The Van Alen Legacy

Leading toward—or coming from—the bathroom. Mimi entered the small space. This room had also been turned upside down, the cheap plastic shower curtain pulled off the rings, a mountain of towels in the bathtub, the mirror over the sink smashed to bits—there was blood on the glass.

There were signs of struggle, the remnants of a fight. . . .

Mimi pushed the towels around.

There was something here. . . .

Hidden underneath the fallen shower curtain . . .

Mimi pushed the crumpled plastic off with her foot, her heart beating. . . . Could it be . . . With trembling hands she picked away the piles of broken glass and removed the pile of dirty towels.

There was a small, dead body in the bathtub, wearing dirty flannel pajamas. No. No. No. No. No. NO! They were too late; she’d felt it. They’d been walking in a fog, too slow . . . They were too slow. . . . But still, she didn’t want to believe it. NO!

“Kingsley!” she cried. She didn’t want to be by herself when she turned the body over.





TWENTY-SEVEN

Schuyler


She was used to being alone. She had been alone for much of her life. Her grandmother had not advocated the current hovering, anxious practice of modern helicopter parenting. There had been no one from home to watch the few school plays she was in, no one to cheer her on from the sidelines at the Saturday soccer games. It had been sink or swim with Cordelia: no risk of drowning from too much attention. Schuyler’s childhood looked lonely from the outside: no siblings, no parents, and until Oliver came into her life, no friends.

But here was a secret: Schuyler hadn’t been lonely. She’d had her painting, her drawing, her art, and her books. She liked being alone. It was company that flagged her; she had no idea how to make casual chitchat, or how to interpret and emulate the fluid social gestures that drew people together. She was forever the Little Match Girl at the window, shivering out in the cold. But while people scared her, she had never been afraid of the dark.

At least, not until now. The darkness that surrounded her was absolute: so complete, even vampire sight was useless. She hid in a tunnel until the screams and sounds of the skirmish subsided, fading into blackness.

She should have stayed; what had she been thinking? Why had she left him there alone? She had left Oliver and now Jack. But she had had no weapon; she had nothing. Jack had wanted her to run, and so she had.

“Jack? Jack?” she called, her voice echoing down the length of the tunnel. “Are you all right? Jack!”

There was no answer.

The silence was even more unsettling. It was so quiet she could hear the sound of rain falling somewhere above the catacombs, could hear the drip-drop-drip of every trickle that fell through the cracks in the walls and hit the floor. She hugged herself tightly, unsure of what to do. Her shoulders ached, and it felt as if her muscles were frozen. So this was what it was to be afraid of the dark. To be afraid and alone in the dark.

Schuyler called Jack’s name for what seemed like hours, but there was no answer. There was no sign of the Silver Bloods either, but that didn’t mean anything. Maybe they had withdrawn, only to return later. She didn’t want to think about what might have happened to Jack. . . . Could they have taken him? Was he destroyed? Lost? Broken?

Jack was gone. No. Schuyler shook her head even though she was only arguing with herself. There was no way he could have fallen. Not him. Not that dazzling fearsome light that he was. No. She had seen his true form and it was awesome to behold. A pillar of fire. A thousand magnificent suns burning with flames the color of the deepest night. Terrible and wonderful and more frightening than anything she had ever seen.

No!

He will return for me.

She believed it. She looked around at the maze of tunnels. She had no idea where she was, or where she had come from. You could get lost in here for centuries, Schuyler had told Jack.

That’s the idea.

What am I doing? I’m such an idiot. The intersection! It was the only natural place. What had Charles said? The intersection. The place where they cannot cross. All the tunnels led there. Where was it? She couldn’t see, so she felt along the wall. There was an opening. She felt another. Two tunnels. A fork in the road. She would have to choose. But which? She felt along the grain, trying to sense something. If she could not see, maybe she could smell. . . .

It had smelled clean in here, she remembered thinking. She had expected the underground cavern to smell moldy, like a damp towel that had been left too long on the floor. But when she and Jack had first disappeared into the catacombs, she had been surprised to breathe fresh air.

This one, she thought. This one smells just a bit fresher, as if maybe it would lead to more fresh air, maybe to the stairs that led upward and out. She made a decision. She walked into the dark tunnel, with only her fingertips as her guide.

It felt as if she had been walking in the dark for miles, but her nose had not failed her—the air had cleared, and from far away she could see it . . . a light shining in the darkness. Jack. It had to be Jack.