The Van Alen Legacy

“Let me talk to him again; maybe he’ll listen to me,” Oliver whispered, looking from the baron to Schuyler. “If anything happens—”

“I won’t be able to live with myself,” Schuyler said, finishing his sentence. She removed his hand gently. “I’m scared too, Ollie. But we agreed. We have to do this.”

Oliver gritted his teeth. “I don’t like it,” he said, glaring at the baron. But he let her go.

Schuyler followed the baron out of the courtyard and into the main hall of the palace. He led her through an enfilade—a series of rooms all in a row, past the library and the many function rooms. At the end of a long hallway, he opened a door to an anteroom and led her inside. It was a small room, tiled with gold mosaics, empty save for a red velvet bench in the middle.

“Arrête.” Wait.

He left, and the door locked behind him.

Schuyler looked around. There was another door in the back of the room. That one must lead to the countess’s office. Schuyler could feel the wards in place, guarding the room. There was no way out except for the two locked doors. One of Lawrence’s lessons had been to sense the invisible protections in one’s surroundings so that you could figure out how to get out of them. Escape was ninety percent preparation and ten percent opportunity, he liked to say.

Schuyler waited for what seemed like hours alone in the small chamber. The room was completely insulated from outside noise. She couldn’t hear anything from the party. At last the door opened.

“Baron de Coubertin?” she called.

“Try again.” The voice was heartbreakingly familiar.

No. It couldn’t be. Schuyler felt paralyzed. It was as if the past were taunting her. Someone was playing a sick joke. There was no way he was here. The one person in New York whom she had tried so hard to forget . . .

Jack Force stepped inside. Unlike the other revelers, he was dressed simply, all in black. A Venator’s uniform. His platinum hair was cut short, in military fashion, making his sharp aristocratic features look even more striking. He moved with a natural grace, stalking the edge of the room like a dangerous animal circling its prey. How handsome he was—she had forgotten. Or maybe she had only imagined she had forgotten.

They had not seen each other since their last night at the Perry Street apartment. The night she had told him she loved another. How it hurt to see his beautiful face, so grave and serious, as if he had aged a lifetime in a year.

The hurt was like a physical pain, a longing that she had repressed, suddenly flaring up again: bright and red and angry, surprising in its intensity. An impossible wanting: a hole in her heart that yearned to be filled. No. Stop. Don’t go there. She was furious at herself for feeling this way. It was wrong, and incredibly disloyal to the life she had lived for a year. A betrayal to the life she and Oliver had built together.

If only there was something she could do about her heart. Her wildly beating, treacherous heart. Because all she wanted to do was run into Jack’s arms.

“Jack,” she breathed. Even saying his name was difficult. Was it so terrible that she had wanted so much to see him again? God knows she had tried to stop thinking about him, had banished all thought of him to the darkest corner of her mind.

Yet he was always there: in her dreams, she always went back to the apartment above the city, to that spot by the fire. You couldn’t stop yourself from dreaming, could you? It wasn’t her fault. That was the annoying part. However much she wanted to—her unconscious always pulled her back to him.

To see him, living, breathing, right here in front of her was like a direct assault on everything she had tried to hold on to during her year-plus in exile. She had convinced herself that her love for him was dead and buried, locked in a treasure chest below the sea, never to be reopened. She had made her choice. She loved Oliver. They were happy, or as happy as two people could be with a bounty over their heads. Jack was not hers to love, and never had been. Whatever they had once meant to each other was no longer. He was a stranger.

Besides, he was bonded now to his vampire twin, to Mimi, his sister. It didn’t make a difference how Schuyler still—regrettably—felt about him. It just didn’t matter. He was already bound to another. She was nothing to him, and he to her.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, because he was just looking at her in silence, even after she had said his name.

“I’m here for you,” he said, his mouth set in a grim line.

Then Schuyler knew. Jack was here on behalf of the Conclave. He was here to take her back to New York.