The Van Alen Legacy(31)

She was dancing across a crowded ballroom. She was sixteen years old, and her mother had let her wear her hair up for the first time . . . and she was laughing because tonight she would meet the boy who would be her husband, and even before he came to stand in front of her to ask her to dance, she knew his face.

«Maggie.» He smiled. Had he always kept his hair that way?

Even in the nineteenth century, Dylan, or Lord Burlington, made her heart pound.

But then, something happened at the party, the Visitor whispering lies in her ear. Telling her to kill. Maggie could hear him. Maggie did not want this, did not believe it . . . and before Bliss could open her eyes, she could feel the cold water surrounding her.

Maggie Stanford had drowned herself in the Hudson. Bliss saw the dark murky river, felt her lungs burst and her heart collapse.

As Bliss went backward, it was all the same. Goody Bradford had set herself on fire, pouring oil over her head, and then she had lit a match and let the flames consume her. Giulia de Medici «accidentally? walked off the balcony of the family's villa in Florence, her broken body splayed in the center of the square.

Quick as the flutter of a butterfly's wings, every image, every 'death? Bliss had ever experienced came to the forefront. But then . . . Maggie walked out of the funeral home. Goody Bradford survived the flames. Giulia got up from the fall.

None of them had been successful in ending their lives, or successful in exorcising the demon that possessed them. They had all tried and they had all failed.

Bliss understood.

I have to die.

Because if she died, truly died, if she found a way to never come back, then the Visitor would die as well. He would never have a chance to do what he was planning.

That was it. That was the only way. She knew it.

There was no getting out of it. There was no surviving it. She and the Visitor were locked in a fatal embrace. If she was able to kill her spirit, the undying blood in her arms, she would bring death to him as well. She would have to make this sacrifice, or else those horrible visions, that terrible future, would be unavoidable. She was a vessel for evil, and as long as she lived, so did he.

«Dylan, you knew, didn't you? You knew what I would have to do. All along,» she whispered.

From the darkness, Dylan appeared at last. He looked at her mournfully. «I didn't want to tell you.





CHAPTER 43



Schuyler

It had been a few days since Schuyler had visited Dr. Pat's clinic, and her new life in New York was finally starting to take shape. That afternoon she and Oliver stopped by the real estate office that was holding the keys to the small studio apartment in Hell's Kitchen, which Oliver had secured for her, paying a year's rent in cash. To obscure her identity, Schuyler would pretend to be the only daughter of a single mom: an ex-hippie folk singer who was usually on tour with her band. With Schuyler's ability to transform her facial features, she could even pretend to be the mom on occasions that demanded it. Mutatio was easier now that she felt like herself again.

They took the subway across town and ended up in a bustling section of Ninth Avenue, a neighborhood that was a mixture of corporate dormitories for Wall Street newbies as well as shabbier walk-up buildings next to strip clubs and triple-X video stores. But there was a grocery store not too far away, and Schuyler and Oliver loaded up on a week's worth of food: organic vegetables, a loaf of raisin bread from Sullivan Street Bakery, cans of beans. Oliver pushed her to splurge on the Spanish ham and a block of French double– cream cheese. The clean, wide aisles of the supermarket gladdened her heart; it was good to be back in America again, where everything was so easy and convenient.

The studio was located in one of the shabbier buildings, as Schuyler had wanted, and it was very small: if she stood in the middle of the room, she could almost touch all four walls with her fingertips. The apartment came furnished with a hot plate, a microwave, and a futon that rolled into a corner. The lone window opened up to a view of the light shaft. Still, it was better than living in a hotel. It was New York. It was home.

«Are you sure about this?» Oliver asked.

Schuyler had entered the building wearing the hippie-mom mask, and she felt her features relax back into her own as soon as he had closed the door.

«You don't have to stay here, you know. My dad has a place downtown, for when he works late. You could stay there,» he told her.

«I know it's not as nice as your house. Or even my old one,» Schuyler said, looking through the empty cupboards and finding little black plastic roach motels in the corners. «But I don't think we should be seen together at all. We can't jeopardize your status in the Coven.»

The house on Riverside Drive was a mere cab ride away. Hattie would be there with her homemade pot roasts, and Julius to show her card tricks. But she could not go back. Not yet. She knew the minute she stepped through the doorway, the Conclave would know. She had no idea how she knew this, but she felt it instinctively and knew she was right. She had to keep away. They might not be interested in her right now, but she had a feeling that would change.

She felt safer in the studio already. Already she felt she was Skye Hope, not Schuyler Van Alen. She and Oliver had decided it was a name a former flower child would give her offspring. Plus, if people called her by a name she was used to answering to, there was less of a chance Schuyler would slip up.

Alexander Hamilton High was the local public school, and they had accepted Schuyler's last-minute registration with no questions or complaint. Oliver had pushed for one of the other private schools: Nightingale, Spence, Brearley. But even he had to agree it was too dangerous. Those institutions were crawling with Blue Bloods. At Hamilton High, there would be little chance of anyone from the Conclave finding out she was there. The elite might give lip service (and donor money) to their commitment to public education but never went so far as to actually send their children there. For the Conclave to believe the story of Schuyler and Oliver's estrangement, Oliver would have to return to Duchesne without her.

But she would have to continue her education somehow. What had Lawrence always said? School was more than academics; an education prepared you for the humdrum of real life: working with others, tempering one's personality to assimilate with the group but without losing your individual identity, understanding the factors of logic, reasoning, and debate. For a person, vampire or human to succeed in the world, unlocking the mysteries of the universe was insufficient. One would also need to grasp the mysteries of human nature.

«Are you sure there isn't another reason I should be here with you?» Oliver asked.

But she didn't want to answer him right then. She was still sorting out her feelings, starting to wonder if maybe her mother could be right. If maybe love was something you had to fight for, no matter what the cost. She didn't want to hurt Oliver. She would rather die herself than see him suffer. But she needed time to think. Alone.

«I'll be okay; I'm in New York, see, the shaking, it's gone,»

Schuyler said, raising her hands to her face in wonder. Had she simply been homesick, as Dr. Pat had said? That her blood had called to her own kind? Was that all it was? Truly? That she was close to a coven once again?

«Good,» Oliver said. «Well. You have my cell. You can call me anytime. You know that.»

«I'll miss you,» Schuyler said. «I already miss you.»

But they had to do this, to keep the other safe.

«Well. Have fun,» he said reluctantly, and with one final hug, he was out the door.

As she unpacked the groceries, she noticed Oliver had left his mail among the stack of papers for Schuyler's new apartment.

There was a thick white envelope stuck in the middle of the bills and magazines. It didn't have a stamp, which meant it had come directly from someone in the Conclave. They always hand-delivered their correspondences.

It was an invitation to a bonding, Schuyler saw, and without having to check, she knew that the address embossed on the back would be the Force town house.




CHAPTER 44



Mimi

The Starbucks at the corner of Fifth and Ninety fifth had closed, so Mimi had to walk a few more blocks to EuroMill, a fancy new coffee «boutique» that had recently opened. The EuroMill had taken the gourmet coffee culture to a new level. They had a fat binder where a customer could choose the bean, the roasting, even the way the flavor was «extracted» (hand-drip, siphon, French press, or «solo»). The place resembled an art gallery: white walls with square blackboards, the coffee grinders and espresso machines polished to a gleam, mirroring the artwork on display.

«How can I help you?» the nose-ringed barista asked.

«La Montana, slow clover,» Mimi said, meaning she wanted a cup of the El Salvador roast through the no-sediment French press. «two of them. To go. Oh, and one of those,» she said, pointing to a chocolate croissant behind the glass display.

A sharp whistle drew her attention. At one of the middle tables, among the writers typing on laptops and the private-school crowd angling for their breakfast lattes, sat the rest of her former Venator team.

«Hey, guys,» Mimi said with a smile. Had it only been a month since the four of them had battled Brazilian drug gangs and Silver Bloods in the jungle?

She was gifted with a rare grin from the Lennox boys, who soon took their leave. Ted slapped her on the back, even.