The Van Alen Legacy

Maggie Stanford had drowned herself in the Hudson. Bliss saw the dark murky river, felt her lungs burst and her heart collapse.

As Bliss went backward, it was all the same. Goody Bradford had set herself on fire, pouring oil over her head, and then she had lit a match and let the flames consume her. Giulia de Medici “accidentally” walked off the balcony of the family’s villa in Florence, her broken body splayed in the center of the square.

Quick as the flutter of a butterfly’s wings, every image, every “death” Bliss had ever experienced came to the forefront. But then . . . Maggie walked out of the funeral home. Goody Bradford survived the flames. Giulia got up from the fall.

None of them had been successful in ending their lives, or successful in exorcising the demon that possessed them. They had all tried and they had all failed.

Bliss understood.

I have to die.

Because if she died—truly died—if she found a way to never come back, then the Visitor would die as well. He would never have a chance to do what he was planning.

That was it. That was the only way. She knew it.

There was no getting out of it. There was no surviving it. She and the Visitor were locked in a fatal embrace. If she was able to kill her spirit, the undying blood in her arms, she would bring death to him as well.

She would have to make this sacrifice, or else those horrible visions, that terrible future, would be unavoidable. She was a vessel for evil, and as long as she lived, so did he.

“Dylan, you knew, didn’t you? You knew what I would have to do. All along,” she whispered.

From the darkness, Dylan appeared at last. He looked at her mournfully. “I didn’t want to tell you.”





FORTY-THREE

Schuyler


It had been a few days since Schuyler had visited Dr. Pat’s clinic, and her new life in New York was finally starting to take shape. That afternoon she and Oliver stopped by the real estate office that was holding the keys to the small studio apartment in Hell’s Kitchen, which Oliver had secured for her, paying a year’s rent in cash. To obscure her identity, Schuyler would pretend to be the only daughter of a single mom: an ex-hippie folk singer who was usually on tour with her band. With Schuyler’s ability to transform her facial features, she could even pretend to be the mom on occasions that demanded it. Mutatio was easier now that she felt like herself again.

They took the subway across town and ended up in a bustling section of Ninth Avenue, a neighborhood that was a mixture of corporate dormitories for Wall Street newbies as well as shabbier walk-up buildings next to strip clubs and tripleX video stores. But there was a grocery store not too far away, and Schuyler and Oliver loaded up on a week’s worth of food: organic vegetables, a loaf of raisin bread from Sullivan Street Bakery, cans of beans. Oliver pushed her to splurge on the Spanish ham and a block of French double-cream cheese. The clean, wide aisles of the supermarket gladdened her heart; it was good to be back in America again, where everything was so easy and convenient.

The studio was located in one of the shabbier buildings, as Schuyler had wanted, and it was very small: if she stood in the middle of the room, she could almost touch all four walls with her fingertips. The apartment came furnished with a hot plate, a microwave, and a futon that rolled into a corner. The lone window opened up to a view of the light shaft. Still, it was better than living in a hotel. It was New York. It was home.

“Are you sure about this?” Oliver asked. Schuyler had entered the building wearing the hippie-mom mask, and she felt her features relax back into her own as soon as he had closed the door. “You don’t have to stay here, you know. My dad has a place downtown—for when he works late. You could stay there,” he told her.

“I know it’s not as nice as your house. Or even my old one,” Schuyler said, looking through the empty cupboards and finding little black plastic roach motels in the corners. “But I don’t think we should be seen together at all. We can’t jeopardize your status in the Coven.”

The house on Riverside Drive was a mere cab ride away. Hattie would be there with her homemade pot roasts, and Julius to show her card tricks. But she could not go back. Not yet. She knew the minute she stepped through the doorway, the Conclave would know. She had no idea how she knew this, but she felt it instinctively and knew she was right. She had to keep away. They might not be interested in her right now, but she had a feeling that would change.