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on the avenue. Not so far away, music played from someone’s open window.
    Then, from out of nowhere, a body slammed onto the hood of David’s car, causing the entire vehicle to bounce like a children’s amusement-park ride. The windshield caved in, splintering.
    Meena screamed again, her voice echoing up and down the deserted street.
    David lay there completely still—not unlike one dead.
    She didn’t realize what had happened to David—that he hadn’t been seized by flying monkeys, then dropped lifeless to the hood of his own car, where he now lay sprawled, unseeing and unmoving—until the man who’d done all this tapped politely on the still-closed window of her own car door.
    She screamed again before she recognized who was looking at her through the glass.
    “Meena?” His dark eyes were filled with concern. “Are you all right?”
    It was Lucien Antonescu.

Chapter Three
    I ’m fine,” she said automatically.
    She unlocked and opened the door, then climbed—a little shakily, but with all the dignity she could muster—from the car. Lucien held the door open for her, because he was the kind of man who always remembered to hold the door open for women.
    He was also the kind of man who had, before Meena’s eyes, once destroyed a church and nearly killed her, along with a number of her friends. So, there was that to be considered.
    “You’re sure you’re all right?” he asked her again.
    Truthfully, she felt as if she were going to pass out, but she lied and repeated, “I’m fine.” It wasn’t quite a lie. Now that she was out of the car, the night air—delightfully fresh smelling after the inside of David’s Volvo, despite the garbage piled in the cans along the street nearby—had revived her a little.
    “Is he . . . ?” She looked over at David, who was still sprawled across his own car’s hood with his head tilted in a most unnatural position. She looked quickly away. “Is he . . . ?”
    Lucien was frowning. “Technically, he was dead before I arrived. But no, he’s merely recovering from a broken neck at the moment. Here. You’re bleeding.”
    He handed her a handkerchief. Meena, startled, looked down at herself. There were drops of blood splashed across the front of her dress.
    “Oh my God,” she said. “Where . . . ?”
    Lucien gestured in the general vicinity of his throat.
    “He bit me?” Too late, she remembered how David had pressed his lips to her neck, and how relieved she’d been that she hadn’t had to taste his rank-smelling breath anymore. “But I didn’t feel anything—”
    She broke off. She hadn’t felt anything the other times she’d been bitten in the past either.
    By the man standing beside her.
    “No. You aren’t meant to feel it.” It was apparent Lucien was remembering those times, as well. But he looked discreetly away from her and toward David. “Who is he? A friend of yours?”
    He said the word friend with distaste, though he was tactfully trying not to show it.
    “He’s just someone I used to go out with,” she said. She pressed the handkerchief to her throat, staring at Lucien, thinking the exact same thing could be said about him.
    He, however, appeared to be in considerably better shape than David was at the moment. Intimidatingly tall and broad-shouldered, his dark hair thick and lustrous, Lucien appeared as handsome and put together in his dark Brioni suit and crisp white shirt as always. It was as if no time at all had passed since she’d last seen him.
    But it had actually been six months.
    Six months during which the people with whom she worked—Alaric Wulf in particular—had combed every inch of the city as well as its outer boroughs, looking for him, without success.
    And yet here he was, standing right in front of her as if he’d never left.
    “I’ve been having bad dreams about him,” Meena went on slowly. She still felt a little bit dazed. “I wanted to let him know he was in danger . . .”
    “Of course you