The Van Alen Legacy

“See what? A bunch of rich people in some stupid boats?” the waitress cracked, looking at her dubiously. Only then did Schuyler realize that the flashing symbols were visible only to those with the vampire sight. They were Blue Blood siguls, from the Sacred Language.

She had almost given herself away, but thankfully no one had noticed. Her lip quivered, and she could feel her body tense as the guests walked down the dock and approached the waiters. What if someone recognized her? What if someone from the New York Coven were at the party? What then? It was madness to think she and Oliver could get away with this. There were sure to be Venators here, weren’t there? If any of the Blue Bloods recognized her before she was able to make her case to the countess, she wouldn’t have a chance in the world, and what would become of them then? She wasn’t afraid so much for herself as for Oliver. She feared what the vampires would do to a human Conduit of whom they disapproved.

Hopefully the crowd would remain as oblivious as they looked—another bunch of pleasure-seeking socialites, as her coworker had dismissed them. Just because they were immortal didn’t mean they didn’t enjoy the trivial. Schuyler tried not to stare at the women, most of whom looked even more fantastic than the boats. The female guests were dressed variously as Japanese geishas, in full white powder makeup and gaily printed kimonos, or Chinese empresses with tasseled pointy red-and-gold headdresses, or Persian princesses with real jewels pasted on their foreheads. One famous German socialite known for her outrageous wardrobe came dressed as a pagoda, a heavy metal costume that wouldn’t allow her to walk or sit for the entire evening. Instead, she rolled out of the boat on a Segway. For a moment Schuyler forgot her nerves and tried not to laugh as the archduchess almost mowed down a group of waiters carrying caviar and blinis.

The men wore Russian officers’ uniforms, Fu Manchu mustaches, and turbans. It was all so politically incorrect and yet stupendously fabulous and anachronistic. One guest, the head of Europe’s largest bank, was decked out in a large sable hat and a plush wolf-fur-trimmed cape. It was August! He had to be suffocating in the heat, and yet—like the lady in the pagoda who could not sit down—he was suffering to make a statement. Schuyler hoped it was worth it.

Human familiars were in attendance as well, only the small, discreet scars at the base of the neck giving them away. Otherwise they were just as festively attired and barely distinguishable from their vampire masters.

The night was balmy and clear. Sitar music wafted down from the rotunda—a distinctive high-pitched wailing—and the line of junks waiting to disembark their fancifully dressed passengers was growing. Several speedboats carrying young European Blue Bloods cut the line. They were much more daring in costume than their Elders. One of the girls, the daughter of the Russian finance minister, was wearing nothing but draped metal ropes and a wisp of black chiffon. Another svelte nymph was dressed in see-through chain mail. Of course, the boys were dressed as ninja assassins in black silk jumpsuits or as samurai warriors, and carried decorative swords.

When her tray was empty, Schuyler headed back, walking past Oliver’s sight line from the second level. She glanced up and saw him making a turquoise-colored cocktail adorned with sizzling firecrackers.

She saw him nod, and she knew he had seen her. She ditched her tray in a dark corner and walked swiftly into the main hall, past cordoned-off areas of the residential wing. This is where she and Cordelia had stayed on their visits. There was a bathroom to the right, behind the Sabine murals.

It was empty. She locked the door and took a deep breath. Phase one of the plan was complete. They had succeeded in worming their way into the party. Now it was time for phase two.

She shook out her ponytail and slipped out of her catering uniform, peeling off the layers. She found the small ruck sack she had hidden underneath the sink earlier. She removed its contents and began to dress, putting on a be jeweled sari, luscious pink silk encrusted with diamonds. Oliver had helped her pick it out at the shop in Little Jaffna in the 10th arrondissement. He’d insisted on getting it even though it had been prohibitively expensive.

The silk draped elegantly over her bare shoulders, and the dazzling pink made a nice contrast to her long blue-black hair. She looked at herself in the mirror. She was thinner than she had ever been: lack of sleep and security would do that to anyone. Her cheekbones, already sharp, were thrown into sharper relief, cut like the edge of a blade. The bright sari brought color to her cheeks, and the dazzling gemstones glittered in the light. She sucked in her stomach even though her hip bones were prominent above the dress’s low-waisted harem pants.