The Van Alen Legacy

She felt safer in the studio already. Already she felt she was Skye Hope—not Schuyler Van Alen. She and Oliver had decided it was a name a former flower child would give her offspring. Plus, if people called her by a name she was used to answering to, there was less of a chance Schuyler would slip up.

Alexander Hamilton High was the local public school, and they had accepted Schuyler’s last-minute registration with no questions or complaint. Oliver had pushed for one of the other private schools: Nightingale, Spence, Brearley. But even he had to agree it was too dangerous. Those institutions were crawling with Blue Bloods. At Hamilton High, there would be little chance of anyone from the Conclave finding out she was there. The elite might give lip service (and donor money) to their commitment to public education but never went so far as to actually send their children there. For the Conclave to believe the story of Schuyler and Oliver’s estrangement, Oliver would have to return to Duchesne without her.

But she would have to continue her education somehow. What had Lawrence always said? School was more than academics; an education prepared you for the humdrum of real life: working with others, tempering one’s personality to assimilate with the group but without losing your individual identity, understanding the factors of logic, reasoning, and debate. For a person—vampire or human—to succeed in the world, unlocking the mysteries of the universe was insufficient. One would also need to grasp the mysteries of human nature.

“Are you sure there isn’t another reason I should be here with you?” Oliver asked.

But she didn’t want to answer him right then. She was still sorting out her feelings, starting to wonder if maybe her mother could be right. If maybe love was something you had to fight for—no matter what the cost. She didn’t want to hurt Oliver. She would rather die herself than see him suffer. But she needed time to think. Alone.

“I’ll be okay; I’m in New York—see—the shaking, it’s gone,” Schuyler said, raising her hands to her face in wonder. Had she simply been homesick, as Dr. Pat had said? That her blood had called to her own kind? Was that all it was? Truly? That she was close to a coven once again?

“Good,” Oliver said. “Well. You have my cell. You can call me anytime. You know that.”

“I’ll miss you,” Schuyler said. “I already miss you.” But they had to do this, to keep the other safe.

“Well. Have fun,” he said reluctantly, and with one final hug, he was out the door.

As she unpacked the groceries, she noticed Oliver had left his mail among the stack of papers for Schuyler’s new apartment.

There was a thick white envelope stuck in the middle of the bills and magazines. It didn’t have a stamp, which meant it had come directly from someone in the Conclave. They always hand-delivered their correspondences.

It was an invitation to a bonding, Schuyler saw, and without having to check, she knew that the address embossed on the back would be the Force town house.





FORTY-FOUR

Mimi


The Starbucks at the corner of Fifth and Ninety-fifth had closed, so Mimi had to walk a few more blocks to EuroMill, a fancy new coffee “boutique” that had recently opened. The EuroMill had taken the gourmet coffee culture to a new level. They had a fat binder where a customer could choose the bean, the roasting, even the way the flavor was “extracted” (hand-drip, siphon, French press, or “solo”).

The place resembled an art gallery: white walls with square blackboards, the coffee grinders and espresso machines polished to a gleam, mirroring the artwork on display.

“How can I help you?” the nose-ringed barista asked.

“La Montana, slow clover,” Mimi said, meaning she wanted a cup of the El Salvador roast through the no-sediment French press. “Two of them. To go. Oh, and one of those,” she said, pointing to a chocolate croissant behind the glass display.

A sharp whistle drew her attention. At one of the middle tables, among the writers typing on laptops and the private-school crowd angling for their breakfast lattes, sat the rest of her former Venator team.

“Hey, guys,” Mimi said with a smile. Had it only been a month since the four of them had battled Brazilian drug gangs and Silver Bloods in the jungle?

She was gifted with a rare grin from the Lennox boys, who soon took their leave. Ted slapped her on the back, even. “Force.” Kingsley nodded. He kicked the chair next to him away from the table so she could sit down.

“Let me guess. Café con leche? Four sugars?” Mimi smirked as she tried to still the butterflies in her stomach. They hadn’t seen each other since landing in New York. What happened in Rio stayed in Rio, wasn’t that how the saying went? If she’d thought Kingsley would seek her out afterward, she’d been wrong. What did she care anyway? It hadn’t mattered back then, and it sure didn’t matter now.