The Van Alen Legacy

But Kingsley was doing something odd. He had taken out a magnifying glass from his Venator kit and was looking into the dead girl’s eyes. “Lennox, what do you think? Can you see it?” he asked Ted, who was hunkered by the doorway.

Ted peered through the glass. After a few minutes he handed it to his brother, who did the same. “No. I don’t see it.”

“I didn’t think so,” Kingsley said, and there was a note of triumph in his voice. “Force, take a look— closely—do you see it? Or more correctly, do you not see it?”

She took the magnifying glass and looked into Jordan’s eyes. What was she looking at? What was she supposed to not see? This was morbid. Jordan’s expression was a blank, remonstrative gaze. Finally she noticed it. Jordan’s eyes were missing their pupils. In the space in the middle, where they should have been, there was nothing—her eyes were one simple surface. She looked like a doll.

“What happened to her? What does it mean?” Mimi asked.

Kingsley’s drawn face broke into a grin. “It means, Force, that we haven’t failed just yet. The Watcher is alive.”





THIRTY

Schuyler


Waiting was the hardest part. Schuyler remembered how she used to sit in the apartment on Perry Street waiting, just like this, for Jack to arrive for their secret rendezvous. It always seemed like such a miracle every time he walked through the door. So unbelievable that he was hers, and that he had been looking forward to seeing her as much as she had been longing to see him.

It was as if she had left him only yesterday, the emotions he stirred up in her were so dizzying, the memories he brought back to the surface so strong. She had loved watching him walk inside the apartment. She remembered how his face wore a look of anxiety as he appeared in the doorway—as he too had always readied himself for disappointment. The question lingering on his features . . . Would she be there waiting for him? She had loved him so much for that. To know that he was just as vulnerable, just as nervous, as she had been. He had never once taken her for granted.

Now she waited for him again. He would return for her, she believed that. Believed it so much more, as she waited, sitting on the cavern floor in an underground catacomb in Paris, than she ever had sitting on a couch in an apartment in New York.

She believed he would return for her, because if he did not, it meant—no. No. There was no way he could have been killed. But what if, what if he had been harmed? What if he was somewhere down one of those dark tunnels—the tunnels she had not chosen—what if he was somewhere down there, bleeding and unconscious? What then?

She couldn’t even begin to think about what had happened to Oliver. She hoped Jack had been right, that the Silver Bloods had left him alone. . . . The Croatan weren’t interested in humans . . . were they? How could she have left him? She would never forgive herself for deserting him. And now, Jack too . . . Jack was gone as well. Was she fated to lose both of them in one night?

She should go. She had waited long enough. Jack needed her. She had to go looking for him; she couldn’t just wait around doing nothing.

She took the torch off the floor. But just as she stepped toward the first tunnel, she heard a noise from behind her.

Footsteps. She turned around, brandishing the flame. “Stay back!” she called.

“It’s me—don’t worry—it’s just me.” Jack stood in front of her. He looked untouched, unharmed. Not a single hair out of place. No cut on his cheek. His clothes were clean, and looked freshly pressed. He looked perfect, the way he always did, and not as if he had just battled a pack of monstrous Silver Bloods.

She did not put down the flame. Was it Jack? She remembered the baron’s crimson eyes. She had not seen the Silver Blood underneath the human disguise at first. Was this Jack Force or was it something else? Another shape-shifting enemy?

“How do I know you’re you?” she asked, holding her torch as if it would save her from whatever creature stood before her.

“Schuyler, I’ve just narrowly escaped with my life. You’ve got to be joking,” Jack said.

“Stay away from me!”

A thought occurred to her: What if this was all part of the Silver Blood scheme? A deadly ploy? A masquerade? What if they had planned for Jack to “rescue” her so he could gain her trust? A year had gone by—loyalties changed. How did she know he had not been turned? They had been so far away from all the news in the coven—what if . . . what if . . .

“Schuyler, I am not a Silver Blood!” Jack looked angry now, and a vein on his forehead was throbbing. His voice was hoarse from shouting. “Stop this. You need to trust me! We don’t have much time—my father can only hold them back for so long. We’ve got to get out of here!”

“Prove it!” she hissed. “Prove you are who you say!”

“We don’t have time for this! You really want me to prove who I am?” he asked.