Misguided Angel by Melissa de la Cruz
For Pop,
Alberto B. de la Cruz,
September 7, 1949–October 25, 2009,
who thought Dedications and Acknowledgments
were the best part of my books because he was always in them
Misguided angel hanging over me,
Heart like a Gabriel, pure and white as ivory
Soul like a Lucifer, black and cold like a piece of lead.
Misguided angel, love you till I’m dead.
—Cowboy Junkies, “Misguided Angel”
All things change, nothing perishes.
—Ovid
From the Personal Journal
of Lawrence Van Alen
November 11, 2005
There were seven of us at the inception of the order. A conclave was called to address the growing threat posed by the Paths of the Dead. Along with myself, present at the gathering were the Emperor’s cousin Gemellus, a weakling; Octilla and Halcyon from the vestal virgins; General Alexandrus, head of the Imperial Army; Pantaelum, a trusted senator; and Onbasius, a healer.
In my prodigious research I have determined that Halcyon was most likely the keeper of the Gate of Promise, the third known Gate of Hell. I have come to the conclusion that this gate is instrumental in uncovering the truth behind the continued existence of our supposedly vanquished enemies. This is the gate we must focus on, the most important one in the lot.
From what I can deduce, Halcyon settled in Florence, and it is my belief that her latest recorded incarnation was as Catherine of Siena, a famous Italian mystic “born” in 1347. However, after Catherine’s “death,” there is no other record of a prominent female presence in the city. It appears she had no heirs to her name, and her line simply disappears after the end of Giovanni de Medici’s rule in 1429.
From the fifteenth century onward, the city becomes the center of the growing power of the Petruvian Order, founded by the ambitious priest Father Benedictus Linardi. The Petruvian school and monastery are currently under the leadership of one Father Roberto Baldessarre. I have written to Father Baldessarre and leave for Florence tomorrow.
A Chase
Florence, 1452
The sound of footsteps on cobblestone echoed throughout the empty streets of the city. Tomasia kept the pace, her kidskin slippers hardly making a sound, while behind her came the slap of Andreas’s heavy boots and Giovanni’s lighter step. They ran in a single file, a tight unit, used to this kind of discipline, used to blending in with the dark. When they arrived at the middle of the square, they separated.
Tomi flew up the nearest cornerstone and perched on a cornice looking over the broad panorama of the city: the half-built dome of the Basilica to the Ponte Vecchio and beyond the river. She sensed the creature was near and prepared to strike. Their target still did not know he was being followed, and her blow would be immediate and invisible, every trace of the Silver Blood eradicated and extinguished—almost as if the beast—disguised as a palace guard—never existed. Even the creature’s last gasp must be silent. Tomasia kept her position, waiting for the creature to come to her, to walk into the trap they had laid.
She heard Dre grunting, a bit out of breath, and then next to him, Gio, his sword already unsheathed, as they followed the vampire into the alley.
This was her chance. She flew down from her hiding place, holding her dagger with her teeth.
But when she landed, the creature was nowhere to be found.
“Where—?” she asked, but Gio put a finger to his mouth and motioned to the alleyway.
Tomi raised her eyebrows. This was unusual. The Silver Blood had stopped to converse with a hooded stranger. Strange: the Croatan despised the Red Bloods and avoided them unless they were torturing them for sport.
“Should we?” she asked, moving toward the alley.
“Wait,” Andreas ordered. He was nineteen, tall and broad, with sculpted muscles and a ferocious brow—handsome and ruthless. He was their leader, and had always been.
Next to him, Gio looked elfin, almost fey, with a beauty that could not be denied or hidden under his scraggly beard and long, unkempt hair. He kept his hand on his weapon, tense and ready to spring.
Tomi did the same, and caressed the sharp edge of her dagger. It made her feel better to know it was there.
“Let’s watch what happens,” Dre decided.
PART THE FIRST
SCHUYLER VAN ALEN AND
THE GATE OF PROMISE
Off the Italian Coast
The Present
ONE
The Cinque Terre