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Sy’s life—if he took Fifth, his cab would, indeed, meet with congestion that would so irritate him, he’d get out and walk, causing him to jaywalk injudiciously at Forty-seventh and be struck by a Fresh Direct truck—and he wasn’t the least bit grateful, but because she knew what “Run it past it your aunt and uncle” meant.
    It meant Shoshona had won.
    “ Vampires, ” Meena said. “Real original, Metzenbaum.”
    Shoshona stood up, slinging her bag over her shoulder. “Get over it, Harper. They’re everywhere. You can’t escape them.”
    She turned and walked out.
    And for the first time, Meena noticed the gem-encrusted dragon on the side of Shoshona’s tote.
    No. It couldn’t be.
    But it was.
    The Marc Jacobs tote Meena had secretly been lusting after for half a year but denying herself because it cost $5,000.
    And no way could Meena afford—or justify spending—that much money on a bag.
    And, all right, Shoshona had it in aquamarine, not the ruby red that would perfectly round out Meena’s wardrobe.
    But still.
    Meena stared after her, grinding her teeth.
    Now she was going to have no choice but to make an emergency run at lunch to CVS in order to restock her secret candy drawer.

Chapter Seven
    12:00 P.M . EST, Tuesday, April 13
Walmart parking lot
Chattanooga, TN
    A laric Wulf didn’t consider himself a snob. Far from it.
    If anyone back at the office ever bothered to ask—and, with the exception of his partner, Martin, none of those ingrates ever had—Alaric would have pointed out that for the first fifteen of his thirty-five years, he’d lived in abject poverty, eating only when his various stepfathers won enough money at the track, and then only if there was enough cash left over for food after his drug-addicted mother was done scoring.
    And so Alaric had chosen to live on the streets (and off his wits) in his native Zurich, until child services caught him and forced him go to a group home, where he’d been surprised to find himself much better cared for by strangers than he’d ever been by his own family.
    It was in the group home that Alaric had been brought to the attention of, and eventually recruited by, the Palatine Guard, thanks to what turned out to be a strong sword arm, unerring aim, an innate aptitude for languages, and the fact that nothing—not his stepfathers, social workers, priests who claimed to have the voice of God whispering in their ear, or blood-sucking vampires—intimidated (or impressed) him.
    Now Alaric slept on eight-hundred-thread-count Egyptian cotton sheets every night, drove an Audi R8, and routinely dined on favorite dishes like foie gras and duck confit. His suits were all Italian, and hewouldn’t have dreamed of donning a shirt that hadn’t been hand pressed. He enjoyed swimming a hundred laps, then sitting in the sauna every morning at the gym; had an active sex life with numerous attractive and cultured women who knew nothing of his background; collected Betty and Veronica comic books (which he had to have specially shipped to Rome from America at a not-unimpressive cost); and killed vampires for a living as part of a highly secretive military unit of the Vatican.
    Life was good…
    True, he had a life style upon which most of his coworkers frowned. The majority of them, for instance, preferred to stay in local convents or rectories while traveling, while Alaric always checked into the finest hotel he could find…which he paid for himself, of course. Why not? He didn’t have any children or parents to support. Was it his fault that an early interest in investing (particularly in precious metals, specifically gold, which he couldn’t help noticing there seemed to be a great deal of around the Vatican) had made him his Zurich banker’s favorite client?
    Still, in no way did Alaric Wulf consider himself a snob. He could “rough it” like anyone else. He was, in fact, “roughing it” now.
    Sitting in his rental car outside a large discount retail