The Van Alen Legacy

Then she felt it: a darkening . . . like a shadow passing over the sun, and then the push, the Visitor coming back. But instead of dutifully letting him take over, Bliss forced herself to remain. Inside her mind, Bliss made herself very, very quiet, curled up like a ball, like a shadow against the wall so that the Visitor would not notice that she was sticking around. She knew, instinctively, that he must not realize she was still there. She tried to become an ocean of stillness, with nary a ripple on the surface.

She forced herself to hang on. Somehow, it worked. The Visitor was in charge, but she was still there. This time, she could see everything he could see; she could even hear him speaking (through her voice).

They (she had to think of them as two people now) were getting up, putting on a robe, then striding into the house. They took the steps two at a time and practically charged into Forsyth’s study.

The senator was home for the congressional summer recess. He was sitting behind his desk with a cigar, and he jumped at their unannounced entrance.

“Didn’t I teach you to knock?” he snarled.

“It is me, Forsyth,” the Visitor said in Bliss’s voice.

“Oh! My lord, I am sorry. I am so very sorry. I did not know you were returning so soon,” he said, throwing himself at Bliss’s feet.

It was discomfiting to see Forsyth through the Visitor’s perception—a lowly worm cowering before her.

“Tell me how I can be of service, my lord,” the senator said, still on his knees.

“News, Forsyth. Tell me of the Conclave.”

Forsyth practically chuckled. Bliss had never seen her “father” look so smug, which was saying a lot for a politician. “We have nothing to fear from that group, my lord. Half of them are relying on Red Blood ‘hearing aids’ to listen to reports. It’s highly entertaining, really. Did I tell you Ambrose Barlow is now a voting member? Of course you know him as Britannicus.”

“Britannicus . . .” the Visitor said. “He does sound familiar.”

“He was once your foreman. He took the children to the baths.”

The Visitor found this incredibly funny. “Very good. I take it everything is set in motion, then? The Venators aren’t giving you any trouble?”

“Not at all. Everything is proceeding as planned. Charles Force is in Paris as we speak. He is easier to manipulate than a puppet,” Forsyth said with a sharp bark of a laugh.

A deep sense of satisfaction settled over Bliss. The news had made the Visitor very happy. Like an overstuffed cat who had just devoured a cage of canaries. “Very good. Very good. And my brother?”

Forsyth removed a bottle of scotch from underneath his desk and poured two shots into crystal glasses. “Say the word and Leviathan will strike. The girl is within his reach. It will be easy enough for him to infiltrate the party. By the way, you may find this amusing: my sources tell me that Charles was unable to get an invitation to the ball.”

“How fortunate that the schism still holds.” The Visitor nodded, sounding very pleased. “I could always count on my dear sister to harbor such a long grudge. It works to our favor.” The Visitor downed the scotch in one fluid motion. “And my other sister, Sophia?”

“Alas, she refuses to divulge information about the Order. She swears she does not know. You know, after a year with Harbonah, she might just be telling the truth.”

“I see.”

“The good news is Kingsley and his team are still in the woods. They’ve been misdirected for months, with no idea they were sent on a useless mission.”

“Kingsley,” the Visitor snorted. “That traitor. We’ll deal with him soon enough.”

“What shall we do about Sophia? Do we continue to hold the Watcher?” Forsyth asked.

“No.” The Visitor ran a finger over the rim of the empty glass, making a small, high-pitched sound. “If my sister truly does not know the identities of the Seven, then she is nothing to me. I grow bored of her stubbornness. Take her away. Kill her.” His words had a rash, impulsive cast to them, but there was something else that had made Bliss feel suddenly frightened.

When the Visitor had called Sophia “sister,” an image had come to her mind: Jordan.

Was the Visitor speaking of Jordan? And if so, did that mean Jordan was still alive? Where? How? Bliss could feel herself starting to get agitated. She had to calm down. She wanted to hear more . . . She had to . . . She had to find out . . .

But it was too late. She was tossed out of the light and back into the cold, alone and helpless to do anything about what she had heard. What was going to happen in Paris? Why had they wanted Charles Force to go there? And Sophia—was that Jordan’s real name? What did the Visitor have planned for her? And who was the girl Leviathan was after?

Was there anything she could do to prevent any of it? Or was she going to be doomed to know that the end of the world was coming—and yet be completely helpless to do anything about it but watch from a front-row seat?





TWENTY-SIX

Mimi