The Van Alen Legacy

When Bliss arrived for the event early on Sunday afternoon, she found a caravan of European sports cars idling on the valet line. It had been a week since Henri had come to the house. So far, the Visitor had not found disfavor in her actions to reclaim her identity and to keep their cover. She had been able to get a haircut, shop for a few new clothes, and even attend a pilates class or two. Even if vampire muscles were supernaturally strong, they still needed to be toned. While the Visitor seemed content with the new arrangement, there were times when he would suddenly return, sending her back to the empty void. He was like a carjacker, Bliss thought, waving a shotgun and rudely shoving her to the backseat of her mind.

But he had been gone since morning, and Bliss was glad to be among people again, getting out of her own head, so to speak. Bliss found the only way to deal with what was happening to her was to laugh about it. She’d discovered a streak of black humor she didn’t know she had. She was still smiling as she handed her keys to the valet. She’d driven up in one of the house cars—what the family called the cars “assigned” to each of their homes. In Palm Beach the Llewellyns kept a stable of classic cars—a Rolls Royce Phantom, a 1955 Bentley, and a pristine 1969 Lincoln Continental. In New York they had added a fleet of black SUVs, once BobiAnne realized the Silver Shadow Rolls was too showy for Manhattan.

In the Hamptons they kept several Mercedes SLK convertibles of early-nineties vintage—somehow the most ubiquitous car on the East End. BobiAnne always tried to fit in as much as possible. Bliss had chosen the candy-apple red one to match her good mood. Might as well enjoy the cars now. She had no idea how much longer they would own them, as Forsyth was selling them along with the house so they could at least keep their penthouse in the city.

She walked toward the front of the house, where Balthazar Verdugo, the designer whose fall collection was being shown that day, stood at the head of the receiving line next to the party’s hostess. Balthazar was very popular with his clients—he had even married one. He smelled of coconut oil and too much hair gel. Bliss had never liked him or his clothes—they were a bit fussy for her taste—but she made the usual small talk. “Isn’t it a lovely day? So looking forward to wearing the clothes! Thanks so much for having me! Who’s this little cutie?” she said brightly, petting the miniature Chihuahua nestled in the crook of the de signer’s arms.

Balthazar shook Bliss’s hand with a limp handshake and passed her on to Muffie with a wan smile.

“I’m so glad to see you looking so well, my dear,” Muffie said, giving Bliss the most insubstantial of embraces. Muffie had a broad, recessed forehead with nary a wrinkle (her plastic-surgeon husband’s most effective advertising) and the perfect blond coif pervasive on the Upper East Side. She was the epitome of the breed: tanned, slender, graceful, and appropriate. She was everything BobiAnne had wanted to be but could never match.

“Thank you,” Bliss said, trying not to feel too awkward. “It’s good to be here.”

“You’ll find the rest of the models in the back. I think we’re running late as usual,” Muffie said cheerfully.

Bliss walked toward the backstage area of the tent, swiping a canapé from a tray and a glass of champagne from one of the buffet tables.

Henri was right: this was an easy gig. It wasn’t a real fashion show, merely a presentation to wealthy clients in the name of charity. Whereas a real fashion show was a chaotic commotion of energy and anxiety, attended by hundreds of editors, retailers, celebrities, and covered by hundreds of media outlets around the world, the Balthazar Verdugo show on Muffie Carter’s estate was more like a glorified trunk show, with models.

It was so odd to be back in the real world, to be walking on damp grass (sinking in her heels, really), munching on appetizers, and looking out at the Carters’ amazing ocean view—an unbroken line of blue stretching over the horizon—and to find out that in some parts of the world, even their world—the world of the Committee and the Coven— there were some who remained indifferent and downright disinterested in what had happened in Rio.

Muffie and the other women on the Committee whom Bliss bumped into at the party did not bring up BobiAnne’s death or the massacre of the Conclave. Bliss understood that they simply went on about their lives: planning parties, hosting benefits, doing the rounds of couture shows, horse shows, and charity causes, which filled their days. They did not seem too worried or distressed. Cordelia Van Alen had been right: they were in the deepest denial. They didn’t want to accept the return of the Silver Bloods. They didn’t want to accept the reality of what the Silver Bloods had done and were planning to do. They were satisfied with their lives and they didn’t want anything to change.