred the night before that she had, perhaps, not handled as well as she could, though there was probably nothing to worry about. Nothing at all.

Well, maybe a
little
something . . .

She should have known from the concern in Abraham’s voice as he’d questioned her so urgently on the phone that he would bring Alaric in on it. Alaric, who, when she’d been unable to hold back her tears outside, had seemed so uncertain what to do, but had nevertheless stood there with his arms held tightly around her, sturdy and tall and strong as a tree, which nothing could ever sway or knock over or bend.

He’d even smelled fresh and cool and leafy, in a way. Oh God. Why had she ever called the Palatine in the first place? She didn’t know.

But they’d have found out anyway. They always did.

When Meena finished her halting narrative, she glanced nervously down at Detective Rogerson’s notepad. She happened to be sitting at an angle from which she could see exactly what it contained, though she was certain the detective didn’t know this.

That’s how she was able to discern, with some surprise, that the detective had been drawing a very detailed portrait of a ladybug. The ladybug was dressed in a top hat, complete with a tuxedo and tails.

“So the last time you saw David,” Detective Rogerson said, in a bored voice, “he was slightly intoxicated, and walking toward Houston Street to get a cab to Penn Station?”

“Yes,” Meena said. She tried to sound urgent, but not too urgent. “I have to say, I’m a little worried about Brianna. My best friend, Leisha, had a baby six months ago, and she would never, ever spend a night away from home, especially without calling. I’ll admit I don’t know Brianna well, but I think it’s really odd—”

Detective Rogerson, however, had already dropped her gaze. She was beginning to draw a second ladybug.

“And you don’t know anything about how his vehicle ended up getting vandalized?”

“Vandalized?” Mr. Delmonico sounded indignant. “The police officer on the phone said the driver’s-side door was literally
ripped off its hinges
and tossed onto the sidewalk, and the windshield smashed. I’d hardly call that vandalized. That was a brand-new Volvo V50. That’s more like assault, is what that is.”

Detective Rogerson flicked a glance at him. “Yes,” she said. “But the car’s stereo and registration and even the baby seat were still inside. According to your conversation with the New York police this morning, nothing appeared to be missing.”

“Except the owner,” Mrs. Delmonico cried. Her husband leaned over to squeeze her hand. “And his wife! She’s missing, too.” She reached out for one of the photos and held it up. “What about her? Doesn’t anyone care about her?”

“We care, Mrs. Delmonico,” Detective Rogerson said. Meena saw that the detective was adding a bridal veil to the second ladybug. “That’s why we’re all here. In the meantime, the best thing you can do is stay by the phone.”

“Their own phone,” Meena said.

Detective Rogerson glanced at her. “I beg your pardon?”

“Well,” Meena said, “they’re sitting by their son’s phone, at his house.”

“Precisely,” Abraham said quickly. “David isn’t likely to call himself, is he? So Mr. and Mrs. Delmonico should go home to their own house and sit by their own phone.”

Detective Rogerson looked from Meena to Abraham and then back again. Meena was aware that Alaric had finally glanced up from his cell phone and was staring at her. Had he figured it out? She supposed he had. Well, he was going to eventually.

Detective Rogerson shrugged and returned to her ladybug wedding scene. “Yes,” she said in a bored voice. “Absolutely. Nobody missing ever called themselves.”

Mrs. Delmonico looked scandalized. “But all of David Junior’s things are at
his
house!”

“We’d be happy to go with you to David’s house now,” Meena said, “and help you move the baby’s things to your home. Just for the time being.”

The Delmonicos looked completely stunned at this suggestion. So did Alaric, who had not returned his gaze to his cell-phone screen.

“Er,” Mr. Delmonico said. “There’s no need for that. I’m sure we can manage on our own—”

“No, no,” Abraham said firmly. “We’d be delighted.”

“Well,” Mr. Delmonico said, looking impressed. “Your firm certainly appears to be very full service.”

“Oh, don’t you see what they’re doing?” Mrs. Delmonico’s voice lashed out like a whip. “They’re trying to get us to forget the fact that Meena left our son, drunk and defenseless, alone in the middle of New York City, to be set upon by hooligans!”

Mr. Delmonico flung a startled looked over at Meena.

“I wouldn’t say
that’s
what we’re doing,” Meena murmured. “I want to help—”

“He’s probably lying in an alley somewhere,” Mrs. Delmonico cried, “bleeding, because she got him drunk and left him there for thieves to rob blind. And it’s all her fault.”

“Considering that your son is the one who showed up drunk to the meeting Ms. Harper had scheduled with him,” Abraham said, in a matter-of-fact voice, “and then made unwanted sexual advances toward her, I think you might want to reconsider that charge, madam.”

Mr. and Mrs. Delmonico instantly began sputtering in outrage. Detective Rogerson’s pen stilled on her notepad, while Alaric raised his eyebrows. Abraham Holtzman, however, only looked at the ceiling.

Meena wanted to drop her head into her hands and disappear, but unfortunately, she could not. This was a piece of information she’d shared with Abraham in confidence. She hadn’t expected him to blurt it out in front of David’s parents like that.