Bliss had thought that that was the last time she would ever see Dylan again, and yet . . . this boy who had rescued her . . . his low voice in her ear—it had been so familiar. She didn’t dare to hope; she didn’t want to believe in something that couldn’t be true, that couldn’t possibly be real. She had clung to him as he pulled her steadily to the shore.
This wasn’t the first time Bliss had woken up in an unexpected place, only to find herself inches from danger. Just last week she had opened her eyes to find herself perched on the topmost ledge of the Cloisters Museum, high up in Fort Tryon Park. Her left foot had been dangling off the edge, and she had caught herself just in time to pull back and save herself from a dangerous fall. Bliss realized she probably would have survived the fall anyway, with only a few scratches, and wondered idly that if she did want to commit suicide, what options would be available to an immortal anyway?
And then today she had found herself in the middle of the lake.
The blackouts—the nightmares of someone stalking her, and of being here but not here—were getting worse. They had begun the year before: excruciating, head-pounding migraines accompanied by terrifying visions of crimson eyes with silver pupils, and sharp, glittering teeth . . . and of running down endless corridors while the beast chased her, its foul breath sickening in its intensity . . . catching up to her, bringing her down to the ground, where it would devour her soul.
Stop it, she told herself. Why think of that now? The nightmare vision was gone. The beast—whatever it was— resided in her imagination only. Wasn’t that what her father had said? That the nightmares were simply part of the transformation? Bliss was fifteen, the age at which the vampire memories resurfaced, the age in which the Blue Bloods began to realize their true identities as immortal beings.
Bliss tried to recall everything that had happened earlier that day, if there was any clue as to how she could come to find herself half drowned in the Central Park lake. She had gone to school as usual, and afterward had attended another tedious Committee meeting. The Committee was supposed to teach her and all the new inductees how to control and use their vampire senses, but for the last two months the organization had been more invested in planning a fancy party than anything else. Her stepmother, BobiAnne, had attended the meeting, embarrassing Bliss with her screechy voice and her tacky outfit, a head-to-toe-logo’d Vuitton tracksuit. Bliss hadn’t realized they made casual wear out of the same brown canvas as the luggage. She thought her stepmother looked like one big gold-and-brown train case.
Afterward, because her father was home for a change, the family had dined at the new Le Cirque that had recently relocated to sumptuous quarters at One Beacon Court. The famed New York dining hall catered to the powerful and wealthy, and Senator Llewellyn had spent the evening shaking hands with the other well-heeled patrons—the mayor, the broadcaster, the actress, the other senator from New York. Bliss had ordered her foie gras rare, and had enjoyed slathering gooseberry jam on the thick, rich, creamy goose liver on her plate.
When dinner was over, they had attended an opera, in the family’s private box. A new Met production of Orfeo ed Euridice. Bliss had always loved the tragic story of how Orpheus descended into Hell to rescue Eurydice, only to lose her at the very end. But the stentorian rumbling and mournful singing had rocked Bliss to sleep, leading her to dream of the watery abyss of Hades.
That was where her memory ended. Was her family still in the theater? Her father seated like a stern, grave idol, his hands placed under his chin, watching the show intently while her stepmother grimaced and yawned, and her half sister, Jordan, silently mouthed all the words. Jordan was eleven years old and an opera freak—freak being the definitive word, in Bliss’s estimation.
They were near the dock now, and the steady hand hoisted her up the ladder next to the pier. Bliss slid on the slippery ledge, but found she could walk. Whoever he was, he was right: her vampire blood was warming her up, and in a few minutes she wouldn’t even notice that it was forty degrees outside. If she had been human, she would have been dead, drowned for certain.
She looked down at her damp clothing. She was still wearing the same clothes she had worn to dinner and the opera. An intricately embroidered black satin Temperley dress—ruined now. So much for dry-clean only. Only one of her five-inch patent leather Balenciaga platforms remained. The other one was probably at the bottom of the lake. She looked askance at the opera program she was still holding tightly in her hand, and released it, letting it flutter to the ground.
“Thank you . . .” she said, looking behind her to finally see the face of her savior.
But there was nothing behind her but the calm blue waters of the man-made lake. The boy was gone.
New York Herald
Archives
OCTOBER 1, 1870 THE MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE OF MAGGIE STANFORD
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Oil man’s daughter disappears on night of society ball. Was she drugged?
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