The Van Alen Legacy

“She told you we were coming?” Mimi demanded.

“When the good people come, she said to give them this.” The little girl removed an envelope from her pocket. It was grubby and streaked with dirt. But the handwriting was beautiful calligraphy script, the kind usually found on ivory envelopes that announced a bonding.

It was addressed to Araquiel.

The Angel of Judgment, Mimi knew. Also called the Angel with Two Faces. The angel who carried both dark and light within him.

Kingsley Martin.





FIFTEEN

Schuyler


The look on Jack’s face when she broke the glass was a mixture of shock and pride, but Schuyler only allowed herself a quick glimpse. She had to stop thinking about him and concentrate on what she was doing. She had leaped out of the room and into the sky, landing on a trellis and jumping off the roof to the ground. She was running outdoors, in the middle of the party, a blur of pink to the party guests.

It was past midnight and the festivities had taken a darker turn—that moment at every unforgettable gathering when it seems anything and everything is available to anyone and everyone. There was a raucous feeling of wild abandon in the air, as the Bollywood stars shimmied and shook, their bellies undulating in serpentine curves, and a hundred drummers on wooden-barrel dhol drums beat a steady and seductive rhythm. Schuyler couldn’t put a finger on it, but there was something almost sinister about how hypnotic the music was, its attraction bordered on menacing. Listening to it was like being tickled too hard—when the tickling stopped being funny and became a form of torture, and the laughter unwelcome and uncontrollable.

She burst through a line of bhangra dancers, cymbals clanging, and knocked down one of the costumed stilt-walkers, barely missing a crew of torchbearers standing guard by the perimeter.

But everywhere she went, he was right behind her. A heartbeat away.

Schuyler!

She heard his voice clearly in her mind. Jack would use the glom on her. It wasn’t fair. If he had said her name out loud, maybe she would forgive him, but to know that he was in her mind—that it came as easily to him as before—was unnerving.

She ran past tiger tamers and fire-eaters, past a group of drunken European nobles fat with blood, their human familiars left to swoon by the river walls. This wasn’t a party anymore, this was something else. Something evil and depraved . . . an orgy, a paean to monstrous indulgence, pernicious and wicked. And Schuyler couldn’t help but feel that there was something—or someone—egging everyone on, right to the edge of disaster. And still she could hear Jack’s footsteps, light and quick behind her.

In a way the chase invigorated her: running so fast, using her vampire muscles and exerting them in ways they had never been used—by god he was fast! But I am faster, she thought. I can outrun you, Jack Force. Just try; you’ll never catch me.

I can and I will.

Schuyler closed her mind to the glom as Lawrence had taught her. That would shut him out.

There had to be somewhere she could hide. She knew this place. Cordelia had left her here for hours when they visited, and as a child she had explored every inch of its sprawling grounds. She knew every crevice, every secret hiding place—she would lose him in the residential wing—there were so many camouflaged closets and clandestine compartments—she ran back inside the castle through the servants’ entrance.

While she ran she sent a message of her own through the glom.

Oliver!

Oliver!

She tried to locate his signal—Oliver!

But humans were not as sensitive to the glom’s twilight communications. Oliver had never been able to read her mind, let alone speak to it directly. And while they had tried to practice building the mental bridge that tied a vampire to its human Conduit, they had faltered in their exercise. They were young, and a bridge took a lifetime to build, like the one between Lawrence Van Alen and Christopher Anderson. Maybe in fifty years they would be able to communicate telepathically, but not now.

She had to find Oliver. He was probably sick with worry. Probably pacing the party, ignoring the fireworks, drinking too many cocktails to steady his nerves. He had given up so much to be with her. Of course he would tell her it was his duty, his very destiny to live and die by her side. But still she could not stop feeling that she was a burden to him, that she had brought too much on him—had fated him to live in an endless chase. He had given her everything—his friendship, his fortune, his life—and all she could give in return was her heart. Her fickle, foolish, guilty, unreliable heart. She hated herself.

A terrible thought struck her: What if they had gotten to Oliver first? They wouldn’t hurt him, she thought. Just let them try . . . If anything had happened to him . . . She did not want to think about it.