The Van Alen Legacy

Mimi noticed that Forsyth Llewellyn had slipped into the room, and the three of them stopped talking. The senator was looking particularly robust and even more pompous than usual, considering what had happened to his family not too long ago. He saw the three of them huddled together and took a seat next to Ambrose. “Hello, hello,” he greeted her as Ambrose folded the note quickly back into his pocket.

“Hello, Forsyth. I was just telling Madeleine that I still don’t understand why we have to do this so soon,” Minerva said. “Charles is sure to return and to name a Regis while he is still alive. I don’t like it. After what happened in Paris, I feel it is hasty of us.”

“Dear Minerva, I do hear your concern, but my concern is that after what happened in Paris, time is now of the essence. We cannot dawdle as we have,” Forsyth said.

Minerva grunted, while Mimi kept her face neutral. The Red Blood papers were filled with gory stories of the Paris disaster—none of the vampires had been killed or harmed, but there had been a few human familiars who had been trampled during the riot. The tragedy was blamed on the unlicensed Thai circus unable to control its animals, and fire code violations due to overcrowding.

Jack had told Mimi the real story when he had returned the other night, and how Charles had stopped the worst of it. But even with Charles’s efforts, the H?tel Lambert had scarcely escaped being burned to the ground. The new owners were incensed and threatened to pull their bid, but had been placated by the countess, who had offered them some of the historical furnishings free of charge.

The twins decided they would not share the news of Charles’s apparent demise with the Coven. Jack continued to believe that regardless of the evidence to the contrary, their father lived, and Mimi agreed it would be best if the community continued to think that Charles was deliberately keeping away. Best not to start a panic; the Blue Bloods were edgy enough as it was.

Seymour Corrigan entered the room, sending a look of apology for his almost-tardiness. They were all accounted for. Seven wardens symbolizing the original seven families, as tradition dictated.

The auctioneer, a sober-looking man in a blue blazer and a red tie, walked up to the podium. “Welcome, my good ladies and gentlemen, to the Impressionist and Modern Art Sale,” he said. The audience clapped politely, and a screen behind him displayed a portrait of Kurt Cobain, immortalized in vibrant, jewel colors. Mimi thought it looked like one of those images from a prayer book. Grunge rocker as saint. “First up—an Elizabeth Peyton. The opening bid is five hundred thousand dollars.”

As the gavel came down, the Conclave meeting began in earnest.





THIRTY-SEVEN

Schuyler


They were in Sydney when it happened. Right in Chinatown, in a little apothecary shop that sold the organic green tea that Schuyler liked to drink in the morning. The trembling began in her legs, then her arms, then her whole body was convulsing and she fell to the floor, dropping the tin she was holding as she writhed and thrashed against the cold linoleum tile.

“Stay back—it’s okay—she’s . . . she’s epileptic!” Oliver said, pushing everyone away. “Just give her room to breathe! Please! It’ll pass.”

It was strange for Schuyler not to be able to control her body, to find it was in revolt against her wishes, almost as if it had been possessed by an evil spirit. She felt as if she were watching herself from a distant place—as if this was not happening to her, but to another girl, who was lying down while her arms and legs moved jerkily, and she frothed at the mouth.

“Sorry, I’m sorry,” she whispered when it finally stopped. The shaking had ceased, but even if her limbs weren’t moving anymore, her heart was still beating a mile a minute.

“It’s okay. You’re okay,” Oliver said, gently helping her to her feet by giving her his shoulder to lean on.

“Here . . . water,” the shopkeeper said, bringing a paper cup to her lips.

Schuyler was glad for the kind eyes of the man and of the other customers. She kept leaning on Oliver as they walked out of the shop and to the bus stop, where a bus back to The Rocks was already waiting. “This was a bad one,” he said, as they paid their student fare and found seats at the back.

He was being kind. It was probably the worst episode she’d experienced. The massive headache, the frothing, the way her tongue had almost choked her . . . What had Dr. Pat said during her last visit? That the vampire strength was a gift, but in her case was also a burden. Her human body was treating the transformation as a disease, as something it wanted out of her. . . .

“Are you sure you’re all right?” Oliver asked again, as Schuyler leaned forward with her head in her hands. “I’m okay,” she said. “Really I am.” It was the last thing she said before she fainted.