Oliver knelt beside Bliss, and they were able to make a makeshift straitjacket from Dylan’s sweater. The lines on his face slowly smoothed away. Asleep, he looked docile and peaceful.
“We’ve got to turn him over to the Committee; this has gone on long enough,” Oliver said. “I know you don’t want to, Bliss, but it’s best for him. Maybe they can help him.”
“They don’t help Silver Bloods—they destroy them. You know that,” Bliss said bitterly.
“But maybe . . .”
“I’ll take him to my father,” Bliss decided. “I might be able to plead his case with Forsyth. Get him to show Dylan some mercy because he’s my friend. He’ll know what to do.”
Schuyler nodded. Forsyth should be able to deal with Dylan. Meanwhile, the Llewellyns’ Rolls-Royce pulled up to the curb. They bundled Dylan into the backseat and strapped him in next to Bliss.
“He’ll be okay,” Schuyler assured.
“Yeah,” Bliss said, even though she knew that none of them believed it anymore. The car pulled away, and she raised her hand in good-bye. Oliver returned the wave, while Schuyler simply looked stricken. Finally the car turned the corner and she couldn’t see them anymore.
When Bliss arrived at Penthouse des Reves, her family’s extravagant triplex apartment on the top of one of the most exclusive buildings on Park Avenue, BobiAnne was consulting with her astrologer in the “casual” sitting room. Bliss’s stepmother was a big-haired Texan socialite who was dripping in diamonds even in the early afternoon. Bliss’s half sister, Jordan, was doing homework on a nearby coffee table. The two of them looked up in surprise at Bliss’s entry.
“What on earth?” BobiAnne cried, leaping from her chair at the sight of her stepdaughter and the bound, unconscious boy.
“It’s Dylan,” Bliss said, as if that would explain everything. She was frightfully calm as she addressed her family. She had no idea how they would react at the sight of him, especially since he was so dirty. BobiAnne had a heart palpitation when someone forgot to use a coaster or left sweaty handprints on the Japanese wallpaper.
“The boy who disappeared,” Jordan whispered, her eyes round and frightened.
“Yes. There’s something wrong with him. He’s . . . not quite all there. I have to tell Dad.” Bliss confessed to everything—Dylan’s unexpected return, how she’d hid him in the Chelsea Hotel—and gave them the Cliff ’s Notes version of his previous attacks. “But we’re all fine,” she assured. “Don’t worry about me. Help him,” she said, gently setting Dylan down on the nearest chaise longue.
“You did the right thing,” BobiAnne said, pressing Bliss to her chest and smothering her with her perfume. “He’ll be safe here with us.”
TWENTY
Spring in New York was a mirage. The city turned from brutal winter to brutal summer with barely a gap in between. After the winter snows melted, there would be a few days of rain, and then the sun would shine mercilessly, turning the city into one big sauna. Like her fellow residents, Schuyler prized what little spring they had. As she walked across Ninety-sixth Street with Bliss after school, she smiled when she noticed the first fragile buds of the season. However much her life had changed, she could still count on the tulips to blossom in Central Park. She picked off a tiny yellow flower from a nearby bush and tucked it in her hair. Duchesne was starting to unwind in its last few months before summer vacation. The seniors had all received their college acceptances, and teachers held half their classes in the outdoor courtyards. Bliss told her that Dylan was being taken care of—and not in a bad way. Forsyth had been more than sympathetic to Dylan’s situation. The senator had told her there might still be hope for him, even if he had been corrupted, since it took a long time for a Blue Blood to turn into a Silver Blood. There might still be time to halt the process. Forsyth had put him in a place where he could be observed and rehabilitated.
“Basically, he’s in rehab,” Bliss explained as they walked past the familiar landmarks of the neighborhood, dodging a group of scowling Nightingale-Bamford girls in their blue-and-white uniforms. “You know how Charlie Bank and Honor Leslie had to go to Transitions last year? And everyone thought it was because of drugs?” Bliss asked, naming two Duchesne students who had disappeared from school for months at a time.
“Uh-huh.” Schuyler nodded.