«Yes.»
«And you say you were holding your mother's sword?»
«Yes.»
He snorted, looking pointedly at the assembled Elders, who then leaned forward or shuffled in their seats. The only active surviving member of the Conclave was Forsyth Llewellyn, who sat in the back, his head covered in bandages and his left eye swollen shut. The others were emeritus members like the Inquisitor. They sat clustered in a semicircle, looking like a group of shrunken elves. There were so few of them left: old Abe Tompkins had been fetched from his summer home on Block Island; Minerva Morgan, one of Cordelia's oldest friends and the former chairwoman of the New York Garden Society, sat gargoyle still in her knit boucle suit; Ambrose Barlow, who looked like he was fast asleep.
«Gabrielle's sword has been lost for many, many years,» the Inquisitor said. «And you say your mother appeared to you?, poof! Out of nowhere, and handed it to you. Just like that. And then disappeared. To go back to her bed at the hospital, presumably.» His voice dripped with sarcasm.
Schuyler shifted uncomfortably in her seat. It did seem fantastic and amazing, and unreal. But it had happened. Just as she had described.
«Yes . . . I don't know how, but yes.»
The Inquisitor's tone was condescending. «Pray tell us, where is this sword now?»
«I don't know.» She didn't. In the chaos afterward, the sword seemed to have disappeared along with Leviathan, and she told them so.
«What do you know about Gabrielle's sword?» the Inquisitor asked.
«Nothing. I didn't even know she owned a sword.»
«It is a true sword. It holds a special kind of power. It was forged so that it always meets its target,» he grumbled, as if her ignorance were a sign of guilt.
«I don't know what you're getting at.»
The Inquisitor spoke very slowly and carefully. «You say you were carrying your mother's sword. A sword that has been lost for centuries and that has never failed to strike its enemies in all its history. And yet . . . you did. You failed. If you were indeed holding Gabrielle's sword, how could you miss?»
«Are you saying that I wanted to miss?» she asked, incredulous.
«I'm not saying that: you are.»
Schuyler was shocked. What was happening? What was this? The Inquisitor turned to his audience. «Ladies and gentlemen of the Conclave, this is an interesting situation. Here are the facts of the matter. Lawrence Van Alen is dead. His granddaughter would like us to believe a rather outrageous story, that Leviathan, a demon that Lawrence himself buried in stone a millennium ago, has been released, and that that same demon killed him.»
«It's true,» Schuyler whispered.
«Miss Van Alen, you had never met your grandfather until a few months ago, is that correct?»
«Yes.»
«You barely knew him from a stranger on the street.»
«I wouldn't say that. We became very close in a short amount of time.»
«Yet you harbored bitterness against him, did you not? After all, you chose to live with your mother's estranged brother rather than with Lawrence.»
«I didn't choose anything! We were fighting the adoption. I did not want to live with Charles Force and his family?»
«So you say.»
«Why on earth would I want to kill my grandfather?» she practically shouted. This was insane. A kangaroo court, a charade, a travesty. There was no justice to be served here.
«Perhaps you did not mean to kill him. Perhaps, as you told us earlier, it was an accident.»
The Inquisitor smiled, looking like a shark. Schuyler slumped in her seat, defeated. For whatever reasons, the Inquisitor did not believe her story, and it was clear the remaining members of the Conclave would not either. The hidden Silver Blood among their ranks had been discovered, Nan Cutler had perished in the Almeida fire. The Conclave believed that, at least. They had accepted it. Forsyth Llewellyn had been the victim of Warden Cutler's betrayal and had borne witness.
But the ruling body did not want to accept the reality of Leviathan's return. It was one thing to accept the testimony of a fellow Elder, and another thing to take the word of a half-blood. They would rather believe Schuyler had deliberately killed Lawrence than that a demon stalked the earth once more.
There were no other witnesses to back her up except for Oliver, and the testimony of human Conduits was inadmissible in a Committee investigation. Humans simply didn't count, when it came down to it. So the night before the Conclave cast judgment and decided what to do with her, she and Oliver fled the country.
CHAPTER 7
Schuyler
It was ten o'clock in the evening, and the first guests were arriving at the landing. As befitting the Oriental theme, a platoon of authentic Chinese junks rented for the party made a stately procession up the river, banners flying the crests of the Great Houses of Europe. Hapsburg. Bourbon. Savoy. Liechtenstein. Saxe-Coburg.
Blue Bloods that had remained in the Old Country in favor of seeking a new home across the ocean. Schuyler stood sentry with the army of servers lined up against the stone wall, just another faceless drone, or so she hoped. Each of them carried a different libation: there were pink cosmopolitans in martini glasses, goblets of the finest Burgundy and Bordeaux from the hostess's vineyards in Montrachet, sparkling water with lemon slices for teetotalers. She carried a heavy tray of champagne flutes, bubbles clustered at the lip, golden and bright.
She could hear the crack-thump of the wind whipping against the multiple sails. Some were decorated as dragon boats, complete with gold-plated scales and luminescent emerald eyes at the bow. Some were kitted out as warships with brightly colored «cannons» poking out of the stern. A grand imperial parade, at once indulgent and beautiful. She noticed something else as well, the crests on the banners were moving, changing with the light, transforming in a fluid dance of form and color.
«Do you see that?» She turned to the girl standing next to her.
«See what? A bunch of rich people in some stupid boats?» the waitress cracked, looking at her dubiously. Only then did Schuyler realize that the flashing symbols were visible only to those with the vampire sight. They were Blue Blood sigils, from the Sacred Language.
She had almost given herself away, but thankfully no one had noticed. Her lip quivered, and she could feel her body tense as the guests walked down the dock and approached the waiters. What if someone recognized her? What if someone from the New York Coven were at the party? What then? It was madness to think she and Oliver could get away with this. There were sure to be Venators here, weren't there?
If any of the Blue Bloods recognized her before she was able to make her case to the countess, she wouldn't have a chance in the world, and what would become of them then? She wasn't afraid so much for herself as for Oliver. She feared what the vampires would do to a human Conduit of whom they disapproved.
Hopefully the crowd would remain as oblivious as they looked, another bunch of pleasure-seeking socialites, as her coworker had dismissed them. Just because they were immortal didn't mean they didn't enjoy the trivial.
Schuyler tried not to stare at the women, most of whom looked even more fantastic than the boats. The female guests were dressed variously as Japanese geishas, in full white powder makeup and gaily printed kimonos, or Chinese empresses with tasseled pointy red-and-gold headdresses, or Persian princesses with real jewels pasted on their foreheads.
One famous German socialite known for her outrageous wardrobe came dressed as a pagoda, a heavy metal costume that wouldn't allow her to walk or sit for the entire evening. Instead, she rolled out of the boat on a Segway. For a moment Schuyler forgot her nerves and tried not to laugh as the archduchess almost mowed down a group of waiters carrying caviar and blinis.
The men wore Russian officers' uniforms, Fu Manchu mustaches, and turbans. It was all so politically incorrect and yet stupendously fabulous and anachronistic. One guest, the head of Europe's largest bank, was decked out in a large sable hat and a plush wolf-fur-trimmed cape. It was August! He had to be suffocating in the heat, and yet, like the lady in the pagoda who could not sit down, he was suffering to make a statement. Schuyler hoped it was worth it.
Human familiars were in attendance as well, only the small, discreet scars at the base of the neck giving them away. Otherwise they were just as festively attired and barely distinguishable from their vampire masters. The night was balmy and clear. Sitar music wafted down from the rotunda, a distinctive high-pitched wailing, and the line of junks waiting to disembark their fancifully dressed passengers was growing.
Several speedboats carrying young European Blue Bloods cut the line. They were much more daring in costume than their Elders. One of the girls, the daughter of the Russian finance minister, was wearing nothing but draped metal ropes and a wisp of black chiffon. Another svelte nymph was dressed in see-through chain mail. Of course, the boys were dressed as ninja assassins in black silk jumpsuits or as samurai warriors, and carried decorative swords.
When her tray was empty, Schuyler headed back, walking past Oliver's sight line from the second level. She glanced up and saw him making a turquoise-colored cocktail adorned with sizzling firecrackers. She saw him nod, and she knew he had seen her. She ditched her tray in a dark corner and walked swiftly into the main hall, past cordoned-off areas of the residential wing.