The Van Alen Legacy

The steel, concrete, and glass compound in the middle of Midtown was home to a number of the city’s most famous and beloved institutions. There was the Rainbow Room on the top floor, and the iconic ice-skating rink below. The middle of the square was a favored place to show off new art exhibits—a giant puppy made of blooming multicolored flowers, or an oversized mirror pointed to the sky. A popular television show had even taken its address for its name. Mimi had always loved walking past the row of brightly colored flags on her way to Saks across the street. But what many people did not know, of course, was that Rockefeller Center had an even older history.

In vampire lore, it was consecrated as the place where Michael had first taken the title of Regis when the Coven had moved to the New World. The land was blessed with part of his spirit, which was probably why Rockefeller Center had become so popular with the Red Bloods. Humans, as dense as they were, could still feel the charged atmosphere that surrounded them, the electricity in the air from the sacred ground.

The sanctuary had stood right where the venerable Christie’s auction house was today. It was nine thirty in the morning when Mimi walked through the glass doors of the front entrance. The auction was to start at ten, but she wasn’t there to bid on a collection.

She had arrived from Rio the week before, and was missing the first day back at school to attend this ceremony. Duchesne would just have to understand—she had responsibilities that went beyond the classroom. The school had welcomed the Force twins back after their “sabbatical” so they could start their senior year and graduate from high school. The Committee had decreed that the young vampires finish their education before joining another Venator mission, as they were still in a vulnerable time of their transformation. Elders were forever trying to keep the young ones from growing up too fast, Mimi thought. It didn’t even matter that she was a voting member of the Conclave! No. She had to get her diploma.

She collected her paddle from the guard and took the elevator to the public auction room. The auditorium was half empty when she arrived. A sign of the times, maybe? Or of the many foreign buyers who bid online or through agents sitting at the phone banks in the back of the room? Mimi wasn’t sure. She did remember the auctions being a little more social in nature when her parents used to attend. There would be a cocktail party in the anteroom, and the women would wear jewels as precious as the ones they were bidding on.

She spotted a few of her colleagues sprinkled around the area. The Conclave was down to seven, but seven was all they needed for a quorum. Josiah Archibald was studying the art catalog closely. Alice Whitney was clutching her pearls. Abe Tompkins tottered in and took a seat in the back. The auction would begin promptly at ten, and so would the meeting of the Conclave. For they had come to this ancient spot to name their new leader. Forsyth Llewellyn had called for a White Vote.

The installation of a new Regis was no trivial matter, and no one in the Coven could remember having so many new ones in such quick succession. They had been led by Michael in his various incarnations since the dawn of time, and just last year had put Lawrence Van Alen in his place. But now Lawrence was dead, Charles Force was missing, and Forsyth was pressing his case for the position.

Mimi looked surprised when two of the members, Minerva Morgan and Ambrose Barlow, entered the room and made a beeline in her direction. Minerva and Ambrose were among the oldest living vampires of their cycle, and while vampires’ minds did not lose their sharpness, the flesh deteriorated on a human schedule without the requisite maintenance. What did the two mottled old geezers want?

“Madeleine,” Minerva said, taking a seat next to her, “Ambrose would like to show you something.”

Ambrose Barlow carefully removed an envelope from his coat pocket. It was folded in quarters, and when Mimi opened it, the note inside was creased, and the paper so thin—as if from endless re-reading.

Beware of Forsyth Llewellyn. He is not who you think he is.

It was signed “A friend.” Mimi handed it back to Ambrose with distaste. Her father had told her never to put any stock in anonymous notes.

“Do you think it’s real?” Minerva asked.

“I don’t know. I don’t really pay a lot of attention to those kind of things,” Mimi sniffed. “It’s probably just a prank.”

“But why would someone send it? Obviously it’s someone from in the Coven. But who? And why? And why send it to Ambrose? He’d been retired from the Conclave for at least fifty years. Plus, Forsyth has no enemies, and he’s the only one keeping us together,” Minerva said, looking agitated. “Don’t you think so, Ambrose?”

Ambrose Barlow nodded. “I agree, anonymous notes are the work of cowards. But somehow I feel that we must pay attention to this one. It is a strange time for us . . . and with so much change going on . . .”