Revelations (21 page)

“Where are we going?”

“To Corcovado.”

“Now? Why?”

Lawrence gripped the wheel tightly. “The attack on the Conclave can only mean one thing: the Silver Bloods are planning to free Leviathan.”

They parked at the base of the entrance to the Statue of the Redeemer and ran out of the car. The parking lot was empty and quiet, and they could see the statue lit up by floodlights from below. “Disguise yourself,” Lawrence ordered Schuyler. “And you, stay here,” he told Oliver.

Oliver began to protest, but one look from Lawrence silenced him.

“I can’t,” Schuyler confessed to her grandfather. “I can’t perform the
mutatio.”

Lawrence was already in the form of the young man with the hawkish nose and imperial attitude she had first seen at the Venice Biennale. “Of course you can,” he said, scaling the fence easily.

“Grandfather, I can’t. I can’t turn into a fog or an animal,” she said, following his lead.

“Who said you could?” he asked as they flew up the series of zigzagged stairwells to the statue. Their footsteps made hardly any noise on the concrete as they ran.

“What do you mean?”

“Most likely you are like me. I cannot turn into a cloud or a creature either. But I can shift my features, like so, and take on a different—but human—disguise. Try it.”

Schuyler tried. She closed her eyes and concentrated on changing her features instead of shifting her entire form. Within seconds she found she had effectively morphed into one of the rich, pumped-up Argentine
patronas
who were on vacation in the country.

They reached the top of the mountain and stood underneath the statue. Nobody was there. It was quiet and peaceful.

Not for the first time that evening Schuyler wondered if her grandfather was losing it.

Weren’t they at the wrong place? Why had he brought them here? For what? “Maybe we’re too late. Or they’re not coming. We should really head to the Almeidas and see if …”

“HUSH!” Lawrence commanded.

She shut up.

They walked the perimeter of the statue’s base. Nothing. They were alone. Schuyler began to panic. Why were they here when their people were being killed somewhere else?

They should go back; this was a big mistake.

She walked around the northeast side, convinced Lawrence had guessed incorrectly.

There was nothing to …

“Schuyler! WATCH OUT!” Oliver yelled. He had crept up the mountain behind them, unwilling to be left behind.

Schuyler looked up. There was a man in a white suit standing right in front of her, with a golden sword pointed directly at her chest.

She ducked and hit the ground hard, just as Lawrence removed his own blade from a hidden scabbard in his jacket.

The two swords clashed, one golden and fiery, the other icy and silver, the metals ringing against each other, echoing a sound that carried to the valley below.

Forty-one

“Blood traitor!” Mimi hissed.

“Put down your weapon, Azrael,” Kingsley said quietly, still holding his own.

“You will not find me such easy prey as the others,” she spat.

“What are you talking about?” he demanded. “I saw the black smoke from the street.

My God, what has happened here?”

“You set this up. Don’t play the innocent. We all know what you really are, Croatan.”

Mimi spat, shooting him a look of pure disgust.

“I realize it is hard for you to believe, but I have only just managed to escape from a rather nasty stasis spell myself,” he said sourly. “I went to pick up Alfonso for our usual golf game, and the next thing I know I’m trapped in the back of my own car. As soon as I extricated myself I came down here to warn the others.”

Mimi sniffed. A fine story Kingsley was telling her. Playing the victim once again.

Yeah, right, he’d been detained. When it would have been so easy for him to leave the house from the back and come in the front door.

But what would he gain by keeping her alive? Why didn’t he just finish it off? Gut her throat and be done with it?

“Where’s Lawrence?” Kingsley coughed as several explosions shook the ground beneath them. “I tried sending him a message, but I couldn’t find him in the glom.”

“He’s not here,” Mimi said, noticing that Kingsley had lowered his dagger. She could kill him now, while he was unguarded. But what if he was telling the truth? Or was his act just another part of the trap?

Before she could make a decision, there was a crash, and Forsyth Llewellyn appeared.

He was carrying the limp body of his wife. His clothes were singed, and he sported a deep gash on his forehead. So he had survived as well. Mimi felt a little better. Maybe there were more survivors. But where had the Silver Bloods gone? After she had felled Nan Cutler, the rest of them seemed to have disappeared in the smoke.

“Everyone else is dead,” Mimi told Forsyth. “You and I are the only ones left. I saw Edmund fall, Dashiell, Cushing…everyone. The Regent.”

“Nan’s dead?” Forsyth Llewellyn asked, aghast.

“She was one of them,” Mimi told him, her eyes watering from the smoke. “I killed her myself.”

“You…”

“C’mon, we’ve got to get out of here,” Kingsley said, suddenly pulling the two of them out of the doorway, which crashed to the ground in flames.

If Kingsley wanted her dead, he sure wasn’t acting like it.

“Thanks,” she said, tucking her sword—again the size of a needle—back into her bag, which she miraculously found she was still holding.

Kingsley didn’t reply, his face hardening as he looked above her shoulder. Meanwhile, Forsyth Llewellyn looked utterly lost, sitting in the middle of the street with his head in his hands.

Mimi turned to where Kingsley was looking. The grand eighteenth-century villa was now a giant black fireball. It was a crematorium. The Silver Bloods were back. And they had struck deep into the heart of the Coven.

The Second Great War had begun.

Forty-two

From far away, Schuyler heard the sound of grunts and screams, the clanging of metal against metal.

Wake up.

Wake up, child.

There was a voice inside her head. A sending.

A voice she had heard before.

She opened her eyes. Her mother stood before her. Allegra Van Alen was clad in white raiments, and she held a golden sword in her hands.
For me ?

What was once mine is rightfully yours.

Stunned, Schuyler took the sword. Once she did, the image of her mother disappeared.
Allegra…Come back…
Schuyler thought, suddenly afraid. But a desperate yell from Oliver brought her back to the present.

She looked up and saw Lawrence locked in a fierce struggle with his adversary. His sword fell to the ground. Above him loomed the white, shining presence. It was so bright it was blinding, like looking into the sun. It was the Lightbringer. The Morningstar.

Her blood froze.

Lucifer.

“Schuyler!” Oliver’s voice was hoarse. “Kill it!”

Schuyler raised her mother’s sword, saw it glinting in the moonlight, a long, pale, deadly shaft. Raised it in the direction of the enemy. Ran with all her might and thrust her weapon toward its heart.

And missed.

But she had given Lawrence time to regain his weapon, and it was his blade that found its mark, slicing into the enemy’s chest and spilling blood everywhere.

They had won.

Schuyler sank to the ground in relief.

But then came a great crack in the sky, the sound of the heavens splitting open, the roaring, deafening sound of thunder. Then the statue was broken in two. Its very foundations shattered. There was a deep rumble, and the ground underneath them began to shake and split into two.

“What’s happening?” Schuyler screamed.

A dark flame burst from the earth, and a mighty demon with crimson eyes and silver pupils leaped into the sky. It laughed a deep booming laugh, and with its blazing spear, pinned Lawrence to the ground, where he lay.

Forty-three

The demon disappeared. The mist lifted, and Schuyler staggered over to where her grandfather had fallen. To where he lay so still, his eyes wide open. “Grandfather…”

Schuyler cried. “Oliver, do something!” she said as she tried to staunch the flow of dark sapphire blood that spilled from the open wound, the gaping, corrugated hole in the middle of Lawrence’s chest.

“It’s too late,” Oliver whispered, kneeling by Lawrence’s side.

“What do you mean? No…let’s get a vial … for the next cycle. Take it to the clinic.”

“Leviathan’s spear is poisoned. It will corrode the blood,” Oliver said. “It has the black fire in it. He is gone.” His handsome face was drawn with sorrow.

“No!” Schuyler screamed, tears streaming down her cheeks.

There was a moan from the far side of the mountain, and they turned to find the shape of the man in the white suit begin to change. His features softened, faded, and the golden man disappeared to reveal an ordinary boy in a black leather jacket.

A boy with black hair.

“That is no Silver Blood,” Oliver said.

“He must have been possessed,” Schuyler said, her voice breaking a little while Oliver walked over to gently close Dylan’s eyes. Schuyler noticed there were tears in Oliver’s eyes as well as her own.

“Yes.” He nodded.

“The blankness … it was the
alienari,”
Schuyler said, realizing how deeply they had been deceived.

“An old Silver Blood trick.” Oliver nodded. “Disguised as Lucifer himself, so that Lawrence would kill his own kind. An innocent.”

Schuyler nodded. “I sensed it, Oliver—Lawrence must have too. There was something wrong. The light was blinding, you couldn’t even look at him directly. It was a distraction, so that we wouldn’t be able to see what was in front of us. The image of Lucifer was so powerful, it threw us off. I should have used the
animaverto.”

“This was a well-executed plan. Leviathan was freed by Dylan’s death. The prison bonds can only be broken when a Blue Blood commits the highest crime of all—murder of their own kind. It’s in the books,” Oliver said.

“Grandfather,” Schuyler said softly, taking Lawrence’s hand in hers. They’d had too little time together; there was so much she still had to learn. So much he still had to teach her.

Then for the last time, she heard Lawrence’s voice inside her head.

Listen.

I was not worthy of this task. I have learned nothing over the centuries. I did not find
the Dark Prince. I am no keeper. You must ask Charles…you must ask him about the
Gates…about the Van Alen legacy and the Paths of the Dead. There has to be a reason why
the Silver Bloods have been able to so easily breach the divisions between the worlds.

“What gates? What paths?”

You are Allegra’s daughter. Your sister will be our death. But you are our salvation.

You must take your mother’s sword and slay him. I know you will triumph.

Then Lawrence spoke no more.

Forty-four

Dark blood. There was blood everywhere. On her face. In her eyes. On her hands. On her clothes. Then slowly it began to vanish, the metallic tinge turned white and invisible as the cold night air hit the liquid. Vampire blood…

Bliss stared at her arms.

What happened?

She couldn’t remember. She had blacked out.

Or had she?

The memories began to flood back.

She saw herself get inside the car with her parents, saw them nod at her. They were expecting her to accompany them. How strange. It was like being in a movie. She could see out of her eyes, but she could not move her arms or legs or even speak. Someone else was doing that for her.

Someone else was inside her body.

The man in the white suit.

Yes.

I
am you. You are me. We are one, my daughter.

They arrived at a hilltop mansion, and Bliss remembered hiding in the shadows until the time came. She had watched the killing unfold with an overwhelming sense of horror.

The massacre she had inflicted with her own hands. She had been imprisoned in her own body, a helpless figure, trapped inside her head while the other took over. Inside she had raged and wept and screamed. But she was powerless, with absolutely no ability to stop herself.

Slowly, she began to remember what happened during her blackouts. Began to realize the truth.

She
was the one who had attacked Dylan that first night at The Bank. She had wanted to drain him, but something—a vestigial attraction to him—had stopped her, so she had taken Aggie instead. She had attempted to take Schuyler twice. That was why Schuyler’s bloodhound had barked at her—Beauty knew her true nature even if Schuyler did not. Then she had attacked Cordelia, had almost taken her, if Dylan had not stopped her.

Dylan had been a problem. He knew but did not know. That was why his memory was so screwed up all the time. He knew the truth even though she’d tried to wipe it from his consciousness.

That first time he had returned to warn her about the Silver Bloods had resulted in that bloody scene in the bathroom. She remembered his blood-soaked leather jacket, the scratches on her face and the bruise on her neck. But he had escaped, and she’d had to send others to track him down. But the Venators got to him first. Oliver was wrong. They were not Silver Bloods. They had let Dylan go when they discovered he was innocent.

He was free to return to her.

The stupid, stupid boy.

“I know who the Silver Blood is,” Dylan had said that night he crashed through the window. “It’s you.”

And right then and there, she had changed his memory. Made him think it was Schuyler.

A small, sad voice inside her began to cry.

I
loved him. I loved Dylan.

We love no one.

No one but ourselves.

Forsyth had known all along. That’s why she could never bring herself to ask him about Dylan, because somewhere in her subconscious she knew the reason why her father was keeping things from her. Because part of her could not accept who she really was.