Insatiable. Meg Cabot

      Chapter Five

       7:00 P.M. EET, Tuesday, April 13

       The hills outside of Sighişoara

       Mures County, Romania

      Lucien Antonescu was furious, and when he was furious, he sometimes lost control.

      He’d frightened that young girl in his office nearly to death, and he hadn’t wanted to do that. He’d felt her fear … it had been sharp and as tightly wound as a garrote. She was a good person, longing, like most girls her age, only for love.

      And he’d terrified her.

      But he didn’t have time to worry about that now. Now he had a very serious situation that was going to require all of his attention for the immediate future.

      And so he was doing what he could in an attempt to calm himself. His favorite classical piece—by Tchaikovsky—played over the hall’s speakers (which he’d purchased and had shipped from the U.S. at enormous expense; quality sound was important).

      And he’d opened one of the truly exquisite bottles of Bordeaux in his collection and was letting it breathe on the sideboard. He could smell the tannins even from halfway across the room. The scent was soothing. …

      Still, he couldn’t help pacing the length of the great hall, an enormous fire roaring in the stone hearth at one end of the room and the stuffed heads of various animals his ancestors had killed leering down at him from the walls above.

      “Three,” he growled at the laptop sitting on the long, elaborately carved wooden table in the center of the room. “Three dead girls? All within the past few weeks? Why wasn’t I told this before now?”

      “I didn’t realize that there was a connection between them, my lord,” the slightly anxious voice from the computer’s speakers said in English.

      “Three exsanguinated corpses, all left nude in various city parks?” Lucien didn’t attempt to keep the sarcasm from his tone. “Covered in bite marks? And you didn’t realize there was a connection. I see.”

      “Obviously the authorities don’t want to start a citywide panic,” the voice said fretfully. “My sources didn’t know anything about the bite marks until this morning. …”

      “And what attempts,” Lucien asked, ignoring this last remark, “have been made to discover who is committing these atrocities?”

      “Everyone I’ve spoken to denies any knowledge whatsoev—”

      Lucien cut him off. “Then obviously you’re not speaking to the appropriate people. Or someone is lying.”

      “I … I can’t imagine anyone would dare,” the voice said hesitantly. “They know I’m speaking on your authority, sire. I feel … if I may, sire … that it isn’t … well, one of us. Someone we know.”

      Lucien paused in his circuit around the room.

      “That’s impossible,” he said flatly. “There’s no one we don’t know.”

      He turned and approached the wine decanter, which was filled with rich ruby liquid. He could see the reflection of the firelight against one side of the perfect crystal globe.

      “It’s one of us,” Lucien said, inhaling the earthy fragrance of the Bordeaux. “Someone who has forgotten himself. And his vows.”

      “Surely not,” the voice said nervously. “No one would dare. Everyone knows the repercussions of committing such a crime under your rule. That your retribution will be swift … and severe.”

      “Nevertheless.” Lucien picked up the decanter and watched as the liquid inside left a deep red film against the far side of the crystal bulb. “Someone’s savagely killing human women and leaving their bodies out in the open to be discovered.”

      “He is putting all of us at risk,” the voice from the laptop agreed hesitantly.

      “Yes,” Lucien said. “Needlessly so. He must be discovered, punished, and stopped. Permanently.”

      “Yes, my lord,” the voice said. “Only … how? How are we to discover him? The police … my informants tell me that the police haven’t a single lead.”

      Lucien’s perfectly formed lips curved into a bitter smile. “The police,” he said. “Ah, yes. The police.” He glanced away from the decanter he held, toward the face on the computer screen a few yards away. “Emil, find me a place to stay. I’m coming to town.”

      “Sire?” Emil looked startled. “You? Are you certain? Surely that won’t be—”

      “I’m certain. I will find our murdering friend. And then …”

      Lucien opened his fingers and let the decanter fall to the flagstones beneath his feet. The crystal bell smashed into a thousand pieces, the wine it contained making a deep red smear across the floor, where, centuries before, Lucien had watched his father dash the brains of so many of their servants.

      “I will show him myself what happens when anyone dares to break a vow to me.”