She realized she was in one of the private residences, the roped-off section of the palace that was not open to the public.
The maid motioned for her to follow, and Schuyler walked down the stairway to a long hall. At the end of it was an immense oak portal, carved with assorted hieroglyphics and pagan symbols.
“You will find him here,” the maid said as she opened the door.
Schuyler walked inside and found a roomy library of baronial splendor. Red velvet curtains were draped over the double-height windows. Walnut shelves were lined with leather-bound books. Animal rugs and trophies abounded.
A stooped, gray-haired gentleman in Harris tweeds sat in a massive leather chair in front of a roaring fire.
“Come forward,” he ordered.
Next to him was the handsome young Italian boy from the Biennale. He nodded at Schuyler and motioned to the chair in front of them.
“You put a spell on me,” Schuyler accused.
The boy acknowledged this was so. “It was the only way to make sure of your identity and your true intentions. Do not worry, you were not harmed.”
“And? So are you satisfied?”
“Yes,” the boy said gravely. “You are Schuyler Van Alen. You are staying at the Hotel Danieli with Oliver Hazard-Perry Senior and his son, Oliver. You are on a quest of some kind. Allow me to bring you some excellent news. Your quest is over.”
“How so?” Schuyler asked warily.
“This is the Professore,” the boy said.
“You have been looking for me, I hear,” the Professor said jovially. “I am not so popular these days with American students. A long time ago, I had many little pilgrims come to see me lecture. But not anymore. Tell me, why have you come?”
“Cordelia Van Alen sent me,” Schuyler said.
At the mention of her name, the Professor and the boy exchanged a meaningful glance. The warmth of the hearth brought heat to Schuyler’s cheeks, but it wasn’t just the blaze that brought a red blush to her pale skin. Saying Cordelia’s name so boldly made her feel vulnerable. Who were these strange men? Why had they taken her here? Had she been right in invoking Cordelia’s call for help?
“Tell me more,” the Professor encouraged, leaning forward and assessing Schuyler keenly.
“Cordelia was my grandmother . . .” Schuyler said. Even if these were enemies, there was no backing out of it now. She scanned the room for exit points: she noticed a hidden door built into one of the library walls. Maybe she could escape through there, or else she could stun both the old man and the boy with a spell of her own and fly out through the window.
“Was?” the boy asked.
“She has expired in this cycle. She was attacked,” Schuyler inhaled sharply. “By a Silver Blood. Croatan.”
“How can you be sure?” the boy demanded. “The Silver Bloods have not been heard of since the seventeenth century. Their existence has been legislated out of Blue Blood history.”
“She told me herself.”
“But she was not—taken?” the boy asked in a hoarse voice.
“No. Thankfully. The attack did not drain her of all her blood and memory. She will live to return in the next cycle.”
The boy leaned back in his chair. Schuyler noticed he was fiddling with the car keys in his left hand, and his right knee was moving up and down in impatience to hear the rest of her story.
“Continue,” the Professor urged.
“Cordelia said that the key to defeating the Silver Bloods lay in finding her husband, Lawrence Van Alen, who has been in hiding. She thought if she sent me—if she sent me to Venice I might find him. Have I?”
The old man’s eyes twinkled. “Perhaps you have.”
“Grandfather, I come to you for help. Cordelia said it was imperative that . . .”
There was a throat-clearing noise from the boy. Schuyler turned to him.
“I am Lawrence Van Alen,” the boy said, leaning forward. The boy’s features shifted—not so much melted, but phased out—changed, so that he appeared to be an older gentleman. But this was not the stoop-shouldered, white-haired grandfather of Schuyler’s imagination. This was a tall, thin man with the same leonine hair as the boy’s, except it was flecked with silver, and still there was the aristocratic, hawkish nose and the arrogant chin.
It was as if the room shrank in his presence. He was a commanding figure, and the sharpness of his gaze was intimidating. Here was a man who would be a worthy rival to Charles Force, Schuyler thought.
“You are a shapeshifter,” Schuyler said admiringly. “Is this your real form?”
“As much as any form can be real,” Lawrence replied. “Anderson, you may excuse us.”
The elderly gentleman winked at Schuyler and exited the room, closing the creaky wooden door with a hush.
Schuyler settled in her chair, noticing the faded Aubusson rugs on the hard stone floor. They were similar to the ones in Cordelia’s library on 101st Street.
“Your Conduit?”