The Van Alen Legacy

Jack crossed his arms. “It’s nothing to laugh about. Leviathan would have killed you right there that night in Rio if he had known who you were. And now that he knows he was so close and failed to kill you, he’s tracked you down here to finish the job.”


“But how do you know Leviathan has tracked me?”

“Because I have been tracking Leviathan,” Jack said grimly. “My father and I have been tracking him for months.”

“Charles is here?” she asked. She wondered why the news did not make her feel safer. Charles Force was the greatest of them all. He was Michael, Pure of Heart, the Valiant, Prince of the Angels, Supreme Commander of the Lord’s Army. She had been looking for Charles herself, and to know that he was here in Paris, and as her protector—or one of them, anyway—should have gladdened her heart. But it did not. Charles Force was not a friend. He was not an enemy, but he was not a friend either.

But maybe now she would be able to find out what Lawrence had asked her to do. Charles would have to tell her about the Van Alen Legacy. Schuyler had to know. She owed her grandfather that much.

Jack nodded. “Yes. He decided to come himself when the Conclave would not send the Venators after Leviathan following your testimony. We have been one step and two cities behind him for months. When Leviathan led us here, to this party, we thought he was after the countess, as she was instrumental in bringing about his imprisonment on Corcovado. But when we saw you in the ballroom, we suddenly knew what his real intentions were. Charles sent me to make sure you were safe while he took care of Leviathan himself.”

So basically she was in danger from the baddest demon around. Wonderful. She was running from the Venators when she probably should have been running toward them, now that she knew what was truly after her.

“So you believe me? You believe that I didn’t kill Lawrence like the Conclave thinks?” Schuyler asked.

He looked down. “I can’t speak for the Conclave. But I have always believed you. I’ve always believed in you,” he said softly.

“Right.” She nodded, trying to appear businesslike, to hide the fact that she had been moved by his faith. Jack believed her. He was on her side. He didn’t hate her, at least. He didn’t hate her for breaking his heart. “So what now?”

“First things first,” he said briskly. “Let’s get out of this dungeon. I was worried you would choose this place to hide. And I think you’ve noticed it smells pretty awful down here.”





NINETEEN

Bliss


Muffie Astor Carter (real name Muriel) was a Blue Blood in every sense of the word. She was educated at Miss Porter’s and Vassar, and had worked in the publicity department of Harry Winston before marrying Dr. Sheldon Carter, who had found fame as the plastic surgeon to the Park Avenue set. Their bonding was one of the more controversial ones in recent memory, as it had taken each quite a few attempts to find the other. He was her second husband and she his third wife.

She was also one of New York’s most popular socialites. Jealous rivals sniped that the public just took a liking to her name. It was so outrageously preppie it sounded like a joke. But it was not; it was the real thing, like Muffie herself, who embodied a horsey, Bedford, WASP authenticity in an age of brash nouveau-riche hordes adding “von” or “de” to their names and who didn’t know a Verdura from a Van Cleef.

Every year Muffie opened up her sprawling Hamptons estate, “Ocean’s End,” for a fashion show to benefit the New York Blood Bank. It was the highlight of the August social calendar. Located at the end of Gin Lane, the property sprawled over six acres and included a manor house with a separate and equally lavish guesthouse, a twelve-car garage, and staff quarters. The sweeping grounds featured two pools (saline and freshwater), tennis courts, a lily pond, and professionally maintained gardens. The Bermuda grass was cut by hand, with scissors, every other day, to keep it at just the right length.