Gates of Paradise (a Blue Bloods Novel)

“HAPPY HAPPY HAPPY!” Kingsley yelled, giving each of his friends a sloppy drunken kiss on the cheek before leading the merry group into a rousing rendition of “Auld Lang Syne” in his rich baritone.

Schuyler exchanged a droll smile with Oliver over Kingsley’s antics. For the last few months the two of them had effectively acted as the Venator’s jailors, parents, and confidants; and while Schuyler was glad to see him in high spirits, Kingsley could be reckless and she worried about him.

“Happy New Year, Ollie,” she said, kissing him lightly on the cheek, remembering past New Year’s Eves spent with him, watching the televised Times Square ball drop, perennially uninvited to any of the raucous celebrations that their fellow Duchesne students were famous for throwing. Once upon a time, Schuyler had yearned to experience a really great party—a date for the evening, someone to kiss at midnight, the opportunity to wear a beautiful dress, to look forward to the coming year in the arms of a boy she loved. She gave Oliver’s arm an affectionate squeeze even as her heart ached for her true love.

It had been several months since she’d said good-bye to Jack Force in the deserts of Egypt. Another climate, another life, it felt like. She had promised him she would move forward with her quest, with her mission; to forget about love in favor of duty. She remembered their last night together, the way he had held her close, the way they had burrowed into each other, skin against skin, breath against breath, not wanting to separate, not for a moment. What had happened to Jack? Was he even still alive? Had Mimi killed him? Schuyler didn’t know. There was no way to know. There had been no sign of either of the Force twins for months, and with the Covens broken and the vampires in virtual retreat—there was no news anywhere.

“I’m sure Jack’s alive,” Oliver said, reading her thoughts as always.

She didn’t answer, just took another sip from her glass.

“Mimi, too—somehow, I don’t think either would be able to destroy the other. I just can’t see it,” he said.

If Jack was dead, she would know it, Schuyler thought. Somehow she would know, wouldn’t she? She would feel it. But all she felt was numb. As if a limb had been cut off, as if her heart was so tired of fearing and grieving that it had given up hoping. It was too difficult to think of Jack and what they’d had together. A promise, a bond, a joy, a love for the ages, for the history books.…But what was love but pain? It hurt to think of Jack; it distracted her from her work. She had to keep him out of her mind. Had to forget so she could concentrate on the task at hand. Lucifer was moving his pieces across the chessboard. Endgame was upon them. The survival of the vampires was in question. The fight for Heaven and Earth would begin and end with her.

“I know Jack would never lay a hand on her, and I hope you’re right about Mimi,” she said.

“I know I am,” Oliver said staunchly.

He had been defending Mimi for months. Schuyler wasn’t as certain as he was of Mimi’s change of heart. Mimi had ever been hell-bent on destroying Jack, on seeking revenge, but Oliver was convinced her affections ran elsewhere now. Schuyler wasn’t sure how much she believed that Kingsley had supplanted Jack in Mimi Force’s heart. Besides, Kingsley never talked about Mimi and whatever happened between them. According to Oliver, Mimi had given up her soul to get him out of the underworld—which was even more troubling, because if Mimi had lost what little soul she’d had—then what did it mean for Jack?

Kingsley was certainly a lot more subdued than Schuyler remembered him—plugging away day after day, buried under Repository books. There had been rumors in the underworld that the demons had discovered a weapon more powerful than the White Fire of Heaven—but if there was such a thing, the Venator had not yet figured it out, and it troubled him that the Blue Bloods remained oblivious to the Dark Prince’s malevolent designs. But he certainly wasn’t acting as if he were heartbroken—the sly dog was out every night with a different girl on his arm, drinking, carousing, in a whirlwind tour of every nightclub, bar, and pub in the city.

Between Kingsley and Oliver and the skeleton crew of hard-living Venators, their flat—a Venator safe house—was crawling with girls. At first Schuyler had been amused at their bachelor lifestyle—it was such a contrast to her and Jack’s quiet domicile as newlyweds in Alexandria. But her patience had been worn thin by the constant parade of lovely “English chippies” or “Chelsea birds” who flocked to their apartment. The bathrooms stunk of perfume, the kitchen counter was always lined with lipstick-stained wineglasses, and once she had even pulled a pair of lacy underthings from beneath the couch pillows.

Schuyler downed her glass and Kingsley appeared at her elbow with a magnum of Bolly. She raised her hand in protest, but it was futile. He filled it to the top until the bubbles overflowed.