The Van Alen Legacy

“But Lawrence insisted that Charles was the key.”


“Lawrence is finished.” The way Trinity said it, it sounded as if Lawrence were an actor who had merely finished his role in a play. Not passed away. Not dead. Not gone forever.

Finished.

There was another thing—something strange her grandfather had said that Schuyler wanted confirmed. She wasn’t sure if Trinity would know anything about it, but she had to ask. “He also said that I have a sister, and that she will be . . . that she will be our death.” Schuyler felt silly repeating such a dramatic statement. “I have a sister?”

Trinity did not answer for a long time. The sound of hair dryers and patrons gossiping with their stylists filled the silence. When she finally spoke, her voice was quiet and guarded. “In the sense that your mother had another daughter, yes. But that was long ago, long before you were born, in a different cycle, in a different century. And the girl was taken care of. Lawrence and Charles saw to that. Lawrence . . . One reason he went into exile was that he never gave up on his fantasies. He was dying, Schuyler, and you will have to understand . . . he was grasping at straws, trying to tie up loose ends. He probably wasn’t even in his right mind.”

So Lawrence had told the truth. She had a sister. Who? When? She was already dead? Taken care of ? What did that mean? But Trinity refused to elaborate further. “I have already told you too much,” she said with a frown.

“The Conclave has asked me to testify tomorrow about what happened in Rio. Will you be there?” Schuyler asked a little wistfully. It suddenly struck her how much she needed a mother in her life. Trinity had never tried to fill that role, but she had a pragmatic no-nonsense way about her that reminded Schuyler of Cordelia. It was better than nothing.

“I am sorry, Schuyler, but I won’t be able to come. As usual, the Red Bloods have let greed take over their financial system. With Charles gone, I am obligated to the board to do what little I can to staunch the bloodbath. I leave for Washington tonight.”

“It’s all right.” Schuyler hadn’t expected anything else.

“And, Schuyler?” Trinity looked at her keenly, as a mother would when chastising a wayward daughter. “Since your return, your room has been empty.”

“I know,” Schuyler said simply. “I’m not going to live with your family anymore.”

Trinity sighed. “I will not stop you. But know that when you are out of our house, you are out of our protection. We cannot help you.”

“I understand. I’ll take that risk.” Out of habit, Schuyler and Trinity exchanged double-cheek air kisses and said good-bye. Schuyler left the soothing warm cocoon of the beauty salon and went out into the streets of New York, alone.

Charles Force was gone. Charles Force was a dead end. He had disappeared, taking his secrets with him.

She would have to discover the Van Alen Legacy on her own.





TWELVE

Schuyler


The Baron de Coubertin was dressed as Attila the Hun in full battle armor, with a bow and arrow in a quiver slung over one shoulder, along with a shield and a throwing spear. On his head he wore a pointed metal cap over a wig of long black hair. His long beard was also fake. He approached with a terrifying frown on his face and tapped Schuyler on the shoulder. “La contesse voudrait que vous me suiviez, s’il vous plait.” The countess would like you to follow me, please. Then he turned abruptly on his heel.

Schuyler and Oliver began to walk together behind him, but the baron stopped them. “The countess grants a meeting only to Miss Van Alen,” he said in perfect English, looking sternly at Oliver as if he were a nuisance. “You will stay here.”

Schuyler nodded over Oliver’s protests. “I’ll be fine. I’ll meet you after,” she said. “Don’t worry.” She felt stares from the other guests turned their way. Who was the baron talking to? Who are those two? They were becoming conspicuous. They needed to melt away before anyone noticed them.

“Don’t worry? But then I would be out of a job,” Oliver said, raising his eyebrows.

“I can handle it,” Schuyler insisted.

“That’s what I’m worried about,” Oliver sighed. He squeezed her bare shoulder. His hands were rough and callused from travel and work. They were not the soft hands of the boy who used to spend his afternoons in museums. The Oliver whom Schuyler had known had never stayed in anything less than a five-star hotel in his life, let alone the fleabag hostels where they now found themselves residing. She had seen him argue the price of instant noodles in Shanghai, haggling over five cents.

“I’ll be fine,” she promised, then murmured softly so the baron could not hear. “I have a feeling this is the only way I’m going to get to see the countess.”