The Van Alen Legacy

“Nothing. I didn’t even know she owned a sword.”


“It is a true sword. It holds a special kind of power. It was forged so that it always meets its target,” he grumbled, as if her ignorance were a sign of guilt.

“I don’t know what you’re getting at.”

The Inquisitor spoke very slowly and carefully. “You say you were carrying your mother’s sword. A sword that has been lost for centuries and that has never failed to strike its enemies in all its history. And yet . . . you did. You failed. If you were indeed holding Gabrielle’s sword, how could you miss?”

“Are you saying that I wanted to miss?” she asked, incredulous.

“I’m not saying that: you are.”

Schuyler was shocked. What was happening? What was this?

The Inquisitor turned to his audience. “Ladies and gentlemen of the Conclave, this is an interesting situation. Here are the facts of the matter. Lawrence Van Alen is dead. His granddaughter would like us to believe a rather outrageous story, that Leviathan, a demon that Lawrence himself buried in stone a millennium ago, has been released, and that that same demon killed him.”

“It’s true,” Schuyler whispered.

“Miss Van Alen, you had never met your grandfather until a few months ago, is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“You barely knew him from a stranger on the street.”

“I wouldn’t say that. We became very close in a short amount of time.”

“Yet you harbored bitterness against him, did you not? After all, you chose to live with your mother’s estranged brother rather than with Lawrence.”

“I didn’t choose anything! We were fighting the adoption. I did not want to live with Charles Force and his family!”

“So you say.”

“Why on earth would I want to kill my grandfather?” she practically shouted. This was insane. A kangaroo court, a charade, a travesty. There was no justice to be served here.

“Perhaps you did not mean to kill him. Perhaps, as you told us earlier, it was an accident.” The Inquisitor smiled, looking like a shark.

Schuyler slumped in her seat, defeated. For whatever reasons, the Inquisitor did not believe her story, and it was clear the remaining members of the Conclave would not either. The hidden Silver Blood among their ranks had been discovered—Nan Cutler had perished in the Almeida fire. The Conclave believed that, at least. They had accepted it. Forsyth Llewellyn had been the victim of Warden Cutler’s betrayal and had borne witness.

But the ruling body did not want to accept the reality of Leviathan’s return. It was one thing to accept the testimony of a fellow Elder, and another thing to take the word of a half-blood. They would rather believe Schuyler had deliberately killed Lawrence than that a demon stalked the earth once more.

There were no other witnesses to back her up except for Oliver, and the testimony of human Conduits was inadmissible in a Committee investigation. Humans simply didn’t count, when it came down to it.

So the night before the Conclave cast judgment and decided what to do with her, she and Oliver fled the country.





SEVEN

Schuyler


It was ten o’clock in the evening, and the first guests were arriving at the landing. As befitting the Oriental theme, a platoon of authentic Chinese junks rented for the party made a stately procession up the river, banners flying the crests of the Great Houses of Europe. Hapsburg. Bourbon. Savoy. Liechtenstein. Saxe-Coburg. Blue Bloods that had remained in the Old Country in favor of seeking a new home across the ocean.

Schuyler stood sentry with the army of servers lined up against the stone wall, just another faceless drone, or so she hoped. Each of them carried a different libation: there were pink cosmopolitans in martini glasses, goblets of the finest Burgundy and Bordeaux from the hostess’s vineyards in Montrachet, sparkling water with lemon slices for teetotalers. She carried a heavy tray of champagne flutes, bubbles clustered at the lip, golden and bright.

She could hear the crack-thump of the wind whipping against the multiple sails. Some were decorated as dragon boats, complete with gold-plated scales and luminescent emerald eyes at the bow. Some were kitted out as warships with brightly colored “cannons” poking out of the stern. A grand imperial parade, at once indulgent and beautiful. She noticed something else as well—the crests on the banners were moving, changing with the light, transforming in a fluid dance of form and color. “Do you see that?” She turned to the girl standing next to her.