The Van Alen Legacy

“Okay.” Bliss smiled.

After saying good-bye to her old taskmaster, Bliss sat alone on the couch for a moment. At some point during Henri’s visit she had sensed a change in herself. The Visitor was gone. The backseat was empty, as far as she could tell. Perhaps she had passed the test. In any event, like Elvis, he had left the building. But he had left the door open. He had unwittingly given her back the key to her own body. Or had forgotten to take it back. Like a parent who leaves the keys to the Ferrari on the table. Just like in that old movie she used to watch when she was little when it would run on the USA channel . . . someone’s day off. The kid had crashed the Ferrari through the window. She wouldn’t do anything that stupid, of course. It was her own body. She had little time and had to use it wisely.

She decided to take a bath, and walked upstairs. Each of the ten bedrooms in the house had its own spacious bathroom, and BobiAnne had allowed Bliss to help design her own. It was a pretty space: all warm travertine marble and flattering incandescent lighting. She turned on the faucet and filled the antique claw tub, squeezing in a generous dollop of her favorite scented bath gel. Then she quickly shed her clothes and climbed in, delighting in the soapy bubbles and the slick sensation of warm water running down her bare back.

Afterward she put on one of the fluffy Turkish robes her stepmother had stocked for the house, and went downstairs to the kitchen, where she asked the cook to make her lunch. She ate a cheeseburger—rare, the juices running out and mixing with the French mustard in a way that always made her happy she was a carnivore.

Only then did Bliss realize she wasn’t hungry in the real sense. The vampire sense. The old bloodlust was muted. The craving was gone. What did it mean?

She pushed the empty plate away and ran her hand through her hair. She would have to make an appointment at the salon as soon as possible. The Visitor wanted her to keep up appearances, didn’t he? Keeping up appearances was something that came naturally to Forsyth Llewellyn’s daughter.

When your father was a senator from New York, scrutiny was impossible to avoid.





SEVENTEEN

Mimi


Kingsley’s face was unreadable, and Mimi could stand it no longer. “So? What? She’s gone to a Miley Cyrus concert? She’s written a cell phone novel? What does it say?”

He quieted her with a look and showed them the letter. One line, written in the same beautiful calligraphy. Phoebus ostend praeeo.

Phoebus was the name of the sun king in the old tongue, Mimi knew, and the rest was easy enough to understand. “The sun shall show the way,” she said. “What does it mean?”

In answer, Kingsley folded up the note carefully and tucked it into his jacket pocket.

He has no idea, does he, Mimi thought. “Why would the Watcher take the trouble to send us a note but then have the note be nonsense?” she asked, annoyed. “And how did she know I was coming? And bringing a stuffed toy?”

“You forget. The Watcher can see into the future. If she was being held by Silver Bloods—as she surely was— she must have felt threatened enough to allow only the most cryptic of communications.”

“It’s a riddle. A clue,” Ted said suddenly. “A clue to her whereabouts. ‘The sun shall show the way.’” It was the longest sentence he had said in a year. Even Sam looked surprised to find his brother so garrulous.

Kingsley nodded. “Of course. Sophia always did say wisdom had to be earned.”

A riddle. Great. A year of tracking down the Watcher, and when they finally get somewhere, they find some kind of one-eyed sphinx blocking the path. Could it have hurt her to have written Am being held captive at 101 Favela Lane! Come soon and bring a Luna Bar! Or was that just too much to ask?

You make light of trivial matters, Kingsley sent.

Just trying to keep things interesting, Mimi telepathed in return. And get out of my head. You don’t belong here.

Meanwhile, the other Venators were deep in the glom, consulting their memories, trying to ascertain the meaning behind the words. Finally, Ted opened his eyes and spoke. “There’s a bar not too far away called El Sol de Ajuste. The Setting Sun.”

“So?” Mimi said.

“It’s an old Silver Blood expression—the setting sun describes Lucifer’s fall to Earth,” Kingsley explained. “That could be it.”

Right, Mimi remembered. Lucifer was the Prince of Heaven. The Morningstar. It made sense that to the Silver Bloods, his doom was akin to the setting sun.

“Well, what are we waiting for?” Mimi asked. “We’ve got a missing Watcher to find, and I don’t know about you guys, but I need a drink.”





EIGHTEEN

Schuyler