“I missed you too,” she whispered back. That was true enough. They had not been together like this for a fortnight. And while she wanted to press her lips against his neck and do what came naturally, she stopped herself. She didn’t need it right now, and she was wary of doing it because of how it made her feel. The Caerimonia Osculor was a drug—tempting and irresistible. It gave her too much power. Too much power over him.
She couldn’t. Not here. Not now. Later. Maybe. Besides, it wasn’t safe. They were in the supply closet off the copy room. Anyone could walk in and catch the two of them together. They had met, like they always did, in between the first and second bell after fourth period. They had all of five minutes.
“Will you be there . . . tonight?” Oliver asked, his voice husky in her ear. She wanted to run her fingers through his thick, caramel-colored hair, but she restrained herself. Instead she pressed her nose against the side of his head. He smelled so clean.
How had they been friends for so long without her knowing what his hair smelled like? But now she knew: like grass after the rain. He smelled so good she could cry. She had failed him in every way. He would never forgive her if he truly understood what she had done to him.
“I don’t know,” Schuyler replied, hesitating. “I’ll try.” She wanted to let him down as gently as she could. She looked into his genial, handsome face, his warm hazel eyes flecked with brown and gold.
“Promise,” Oliver’s voice was cold. “Promise.” He pressed her tightly against him, and she was surprised at his strength. She had no idea humans could be just as strong as vampires when the occasion arose.
Her heart tore. Charles Force was right. She should keep away from him. Someone was going to get hurt, and she couldn’t bear to think of Oliver suffering because of her. She wasn’t worth it. “Ollie, you know I—”
“Don’t say it. Just be there,” he said roughly, and let go of her so quickly she almost lost her balance. Then he was gone just as fast, leaving her alone in the dark room, feeling strangely bereft.
*
Later that evening Schuyler zipped through the dark rainy streets, a blur of silver in her new raincoat. She could take a cab, but there were none to be had in the rain, and she preferred to walk—or rather, glide. She liked to flex her vampire muscles, liked how fast she could be when she set her mind to it. She’d walked the entire length of the island like a cat; she’d moved so quickly she had stayed dry. There was not a drop of wet on her.
The building was one of those new dazzling glass apartment buildings designed by the architect Richard Meier on the corner of Perry Street and the West Side Highway. They gleamed like crystal in the dark foggy twilight. Schuyler never got tired of looking at them, they were so beautiful.
Schuyler slipped inside the side doors, relishing the vampire speed that rendered her invisible to the guard and the other residents. She passed on the elevator, preferring to use her otherworldly talents and run up the back stairs, taking the steps four, five, sometimes ten at a time. In seconds she was in the penthouse.
It was warm in the apartment, and the streetlights below illuminated everything inside the floor-to-ceiling glass windows. She pressed the button to automatically draw the curtains. They’d left them open again, exposed—amazing how their secret hiding place was located in one of the most visible buildings in Manhattan.
The housekeeper had set out logs for the fireplace, so Schuyler made a quick fire, easy as pushing another button. The flames rose high and licked at the wood. Schuyler watched it burn; then, as if seeing her future in the flames, put her head in her hands.
What was she doing here?
Why had she come?
It was wrong, what they were doing. He knew it. She knew it. They had told each other it would be for the last time. As if they would be able to bear it. She was both ecstatic and sorrowful at the prospect of their meeting.
Schuyler busied herself by emptying the dishwasher and setting the table. Lighting the candles. She hooked up the stereo to her iPod, and soon Rufus Wainwright’s voice echoed through the walls. It was a song of yearning—their favorite.
She contemplated a bath, knowing her robe was hanging on a hook in the closet. There was so little evidence of their presence in the place—a few books, a set of clothes, a couple of toothbrushes. This was not a home, this was a secret.
She looked at herself in the mirror—her hair was mussed and her eyes were bright. He would be here soon. Of course he would. He was the one who had insisted.
The designated hour passed, yet no one arrived. Schuyler tucked her knees against her chest, trying to fight the rising tide of disappointment.
She had almost dropped off to sleep when there was a shadow on the terrace.
Schuyler looked up expectantly, feeling a mixture of anticipation and a deep and abiding sadness. Her heart was racing a million miles a minute. Even if she saw him every day, it would always be like the first time.
“Hey, you,” a voice said. And a boy appeared from the shadows.
But he was not the one she was waiting for.
AUDIO RECORDINGS ARCHIVE:
Repository of History
CLASSIFIED DOCUMENT:
Altithronus Clearance Only