Gates of Paradise (a Blue Bloods Novel)

Oliver nodded. “I’m sure he’s looking out for us in some way…wherever he is.”


Schuyler was glad for Oliver’s faith. Since they’d arrived in England, she had allowed herself to feel nothing but a grim, dogged determination to carry out her mother’s plan. She could not trust herself to hope—but without hope, she realized, she had no reason to go on. She had to hope it would work out: that she would succeed not only in protecting the gate but in leading the vampires on the path back to Paradise; that Bliss would come through with the wolves; and that in the end, somehow, although she didn’t know how, she and Jack would be together. Otherwise, what was the point of it all? Without hope, she was without life. She might as well chuck her bonding ring into the Thames.

“You’re right, we’re not alone in this fight,” she told Oliver. “We’ll give it the best we have,” she said, reaching across the table to squeeze his hand.

Kingsley walked in at that exact moment, and upon seeing their clasped hands, gave them a curious look, and Schuyler quickly took her hand away from Oliver’s, feeling embarrassed. Sometimes Kingsley had a way of insinuating things that weren’t at all true.

“Are there any doughnuts?” he asked, looking at the food offerings. Oliver was right—the Venator seemed to live only on sugar and caffeine.

“Let me check; I think there might be,” Schuyler said. “There’s definitely coffee. I just made a pot.”

Somehow, throughout the course of the day, the casual meeting with the Venator captain had evolved into an elegant dinner party. Schuyler ordered the staff to set the table with the fine embroidered linens she’d found in the hall closet. Maybe it was the house’s grandeur that did it, but she had fallen sway to the same impetus that had caused Kingsley to throw the swanky New Year’s bash the night before—a desire to live up to their surroundings and to celebrate the grand history of their Coven. Schuyler remembered the Countess’s last party at the H?tel Lambert. Tonight was yet another effort to honor what was left of their glory before it was swept away. What would happen to the house on Primrose Hill? Schuyler wondered. Would it be sold to pay the Coven’s debts? Or left to ruin when the vampires were finally gone?

“What is this?” she asked Kingsley, as she looked through the kitchen cupboards for the formal china. She held up a white plate and showed him the barely discernable embossed logo on the back of it.

“The Venator sigil.” Kingsley smiled and sipped from his eighth cup of coffee. “I carry the same one on my…” He grinned and pulled on the waistband of his jeans, as if he were about to moon her. “Want to see?”

“NO!” Schuyler said, with a hand up. Kingsley, ever the joker, had his Venator mark tattooed near his unmentionables.

“Your loss,” Kingsley teased. “Anyway, tradition dictates that the Venator set is only used for when the Regis is in town.”

“There is no more Regis,” Oliver reminded him, having wandered in to refill his coffee cup. Truly he was getting to be as much of a coffee addict as Kingsley. “Charles has been missing since the Silver Blood attack in Paris.”

“Right.” Kingsley shrugged.

“No more Regis, no more Coven, no more rules,” Schuyler decided, directing the housekeepers to use the set in her hands instead of the Spode Blue Italian.

“What are you serving? It smells lovely,” said Kingsley, walking over to the simmering pots on the stove. “The house is full of it. We could smell it all the way up in the attic.”

Schuyler smoothed the linen napkins so that the same Venator sigil was showing the right way. “Just something I used to make in Alexandria. A local specialty.”

“Kebabs is it?” he asked. “But aren’t those grilled?”

“You’ll see.” She smiled. “Get ready. Our guest will be here soon. I’ve noticed one thing about Brits: they’re never late.”

Just as Schuyler had predicted, the doorbell rang promptly at seven o’clock. The housekeeper answered the door, and a few minutes later the Venator captain entered the library, where Schuyler, Kingsley, and Oliver were having cocktails.

Lucas Mendrion had the same ageless visage as Kingsley, the mark of the Enmortal. He could have been anywhere from eighteen to forty, it was hard to tell. He was not handsome—his nose was hawkish and a bit too pointed, his eyes sharp and skeptical—but he projected a reassuring gravity. A man you could trust with your life, and with your secrets, Schuyler thought, understanding why Allegra had chosen him. He was wearing the standard Venator blacks.

“Schuyler Van Alen,” she said, extending a hand. “Thank you for meeting with us, Venator Mendrion.”

He shook it firmly. “Allegra’s daughter,” he said, staring at her intensely. “You have your mother’s face, but not her eyes.…”