The Van Alen Legacy

He jumped when she came in, and his face looked ashen. He looked at her fearfully.

“What’s wrong?” she asked. “What happened?”

As soon as she spoke, he looked relieved. “Oh, it’s only you,” was all he said. Then he poured himself a pint of whiskey in a beer glass and downed it in one gulp. For a vampire, he was curiously affected by alcohol.

Bliss gave him a look, then went up to her room and shut the door. She had homework to do.





FORTY

Schuyler


Jack was right. When Schuyler and Oliver returned to New York, there were no Venators waiting to arrest them at JFK. Still, neither of them was going to put their faith in the Conclave membership anytime soon. The plan was to keep Schuyler’s return a secret, while Oliver would testify to the Conclave that Schuyler had deserted him so he would be able to go back to his family. Hopefully the Elders would believe him instead of handing him over to the Venators for a truth-telling session. It was a risk they had to take, but Oliver was confident he could “sell” his story.

Oliver had not been too keen on the idea of their pretend estrangement, but Schuyler had convinced him it was the only way to secure their freedom in New York.

Kennedy Airport was its usual chaotic mess as they maneuvered their way through the bustling terminal, looking for the bus that would take them to the subway.

“Welcome home.” Oliver yawned and rubbed his stubble. It had been a twenty-hour flight from Sydney. Not fun in a too-small economy seat. The two of them had been squished in the middle row of five seats, between a honeymooning couple on the left, who noisily kissed the entire flight, and an adventure-tour-group on the right, who kept the stewardesses hopping with their cocktail orders.

Once outside the terminal, Schuyler took a deep breath and smiled. They had arrived in the middle of September, and the weather was still mild, with just a faint tinge of cold in the air. Fall was her favorite season. The hustle of the city, the limo drivers seeking their fares, the long line for yellow cabs, the taxi dispatcher barking at everyone to hurry up. It was good to be back.

They checked into a nondescript hotel by the West Side Highway, one of those big corporate institutions that was filled with weary business travelers. The room looked out into a light shaft, and the air-conditioning was noisy. Nonetheless, Schuyler slept soundly for the first time in months.

The next morning, Oliver reported to Conclave headquarters with his story, pledging his life to the Blue Blood community at large. Just as he’d predicted, once the Conclave got wind of what he was really offering (money), no questions were asked.

He told Schuyler afterward, back at their hotel, that the wardens didn’t even seem concerned about her disappearance, or about enforcing any disciplinary action. What happened in Paris had changed the game. It had forced the Conclave to reconsider its actions concerning Leviathan’s return. They had much bigger problems to deal with, and they just didn’t care about her anymore. Or so it had seemed.

“You ready to go, then?” he asked. He had made an appointment for her at Dr. Pat’s clinic. Patricia Hazard was the Conclave’s most trusted doctor and also happened to be Oliver’s aunt. “What did you do while I was out?”

“Nothing. I got an egg-and-cheese and a coffee from the deli across the street. Then I read the Post,” Schuyler told him. “It was heaven.”

Dr. Pat had redecorated. The last time Schuyler had been there, the office had looked like the lobby of a very white, very minimal, very modern hotel. This time the office resembled a bizarre but fabulous fun house. There were crystal vitrines filled with glass eyes. There was a lounge chair made out of stuffed animals that had all been stitched together; it was cute to the point of craziness. Venetian mirrors lined the walls, and fur throws were folded over white sofas. It still looked like a hotel lobby, but this time, instead of an ice queen, one expected Willy Wonka to appear.

“Hey, Dr. Pat, what happened here?” Schuyler asked as she followed the good doctor into the examination room (which she was glad to find still looked like a standard exam room).

“I got tired of all that dry-cleaning. White is really hard to maintain.” Dr. Pat smiled. “Oliver, your mother wants to know what you’d like for dinner,” she told her nephew before closing the door.

Dr. Pat had gone to their hotel room the night before to give Schuyler a thorough physical examination, taking blood samples, but she had asked Schuyler to come to the office for the results.

“So. What’s wrong with me?” Schuyler asked, hopping onto the table.

Dr. Pat referred to her chart. “Well, all your bloodwork came back normal—for a human as well as a vampire. Blood pressure, thyroid, everything. Normal.”