Overbite (12 page)

She didn’t understand the lurch. She certainly wasn’t looking forward to seeing Alaric.

“I’ll get it,” she said.

The minute she unlocked the door and saw his face, she knew.

It wasn’t what Alaric was wearing. He looked handsome in the tuxedo he’d changed into, his dark blond hair still damp from the shower. Alaric was fastidious about his wardrobe and grooming.

No. It was his eyes. There was no hint of that boyish mischievousness she was used to seeing in them. For once, they weren’t gleaming with deadly determination either. She didn’t recognize the look in them.

“What is it?” she asked, feeling the lurch again, much more strongly this time. What had happened? Lucien. Had something happened to Lucien? Already? But Alaric had only just arrived. Had Lucien been in the hallway . . . ? Meena tried to peer past one of Alaric’s broad shoulders.

“Turn on the news,” he said grimly.

It was only then that she recognized the look in his eyes. She’d seen it only once before: that night at St. George’s, when Lucien Antonescu had almost killed them.

It was fear.

Chapter Sixteen

A
laric came inside, dropping the duffel bag he’d slung over one shoulder onto the floor, then closed and locked the door behind him. Meena had already lifted the remote from the coffee table.

“Oh, hey, Alaric.” Jonathan emerged from his bedroom alcove, trying to look as if Alaric’s visit were a big surprise.

Except that Meena saw he’d changed from the sweats he’d been wearing to the pressed shirts and khakis he reserved for work. But he had no shift that night, because they’d been supposed to go out with Leisha and Adam.

And he just
happened
to be carrying that thing he’d invented.

“I didn’t know you were stopping by,” he said. “Sharp-looking tux there, dude. Very Daniel Craig in
Casino Royale
.”

Alaric ignored him. He sank onto the couch, his gaze glued to the television screen. He didn’t seem to be aware that Jack Bauer—who counted Alaric among his favorite humans, ever since he’d risked his life for the dog’s, knowing how much Meena adored him—had leaped up onto the arm of the couch and was panting happily into his ear.

Meena had turned it to the twenty-four-hour local news station.

“And starting tomorrow tristate residents will have a chance to see one of the world’s rarest and most valuable art collections,” an amiable-looking anchorman was saying into the camera. “The new exhibit—
Vatican Treasures: A Journey Through Faith and Art
—will be on display through the end of December at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. New York City is the first stop on the exhibit’s American tour. Our own Genevieve Fox is at tonight’s star-studded grand opening. Genevieve?”

Meena, who’d sat down on the couch beside Alaric, looked up at him questioningly.

“Isn’t this what we’re going to in, like, five minutes?” she asked.

He shushed her sharply, taking the remote from Meena’s hand and turning up the volume.

“Hello, Pat,” Genevieve said. She was standing on a red carpet in front of the Met, wearing an evening gown, lots of gold jewelry, and a wide smile. Around her were many other reporters, none of whom was dressed quite as nicely. “I’m here at the opening of the new exhibit,
Vatican Treasures: A Journey Through Faith and Art
. Many of the artifacts have never before left the Vatican, or been seen by the public. And let me tell you, you can feel the electricity as the celebrity guests and donors arrive for this unprecedented event.”

“Oh, get on with it already,” Alaric growled at the television in frustration.

“This isn’t what you wanted to see?” Meena asked.

“It will be on after this. Just wait.”

“But
Vatican Treasures
isn’t just about ancient relics, beautifully jeweled chalices, and priceless works by great artists like Michelangelo and Bernini,” Genevieve assured her viewers. “It gives true believers a chance to connect to their faith up close. Earlier this afternoon, I got a chance to speak to Father Henrique Mauricio—”

“Oh no,” Alaric said. He sank his head into his fists with a groan.

“—who’s come all the way from the archdiocese of São Sebastio do Rio de Janeiro in Brazil to become the pastor of the newly renovated St. George’s Cathedral . . .”

The shot shifted to Genevieve in an attractive sweater set, her hair down, her lips in an intelligent pout as she pointed her microphone into the face of an extremely good-looking, dark-haired priest.

Father Henrique’s English was charmingly halting, his accent breathtakingly foreign.

“It’s a very emotional thing. The artifacts in this exhibit speak to the heart, and reaffirm that which we already believe in. So by seeing them, our faith is supported. And that . . .” His eyes actually filled with tears on camera. A close-up of Genevieve’s face showed that she, too, was visibly moved by Father Henrique’s words. “How do you say it in English? Oh, it’s . . . it’s like a piece of the Vatican has been brought to us, here in New York City, like a gift. You can come here to see some of the greatest, most moving pieces in religious history. And they will, I promise you, restore your soul.”

The shot shifted back to Genevieve, teary-eyed again, standing in her updo in front of the Met.

“Oh, Pat, I can’t tell you how touched I was by those words of Father Henrique. He is so right. What an extraordinary, extraordinary man—”

“Extraordinary
ass
!” Alaric yelled at the screen. Jack Bauer barked enthusiastically, apparently in agreement.

“And he’s just one of the many representatives from the archdiocese who will be here tonight to show support for this exhibit. And they’re hoping many of our viewers will come experience this unique and, yes, moving show. Back to you, Pat.”

“Thanks, Genevieve,” Pat said. “Returning to a story we’ve been following for the past hour, that devastating house fire in Freewell, New Jersey—”

Meena gasped. Jonathan said, “Freewell? Isn’t that where—”

“Yes,” Alaric said. He turned up the volume. This was clearly the story he’d been waiting for.

“We have Dee Dee Chow, live on the scene in Freewell,” Pat said. “Dee Dee, what can you tell us?”

The shot shifted, and Meena saw a female reporter standing on a familiar-looking road crowded with police cars, fire trucks, and rescue vehicles. Behind her sloped a lawn that at one time might have been green. Now it was charred black and littered with yellow caution tape.

“Pat,” Dee Dee said, “witnesses say the fire started late this afternoon, when neighbors saw smoke billowing from beneath one of the garage doors and called 911.”

A confusing view of the scene from a helicopter told Meena nothing.

“But despite firefighters’ efforts, the inferno could not be contained and quickly spread throughout the house,” Dee Dee went on.

The shot widened farther, and Meena saw evil-looking orange flames shooting from every window of what had once been David Delmonico’s New Jersey mansion.

“Abraham,” she breathed. She hadn’t meant to say the word out loud. It just slipped out.

“Wait,” Jonathan said. “Abraham
Holtzman
? Was he in that house? What exactly were you guys doing in Freewell?”

Alaric’s gaze never left the screen. He said nothing.

“Although it’s too early in the investigation to speculate on a cause for the blaze,” Dee Dee continued, “officials say, due to the extreme heat and rapidness with which it spread, there is some speculation that an accelerant may have been employed.”

Meena looked up into Alaric’s impassive face. “How did you know about this?” she asked. “Is the team all right? Did Abraham report in?”

“Shhh,” he said impatiently.

“While firefighters have declared the scene still much too dangerous to enter in order to begin looking for human remains,” the reporter went on, “neighbors say that no one appeared to have been in the home at the time the fire broke out . . . which may be the only piece of good news so far for a family that appears to have lost everything. Reporting live from Freewell, I’m—”

Alaric stood up and switched off the television.

“So . . .” Meena popped up as well. “We’re going back to Freewell to look for Abraham and the others, right?”

“We most certainly are not going to Freewell,” Alaric said. “I’m keeping you as far away as possible from Freewell . . . from all of New Jersey, as a matter of fact. We’re going to the Met, and then we’re coming straight back here.”

“What?”
Meena cried. “But Abraham—”

Alaric walked up to her until they stood just a few inches apart, apparently so he could look her in the eye. She restrained an urge to take a step backward. She didn’t want him to know how much his physical proximity unnerved her. Instead, she raised her chin and stared right back at him.

“I know you tried to warn me,” he said, in a quiet voice, one that was devoid of his usual self-confidence and swagger. “You didn’t want to leave him there, but I wouldn’t listen. I was too stubborn. Abraham told me that, you know. He said that it’s my worst fault. He said I think everyone should be like me. Including you. But it isn’t true. I just always want to be right. I wish to God I’d been right this time. But I wasn’t. Abraham is the closest thing I ever had to a father. But he’s not here right now, and you are. I’m going to do everything within my power to make sure you stay alive. So no, we’re not going to Freewell.”

Meena gaped up at him, completely blown away by this speech. Alaric almost never admitted he’d been wrong, and just as rarely spoke of his feelings, except to complain that he was hungry, or hot, or unhappy about someone who was speaking too loudly on a cell phone in a restaurant.

She wasn’t at all sure how to respond, especially since there was a look of almost boyish vulnerability on his face that made her long to put her arms around him and tell him everything was going to be all right.

But she knew that would not only be inappropriate—especially with her brother standing nearby, so awkwardly watching their entire exchange—it would be a lie. She’d known from the moment she’d seen Abraham disappearing around the corner of David’s house that they were never going to see him again.

“This is all my fault,” Meena said, her eyes filling with tears. “I should never have met David in the first place. If I hadn’t, none of this—”

Alaric reached up to use a thumb to wipe away a single tear that had begun to roll down her cheek.

“You were just trying to do what you thought was right. You didn’t know. How could you?”

“How could I
not
?” she asked, her voice breaking. “Knowing is what I do.”

“Well,” he said, “there’s nothing either of us can do about it now, except our jobs.”

She wasn’t positive she could even do that anymore, though. Her head felt like the Magic 8 Ball someone had given her as a child, and which she’d shaken way too many times in an effort to get answers about herself, since she knew the answers about everyone else.

Reply hazy, try again
.

“Alaric,” she said, reaching out to take the large, callused hand that had just touched her face. “Listen to me. The reporter on the news said that no one seemed to be home at the time of the fire. So, that doesn’t mean Abraham and the others aren’t all right.”

“Then why haven’t they reported in?” Alaric asked. “You know how Abraham is. And Carolina was on the team, too. Abraham specifically requested her, because she’s so good in the field.”

Meena blanched. Carolina de Silva. Her only friend at work . . . besides Alaric, if she could consider him a friend. Carolina was regarded as one of the best guards on the force. If
she
hadn’t reported in, whatever happened in Freewell could only have been catastrophic . . .

But when she probed at the part of her mind that told her whether or not people were living or dead and pictured Abraham or Carolina, the only answer she got in response was
Better not tell you now
.

But she wasn’t sure if the words were what she desperately wanted to hear, or if Abraham and Carolina truly were in a place between life and death.

“And there’s no sign of any of the team members’ real-time GPS trackers on the computers back at headquarters either,” Alaric said bitterly. “Either their cell phones melted in the heat of the fire, or . . .”

His voice trailed off. He didn’t have to continue. Meena knew exactly what he was thinking.

Someone had disabled them.

Concentrate and ask again.

“It gets worse,” Alaric said, digging his cell phone from his pocket with his free hand. “On my way over, I received this e-mail from headquarters:
‘Due to continuing uncertainties regarding possible attacks by demonic entities, the Vatican has declared a worldwide state of emergency and an ongoing security threat to all personnel and their family members. Specifically, all nonessential travel to New Jersey is to be deferred until further notice
.
’
”

Jonathan, across the room whistled. “Jeez,” he said. “Who knew New Jersey was such a hotbed for demonic activity?”

“It’s not just New Jersey,” Alaric said. He continued to read aloud.
“ ‘Tonight’s event at the museum is also considered to have a high potential for volatility.’ ”
He let out a bitter laugh.
“ ‘All Alpha Level and above guards are to report to the museum’s parking-garage entrance within the hour. All others are to report to headquarters.’ ”
Alaric dropped his cell back into his tuxedo pocket. “From there I suppose they’ll be sent over the bridge to Freewell, where they’ll be split into search parties to look for any sign of Holtzman and the rest of the extermination team.”

“The museum?” Meena shook her head. “Why are they sending all Alpha Level guards to the
museum
?”

“Yeah,” Jonathan said. “They’re more worried about a bunch of rich donors and bishops and stuff than they are about their own
employees
?”

Alaric shrugged. “The Vatican doesn’t declare a state of emergency every day. They’ve never done it before, in all the years I’ve worked for the Palatine. And I think it’s highly unlikely they’ve done it tonight because some New Jersey dentist’s wife has set fire to her house and is on the loose in the tristate area. I can guarantee you they’re worried about a slightly bigger threat than Brianna Delmonico. I get the impression they’re expecting a surprise celebrity guest at tonight’s gala, for whom they felt the need to step up security.”

“Really?” Jonathan asked, impressed. “Who? The mayor?”

“Not exactly,” Alaric said, glancing at the crucifixes over the living room windows.

Meena gasped as the realization sank in.

“No,”
she said.