Revelations (3 page)

“Do you still get those—you know, blackouts?” Schuyler asked.

Bliss shook her head. The blackouts had stopped at about the same time the visions had begun. She didn’t know what was worse.

“Sky, do you ever think about Dylan?” she asked tentatively.

“All the time. I wish I knew what happened to him,” Schuyler said, picking apart her sandwich and eating it one section at a time: bread first, then a scoop of tuna, then a bite of the lettuce. “I miss him. He was a good friend.”

Bliss nodded. She wondered how she could broach the subject. She had been keeping a huge secret for too long now. Dylan, whom everyone had given up for dead, who’d been taken by a Silver Blood, who’d completely disappeared…had come back, crashing through her window just two weeks ago and telling her the most outrageous stories. Ever since the night he had returned, Bliss didn’t know what to believe.

Dylan had to be completely mental. Crazy. What he’d said that night. It just didn’t make sense, but he was convinced it was the god’s honest truth. She could never talk him out of it, and lately he’d been threatening to do something. Just that morning he’d been seriously unhinged. Raving. Shouting like a maniac. It had been hard to watch. She’d promised him she would…she would…what would she do? She had no idea.

“Bliss Llewellyn?”

“Here,” Bliss replied, standing and tucking her portfolio under her arm.

“We’re ready for you. Sorry for the wait.”

“Not a problem,” she said, giving them her most professional smile. She followed the girl into an airy room in the back. Bliss had to walk what seemed like the length of a football field to reach the small table where the designer was seated.

It was always like this. They liked to watch you walk, and after you said hello, they’d ask you to just turn around and walk again. Rolf was casting for his Fashion Week show, and seated next to him were his team: a tanned, blond woman wearing dark glasses, a thin effeminate man, and several assistants.

“Hi, Bliss,” Rolf said. “This is my wife, Randy, and this is Cyrus, who’s putting the show together.”

“Hi.” Bliss offered her hand and shook his firmly.

“We’re well acquainted with your work,” Rolf said, taking a cursory glance at her photographs. He was a deeply tanned man with salt-and-pepper hair. When he crossed his arms, his muscles bulged. He looked like a cowboy, down to his custom-made alligator boots.

That is, if cowboys got their tans in St. Barth’s and their shirts made in Hong Kong. “In fact, we’re pretty sure you’re the girl for us. We just wanted to meet you.”

Instead of putting Bliss at ease, the designer’s friendliness made her even more nervous. The job was now hers to lose. “Oh, um, okay.”

Randy Morgan, the designer’s wife, was the quintessential “Morgan girl,” down to the windswept hair. Bliss knew she had been Rolf’s first model, back in the seventies, and still occasionally starred in some of the advertising campaigns. Randy pushed her sunglasses on top of her head and gave Bliss a brilliant smile. “The brand is going in a different direction for the show. We want to set an Edwardian mood—old-fashioned romance. There’s going to be a lot of velvet, a lot of lace, maybe even a corset or two in the collection. We wanted a girl who didn’t look too contemporary.”

Bliss nodded, not quite sure what they were getting at, since every other brand that had booked her in the past thought she had looked “contemporary” enough. “Do you want me to walk or … ?”

“Please.”

Bliss headed to the back of the room, took a deep breath, and began to walk. She walked as if she were walking in the moors at night, as if she were alone in the fog. As if she were a bit lost and dreamy. And just as she hit the pivot marker, the room spun and she had another vision.

Like she’d told Schuyler, she never had blackouts anymore. She could still see the showroom, as well as the designer and his team. Yet there it was: seated in the middle between Rolf and his wife was a crimson-eyed beast with a silver forked tongue. Maggots were crawling out of its eyes. She wanted to scream. Instead she closed her eyes and kept walking.

When she opened her eyes, Rolf and his team were clapping.

Apocalyptic visions or not, Bliss was hired.

Four

“I missed you.” Oliver’s lips against her cheek were warm and soft, and Schuyler felt a sharp ache in her stomach at the depth of his affection.

“I missed you too,” she whispered back. That was true enough. They had not been together like this for a fortnight. And while she wanted to press her lips against his neck and do what came naturally, she stopped herself. She didn’t need it right now, and she was wary of doing it because of how it made her feel. The
Caerimonia Osculor
was a drug—tempting and irresistible. It gave her too much power. Too much power over him.

She couldn’t. Not here. Not now. Later. Maybe. Besides, it wasn’t safe. They were in the supply closet off the copy room. Anyone could walk in and catch the two of them together. They had met, like they always did, in between the first and second bell after fourth period. They had all of five minutes.

“Will you be there…tonight?” Oliver asked, his voice husky in her ear. She wanted to run her fingers through his thick, caramel-colored hair, but she restrained herself. Instead she pressed her nose against the side of his head. He smelled so clean.

How had they been friends for so long without her knowing what his hair smelled like? But now she knew: like grass after the rain. He smelled so good she could cry. She had failed him in every way. He would never forgive her if he truly understood what she had done to him.

“I don’t know,” Schuyler replied, hesitating. “I’ll try.” She wanted to let him down as gently as she could. She looked into his genial, handsome face, his warm hazel eyes flecked with brown and gold.

“Promise,” Oliver’s voice was cold. “Promise.” He pressed her tightly against him, and she was surprised at his strength. She had no idea humans could be just as strong as vampires when the occasion arose.

Her heart tore. Charles Force was right. She should keep away from him. Someone was going to get hurt, and she couldn’t bear to think of Oliver suffering because of her. She wasn’t worth it. “Ollie, you know I—”

“Don’t say it. Just be there,” he said roughly, and let go of her so quickly she almost lost her balance. Then he was gone just as fast, leaving her alone in the dark room, feeling strangely bereft.

Later that evening Schuyler zipped through the dark rainy streets, a blur of silver in her new raincoat. She could take a cab, but there were none to be had in the rain, and she preferred to walk—or rather, glide. She liked to flex her vampire muscles, liked how fast she could be when she set her mind to it. She’d walked the entire length of the island like a cat; she’d moved so quickly she had stayed dry. There was not a drop of wet on her.

The building was one of those new dazzling glass apartment buildings designed by the architect Richard Meier on the corner of Perry Street and the West Side Highway. They gleamed like crystal in the dark foggy twilight. Schuyler never got tired of looking at them, they were so beautiful.

Schuyler slipped inside the side doors, relishing the vampire speed that rendered her invisible to the guard and the other residents. She passed on the elevator, preferring to use her otherworldly talents and run up the back stairs, taking the steps four, five, sometimes ten at a time. In seconds she was in the penthouse.

It was warm in the apartment, and the streetlights below illuminated everything inside the floor-to-ceiling glass windows. She pressed the button to automatically draw the curtains.

They’d left them open again, exposed—amazing how their secret hiding place was located in one of the most visible buildings in Manhattan.

The housekeeper had set out logs for the fireplace, so Schuyler made a quick fire, easy as pushing another button. The flames rose high and licked at the wood. Schuyler watched it burn; then, as if seeing her future in the flames, put her head in her hands.

What was she doing here?

Why had she come?

It was wrong, what they were doing. He knew it. She knew it. They had told each other it would be for the last time. As if they would be able to bear it. She was both ecstatic and sorrowful at the prospect of their meeting.

Schuyler busied herself by emptying the dishwasher and setting the table. Lighting the candles. She hooked up the stereo to her iPod, and soon Rufus Wainwright’s voice echoed through the walls. It was a song of yearning—their favorite.

She contemplated a bath, knowing her robe was hanging on a hook in the closet.

There was so little evidence of their presence in the place—a few books, a set of clothes, a couple of toothbrushes. This was not a home, this was a secret.

She looked at herself in the mirror—her hair was mussed and her eyes were bright. He would be here soon. Of course he would. He was the one who had insisted.

The designated hour passed, yet no one arrived. Schuyler tucked her knees against her chest, trying to fight the rising tide of disappointment.

She had almost dropped off to sleep when there was a shadow on the terrace.

Schuyler looked up expectantly, feeling a mixture of anticipation and a deep and abiding sadness. Her heart was racing a million miles a minute. Even if she saw him every day, it would always be like the first time.

“Hey, you,” a voice said. And a boy appeared from the shadows.

But he was not the one she was waiting for.

AUDIO RECORDINGS ARCHIVE:

Repository of History

CLASSIFIED DOCUMENT:

Altithronus Clearance Only

Transcript of Venator report filed 2/1

Schuyler Van Alen: Noticeable alienation from peers. Prefers the company of her Conduit, human male: Oliver Hazard-Perry. Survivor of two possible Silver Blood attacks.

Will continue to monitor, yet am convinced it is unlikely she is the guilty party.

Bliss Llewellyn: Interesting case. Complains of headaches, dizziness, “blackouts.”

Perhaps side effect of transformation? Was discovered drowning in Central Park lake night of 11/28. Managed to rescue subject without revealing cover.

Madeleine Force: Possesses significant dark power and displays flagrant disregard for rules, especially those concerning human familiars.

UPDATE ON DYLAN WARD: Long Island team reports subject sighted fleeing the Ward house on Shelter Island. Have sent reinforcements to bring him in.

Five

The meeting was convened in regular fashion. The secretary took roll. All the old families were represented, the original seven (Van Alen, Cutler, Oelrich, Van Horn, Schlumberger, Stewart, and Rockefeller) had grown to accommodate the Llewellyns, the Duponts (represented by a nervous-looking Eliza, who was the late Priscilla’s niece), the Whitneys, and the Carondolets. This was the Conclave of Elders—the gathering of the Blue Blood elite. This was where the decisions for the race, for the future of the clan, were made.

Lawrence welcomed them to the first spring session with a hearty greeting, and began to run through the agenda items: the upcoming fund-raiser for the New York Blood Bank, the latest news on blood-borne diseases and how they would affect the Blue Bloods, how their trust accounts were doing—Blue Blood money was invested heavily in the stock market, and the latest downturn had caused several millions of dollars to disappear.

Mimi was beside herself. Lawrence conducted the meeting as if nothing were amiss, as if a traitor weren’t sitting next to him. It was maddening! It had been Kingsley who had called the Silver Blood, Kingsley who had arranged the attack at the Repository, Kingsley who had been the mastermind behind the cover-up, and yet there he was, seated at the table as if he belonged.

On the surface, the Conclave was as calm and placid and nonplussed as ever, although Mimi could detect a slight unease, just the faintest whiff of discord within the ranks. Why didn’t Lawrence say anything? The old coot was babbling about the sub-prime market and the recent disastrous events on Wall Street. Ah, finally…Lawrence turned to Kingsley. An explanation at last.

But no. Lawrence matter-of-factly declared that Kingsley had a report to file, and ceded the floor to the so-called
Venator,
a Truth-Teller, a member of the vampire secret police.

Kingsley acknowledged the table with a grim smile. “Elders…and um, Mimi,” he began. He was just as wickedly handsome as ever, but since he had been unmasked as a Venator, he looked older. No longer the rebellious youth, but serious and somber in a dark coat and tie.

Several members of the Conclave exchanged raised eyebrows, and white-haired Brooks Stewart had a coughing fit that was severe enough for Cushing Carondolet to pound him on the back several times. When the ruckus subsided, Kingsley continued without comment.

“I bring grave news. There is a disturbance on the South American continent. My team has detected ominous signs that point to a possible
infractio.”

Mimi understood the word from the sacred language— Kingsley was telling telling them of a breaking. But a breaking of what?

“What’s been going on?” Dashiell Van Horn wanted to know. Mimi recognized him as the inquisitor during her trial.

“Cracks in the foundation of Corcovado. Some reports of disappearances of Elders of that Conclave. Alfonso Almeida has not returned from his usual sojourn in the Andes. His family is concerned.”

Esme Schlumberger snorted. “Alfie just likes to get lost in the wilderness every year.

Says it keeps him close to nature. It doesn’t mean anything.”

“But Corcovado—that is troubling,” said Edmund Oelrich, who was now chief warden since Priscilla’s death.

“With what we know of the Silver Bloods—how one was able to infiltrate the Repository itself—anything could be possible,” Kingsley said.

“Indeed,” Dashiell Van Horn agreed, lowering his half-moon spectacles.

Lawrence nodded. “You all know, of course, of the rumors that the Silver Bloods fled to South America before they disappeared. The Blue Bloods kept north, and some believed the Silver Bloods headed south to regroup. Of course, we have never had any evidence of this. …”