Gates of Paradise (a Blue Bloods Novel)

Something was different, though. Her two perspectives were moving through a series of dark tunnels. Candles lit the path, though they only allowed her to see a few feet in front of her.

Where am I? she wondered. It felt almost like she was in a basement—she had the definite sense of being underground—but basements don’t have corridors.

She had been here once before. She remembered performances, beautiful music. Then she recognized the columns, the courtyard, and realized this was once the Theatre of Pompey, expanded and re-constructed by Caligula himself.

The theater was the entrance to the underground city, a network of paths that connected all of the empire, from Rome to Lutetia. The hidden city of the vampires, the hidden life of the Coven.

Now all she had to find was the door.





THIRTYSIX


Schuyler


inn’s dorm was actually a college house called Blackstone. It was much more lavish than Schuyler was expecting; she’d pictured bunk beds in an anonymous cinder block room, especially after seeing the art building. But Blackstone was a beautiful brick building that looked almost like a cathedral.

They entered into a student lounge, which had a fireplace and a grand piano. “This is college?” Schuyler asked. “Or Downton Abbey?”

Finn laughed. “It is here. This place is great! You should see my room.”

She led them to an apartment with two bedrooms, a kitchenette, and a bathroom. “I share the kitchen and the bathroom, but the bedroom is all mine,” she said. “We can decorate them however we want.”

Schuyler let out a gasp when Finn turned on the lights. It wasn’t because the room was a mess, even though it was. No, her surprise was because the walls were covered with paintings of someone who looked so much like her that it had to be Allegra. “Did your—our—dad do these?” she asked.

“Every last one,” Finn said. “They’re pretty much all I have left of him. Go ahead, take a look if you want. They’re pretty great, right? Did you ever see the reviews of his show in Artforum or Art in America? He could have been something if he’d lived.”

“I haven’t. I’d love to see them one day,” Schuyler said as she stood close enough to the paintings to see the fine brushstrokes, the swirl of the paint, to smell the…Wait a minute. That smell…it couldn’t be.…

“Oliver, come here,” she whispered, while Finn was puttering around the little kitchen to rustle up some drinks. “I smell blood.”

“Where?” he asked. “You’re not telling me your sister is some kind of serial killer, are you?” he said jokingly.

“No, in the paintings!” Schuyler said. “I think Ben might have mixed his own blood in with the paint.”

“Gross,” Oliver said. “What is that, like a Vito Acconci fur, felt, and seed sort of thing?”

“It’s not exactly common, but people have done it. You know what this means, don’t you?”

Oliver gave her a curious look, but then Finn came back in the room. “Cool, right?” she said. “I always used to wonder who he was painting, but I guess that mystery’s been solved. That’s your mother, isn’t it? You look just like her except for the dark hair.”

“I think so,” Schuyler said.

“What was she like?” Finn asked eagerly. “My mom always told me it was some sort of tragic love story.”

“Well, I guess you could say it was tragic because he died, and after I was born, my mom was in a coma for almost all of my life,” Schuyler said. “Your mom wasn’t—angry? I sort of figured—”

“Mom’s a true romantic,” Finn said. “She was pretty crazy about my dad, but she knew the whole time that he was in love with someone else. That’s why she lied and told him she wasn’t pregnant anymore, so he could go and be with her and not feel guilty.”

“And she told you all of this?” Schuyler was amazed. She’d spent her whole life in the dark, and here was this girl whose mother apparently kept no secrets. What a different life she must have led.

“I guess it was really important to her that I grew up with good feelings about my dad since I didn’t get to know him at all. You’re so lucky,” Finn said suddenly.

“Lucky? How?”

“He loved your mom,” Finn said simply. “Oh, he was fond of mine, sure, but it wasn’t the same.”

Schuyler shook her head. “No, you were the lucky one. Your mother loved him so much that she let him go because she wanted him to be happy. I bet she was always there for you, wasn’t she?”

“Every moment.” Finn didn’t deny it.

“Decca showed me all the photos—the birthday parties…”

“Yeah, they were pretty epic.”

“If your mom hadn’t lied, our dad would never have left her. He would have done the right thing. He was a good guy.”

“Even if he was, he’s still dead,” Finn said suddenly.