The Van Alen Legacy

“Listen. I found the tapes. Your reports from two years ago. They were in Charles’s office,” Mimi said, looking him square in the eye.

“Spying on me now?” Kingsley cocked an eyebrow and finished off his whiskey in one gulp. But he sat up straight and looked alert. With his right hand he motioned for the check.

“I don’t understand!” she whispered fiercely. “What were you doing for Charles? Why did you call the Silver Blood? What were the two of you trying to do?”

“Do you really want to know?” Kingsley asked. He returned her forthright stare, so she could look right into his dark eyes. She could see the hint of silver at the edge of his pupils.

Mimi didn’t blink. “Yes. Tell me. Tell me everything.”





FORTY-EIGHT

Bliss


The Prada sample sale, while admittedly an exclusive experience (they checked two IDs against the guest list at the door) and filled to the brim with last season’s must-haves, struck Bliss as completely anticlimactic. Where were the hordes of fashion-mad women fighting over the last pair of six-inch embroidered platforms? Was the lack of buzz because the economy was in a downturn, or maybe because sample sales were inherently secretly lame? Filled with overstock of designs whose life-expectancy rate was the three months that fashionistas actually wore the stuff ? Because who needed a degrade skirt when it was no longer in fashion? Or for that matter, vertiginious pumps in a crocodile pattern that turned a foot into a hoof ? Was it still fashion when it was no longer fashionable?

Bliss wandered around the shelves, pulling a bag to look at here and there. Four hundred dollars was still too much to pay for a handbag, she thought. They called this a sample sale? A dress caught her eye—one of those baby-doll dresses that had looked so cute in the advertising campaign. Purple with yellow flowers. She picked it up.

When Schuyler walked in, dressed in her various layers but looking as ethereal and beautiful as ever, Bliss could see the envy from all the other insect-sized fashionistas, which made her feel proud and happy. Seeing Schuyler reminded Bliss that she wasn’t some centuries-old freak, some cursed being . . . that part of her was only sixteen years old and still innocent, and no one else, no one else in this room, would understand what she was going through. . . .

Except for the girl in the gray trenchcoat and black sweater.

“Bliss! Oh my god! Oh my god! Oh my god!” Schuyler cried, and soon they were embracing, hugging each other tightly, tears flowing down their cheeks, making a bit of a commotion so that the other shoppers turned away and tried to pretend they weren’t gawking.

“Do we have to stay here?” Schuyler asked, looking curiously at Bliss. “Are you buying that dress?”

“I might . . . Why? Do you not like it? But no, I mean yes, it’s better if we stay here . . . but I think there’s a room where we can talk,” Bliss said, leading Schuyler outside to the hallway and into a little anteroom on the side.

They sat side by side, still clutching each other. Bliss noticed how thin Schuyler had gotten. “When I heard you guys had to run away, I was so worried. What happened?” She listened while Schuyler told her about the investigation and all that had happened afterward. As she did, she realized more and more what a danger she was posing to Schuyler. Even without the title, Forsyth was already leading the Conclave. Bliss could feel the Visitor behind it all. But why would he care what happened to Schuyler Van Alen?

“I saw Oliver at school, but we haven’t had a chance to get together,” Bliss said. She’d had an awkward reunion with him. They were friends-in-law, Bliss thought. Without Schuyler, she and Oliver didn’t have too much in common. “It’s weird to see him without you. You guys were always joined at the hip.”

“I know,” Schuyler said, and twisted her thumbs. “It’s better this way. If the Conclave knew I was back . . .”

Bliss nodded. Forsyth had been asking her if Schuyler had been in touch, which meant the Conclave was still interested in her whereabouts. Bliss had told him nothing, of course. Schuyler was right to hide. But Bliss had a feeling there was something other than just fear of the Conclave that was keeping Schuyler and Oliver apart. She’d once hoped that Schuyler would find happiness with Oliver, but friendship was one thing, and love was another. The Greeks were right about that. “Have you seen Jack?” she asked.

“Yes.” Schuyler hesitated. “It’s fine. It’s . . . we’re . . . it’s over.” She looked Bliss straight in the eyes when she said it and held her head high.