Masquerade

“Raw,” Bliss joked, handing back the menu, although she wasn’t really kidding.

“Anyway,” Mimi said, taking a sip of water and looking around the lively restaurant to see if anyone was looking at her. Yes. Several women—tourists, by the looks of their pastel cardigans and eighties-era scrunchies—seated in Siberia, were whispering and talking about her. “That’s Mimi Force. You know, Force News? Her dad’s that gazillionaire? There was a story about her in last week’s Styles. She’s like, the new Paris Hilton.”

“As I was saying, it’s not really about the dress. It’s about a date,” Mimi said.

“A date?” Bliss gagged. “I didn’t know we had to find dates for this thing.”

Mimi laughed. “Of course you need a date, silly. It’s a ball.”

“So who are you taking?”

“Jack, of course,” Mimi replied promptly, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

“Your brother?” Bliss asked, shocked. “Um, like, ew?”

“It’s a family thing,” Mimi huffed. “Twins always go as each other’s dates. And besides, it’s not like . . .”

“It’s not like?” Bliss prodded.

Mimi had been meaning to say, It’s not like he’s really my brother, but this was neither the time nor place to explain their complicated and immortal romantic history and the bond between them. Bliss wouldn’t understand. She didn’t have full control of her memories yet and would not be coming out at the ball until next year.

“Nothing,” Mimi said, as their entreés were set before them. “Ooh. I think this one is still breathing.” She smiled as she cut into her steak, releasing a river of red blood on the immaculate white plate.

A date, Bliss thought. A date for the Four Hundred Ball. Bliss knew there was only one guy in the world she wanted as an escort.

“So what about you? Maybe you can take Jaime Kip,” Mimi suggested. “He’s totally hot and so available.” Actually, Jaime Kip had a girlfriend, but since she was a Red Blood, in Mimi’s mind she didn’t count.

“Listen, Mimi, I need to tell you something,” Bliss whispered. She hadn’t meant to confide in Mimi, but she couldn’t keep her thoughts and hopes to herself any longer. Especially since they were talking about boys.

Mimi raised an eyebrow. “Go on.”

“I think Dylan is alive,” Bliss said, explaining in an almost incoherent rush how she had found herself half drowned in the Central Park lake, only to be rescued by a boy—a boy whose face she never saw, but whose voice had been only too familiar.

Mimi looked pityingly on her friend. Through her father, Mimi had heard what had happened. Dylan had been attacked and killed by a Silver Blood. There had been no hope for his survival. They had never found his body, but Bliss’s testimony to The Committee about the tragic evening had spelled out his fate loud and clear.

“Bliss, darling, I think that’s really sweet how you think this guy, your so-called ‘savior,’ was Dylan. But there’s no way. You know as well as I do that . . .”

“That what?” Bliss asked defensively.

“That Dylan’s dead.”

The words hung in the air between them.

“And he’s never coming back, Bliss. Ever.” Mimi sighed and put down her knife and fork. “So let’s get serious. Do you want me to set you up? I think Jaime Kip is such a hottie.”





EIGHT


When Schuyler woke up, she was lying in an enormous king-size bed in the middle of a vast room furnished in what can only be described as Early Medieval Royalty. An immense and foreboding tapestry depicting the death of a unicorn decorated the far wall, a gargantuan gold chandelier lit with a hundred dripping candles hung from the ceiling, and the bed itself was piled with all manner of thick and woolly animal pelts. The whole place conveyed a brutal, primitive elegance. She blinked her eyes and her hands went flying up to her neck. But there were no bite marks. She was safe from that, at least. “Ah, you are awake.” Schuyler turned to the sound of the voice. A uniformed maidservant in a black dress with a white apron curtsied. “If you please, follow me, Miss Van Alen,” she said. “I am supposed to take you downstairs.”

How did she know my name?

“Where am I?” Schuyler asked, kicking off the covers and stuffing her feet back into her motorcycle boots that she found on the floor.

“The Ducal Palace,” the maid answered, leading Schuyler out of the room and toward a winding stairway lit by hanging torches.

The Palazzo Ducale, or the Doge’s Palace, was the seat of the Venetian government for centuries and housed its administrative and legislative arms, as well as council rooms and the doge’s private residence. Tourists were welcome to visit the grand halls and galleries. Schuyler herself had already seen the palace on the officially sanctioned tour.

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