Revelations

"What's it got to do with the Silver Bloods?" Bliss wanted to know, as she sucked on the bandage covering her thumb. She'd woken up one morning to find it bleeding. Odd. Maybe she'd gotten a splinter in her sleep?

"Only an Archangel's sword can kill another Archangel. I can't believe you don't know that, Bliss," Mimi scolded. "Haven't you been doing the reading?"

"But why would Charles want to kill Allegra?"

"Not Allegra. God, do I have to spell everything out? If Lucifer is out there—you know? The High Prince of Darkness? Lucifer's a former Archangel. It's the only thing that can kill him. Normal Blue Blood swords—you get them before you're bonded, by the way, or don't you remember that either? Those just work against any old Silver Blood. But Michael's sword is the only one that can kill Lucifer."

"And now it's gone."

"Yeah. It sucks. Charles is really losing it if the sword slipped from his care," Mimi sighed. It truly looked bad for her father. She could sense that there were members of the Conclave who were suspicious of this "break-in." But why would Charles steal his own sword? Did they actually believe Michael, Pure of Heart, would consort with Silver Bloods?

Bliss looked around for her father. Forsyth was still in the room, probably talking to Charles. "So who do they think stole it?"

"They have no idea; although Charles said Kingsley was the last person who visited him in his study. I know they should never have trusted that loser. Anyway, Kingsley's team is incommunicado in Rio. They couldn't get him on the telepath. And Lawrence hasn't been checking in either. It's chaos," Mimi said a tad gleefully.

"I hope they don't think Dylan's behind it. He can't be," Bliss said nervously.

"What are you talking about?" Mimi asked. "Dylan? Why would he be involved? Didn't he disappear on you a few months ago? He's like, history." Mimi dimly remembered the story of how Dylan had broken into Bliss's window before being taken by a Silver Blood. Bliss had been inconsolable for days, and Mimi had tried to comfort Bliss by reminding her that the monster could have taken her too. She was lucky to be alive. The Conclave had sent a team to investigate and track down Dylan's whereabouts, but the Venators had found nothing.

"Don't you know?" Bliss asked.

"Know what?"

"Dylan's back and he's in rehab."

"Are you sure we're talking about the same guy. Dylan— your deadbeat ex and the guy who killed Aggie? Who got turned into a Silver Blood?" Mimi demanded. Bliss wasn't the sharpest knife in the drawer. A girl who was still wearing last season's sack dresses in May was totally clueless, as far as Mimi was concerned.

"Yeah."

"Why would I know about it?" Mimi asked.

"You're on the Conclave. I turned him in to Forsyth. He said he would let the Conclave know, so that everyone could make a decision. He said the Elders decided to send him to Transitions."

Mimi shook her head, looking mystified. "No. Your dad never mentioned it in a meeting. We did no such thing." She looked at Bliss like she was out of her mind. How strange that Forsyth would keep something like that a secret from the Conclave.

"That's odd, why would he lie to me?"

"Who knows?" Mimi studied Bliss. "Dylan's really back? You're sure?"

Bliss nodded. "We visited him the other week."

"Take me to him. I'll let Forsyth know I need to make a report on Dylan for the Conclave."

Cordelia Van Alen Files

Repository of History

CLASSIFIED DOCUMENT:

Altithronus Clearance Only

Cordelia.— I trust you will find this satisfactory. Forsyth L.

The Houston Star

Birth Announcement

Congressman Forsyth Llewellyn and his wife, the former Roberta Prescott, are the proud parents of a new baby daughter. Jordan Grace Llewellyn was born exactly at midnight on January 1, 1994. Jordan is the second daughter of the congressman. Mother and baby are doing well.

Twenty-seven

Because Mimi wanted to see Dylan right away, they decided to visit him the next day, which would mean cutting classes again. Not that Bliss minded all too much. Her grades were the furthest thing on her mind at that point. That evening, Bliss did not ask her father why he hadn't told the Conclave about Dylan. She was wary about letting him know she knew he was keeping secrets from her. Forsyth must have had his reasons, but somehow Bliss had a feeling he wouldn't share them.

The next afternoon Bliss packed Dylan a care package. She knew he was receiving the best care money could buy, but Transitions wouldn't have the newest indie-rock CD or a copy of Absolute Sandman. She thought maybe if he had a couple of his favorite things, it would remind him who he was, and in tandem, what Bliss had meant to him. She just didn't want to give up on him. She'd even decided to stop feeling rejected about what had happened when they'd made out that fateful night. Maybe Dylan freaking out on her was just part of his sickness.

Jordan walked by the doorway and peeked inside Bliss's room. "Are you going up to Saratoga again?" she asked.

"Yeah. Mimi wants to go see Dylan for the Conclave. And his doctor's there today. I can finally ask what's going on with him," Bliss explained, folding a new leather motorcycle jacket she'd had her stylist track down at Barneys and stuffing it into the shopping bag.

Her sister walked in and sat on the bed, watching Bliss pack. "Hey … I wanted to ask you…you know how you used to have your blackouts?"

"Uh-huh." Bliss nodded, deciding against bringing the teddy bear in a "Get Well" T-shirt she'd bought on impulse at a card shop. Dylan would definitely think it was corny. He'd always made fun of her for having so many stuffed animals on her bed.

"Do you still get them?"

Bliss paused and thought about it. The blackouts used to come with unnerving regularity. She would pass out and wake up somewhere completely different from where she'd begun, with no knowledge of how she'd gotten there. "No. And I haven't had a nightmare in months either."

"That's good," Jordan said, looking relieved.

But Bliss wasn't finished talking. "It's like, I get them during the day now. Like the other day—I saw this weird thing. I was holding my hairbrush and it turned into this, like, gold snake. Scared the crap out of me."

Jordan paled. "Gold snake?"

"Yeah."

"And the other day I looked up at the sky, and I saw this seven-headed dragon. Freaked me out."

"This happens a lot?" Jordan asked.

Bliss shrugged. "Kind of. I asked Dad about it. He said it was all …"

"Part of the transformation," Jordan chimed in.

"Yeah." Bliss finished packing. Her cell phone buzzed. Mimi was downstairs with the car, waiting. Jordan was still standing there, an odd expression on her face. She looked as if she were wrestling with a decision. "What's up?" Bliss asked.

"Nothing." Jordan shook her head. "Have fun visiting your friend."

Bliss hadn't hung out with Mimi for months, and at first she thought it would be uncomfortable between them, but she had forgotten how self-absorbed Mimi Force could be. Mimi chatted easily during the entire drive, talking about everything from her new cast of human familiars, which included the hottest boys from Collegiate and Horace Mann, along with a college kid or two, as well as her plans for the summer: an intensive Chinese-immersion program in Beijing, since she wanted to display language fluency for her Stanford application next year.

"Isn't that funny? Chinese is the only language that isn't in my memories. Huh. I'm staying with Wah and Min, you know those Chinese twins we met at the Four Hundred Ball?" Mimi giggled.

When they arrived at Transitions, Dylan was alone in his room, watching television. "Hey…Bliss…right?" he asked, turning off the tube. "And you are?"

"Mimi." She looked at him sharply. "You seriously don't remember us?"

"I remember her," Dylan said a little shyly. "She's come to see me a few times."

"I brought you a couple of things," Bliss said, holding up the fat bag of treats.

"Cool," Dylan said, digging into the bag. "What's this for?" he asked, holding up the black leather jacket.

Bliss felt embarrassed. "I … um…you used to have one…"

"No, it's…God, it's great." Dylan put it on. He looked just as handsome in it as the old one. He smiled at her, and her heart skipped a beat. He rooted in the bag again and removed an iPhone box.

"I thought you might want one," Bliss said. "I hope you don't mind. I already programmed my number into it."

"Bliss," Mimi asked. "Could you leave us alone for a bit? I'd like to ask Dylan some questions."

"Sure."

Bliss left the room. A few minutes later, Mimi opened the door. She looked at Bliss with a mixture of pity and contempt. "Well?" Bliss asked.

"It looks like he really has no memory," Mimi said.

"I told you."

"It's amazing. It's like he's a total blank slate."

"You say that like it's a good thing." Bliss glared at Mimi and went back inside the room.

"What did she want to know?" she asked Dylan.

Dylan shrugged. "Not much…just a few weird things— and something about jeans or something. I didn't really get what she was after. I told her I didn't even know my name when I woke up."

"You really have no idea who I am?" Bliss asked, sitting next to Dylan on the bed.

He looked down at the comic book he was leafing through and put it away. Then he reached over and held her hand in his. She was surprised and looked at him fearfully…hopefully…

Dylan frowned and then finally spoke. "I don't know who you are. But I do know that every time I see you, I feel better."

Bliss squeezed his hand and he squeezed hers back. They sat holding hands for a very long time. Until Mimi knocked on the door to let Bliss know Dylan's doctor was ready to see them.

As they walked to the main building, Mimi took off her sunglasses and squinted at a figure walking toward Dylan's cottage. "Hey, isn't that Oliver Hazard-Whatever?"

"Yeah," Bliss said. Oliver had told her he might be visiting Dylan after school. Apparently he came up a lot to keep Dylan company. The two of them played chess. Dylan might have lost his memory, but he hadn't lost his ability to slaughter Oliver at the game, Oliver had told her.

"Hold on. I want to talk to him for a bit," Mimi said, heading in his direction.

Bliss wondered what on earth Mimi would want to talk to Oliver about. The two of them despised each other. But they were too far away for her to overhear them.

She did notice that when Mimi returned, she looked extremely pleased with herself, even more so than usual.

As for Oliver, Bliss didn't have a chance to catch up with him. Whatever Mimi said to him shook him up so much, he never did visit Dylan that day.

Twenty-eight

She heard the car before it turned the corner. A soft purring engine that grew to a massive roar. It pulled up to the alley behind the Perry Street building. A silver gray 1961 XKE Jaguar convertible, sleek and gorgeous as a bullet, with Jack Force at the wheel.

Schuyler slipped inside the car, admiring its classic finish, its silver antique gauges and simple old-fashioned mechanisms. Jack shifted the gears and the car roared up the highway.

They would only have a few hours together, but it was enough—although, of course, it would never be enough.

Each day brought the bonding closer and closer.

She had spied the invitations, and had merited one herself. She'd been surprised at first, then realized it was Mimi's way of letting her know exactly where she stood. The other day she had even caught a glimpse of Mimi in her bonding dress. Schuyler didn't know who was more the fool—she or the girl in the white dress. They were both mad to be in love with the same boy.

Jack was the fool, Schuyler thought, watching him expertly maneuver the car through the thoroughfare. A crazy fool. But she loved him, God how she loved him. She only wished they didn't have to hide, that they could declare their love to the world. The other evening she had told him she was tired of hiding in one place. As much as the apartment afforded an escape, it was also a prison.

Schuyler was longing to be with him somewhere else, even for one night. In answer Jack had slipped her a note that morning telling her to meet him at twilight at the designated location. She had no idea what he was planning, but the small smile that now played at the edge of his lips hinted at a wonderful surprise.

Jack drove the car across the bridge into New Jersey. In a few minutes they pulled into a private airfield at Teterboro, where a jet was waiting.

"You can't be serious." Schuyler laughed and clapped her hands when she saw the airplane.

"You said you wanted to get away." Jack smiled. "How about Tokyo? Or London? Seoul? I feel like barbecue. Madrid? Bruges? Where would you like to go tonight? Tonight the world is yours, as am I."

Schuyler didn't ask where Mimi was; she didn't care and she didn't want to know. If Jack was going to risk it, then she didn't need to ask.

"Vienna," Schuyler decided. "There's a painting there that I've always wanted to see."

So this is what it's like to be one of the richest and most powerful vampires in the world, Schuyler thought, as she followed Jack inside the Osterreichische Galerie in the Belvedere palace. The museum was closed for the night, but when they arrived at the great entrance doors a gloved security guard greeted them, and the museum curator led them to the proper gallery.

"Is this what you are looking for?" the curator asked, pointing to a dark painting in the middle of the room.

"Yes." Schuyler took a deep breath and looked at Jack for reassurance. In answer he squeezed her hand tightly.

She moved closer to the painting. She had a faded poster of the same image tacked up in her bedroom. The reality of it astonished her. The colors were so much more vibrant and engaging, fresh and alive. Egon Schiele had always been one of Schuyler's favorite artists. She'd always been drawn to his portraits—those heavy, tortured dark lines, the gaunt figures, the eloquent sadness applied as thick as paint.

It was called simply The Embrace, and depicted a man and a woman with their bodies entwined together. There was a ferocious energy to the piece, and Schuyler felt as if she could sense the couple's intense connection to each other. And yet the piece was far from romantic. It was fraught with angst, as if the two people in the painting knew their embrace was their last.

There was a melancholy to his art—it wasn't for everyone. In Schuyler's Art Hum. class everyone was enamored by Gustav Klimt's Art Nouveau masterpiece The Kiss. But Schuyler thought liking that painting was too easy; it was dorm-room decor, a typical safe choice.

She preferred madness and tragedy, loneliness and torment. Schiele had died young, perhaps of a broken heart. Her art teacher was always talking about the "redemptive and transformative quality of art," and as she stood in front of the painting Schuyler completely understood what that meant.

She had no words for what she was feeling. She felt Jack's hand in hers—so cool and dry, and counted herself the luckiest girl in the world.

"Where to now?" Jack asked as they left the museum.

"Your choice."

Jack cocked an eyebrow. "Let's stop by a cafй. I have a taste for Sacher torte."

They dined on the rooftop of an apartment building and watched the dawn break over the horizon. One of the advantages of being a vampire was that it was easy to adjust to a nocturnal schedule. Schuyler didn't need as much sleep as she used to, and on the nights when she met Jack, they hardly slept at all.

"Is this what you wanted?" Jack asked, leaning over the small rickety table and pouring her more wine.

"How did you know?" she smiled, tucking her hair behind her ear. He had surprised her by bringing her to yet another beautiful apartment his family owned. The Forces had more real estate than Schuyler had holey black sweaters in her closet.

"Come on, let's go back downstairs," Jack said, leading her by the hand back inside the apartment. "I want you to hear something."

The Force pied-a-terre was located in a building that dated back to 1897, in the prestigious Ninth District, with vaulted ceilings, ornate moldings, and views from every window. It was airy and spacious, yet unlike their sumptuously decorated New York home, the place was sparsely furnished and almost monastic.

"No one's been here in ages, ever since they stopped doing the Viennese Opera Balls properly," Jack explained. He dusted off an ancient-looking Sony cassette recorder.

"Listen to this," he said, putting a tape inside. "I think you might like it." He pressed PLAY.

There was a scratchy hissing sound. Then a husky, low voice—unmistakably female, but sounding ravaged by years of smoking—began to speak.

"It was also my violent heart that broke …"

Schuyler recognized the lines. "Is it her?" she asked rapturously. "It is her, isn't it?"

Jack nodded. It was. "I found the tape at this old bookshop the other day. They had poets reading their work."

He had remembered. It was Anne Sexton. Reading from Love Poems. Her favorite poet reading from her favorite poem, "The Break." It was the saddest of the lot, angry and bitter and beautiful and enraged. Schuyler was drawn to grief—like Schiele's paintings, Sexton's poetry was brutal, honest in its agony. Love Poems had been written during an affair the poet had—an illicit, secret affair not unlike their own. She knelt and huddled close to the little stereo, and Jack folded her in his arms. She didn't think she could love him more than she did right then.

Maybe there was part of him that she would never understand, but at this moment the two of them understood each other perfectly.

When the tape ended, they were silent, enjoying the warmth of each other's bodies.

"So…" Schuyler felt hesitant and lifted up on one elbow to speak to him. She feared that talking about the reality of their situation would break the magic of the evening. And yet she wanted to know. The bonding was full speed ahead. "The other day at The Committee meeting you said that there was a way to break the bond."

"I believe so."

"What are you going to do?"

In answer, Jack pulled Schuyler down so that they were lying together again. "Schuyler, look at me," he said. "No, really look at me."

She did.

"I have lived a very long time. When the transformation happens…when you begin to become aware of your memories…it is an overwhelming process. It's almost like you have to relive every single mistake," he said softly.

"I don't want to make the same mistakes I've made before. I want to be free. I want to be with you. We will be together. I believe I will have less to live for, if I am not with you."

Schuyler shook her head vigorously. "But I can't let you do that. I can't let you take the risk. I love you too much."

"Then you would rather see me bonded to a woman I do not love?"

"No," she whispered. "Never."

Jack held her then and kissed her. "There is a way. Trust me."

Schuyler kissed him back, and every moment was sweeter than the last. She trusted him completely. Whatever it was he was going to do to break the bond, they would be together. Always.

Twenty-nine

Dylan's doctor was a bear of a man, with a full bushy beard and a tilted lumbering gait. Dress him in a red suit and send him down the chimney, Bliss thought, not quite trusting to put her faith in the awkward human, even though he was a very prominent hematologist and came from an old Red Blood family of trusted Conduits.

"My secretary tells me you are friends of Dylan Ward. I know you've been trying to get in touch with me. I apologize for the delay in responding. It's been a very busy week. Someone snuck a familiar into one of the dorms, and it was almost a bloodbath." He winced. "But not to worry, everything's under control for now." The doctor smiled.

"Right." Bliss nodded and took a seat across from his desk. "We're his friends. Thank you for seeing us."

"I'm not a friend. I'm here to find out what's going on with him for the Conclave," Mimi snapped. "I'm a Warden."

He raised his eyebrow. "You look young for your age."

Mimi smirked. "When you think about it, we all do."

"I mean, for someone in your position," he said nervously, coughing and shuffling papers on his desk.

"Get to the point, doctor. I didn't come here to debate the policies of the Conclave. What's going on with that basket case?"

Dr. Andrews opened the file in front of him and grimaced. "Dylan appears to be suffering from a form of post-traumatic stress disorder. We've enrolled him in several regression therapies to help recover his memories. But so far he hasn't made any real connection to anything. He remembers neither what happened to him a hundred years ago nor what happened to him a month ago."

It was just as Bliss feared. Dylan was like an unmoored boat, anchored to nothing and no one. "So he'll just have amnesia like that…forever?"

"Hard to say," the doctor said hesitantly. "We don't like to foster false hopes."

"But why," Bliss said, feeling extremely agitated, "why did it happen?"

"The mind does that sometimes; it blanks out everything in order to function. To blunt the force of a recent trauma."

"He's been through a lot," Bliss whispered.

"Silver Blood attack and all." Mimi nodded.

The doctor consulted his chart again. "That's the interesting thing. Like I told Senator Llewellyn, as far as we can determine, there are no signs of Silver Blood corruption in his blood. He has been attacked, yes, and badly tortured, but we are skeptical that he has actually performed the Caerimonia on a fellow vampire. He hasn't completed the process. Or let me make it clear: he hasn't even begun it."

Bliss started. "But…"

"That's ridiculous," Mimi said flatly. "We all know Dylan killed Aggie. She was fully drained. And he was the only suspect. He even confessed to Bliss."

"He did," Bliss agreed.

Dr. Andrews shook his head. "Perhaps he'd been deluded, or manipulated into thinking he was one of them. Our findings are quite conclusive."

"Forsyth knew this? That Dylan was innocent?" Mimi asked sharply.

The doctor nodded. "I called him as soon as the tests came in."

Mimi laughed a sharp, sarcastic laugh. "If Dylan's not a Silver Blood and he didn't take Aggie, that means he probably wasn't lying when he told me he doesn't know where the jeans she'd borrowed from me are."

"What are you talking about?" Bliss asked, her mind awhirl.

"Never mind." Mimi shrugged. She stood up, and Bliss followed her lead. "Thanks very much for meeting us, doctor. You've been a great help."

Bliss couldn't concentrate. Her fingers shook as she buttoned her coat. She bumped her knee into the table and almost tripped.

Dylan was innocent.

He was not a Silver Blood nor about to become one.

He was a victim.

For months, everyone in the community had believed in Dylan's guilt in the murder of Aggie Carondolet. That he had dispatched the other victims, attacked Schuyler, and mortally wounded Cordelia. He'd told Bliss himself that he'd done those things. And she'd believed him.

But what if he'd just been covering up for someone else? What if he'd just been made to think he had been infected?

And if it hadn't been Dylan who'd done all these things, then who had?

Thirty

It was evening when Schuyler left the apartment on Perry Street. Her face was still flushed from Jack's kisses, her cheeks and lips a rosy deep red. Like everything in New York, Schuyler was blooming. A kiss for a kiss for a kiss, she thought, still hazy from their night in Vienna. They had just returned and repaired to the hideaway to shower and change.

Jack had left first—slipping out the side door—and she had waited the requisite half hour before attempting an exit herself.

She was smiling softly to herself, trying to calm her wild hair in a sudden wind, when she saw someone she did not expect to see.

He was standing across the street, staring at her with a look of shock and dismay. One look in Oliver's eyes and she knew he knew. But how? How could he have known? They'd been so careful to keep their love a secret.

The grief etched all over in his face was too much to bear. Schuyler felt the words catch in her throat as she crossed the street to stand in front of him. "Ollie…it's not…"

Oliver shot her a look of pure hatred, turned on his heel, and began to walk, then run away.

"Oliver, please, let me explain…"

In a flash, she was standing right in front of him. He could run, but he could not outrun her. "Don't do this. Talk to me."

"There's nothing to say. I saw him leave, and then, just as she'd said, I waited a half hour, and then you left too. You were with him. You lied to me."

"I didn't—it's nothing like that—Oh God, Oliver." The sobs forming now, Schuyler felt his sadness and anger wash over her. If only he would hit her, if only he would strike her—do something other than stand there looking so devastated that she could only feel more devastated in turn.

It began to rain. Thunderclouds opened up overhead, and the first raindrops pelted, then drummed on them. They were going to get drenched.

"You have to choose," Oliver said, as the rain mixed with tears that fell from his cheeks. "I'm tired of being your best friend. I'm tired of being second best. I won't settle for that anymore. It's all or nothing, Schuyler. You have to decide. Him or me."

Her best friend and Conduit, or the boy she loved. Schuyler knew one day it would come to this. That she would have to lose one to have the other. That this game would have consequences. That she could not carry on just as she'd had—with a vampire lover and a human familiar, with none the wiser. She had lied to Oliver, lied to Jack, lied to everyone, including herself. But her lies had finally caught up with her.

"You are selfish, Schuyler. You should never have made me your familiar," Oliver said impassively. "But I let it happen because I cared about you. I was worried at what would happen to you if I didn't. But you—if you ever cared about me at all, if you were thinking about me at all, you should have had the decency to restrain yourself. You knew exactly how I felt about you, and you used me anyway."

He was right. Schuyler nodded dumbly as the rain ran in rivers over her hair and her clothes, her garments becoming a soggy mess. Oliver had always been the more sensible of the two of them. He'd had a crush on his best friend, loved her since they'd first met, carried a torch for her for years, but if she hadn't brought the Caerimonia into it, hadn't drunk his blood, hadn't imprinted herself on his soul, maybe someday he would have stopped feeling that way about her.

If she had found another familiar, if she had chosen another human boy, Oliver's crush might have faded into a soft, nonbinding affection. Oliver would be able to grow up, love a Red Blood girl, have his own family one day. But she had made him her own. She had sealed his affection with that first tantalizing bite. The Sacred Kiss had marked him as hers.

She had acted selfishly, needlessly, recklessly.

He had no choice but to love her. Even if he left her now, he would never love another; he would always be alone.

He was damned, and she had cursed both of them with her weakness.

"I am sorry." Schuyler's eyes filled with tears. There would be no way to make this right.

"If you are sorry, you will leave him. Jack will never be yours, Schuyler. Not like I am yours."

She nodded, crying bitterly, wiping her tears and runny nose with a wet sleeve. She knew she looked as wretched as she felt.

Oliver softened. "Come on, let's get out of the rain. We're both going to catch a cold." He led Schuyler gently into the shelter of a store awning.

"You're too kind to me," Schuyler whispered.

Oliver nodded. He knew what it was like to love one who did not—or could not—love you back. But he'd had no choice. None of them did.

AUDIO RECORDINGS ARCHIVE:

Repository of History

CLASSIFIED DOCUMENT:

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Transcript of Venator report filed 3/3

Venator Martin: They have called for the blood trial. All will be known. I will be discovered.

Charles Force: Yes, I heard. You must be quick. You must disappear. I will help you.

VM: But I want to know why. Why did you have me call the Silver Blood? Why?

CF: Because I had to know.

VM: Had to know what?

CF: If it was possible.

VM: What do you mean?

CF: It should not have worked, (agitated) It should never have happened—it was just a test. To see …

VM: What?

CF: No time, (whispers) I know what I must do now.

VM: But the Regis. He will want an explanation for my actions.

CF: Yes. I will take care of Lawrence. Do not worry. He, of all people, will understand why I did what I had to do. Now, listen to me. I am sending you to Corcovado….

Thirty-one

"Sky, you look awful. What happened?" Bliss asked, finding Schuyler standing morosely at her doorway. Schuyler's eyes were red from crying, and she was blowing her nose with a tissue.

"Your maid let me in. I hope that's okay. Are your parents around?" Schuyler asked, still sniffing.

"No. They're at some campaign fund-raiser. What else is new. Come on in. Not that they'd care anyway. You know they like you," Bliss said. As soon as she said it, Bliss realized she wasn't sure if it was true. Her parents had never shown any interest in her friends. They still assumed she hung out with Mimi Force. That's how clueless they were. They'd never even met Schuyler or Oliver.

"Are you all right?" Bliss asked.

Schuyler shook her head. She followed Bliss into her bedroom and climbed onto her bed, leaning back on the pillows and closing her eyes. "Oliver hates me," she said with a strangled cry as she rubbed her eyes. "He saw…the…two of us…Jack and…"

"He knows." Bliss nodded. So that's what Mimi was telling Oliver that afternoon.

In answer, Schuyler grabbed a fluffy pillow from among the huge goose-down heap and put it behind her neck. "Yeah."

Bliss sighed. She picked up the television remote and started flipping through recorded programs. "Did you see the latest episode of The Beach?"

"No, put it on," Schuyler urged. The fabricated "reality show" about the lives of three vacuous and yet strangely fascinating blond girls from Los Angeles was their favorite.

"So how'd he find out?" Bliss asked, keeping her eyes on the screen. Then she paused the action and turned to Schuyler. "Although, I guess it doesn't matter. You know he would eventually."

"I know," Schuyler said. "I wish you wouldn't look at me that way. I know what you're thinking."

"I didn't say anything."

"You don't have to."

Bliss rubbed Schuyler's back. She was sympathetic, but Schuyler had known what she was doing when she hooked up with Jack. She'd alienated a friend, and for what—Jack Force? What did she see in him anyway?

"Look, I've got to tell you something: Mimi and I visited Dylan today," Bliss said. She repeated everything the doctor had told her.

Schuyler was astonished and confused. "So if it wasn't Dylan who killed Aggie and all those others—who was it?"

"Who knows?"

"Does anyone else know about this? That he didn't do it?"

"Other than Mimi and me? Yeah. Forsyth," Bliss said. She realized she somehow couldn't bring herself to call him "Dad" lately. "Dr. Andrews said he'd called him once the tests came in."

"But your dad didn't mention anything to you?"

"Not a word."

"Or to the Conclave?"

"Mimi said Forsyth didn't tell them about Dylan at all," Bliss said, feeling more and more embarrassed about her father's actions.

"I wonder why …"

"Maybe he did it to help me," Bliss said defensively. "He knew the Conclave would want Dylan destroyed, so he hid him from them."

"But Dylan's not a Silver Blood," Schuyler said. "And he never was. So there was no threat that he would be destroyed. They performed the test, and he passed. Hey, what's with the suitcase?" she asked, motioning to the half-packed Tumi rollers at the foot of Bliss's bed.

"Oh yeah, we're going away."

"Where?"

"Rio. Forsyth said Nan Cutler called a major Conclave meeting, told them your grandfather needed help, and now everyone's going."

"What kind of help?" Schuyler demanded.

"Hey—don't worry," Bliss said, seeing the panicked expression on her friend's face. "I'm sure he's all right."

"I haven't heard from Lawrence in a long time," Schuyler admitted. "I've been so caught up with Jack I didn't even notice. What else did Forsyth say?"

Bliss was reluctant to say, but decided Schuyler had a right to know. "I'm not one hundred percent sure, but it sounded like Lawrence was in some sort of trouble."

"What kind of trouble?"

"I wish I could tell you. All I know is this morning Forsyth told us we were going to Rio. Conclave business." She pointed the remote control in the direction of the television screen and fast-forwarded through the commercials.

The show came back on, and Bliss reached under her bed and handed Schuyler a bag of her favorite jalapeсo potato chips. "Anyway, don't worry about Ollie. He'll come around. You know he will."

"I don't know about that. I really think he hates me, Bliss. He told me it was him or Jack. That I had to choose."

"And what did you say?"

"Nothing." Schuyler blinked back fresh tears. "I can't choose. You know I can't." She tossed the empty bag and kicked at a pillow. "Everything's rotten."

Bliss kept one eye on the television and the other on her friend. She heartily agreed with Schuyler's assessment. Everything did feel rotten. Like how Forsyth had never been straight with her about Dylan. Sometimes it felt as if everyone was lying about everything.

After a few minutes of watching the main star of the show break up with her boyfriend for the nth time, Schuyler spoke. "You know, I haven't heard anything from Lawrence since he's been there, except that he wishes the weather were cooler. If he's truly in danger, don't you think he would have said something to me? Maybe sent me a message?"

"Maybe he doesn't want you to worry," Bliss said. "He's probably just doing it to protect you. If there's something wrong with Corcovado, he did say he wanted to keep you away from it," she reminded.

"I guess." Schuyler played with a tassel on her pillow. "But it feels weird, you know? I mean, Lawrence doesn't trust the Conclave with anything. Not since Plymouth," she said. "Why would he call for them now?"

"What are you thinking?" Bliss asked. She noticed there was a purposeful look in Schuyler's eye. At least the girl had finally stopped crying about those boys. This was the Schuyler she knew and admired.

"I'm going down there. If Lawrence is really in danger, I have to help him. I couldn't live with myself otherwise."

AUDIO RECORDINGS ARCHIVE:

Repository of History

CONDUIT: Hazard-Perry, Oliver

POSITION: Van Alen family

Personal Report filed 5/19

«Transcript notes two minutes of tape were lost in feedback. Transcript begins as follows:»

Schuyler will tell you that I had no choice in the matter. She believes that I love her because I have to, or because I had no choice, but she's wrong. She gives herself too much credit sometimes.

I knew what we were doing, when we did the Caerimonia. I knew exactly what it meant. I knew what it would do. More importantly I knew she didn't feel the same about me. I've known that for a very long time. Do you think I'm stupid?

So why did I do it?

I don't know. I wasn't going to. In my defense, I had told her no the first time. We were sitting there in that hotel room, and she was sitting on my lap, and it felt nice, you know. Being so close to her. Yeah, I guess it felt great. I don't want to get into it—I'm not a suck-and-tell kind of guy.

She thinks I've been in love with her since we were kids, or since I first laid eyes on her, or some other romantic crap. But it wasn't like that. We were friends. We got along. I liked the way she thinks. Liked the sound of her laugh. Liked how she dressed-in all those dark layers. What was she hiding from?

Did I think she was beautiful? I'm not blind, am I? Of course I thought she was beautiful. But it was more than that—I liked that she used to wear this ugly shade of blue eyeshadow-girls think guys don't notice stuff like makeup, but we do—and it would get all cakey and smudged at the end of the day. She would have these huge blue raccoon eyes, and she wouldn't even notice … I don't know. I was charmed.

But I didn't feel that way about her back then. Not even in eighth grade when we had to go to the Sadie Hawkins dance together and she asked me to be her date, and we spent the evening sitting in a corner making fun of everyone. We didn't dance once, and she wore this hideous, baggy dress. No, I wasn't in love with her then.

I fell in love with her when she found out she was a vampire. Just a few months ago. When she accepted her heritage and didn't flinch from her destiny. Because you know who she's supposed to be, right? I mean, Gabrielle's daughter. Heavy stuff. She's so strong it scares me. I wasn't lying when I told her that.

So, yeah—again, you're asking me why I did it. Why I let her take my blood, let her mark me as her own. Do that whole "familiar" thing. All that jazz.

I don't even know why I bother with these reports. Who's listening to them, anyway?

Anyway, I guess the truth of the matter was, I didn't want her to have to do it with someone else. I didn't want to share. She was already so different from me, changing already. She is different. She's going to live forever, while I'm only going to get to go around once.

I wanted to hold on.

Because yeah, I do love her.

I loved her when she came to me that night at The Bank. When she was looking for me and was so relieved to see me. When she accepted everything I told her, and she didn't even freak out that much when I told her I already knew. That I was her Conduit.

That's why I took the next plane out of the city to Rio after hers. Yeah, Bliss told me what was going on. Do you think I would let her go there alone? You're kidding, right?

But if you think I walked into this blind, you're wrong. I knew being her familiar wouldn't change anything. I knew that even if she knew I was in love with her, it wouldn't change how she felt about me.

I knew I would lose in the end.

What do I think of Jack Force? I don't. I don't think much of him. Just another guy who thinks he's God's gift to Earth. In his case, probably literally. But, you know—he's irrelevant to me. He just doesn't factor in. Even if they end up together, which I highly doubt given the strength of that particular bond— Mimi is no joke, I wouldn't mess around with Azrael—but even if Schuyler still loves him, or thinks she does, it doesn't matter.

Because Jack is going to leave her one day. I know he will. He's too much for Schuyler. They're wrong for each other. Anyone can see that.

And when he leaves her, I'll be there.

However long it takes, I'll still be there for her.

Waiting.

So I guess Schuyler's wrong. I guess I'm a pretty romantic guy after all.

Thirty-two

Just pronouncing the name of Rio's airport—Galeao— could put one in a Carnaval-ready mood, Schuyler thought. Gahhhlaaaeonnn. Now she understood why so many people traveled to this country: even the name of its airport promised sultry and mysterious adventures.

Schuyler, however, felt far from romance of any kind. She couldn't manage to think of Jack without thinking about Oliver. It was too painful. Getting away from the Forces had been easy enough: she just walked out the door. Charles was holed up in his study again, Trinity was away on a girls-only spa vacation, while Mimi was traveling to Rio with the Conclave. Jack was to remain in New York. The other night he had left her another book under the door. A copy of Anna Karenina. But she didn't go to meet him. She didn't even have the heart to take the book along with her on the nine-hour flight.

She didn't sleep at all during the trip, and the cramped coach seat didn't help. Schuyler had only ever traveled with Cordelia or Oliver and his family. With her grandmother they had taken little prop planes to Nantucket, and Oliver only traveled first class. She had once thought of herself as a hardy girl who didn't need life's little luxuries, a common enough mistake made by those who've never experienced life's little inconveniences.

The plane finally landed, and Schuyler retrieved her carryall from the bin and shuffled her way to the front of the line. The airport itself was a disappointment, not at all living up to the magical promise of its moniker. The customs and immigration spaces were large and open, but the decor was cold, utilitarian, dated, and institutional. Not at all beachy, sexy, or whatever it was Schuyler had assumed would greet her when she arrived. It was empty and quiet. She'd expected a party, and was met by the Kremlin.

Schuyler understood that the city was considered pretty dangerous, and kept a wary eye. Lawrence was still frustratingly unreachable. The latest messages she'd sent him had been unreturned, and Schuyler couldn't get a lock on his signal. She followed the crowd out to the front of the terminal. Bliss had advised her to take a taxi, but with the little money she had left, she decided to brave it by taking one of the rickety buses that drove down the central areas along the beaches and stopped around the major hotels.

The bus was full of noisy Australian backpackers, and Schuyler found a seat in the front so she could look out the window. The ride from the airport was confusing, as the highway made various curves and bends, including going through a few tunnels, which left her with little sense of direction. Once in a while Schuyler saw magnificent, moss-covered rock cliffs and hills covered with tropical vegetation, above a coast of yellow-white sand beaches and blue water. She also saw glimpses of the storied favelas—the country's urban slums that dotted the cliffs and hillsides. Evidence of the earthquake's aftermath was everywhere, from the trash-covered lots filled with scavenger birds to the two-story piles of debris that dotted the landscape.

In between the views of mountain and sea she glimpsed towering high-rises, steel-and-glass buildings that were unaffected by the disaster. On the way she also noticed several cars off on the shoulder of the highway, stopped by heavily armed policemen at some sort of ad hoc checkpoint.

Everything was exotic and beautiful and ugly all at the same time. Finally the names on the road signs looked familiar: Ipanema, Copacabana, Leblon. She saw the famous statue of the Jesus with his arms outstretched as if embracing the city, Christ the Redeemer, O Cristo Redentor, on top of Corcovado. She was enjoying the view as the bus chugged along, when its engine suddenly died.

The bus driver cursed profusely as he pulled to the side of the road.

Schuyler was confused, especially when the driver asked the passengers to disembark along the highway, and to take their luggage with them.

"This again," one of the lanky Australians complained.

"Does this happen a lot?" she asked.

"All the time," she was told.

The bus driver advised them to take a break and come back after an hour while he attempted repairs. Fortunately they weren't too far from the main boulevard. All along the shorefront was a paved walkway with inlaid seashells in a mosaic pattern, crowded with joggers, walkers, Rollerbladers, and strollers. Schuyler found a juice stand nearby and bought a drink. The tropical heat was making her feel wilted.

But when she returned to the designated spot an hour later, the shuttle bus, along with the boisterous Australians, was gone. She was alone. Her annoyance was compounded by a flash of uncertainty when she noticed a couple of young toughs—thin, barefoot guys in faded shorts and holey Chicago Bulls T-shirts walking toward her. They looked curiously at the black-clad tourist. "Turista ? "

She knew she had nothing to fear, but she didn't want to blow her cover. The boys came nearer. Only then did she notice one of them was holding a broken bottle.

And just when she thought she would have to start defending herself, a shiny black car pulled up. It looked bulletproof, with darkened rolled-up windows.

What now? Schuyler thought she'd only found more trouble.

Then one of the windows rolled down. Schuyler was sure she'd never felt happier to see the boy inside.

"Took a while to find you. Sorry I lost you at the airport. My flight got delayed," Oliver said as he threw open the back door. Schuyler noticed he had two security men in the backseat, and one in the front, including the driver. "What are you waiting for? Get in."

Thirty-three

The Copacabana Palace Hotel was one of Mimi's favorite destinations. She'd traveled to Rio many times for Carnaval and always stayed in the same corner suite. She had no idea why Nan Cutler had brought the Conclave all the way to South America, but she didn't question it. Besides, it wasn't as if she was going to pass up the opportunity to miss school.

Jack had expressed no interest in accompanying her, and she didn't press the issue. Once they were bonded, they would travel the world together. She missed him, but she was also excited to be on her own in a new city.

She put her towel down on the chaise longue located on the private rooftop terrace outside her room. The Conclave had been invited to dine at Casa Alameida, a villa in the hills, later that evening. The Almeidas had been part of the Blue Blood contingent that had moved to Brazil in 1808, when the Portuguese royal family and many nobles had fled from, rather than fight, the red-blooded conqueror, Napoleon. They moved the seat of the king's court to the colonies, making Rio the first non-European capital of a European country.

Of course, once ensconced they never went back, and declared Brazil independent, and the prince, emperor. But when the country declared itself a republic in 1889, the Blue Bloods of the city retreated and concentrated on what they did best: building museums and art collections, grand hotels, and encouraging the cultural renaissance.

Mimi admired what the Brazilian Blue Bloods had done with their city, and reminded herself to invite them all to the Spring Gala. The families should really know each other better, she thought. So many of them lived so far away from each other now. Of course the heads of the various Committees would meet with the Coven's Elders in New York every year, but otherwise they had almost no contact with each other.

She lay facedown on the towel and untied the straps to her bikini top.

A muscular pool boy approached, his dark skin and hair striking against his white swimsuit. "Caipirinha?"

"Sure." Mimi pulled herself up on her elbows and didn't bother to cover herself.

His nonchalant gaze—almost obnoxious really, the way he stared at her chest, excited her senses. She was always on a hunt for a new familiar, and when in Rio…

Thirty-four

As far as Bliss was concerned she could stay in Rio forever. All afternoon she'd wandered the city's beautiful beaches, wearing a swimsuit she'd purchased at the hotel shop when the one she'd brought struck her as way too puritanical for this city.

They were staying at the fabulous Fasano Hotel on Ipanema, and although Bliss enjoyed sunning on the roof deck, she'd itched to walk the coast on her own. BobiAnne had asked her to take Jordan with her, and the sisters were having fun swimming in the ocean and people watching. Brazilians wore skimpy bikinis, no matter their shape or size; it was liberating and somewhat appalling at the same time. The American in Bliss believed grandmothers should not wear thongs.

Still, she was really starting to enjoy herself, relaxing in the sultry weather and forgetting they were in Rio for some fairly serious stuff. She'd overheard Forsyth talking to Nan Cutler, and it sounded as if Lawrence was in a real mess. Her parents didn't say anything, but it was obvious they were unsettled and anxious. Forsyth kept snapping at every little thing, and even BobiAnne was on edge. Bliss wondered if Schuyler had any luck contacting him.

Bliss hadn't been able to convince her family to bring Schuyler with them. ("Absolutely not," her father had said. "She is Charles's ward and I do not think he will give permission.") She'd done the next best thing and given Schuyler enough money from her personal account to secure a ticket. Schuyler was probably in the city already, but she was supposed to call Bliss when she got in, and so far Bliss hadn't heard from her. She hoped Schuyler was all right. Rio wasn't a place for young girls traveling alone.

She tried calling Dylan again, but there was no answer. The two of them had gotten into the habit of talking every night and checking in with each other during the day. She knew when he had yoga, when he had therapy, and what time he ate lunch. It bothered her he hadn't returned any of her messages. Where was he?

She dialed the main number of the center and asked for his counselor.

"Dylan?" The therapist's voice was cheerful. "He was checked out the other day."

"Really?" This was news to Bliss. Dylan hadn't even mentioned that he was eligible for release. "Do you know who picked him up?"

"Let's see…" There was a sound of papers shuffling. "It says here he was discharged to Senator Llewellyn."

Bliss felt uneasy. Obviously her father had failed to mention any of this to her. Maybe it was time to confront him about what she knew, but the thought of bringing it up with Forsyth made her stomach feel queasy. Dylan would call her when he got a chance, she was sure that he would. She would just have to wait. Next to her Jordan was huddled underneath an umbrella, covered with towels and layers of sunscreen. Bliss mocked her for it—taking out her unease over Dylan by insulting her sister.

"You don't tan either," Jordan retorted.

"Yeah, but I don't care. I like to burn."

"B, can I have a coco juice?" Jordan asked, pointing to a seller who was hawking the frosty wares.

"Sure." Bliss rooted in her bag for her wallet, when everything suddenly went white. She couldn't see a thing. She was completely blind, even though her eyes were wide open. It was the most unnatural, disturbing feeling—almost as if someone else were seeing through her eyes. As if there were another person inside her head.

When her vision returned, she was shaking.

"What just happened?" she asked Jordan.

Jordan's face was drained of color.

"Your eyes—they were blue." Bliss had green eyes, as green as the emerald that glinted around her neck.

"You're joking." Bliss laughed.

Jordan looked like she was trying to decide something. Finally she spoke. "Listen, you have to believe that I didn't have a choice, okay?" She grabbed Bliss's arm.

"What are you talking about?" Bliss asked, totally confused.

Jordan just shook her head, and Bliss was shocked to see her stoic younger sister so close to tears.

"Nothing, it's nothing." Jordan sniffed.

Bliss embraced her. "Take it easy, kid."

"Remember that you were truly like a sister to me." Jordan whispered so softly that Bliss wondered if she'd really said it or if she was just hearing things.

"Whatever it is you're worried about, everything's going to be okay, okay?" Bliss said, hugging her sister tightly. "Nothing's going to happen, I promise."

Thirty-five

Oliver, how can I ever thank you," Schuyler said, buckling her seat belt. She looked at the armed bodyguards. "Don't you think you've overdone it on the muscle?"

He shrugged, "One can never be too careful."

Schuyler nodded. "Does this mean you're not mad at me anymore?"

"Let's not talk about it right now. We're here for Lawrence, right?"

"Right."

"Did you know the whole Conclave is here?" he asked. "I saw Warden Oelrich on my flight. And the Duponts and the Carondolets are in my hotel."

"I know. Bliss told me Warden Cutler called an emergency session and brought them here. Have they found Lawrence?"

"That's the thing. No one's talking about Lawrence at all. They're all getting ready for a big dinner at some Brazilian Blue Blood's house tonight," he said, as the car drove into the downtown proper, and the landscape became even more scenic: lush greenery, gorgeous beaches, and equally gorgeous people sunbathing upon them.

"Where are you staying?" Schuyler asked.

"The Fasano. The new Philippe Starck hotel. Bliss is there too. I would have gotten you your own room, but they didn't have any more. Do you think you'll be okay sharing with me?" he asked.

"Of course," she said, trying not to look uncomfortable. "Listen…about what happened the other night."

"Let's not talk about it right now," Oliver said lightly. "I mean, I was being a bit dramatic, wasn't I? Him or me. Whatever."

"So you didn't mean it?" Schuyler asked hopefully.

"I don't know. Let's just…let's just deal with Lawrence first and talk about it later. Is that okay?"

"Sure." Oliver was right. They didn't have time to dwell on that now. They had to find Lawrence.

Her grandfather's continued silence worried her. What if he had been trapped, or restrained, or worse? Had it been wise for him to come to Rio alone? Or to meet with Kingsley's team? Kingsley who was now unreachable as well, according to Bliss. Schuyler still didn't understand why Kingsley, who'd been shown to be a Silver Blood—albeit reformed—had been allowed to come back as a Venator. Her grandfather wasn't a gullible person, and he must have had good reason to trust Kingsley again, especially after what happened in Venice.

But still…

She worried.

She closed her eyes and thought of her grandfather. Pictured his leonine hair, his aristocratic bearing.

The sending was returned immediately.

What are you doing here? Lawrence demanded crossly. He was obviously very annoyed, and worse, sounded perfectly fine.

Saving you? Schuyler sent tentatively.

There was a sound like a telepathic snort.

Meet me at the Palace bar. In an hour.

Lawrence was dressed in his usual tweeds and heavy woolens when they met him at the bar at the Copacabana Palace. His face was red, and sweat was dribbling down his forehead. Schuyler thought maybe he wouldn't complain so much about the weather if he were dressed for it.

"You were supposed to remain in New York," Lawrence said sternly as a greeting. They took seats at the bar and Lawrence ordered a round of drinks. A Bellini for himself and virgin piсa coladas for his granddaughter and her Conduit. Even if alcohol didn't affect the vampires, Lawrence liked to abide by Red Blood rules and frowned upon "underage" drinking.

"But grandfather … I heard you were in trouble." She squirmed in her seat. She felt relieved that Lawrence was all right, but her grandfather's steely gaze made her recent actions feel impulsive and foolish. More and more it appeared her trip was unnecessary and unnecessarily dramatic.

"That's news to me," Lawrence said, bringing out his pipe.

"But why haven't you returned my sendings then?" Schuyler asked. "I've been worried."

Lawrence sucked on his pipe before replying. "I didn't hear them. I've heard nothing from you until today," he said, blowing smoke into the air.

The waitress returned with their drinks, and the three of them clinked glasses. "There's no smoking here, sir," she told him.

"Of course not." Lawrence winked as he continued to smoke, conjuring a silver ashtray on the table.

The waitress looked confused and walked away, just another victim of the glom. Lawrence turned to Schuyler. "Did you do the exercise as I taught you? Concentrate on locating my spirit?"

"Yes, of course," Schuyler said a bit impatiently.

Oliver piped in. "Telepathic messages are encrypted, right? Could someone have—I dunno—subverted them? Or erased them somehow?"

"That's not how it works," Schuyler said. "They're not like e-mails sent to a network. Using the glom is a direct line to someone's consciousness. It can't be … messed with. Right, Grandfather?"

"I'm not sure. You may have a point, young man," Lawrence said thoughtfully as he sipped his drink. "Using telepathy depends on a vampire's ability to tap into the 'otherworld,' what the humans call the paranormal. The source of our power comes from the great divide, the place where the usual boundaries between the material and spiritual worlds fall away."

"And that's Corcovado; the crossing is here," Schuyler said.

"Yes," her grandfather said, his frown lines deepening.

"And Kingsley? Have you seen him?" Schuyler asked.

"We're in touch."

"So he hasn't disappeared either."

Her grandfather looked puzzled. "No he hasn't. We've been in contact the entire time."

Schuyler shook her head. "It's just… we heard …" she said weakly. "That you and Kingsley…never mind."

Lawrence continued to look mystified as he knocked back his drink.

Oliver excused himself from the table to answer his cell phone, and Schuyler took the opportunity to ask her grandfather something that had been troubling her for weeks. But the answer was not what she was hoping for.

Lawrence looked directly at his granddaughter, under arched eyebrows. "There is no way. Suppose Jack breaks his bond, there is no recourse for him. It is against our laws. The Code of the Vampires. If his twin invokes the covenant, there will be a trial. If he is found guilty, he will be condemned. Burned. If he chooses to flee rather than face judgment, his own twin must bring him to justice."

Schuyler's breath caught in her throat. "But Allegra…she's alive."

"Allegra is practically dead at her own hands. Charles argued that the sentence could not be carried out while she was unconscious. But once she wakes up, she is subject to the laws, as well as he."

"Then why does he keep hoping that she will wake up one day?" Schuyler asked, thinking of Charles kneeling by her mother's bedside.

"Charles refuses to acknowledge the breaking. But he will have to. If she wakes up, the Coven will insist on a trial."

"But you are Regis. You could save her," Schuyler insisted. You could save Jack.

"No one is above the Code, Schuyler. Not even your mother," Lawrence said, and Schuyler could swear she heard anguish in his voice.

"So Jack will lose his life one way or another."

Lawrence cleared his throat and tapped the ashes from his pipe onto the crystal ashtray. "If he breaks the bond, even if he manages to escape trial, his spirit will diminish. There is no death for our kind, but he will be fully aware of his paralysis. Fortunately he has never been tempted to break his vows. Abbadon is a flirt and a rogue, but he is loyal at his core. He will not sever ties to Azrael so easily. But Schuyler, tell me, why all this interest?"

"We were learning about it in the Committee meetings is all, Grandfather."

So that was why Jack never wanted to talk about it. Because there was no way to escape the bond. He had lied to her. A lie born of love. There was no hope for the two of them. He was putting himself at risk by resisting it.

Mimi was right. Mimi was telling the truth.

Without the bond Jack would never be the vampire he was meant to be. He would be half of himself, weakened and destroyed. It would happen slowly over the centuries, but it would happen. His spirit would die. And if that did not get him, the laws would. Mimi would hunt him down. The Conclave would condemn him to the Burning. By loving Schuyler he was risking his very soul. The longer they continued to meet, the more danger he was putting himself in.

It had to end.

She thought wistfully of their last meeting. That heavenly evening full of art and poetry, how handsome and brave he'd looked when he spoke about breaking the bond. What he would risk to be with her. Schiele's painting came to mind again. There was a reason why she loved it so much. Two lovers, embracing, as if it were their last. Just as in Anne Sexton's "The Break," Schuyler's story was one of a shattered heart.

There would be no more nights by the fire. No more books slipped under her door. No more secrets.

Good-bye, Jack.

As hard as it would be, as much as it would destroy her very will to even live, Schuyler knew what she had to do.

She had to tell another lie.

A lie that would release him.

AUDIO RECORDINGS ARCHIVE:

Repository of History

CLASSIFIED DOCUMENT:

Altithronus Clearance Only

Cordelia Van Alen Personal File

Transcript, of conversation dated 12/25/98.

Cordelia Van Alen: Come here, child. Do you know me?

Jordan Llewellyn: Seraphiel.

CVA: Good.

CVA: Do you know why I have brought you?

JL: (child's voice changes) I am Pistis Sophia. The Watcher. A spirit born with its eyes wide open, born into full consciousness. Why have you woken me?

CVA: Because I am afraid.

JL: What are you afraid of?

CVA: I am afraid that we have failed. That the battle in Rome was a farce. That our greatest enemy still walks this earth, but I do not know how. You are Jordan Llewellyn. For this cycle you are the daughter of Forsyth Llewellyn. If my suspicions are correct, then you will be our first line of defense.

JL: What must I do?

CVA: You shall watch and listen and observe.

JL: And then?

CVA: If what I fear is true, you must complete what we failed to do in Rome. But I cannot help you. I am bound by the Code. This is the last time we shall speak.

JL: I understand, Godmother.

CVA: Be well, child. Take my blessing on your journey May it keep you safe. Facio Valiturus Fortis. Be strong and brave. Till we meet again.

JL: See you in the next life.

Thirty-six

Pain.

Searing pain.

As if someone were holding a hot poker to her heart. It was scalding, burning. She could feel her skin turn red, then black, could smell the smoke rising from her frying flesh. This was nothing like the attack at the Repository. She would not survive this.

Bliss tore through the miasma of sleep, forced herself to wake up. Wake up! Wake up! It was like being suffocated and torn apart at the same time. But she salvaged what power she had, and gathered all of her effort, all of her strength, and successfully pushed the pain away.

There was a crash and a scream.

She blinked awake and sat up on the couch. She had taken a nap in their suite after coming back from the beach. She was still trying to make sense of what had happened when the door flew open and her parents appeared in the doorway.

In the dark she saw Jordan lying in a crumpled heap on the floor, holding something bright and glittering in her hand.

Her parents assessed the situation quickly, almost professionally, as if they had been expecting something like this to happen.

"Quick, BobiAnne, she's still stunned. Set the spell," Forsyth said as he began to bundle up his younger daughter with the hotel's comforter and blankets.

"What's going on? What are you guys doing?" Bliss asked groggily. Things were happening much too fast for her understanding.

"Look," Forsyth said, removing a small blade from Jordan's hand and tossing it to his wife. "She picked the vault."

Bliss tried to make sense of everything, but logical thinking eluded her in her dizzy and disoriented state. Was she going insane, or did Jordan just try to kill her?

She flinched as her stepmother put a hand on her brow. "She's warm," she told her husband. Then she lifted Bliss's shirt and examined her chest. "But I think she's okay."

Forsyth nodded, kneeling to rip Bliss's sheets into strips so that he could tie the comforter holding Jordan closed.

Thinking the pain had come from the emerald stone, Bliss looked down at her chest. It felt as if the stone had burned itself on her skin, branding her. But when she touched it, it was as cool as ever. Her skin underneath was smooth and unharmed. Then she understood. The emerald had saved her from whatever weapon had just tried to pierce her heart.

"She's fine," BobiAnne announced after checking Bliss's pupils and pulse. "Good girl. You gave us quite a scare," she said, tapping her pockets for her Marlboro Lights.

BobiAnne lit a cigarette and sucked on it deeply until it formed a long column of ash. Bliss noticed that her stepmother's face was perfectly made up for a party, and both her parents were dressed in formal dinner clothes.

"What's going on? Why did Jordan attack me?" Bliss asked, finally finding her voice and turning to face her father.

It took a few minutes for him to answer. Forsyth Llwellyn's reputation in the Senate was as of a moderate facilitator, someone who was willing to negotiate with the other side, to bring consensus to warring parties. His smooth Texan charm came in handy during partisan battles in the legislature.

Bliss could see he was turning this charm on her now. "Sweetie, you have to realize that Jordan is different from us," Forsyth said, securing the bundle that held his younger daughter. "She's not one of us."

"One of us? What do you mean?"

"You'll understand in time," he assured her.

"We were forced to take her. We had no choice!" BobiAnne burst out, a bitterness creeping into her voice. "Cordelia Van Alen made us. That meddlesome old witch."

"Jordan is not of this family," Bliss's father added.

"What are you talking about?" she cried. It was getting to be too much. All these secrets and lies, she was sick of it. She was sick of being kept in the dark about everything. "I know all about Allegra!" she declared suddenly, with a look of defiance.

BobiAnne gave her husband a look that said, "I told you so."

"Know what about Allegra?" Forsyth inquired, a look of innocence on his face.

"I found this …" Bliss reached into her pocket and showed them the photograph with the inscription, which she kept close by at all times. "You lied to me. You told me my mother's name was Charlotte Potter. But there never was a Charlotte Potter, was there?"

Forsyth hesitated. "No—but it's not what you think."

"Then tell me."

"It's complicated," he sighed. His eyes wandered over to the panoramic view of the beach, not wanting to meet her gaze. "One day when you're ready, I will tell you. But not yet."

It was maddening. Her father was doing it again: sidestepping her questions, stonewalling her. Shielding her from the truth.

"What about Jordan?" she asked.

"Don't worry. She won't hurt you again," Forsyth said soothingly. "We're going to send her someplace safe."

"You're sending her to Transitions?"

"Something like that," her father said.

"But why?"

"Bliss, honey, she'll be better off," BobiAnne said.

"But …" Bliss was completely confused. Her parents were talking about Jordan as if she were a dog being sent off to the country. They talked about her like she didn't matter.

But Bliss had to admit to herself that the strange family dynamics weren't entirely new. She thought about how BobiAnne never spoke lovingly of Jordan, had always made it clear that she preferred Bliss, who wasn't even her real child. How her father had always kept an arm's-length distance from his odd younger daughter.

When Bliss was younger she'd relished her parents' indifference to her younger sister. Now she realized it was pathological.

Her parents hated Jordan.

They always had.

Thirty-seven

"That was the hotel," Oliver explained, returning to the table. "Someone's checked out, and a room's opened up. They asked me if I wanted to take it. So you've got a room," he told Schuyler, his face neutral.

"Thanks," she said, trying to make her voice sound as normal as possible, even if there was a hole where her heart should be. But she forced all thoughts of Jack out of her head; later…she would mourn later.

"So why is the Conclave here, Lawrence?" Oliver asked. "Is it because of Leviathan?"

"The Conclave is here?" Lawrence asked sharply.

"Oh! I forgot to mention it—yeah. They're here. All of them," Schuyler said. "I think they arrived last night."

Lawrence mulled over this latest piece of information while draining his drink. As if she had vampire ability of her own, the waitress reappeared with another cocktail at his elbow. "More virgin coladas?" she asked, motioning to the half-empty glasses filled with melting yellow goo.

"Make mine a whiskey," Oliver coughed.

"Make that two," Schuyler quickly added, thinking she would risk her grandfather's censure later. "Who's Leviathan?" she asked, turning to Oliver. Around them the bar was starting to fill up with sunburned tourists coming in for happy hour, and a samba band began to play a rousing set.

"If you'd done your reading, Granddaughter, you would know the answer to that question," Lawrence replied.

"Leviathan's a demon." Oliver explained.

"One of the mightiest Silver Bloods of all time," Lawrence said. "The brother of the Dark Prince himself. His second-in-command."

Schuyler shuddered. "But what's he got to do with anything?" She wished the music weren't so loud. The bright, happy sound was in stark contrast to the dark subject of their conversation.

"Corcovado is Leviathan's prison," Lawrence replied. "It is the only place on earth that could hold him. He was too strong to be slain, and was too rooted in the earth to be sent back to hell. When he was captured he was imprisoned in rock underneath the Statue of the Redeemer. Your own mother took him down."

So that's what Lawrence was keeping from her the night he left. Protecting her from the truth and not telling her everything about Corcovado. Leviathan. That visceral hatred she'd felt the day of the fashion show. If she'd paid more attention to her books she could have figured it out sooner. But she'd been too distracted…

"Yes. That was him that evening of the earthquake," Lawrence confirmed. "He is the reason Corcovado is guarded by the Venator elite. We have always kept a strong presence here."

"Now I get it," Schuyler said. "Why you came down here, I mean."

Lawrence nodded. "When Kingsley first brought news of the strange disappearances in Rio, I was a bit unnerved. After the earthquake, I realized I would have to take matters into my own hands and make certain Corcovado remained fortified. I vowed I would not leave the city until I was sure that the threat—if there was one—was completely disarmed.

"Then a few weeks ago, the Venators confirmed that Yana, the young vampire who'd been missing, had simply run off for a beach vacation with her boyfriend, just as her mother had thought. Meanwhile Kingsley's team brought in Alfonso Almeida, the missing patriarch of the South American clan, after an extensive search in the Andes. Aside from frostbite and an inability to read a map, he was fine.

"So as I told you in my messages, everything was secure. There was no breaking."

"Leviathan?" Oliver asked.

"Trapped for eternity as far as I could see," Lawrence said dismissively.

"But the sending…the earthquake," Schuyler argued, trying to talk over the deafening sound of the crowd and the relentless samba drums.

"Mere symptoms in his struggle to break free of his chains. Nothing Leviathan has tried before. But it is of no use. Corcovado will hold forever." He rapped the table with his glass, as if to stress his point.

"So why does the Conclave think Corcovado is a danger then?" she asked.

"Is that why they are here?"

Schuyler nodded.

"I don't know. But Nan must have her reasons; the Regent would never act without just cause." Lawrence finished his drink. "Then again, maybe Kingsley is right," he said softly to himself.

"Kingsley!" Schuyler exploded. "How can you trust him? You said yourself, never to trust shiny surfaces. Kingsley's as slick as they come."

"Actually Kingsley has proven his loyalty to the Coven above and beyond the call of duty. Do not speak of him so disrespectfully, Granddaughter," Lawrence said sternly.

"That stunt he pulled at the Repository? That was how he proved his loyalty?"

"Kingsley was only doing what was asked of him. He was following the orders of his Regis."

"You mean Charles told him to call up the Silver Blood?" Schuyler half laughed in indignation. Michael was an Archangel. He would never be capable of such treachery.

"There is a reason for everything. Perhaps even for this sudden influx of Elders into this city," Lawrence surmised.

"You know, the Almeidas are giving a dinner tonight," Oliver interrupted. "For the whole Conclave." He checked his watch. "I think it's already started."

Lawrence signaled for the bill. "Very good. Perhaps we will find our answers there. At the very least, the Almeidas throw a wonderful party."

Thirty-eight

There was a sharp rap on the door, and Bliss noticed how both her parents jumped at the sound. Forsyth took a quick step and looked through the keyhole. "It's all right," he declared, unlocking the door. A stern, elegant woman with a white streak in her raven hair strode into the room, followed by two servants.

Bliss had always been a little afraid of Warden Cutler. The Elder had been the one who had probed her mind for Silver Blood corruption. She still remembered the disquieting feeling of being judged.

"Where is the Watcher?" Nan Cutler asked.

BobiAnne indicated the bundle at the far end of the room.

"You've put her in stasis?"

Forsyth nodded. "Yes. It's going to be a long time until she wakes up."

"We found her with this," BobiAnne said, handing Jordan's weapon to the Warden.

"We need to find a way to destroy it; it's too dangerous for us to use," Forsyth said. "I thought that spell was enough to hold it in the vault, but obviously she was able to disarm it. She's too clever by half."

"If there is a way to destroy it," Nan said. "It's not susceptible to the Black Fire."

"You will be able to manage?" Forsyth asked.

"You won't be followed?" BobiAnne wanted to know.

Bliss watched as the grim-faced Warden shook her head. "No, we will not be followed. We will make sure of that. It is amazing she waited this long, really, to make her move. But do not worry, I will make certain that she is no longer a threat to us." She looked with disdain in the direction of the comforter. "Cordelia Van Alen was weak minded as usual to think sending the Watcher into your family would solve anything."

"She suspected, then?" BobiAnne asked.

"Of course she suspected," Forsyth snapped. "You don't give her enough credit, Nan. That bird was sharp. She knew something was up."

"A pity her little assassin was as ineffectual as she was, then." Nan signaled, and her servants picked up the bundle and left the room.

Bliss had no idea what they were talking about, but was desperate to find out. What did Cordelia Van Alen suspect?

"We have to hurry," BobiAnne said to her husband. "The dinner starts in an hour."

Forsyth nodded.

"What's going on? Where are you going?" Bliss asked, fighting tears of frustration. "Where are they taking Jordan?" She wondered what had sparked her little sister to do something so crazy. But her parents refused to explain or tell her anything more than the cryptic comments they'd made.

They left for the big dinner at the Almeidas', as if nothing at all had happened. BobiAnne even told Bliss she could order anything she wanted off the room-service menu.

She had to accept it.

Jordan was gone.

Her younger sister, who used to follow her around, trying to emulate her every move. At five Jordan had wanted big curly hair like her sister, and forced the maids to use a curling iron on her stubbornly straight locks, so that her hair would resemble her sister's. Jordan, who had called her "Biss" when she was a baby because she couldn't pronounce her name correctly. Jordan, who'd offered her chocolate and comfort just the other day. Bliss found that there were tears in her eyes.

Bliss understood that she would never see Jordan again.

Why these tears ? A low, sympathetic voice asked.

I'm sad.

Jordan tried to hurt Bliss.

I know. But she was my sister. My friend.

What kind of friend brings pain?

Bliss suddenly remembered how she'd felt as if she were being torn in two. She'd experienced more pain than she had ever felt in her life. Jordan had done that. She had aimed for the heart. She'd tried to kill Bliss with that weapon—something bright and golden, like a sword.

But it was different from the sword her father kept in his study. The sword Forsyth had used during the attack at the Repository—when the Silver Blood had killed Priscilla Dupont—was a dull yellow gold. The blade Jordan had used emanated a bright white light.

Nan Cutler had said it couldn't be destroyed, and Bliss suddenly remembered Mimi's words: the Blade of Justice was missing. Did her father have Michael's sword? The only thing in the world that could kill Lucifer? The Archangel's sword? And if so, why had Jordan used it against her? Bliss felt a pounding headache coming on.

I didn't have a choice, her sister had said that afternoon.

Why not?

Bliss gradually stopped feeling so sorry for Jordan. She began to feel glad that they had taken her away. Wherever they'd taken her, Jordan deserved to be there. Bliss hoped it was a dark, deep dungeon where Jordan could think for eternity on her crimes.

Excellent, said the voice in the back of her mind. She recognized it now. It sounded like the gentleman in the white suit. The one who called her "Daughter."

Then once again she could see, but she could not see. She was going to black out. Yes, it was happening right now. She tried to hold on to her vision, tried to fight it, but the same voice inside her head said, "Let go."

And Bliss let go.

She found it was sweet relief to surrender.

Thirty-nine

Mimi chose a gorgeous little Valentino cocktail dress to wear to the dinner party. It was a black-and-white strapless confection, with a tight bodice that accented her tiny waist. A thick black band and a dramatic lace bow added just the right hint of girlish insouciance. She had bought it straight from the couture show and brought it to Brazil, because she knew she would have stiff competition from all those Almeidas and da Limas and Ribeiros— annoyingly beautiful Brazilians with blockbuster wardrobes. She still didn't understand what they were all doing in Rio. Something about Lawrence, of course. And Kingsley she wasn't sure. Nan Cutler, that wrinkled hag, had been a little vague about the whole thing. But that was the way of the Conclave: they didn't question their leaders. Nan Cutler was Regent, and if she wanted the Elders in Brazil, then the Elders would be there.

A security detail picked her up from the hotel and took her to the sprawling villa. Mimi thought it ironic that while her hosts' massive mansion commanded a grand view of the city, those wretched little huts she saw on the way, precariously perched on the cliff edges, probably had an even better view.

She had expected a bigger to-do, and was surprised to find that only her fellow Conclave members were expected. The Brazilians usually threw massive parties, with samba dancers and festivities all through the night. But the evening was a quiet one, and Mimi politely chatted to a few of the wardens and Alfonso Almeida's intimidating wife, Dona Beatrice, before finding her seat at dinner.

The first course was served, a warm and rich mushroom soup that consisted of a clear broth poured over a mound of mushroom pate. Mimi took a tentative sip. It was delicious. "So Edmund, about our host committee for the spring gala," she said, turning to the dinner partner on her right. She had hoped to meet more tasty Brazilian men at the party, but since none were to be had, she settled for tackling some unresolved Committee business.

"Has the mayor's girlfriend turned you down already?" Edmund inquired, dabbing the corners of his mouth with his napkin.

Mimi grimaced. "We haven't asked. You can't be serious. She's such a frump. Plus, she has no interest in ballet, you know."

Edmund Oelrich chuckled as he sipped his wine, then suddenly began to choke. She assumed his meal had gone down the wrong way when blood began to spurt from his mouth. Mimi screamed. The Chief Warden had been stabbed in the back. On her left, Sophia Dupont was slumped over her soup, a silver dagger wedged into the small of her back.

Then the lights went out, and all was darkness.

This is a trap, Mimi thought, feeling an otherworldly calm as she dove under the table, faster than the knife that was meant for her heart now pinned to the back of her chair.

Silver Bloods!

Of course. But the Almeidas…they were from the royal line! How could they have turned?

The fight was silent and swift. There was hardly a scream or a cry, only the hair-raising sound of her fellow Wardens gurgling blood. The Conclave was being slaughtered.

Mimi attempted to collect her thoughts, to remember what she knew, to remember how to fight them. Good Lord, it had been centuries since she had confronted the beasts. Bliss had described seeing a shadowy creature with silver eyes and crimson pupils that night at the Repository. But Silver Bloods could assume any shape they chose, to camouflage their true form.

Mimi bade herself to think, to remember. Her memories responded by flooding her mind with images that almost made her scream. Running through a dark forest, the tree branches scraping her skin, hearing the sound of her leather sandals slapping against the dirt path, feeling the high adrenaline rush of running for her life…but what was this, she was the one in pursuit. The beast was running away from her. She saw the mark of Lucifer on its skin, glowing in the dark.

She returned to the present. Though the room was pitch black, with her vampire sight, she saw Dashiell Van Horn stabbed through the heart, witnessed Cushing Carondolet drained of all his blood, as a Silver Blood held the elderly Warden in its grasp. The room echoed with violent sucking sounds as the predator vampires alternately drank or disposed of their victims. When they were finished the Silver Bloods would take the shape of their victims. The vampire who had been Dorothea Rockefeller was no more. Replaced by a walking corpse with dead eyes.

Too many of the Elders were slow and out of shape. Out of practice. They had forgotten how to fight.

Mimi trembled as she grasped her sword, currently the size of a needle that she'd stowed in her sequined evening bag. It was her only chance to get out of the house alive. But she was outnumbered. She would not be able to cut her way to freedom. Not now. There were too many of them for her to take alone. God, their numbers! Who knew they had so many? Where had they come from? She would have to hide. It was her only hope for survival.

She inched her way out of the dining room to the hallway, picking her way through to an exit. So far she had escaped notice. Until she did not.

"Azrael." The voice was cold and deadly.

Mimi turned to see Nan Cutler standing behind her, holding a sword to her chin. The Warden had lost her old-crone disguise—she looked as young as Mimi, and infinitely strong. Her white hair was a now a burnished gold, and the raven stripe a glossy river of black.

"You!" Mimi accused. But the Cutlers were one of the original seven. One of the oldest and most respected families. Nan Cutler was Harbonah. The Angel of Annihilation. They had fought together side by side during the first inquisition, when Michael had commanded a heavenly army and had decimated their renegade vampire foes. "But why?" she asked, turning quickly and unsheathing her blade, knocking away Nan's sword.

In answer, Nan slashed forward, slicing the air where Mimi had stood.

Her eyes flashed. "You do not have to perish," she said, lunging forward.

Mimi grunted, parrying with a swift counterattack.

"You could join us. Join your brothers and sisters who are still fighting the good fight."

The stupid witch actually thinks I would join their side? After everything Abbadon and I went through to secure this fragile peace we've found on Earth? Mimi thought.

"You are one of us. You do not belong to the Light. It is not your true nature, Death-bringer."

Mimi refused to reply and instead focused on locating Nan's vulnerability. They battled through the room, which was starting to fill with dark smoke.

They're burning down the house, Mimi thought, panicking. Burning it with black fire, the only kind that could destroy the sangre azul…the immortal blue blood that ran in their veins. Destroy the blood, destroy the vampire…memories lost forever. True death for their kind.

Nan cut Mimi's arm with her blade, her weapon finally drawing first blood.

Bitch!

That hurt!

Mimi forgot to feel afraid, and sprung forward with no thought to her safety. She screamed a battle cry, one that came to mind only at that instant. One that Michael himself had used to rally his armies to battle.

"NEXI INFIDELES!" she roared. Death to the Faithless! Death to the Traitors! She was Azrael. Golden and terrifying. Her hair and face and sword aflame with a blazing, incandescent light.

And with a powerful sweep she cleaved the false Warden in two.

Then she staggered backward. Black smoke was filling her lungs. She had to get out of there. She felt her way to the front door and yanked it open—just as a black-haired man was entering from the other side. In seconds he held a knife to her throat.

Her heart dropped.

The man holding her captive was Kingsley Martin.

The Silver Blood traitor.

This was her doom.

Forty

Lawrence had insisted he drive, and as they made their way along the dark curvy highway, Schuyler couldn't help but notice the tiny, flickering lights against the hillside and how beautiful they were.

"Yeah, but they're probably from the slums, which means the electricity infrastructure wasn't set up correctly. And is a potential fire hazard," Oliver pointed out.

Schuyler sighed. The city was rich in juxtapositions: poverty and wealth, crime and tourism in a heady, dizzying mix. It was impossible to admire the beauty without also noticing the ugliness.

They rounded a particularly sharp corner when Lawrence suddenly pulled the car to the side of the road and slumped forward in his seat.

"Grandfather!" she cried, alarmed. She saw his eyes begin to dart back and forth, as if he were asleep but not asleep. He was receiving a sending.

When it ended, his face was ashen. For a moment Schuyler thought he was going to faint.

"What happened? What's wrong?"

Her grandfather shook out his handkerchief and pressed it to his forehead. "That was Edmund Oelrich before he passed. The entire Conclave. Massacred. Those who were not burned were taken."

"They're all dead?" Schuyler gasped. "But how? Why…?" She clutched his arm. "What do you mean, they're all dead?"

In the backseat she turned to Oliver for help. But he was shocked into silence, his face a mask of helpless confusion.

"The Almeidas were Silver Bloods," Lawrence said, stammering uncharacteristically. "They showed their hand tonight. I had suspected it, which is why I stayed in Rio for longer than I intended, but Alfonso had passed the test. He did not have the Mark. I was deceived." Lawrence was shaking. "But they had help. Edmund said Nan Cutler was one of them."

Schuyler bit her lip.

"Nan Cutler!" Lawrence sounded crushingly wounded. "During the crisis in Rome she had been integral to the Silver Blood defeat. I was blinded by her years of loyalty to the Conclave. This is my fault, I was overconfident and trusting when I should have been guarded and wary." Abruptly Lawrence turned the car around, causing the car in the opposite direction to swerve wildly to get out of his way. "Kingsley was right—I put too much faith on old allegiances," he said as he floored the pedal and the car shot forward.

"Where are we going?"

"To Corcovado."

"Now? Why?"

Lawrence gripped the wheel tightly. "The attack on the Conclave can only mean one thing: the Silver Bloods are planning to free Leviathan."

They parked at the base of the entrance to the Statue of the Redeemer and ran out of the car. The parking lot was empty and quiet, and they could see the statue lit up by floodlights from below. "Disguise yourself," Lawrence ordered Schuyler. "And you, stay here," he told Oliver.

Oliver began to protest, but one look from Lawrence silenced him.

"I can't," Schuyler confessed to her grandfather. "I can't perform the mutatio."

Lawrence was already in the form of the young man with the hawkish nose and imperial attitude she had first seen at the Venice Biennale. "Of course you can," he said, scaling the fence easily.

"Grandfather, I can't. I can't turn into a fog or an animal," she said, following his lead.

"Who said you could?" he asked as they flew up the series of zigzagged stairwells to the statue. Their footsteps made hardly any noise on the concrete as they ran.

"What do you mean?"

"Most likely you are like me. I cannot turn into a cloud or a creature either. But I can shift my features, like so, and take on a different—but human—disguise. Try it."

Schuyler tried. She closed her eyes and concentrated on changing her features instead of shifting her entire form. Within seconds she found she had effectively morphed into one of the rich, pumped-up Argentine patronas who were on vacation in the country.

They reached the top of the mountain and stood underneath the statue. Nobody was there. It was quiet and peaceful.

Not for the first time that evening Schuyler wondered if her grandfather was losing it. Weren't they at the wrong place? Why had he brought them here? For what? "Maybe we're too late. Or they're not coming. We should really head to the Almeidas and see if …"

"HUSH!" Lawrence commanded.

She shut up.

They walked the perimeter of the statue's base. Nothing. They were alone. Schuyler began to panic. Why were they here when their people were being killed somewhere else? They should go back; this was a big mistake.

She walked around the northeast side, convinced Lawrence had guessed incorrectly. There was nothing to …

"Schuyler! WATCH OUT!" Oliver yelled. He had crept up the mountain behind them, unwilling to be left behind.

Schuyler looked up. There was a man in a white suit standing right in front of her, with a golden sword pointed directly at her chest.

She ducked and hit the ground hard, just as Lawrence removed his own blade from a hidden scabbard in his jacket.

The two swords clashed, one golden and fiery, the other icy and silver, the metals ringing against each other, echoing a sound that carried to the valley below.

Forty-one

"Blood traitor!" Mimi hissed.

"Put down your weapon, Azrael," Kingsley said quietly, still holding his own.

"You will not find me such easy prey as the others," she spat.

"What are you talking about?" he demanded. "I saw the black smoke from the street. My God, what has happened here?"

"You set this up. Don't play the innocent. We all know what you really are, Croatan." Mimi spat, shooting him a look of pure disgust.

"I realize it is hard for you to believe, but I have only just managed to escape from a rather nasty stasis spell myself," he said sourly. "I went to pick up Alfonso for our usual golf game, and the next thing I know I'm trapped in the back of my own car. As soon as I extricated myself I came down here to warn the others."

Mimi sniffed. A fine story Kingsley was telling her. Playing the victim once again. Yeah, right, he'd been detained. When it would have been so easy for him to leave the house from the back and come in the front door.

But what would he gain by keeping her alive? Why didn't he just finish it off? Gut her throat and be done with it?

"Where's Lawrence?" Kingsley coughed as several explosions shook the ground beneath them. "I tried sending him a message, but I couldn't find him in the glom."

"He's not here," Mimi said, noticing that Kingsley had lowered his dagger. She could kill him now, while he was unguarded. But what if he was telling the truth? Or was his act just another part of the trap?

Before she could make a decision, there was a crash, and Forsyth Llewellyn appeared. He was carrying the limp body of his wife. His clothes were singed, and he sported a deep gash on his forehead. So he had survived as well. Mimi felt a little better. Maybe there were more survivors. But where had the Silver Bloods gone? After she had felled Nan Cutler, the rest of them seemed to have disappeared in the smoke.

"Everyone else is dead," Mimi told Forsyth. "You and I are the only ones left. I saw Edmund fall, Dashiell, Cushing…everyone. The Regent."

"Nan's dead?" Forsyth Llewellyn asked, aghast.

"She was one of them," Mimi told him, her eyes watering from the smoke. "I killed her myself."

"You…"

"C'mon, we've got to get out of here," Kingsley said, suddenly pulling the two of them out of the doorway, which crashed to the ground in flames.

If Kingsley wanted her dead, he sure wasn't acting like it.

"Thanks," she said, tucking her sword—again the size of a needle—back into her bag, which she miraculously found she was still holding.

Kingsley didn't reply, his face hardening as he looked above her shoulder. Meanwhile, Forsyth Llewellyn looked utterly lost, sitting in the middle of the street with his head in his hands.

Mimi turned to where Kingsley was looking. The grand eighteenth-century villa was now a giant black fireball. It was a crematorium. The Silver Bloods were back. And they had struck deep into the heart of the Coven.

The Second Great War had begun.

Forty-two

From far away, Schuyler heard the sound of grunts and screams, the clanging of metal against metal.

Wake up.

Wake up, child.

There was a voice inside her head. A sending.

A voice she had heard before.

She opened her eyes. Her mother stood before her. Allegra Van Alen was clad in white raiments, and she held a golden sword in her hands. For me ?

What was once mine is rightfully yours.

Stunned, Schuyler took the sword. Once she did, the image of her mother disappeared. Allegra…Come back…Schuyler thought, suddenly afraid. But a desperate yell from Oliver brought her back to the present.

She looked up and saw Lawrence locked in a fierce struggle with his adversary. His sword fell to the ground. Above him loomed the white, shining presence. It was so bright it was blinding, like looking into the sun. It was the Lightbringer. The Morningstar.

Her blood froze.

Lucifer.

"Schuyler!" Oliver's voice was hoarse. "Kill it!"

Schuyler raised her mother's sword, saw it glinting in the moonlight, a long, pale, deadly shaft. Raised it in the direction of the enemy. Ran with all her might and thrust her weapon toward its heart.

And missed.

But she had given Lawrence time to regain his weapon, and it was his blade that found its mark, slicing into the enemy's chest and spilling blood everywhere.

They had won.

Schuyler sank to the ground in relief.

But then came a great crack in the sky, the sound of the heavens splitting open, the roaring, deafening sound of thunder. Then the statue was broken in two. Its very foundations shattered. There was a deep rumble, and the ground underneath them began to shake and split into two.

"What's happening?" Schuyler screamed.

A dark flame burst from the earth, and a mighty demon with crimson eyes and silver pupils leaped into the sky. It laughed a deep booming laugh, and with its blazing spear, pinned Lawrence to the ground, where he lay.

Forty-three

The demon disappeared. The mist lifted, and Schuyler staggered over to where her grandfather had fallen. To where he lay so still, his eyes wide open. "Grandfather…" Schuyler cried. "Oliver, do something!" she said as she tried to staunch the flow of dark sapphire blood that spilled from the open wound, the gaping, corrugated hole in the middle of Lawrence's chest.

"It's too late," Oliver whispered, kneeling by Lawrence's side.

"What do you mean? No…let's get a vial … for the next cycle. Take it to the clinic."

"Leviathan's spear is poisoned. It will corrode the blood," Oliver said. "It has the black fire in it. He is gone." His handsome face was drawn with sorrow.

"No!" Schuyler screamed, tears streaming down her cheeks.

There was a moan from the far side of the mountain, and they turned to find the shape of the man in the white suit begin to change. His features softened, faded, and the golden man disappeared to reveal an ordinary boy in a black leather jacket.

A boy with black hair.

"That is no Silver Blood," Oliver said.

"He must have been possessed," Schuyler said, her voice breaking a little while Oliver walked over to gently close Dylan's eyes. Schuyler noticed there were tears in Oliver's eyes as well as her own.

"Yes." He nodded.

"The blankness … it was the alienari," Schuyler said, realizing how deeply they had been deceived.

"An old Silver Blood trick." Oliver nodded. "Disguised as Lucifer himself, so that Lawrence would kill his own kind. An innocent."

Schuyler nodded. "I sensed it, Oliver—Lawrence must have too. There was something wrong. The light was blinding, you couldn't even look at him directly. It was a distraction, so that we wouldn't be able to see what was in front of us. The image of Lucifer was so powerful, it threw us off. I should have used the animaverto."

"This was a well-executed plan. Leviathan was freed by Dylan's death. The prison bonds can only be broken when a Blue Blood commits the highest crime of all—murder of their own kind. It's in the books," Oliver said.

"Grandfather," Schuyler said softly, taking Lawrence's hand in hers. They'd had too little time together; there was so much she still had to learn. So much he still had to teach her.

Then for the last time, she heard Lawrence's voice inside her head.

Listen.

I was not worthy of this task. I have learned nothing over the centuries. I did not find the Dark Prince. I am no keeper. You must ask Charles…you must ask him about the Gates…about the Van Alen legacy and the Paths of the Dead. There has to be a reason why the Silver Bloods have been able to so easily breach the divisions between the worlds.

"What gates? What paths?"

You are Allegra's daughter. Your sister will be our death. But you are our salvation. You must take your mother's sword and slay him. I know you will triumph.

Then Lawrence spoke no more.

Forty-four

Dark blood. There was blood everywhere. On her face. In her eyes. On her hands. On her clothes. Then slowly it began to vanish, the metallic tinge turned white and invisible as the cold night air hit the liquid. Vampire blood…

Bliss stared at her arms.

What happened?

She couldn't remember. She had blacked out.

Or had she?

The memories began to flood back.

She saw herself get inside the car with her parents, saw them nod at her. They were expecting her to accompany them. How strange. It was like being in a movie. She could see out of her eyes, but she could not move her arms or legs or even speak. Someone else was doing that for her.

Someone else was inside her body.

The man in the white suit.

Yes.

I am you. You are me. We are one, my daughter.

They arrived at a hilltop mansion, and Bliss remembered hiding in the shadows until the time came. She had watched the killing unfold with an overwhelming sense of horror. The massacre she had inflicted with her own hands. She had been imprisoned in her own body, a helpless figure, trapped inside her head while the other took over. Inside she had raged and wept and screamed. But she was powerless, with absolutely no ability to stop herself.

Slowly, she began to remember what happened during her blackouts. Began to realize the truth.

She was the one who had attacked Dylan that first night at The Bank. She had wanted to drain him, but something—a vestigial attraction to him—had stopped her, so she had taken Aggie instead. She had attempted to take Schuyler twice. That was why Schuyler's bloodhound had barked at her—Beauty knew her true nature even if Schuyler did not. Then she had attacked Cordelia, had almost taken her, if Dylan had not stopped her.

Dylan had been a problem. He knew but did not know. That was why his memory was so screwed up all the time. He knew the truth even though she'd tried to wipe it from his consciousness.

That first time he had returned to warn her about the Silver Bloods had resulted in that bloody scene in the bathroom. She remembered his blood-soaked leather jacket, the scratches on her face and the bruise on her neck. But he had escaped, and she'd had to send others to track him down. But the Venators got to him first. Oliver was wrong. They were not Silver Bloods. They had let Dylan go when they discovered he was innocent.

He was free to return to her.

The stupid, stupid boy.

"I know who the Silver Blood is," Dylan had said that night he crashed through the window. "It's you."

And right then and there, she had changed his memory. Made him think it was Schuyler.

A small, sad voice inside her began to cry.

I loved him. I loved Dylan.

We love no one.

No one but ourselves.

Forsyth had known all along. That's why she could never bring herself to ask him about Dylan, because somewhere in her subconscious she knew the reason why her father was keeping things from her. Because part of her could not accept who she really was.

She watched as she left the burning house, taking a car that had a body stuffed in the trunk. Dylan. She had taken him to the mountaintop, where Lawrence and Schuyler were waiting. Taken him to Corcovado, where he would be a sacrifice. There, she had shaped him in his image.

She had brought him to his death.

It was Lawrence's blade that struck, but it was she who had killed him.

As she had killed so many others. She heard the voices of everyone she had taken. They were all there, inside her head, screaming, crying. SILENCE! Nan Cutler was part of it, she realized. Nan was the Warden who had checked for the Mark of Lucifer on her neck. She'd been the one who had cleared Bliss of suspicion during the investigation. Bliss suddenly had an idea, and lifted her hair from her neck and touched her fingers to her skin. She felt it at once. She turned to the mirror and saw it. A small star-shaped scar that branded her as the devil's own.

But why? the small, sad voice asked.

Is that the one who calls herself "Bliss." Is she still there?

Yes, said the same tiny voice. It was the voice of Bliss Llewellyn. The same voice of Maggie Stanford before her. It was always the same way. Every cycle. They never wanted to accept the truth of their heritage.

I did not know.

I do not want this.

Your desires are immaterial. Now pick yourself up and walk toward your friends. Not everything went to plan. Some of us were killed. We must bide our time again.

I know who you are now, "Bliss" said.

You are Lucifer.

Lightbringer.

Morningstar.

The former Prince of Heaven.

Her true and immortal father.

Forty-five

Lawrence was dead. Schuyler felt as if her heart would shatter from the loss of her beloved grandfather. How was this allowed to happen? What had he been talking about? Her sister? Who? What?

The first rays of dawn lit the mountaintop. A figure walked up the steps.

"Someone's coming," Oliver warned.

"It's just Bliss," Schuyler said as their friend reached them. "Thank God you're okay."

"My sister is dead. My stepmother too. I don't know where my father is," Bliss said in a flat, strangled voice. "There was black smoke. The Conclave…they've been…What's happened here?" she asked, seeing the prone bodies of Lawrence and Dylan on the ground.

"Is that? Oh my God!"

Schuyler grabbed Bliss by the waist and let her sob on her shoulder. "I'm so, so sorry."

Bliss removed herself from Schuyler's embrace and knelt by the body of the boy she loved. She cradled him in her arms, and her tears fell on his cheeks. "Dylan…no," she whispered. "No."

"There was nothing we could do … it was a mistake," Schuyler said, trying to explain. "Lawrence…"

But Bliss wasn't listening. She wiped away her tears on her sleeve. "I'll take him down," she said, putting her arms around him, lifting him up. He was so light, he was almost insubstantial. It was like holding air. There was nothing left of him. She made her way down the mountain alone, hiccupping sobs.

Schuyler watched them with tears falling from her own eyes. She had not been able to save Dylan. She had lost two friends today.

"It will be all right, you'll see," Oliver said, kneeling to cover the wound on her arm with a torn strip from his shirt.

Schuyler looked at him. Saw the sad, drawn expression on his handsome face, his dark caramel hair falling over his wounded forehead. Kind, gentle, wonderful Oliver. The enormity of her deception struck her. She had deceived them both in her words and actions. Because she did love him. Had always loved him. Loved Oliver and Jack both. They were both part of her. She had denied her love for Oliver in order to allow herself to love Jack. But now so much was clear.

"I love you," she said.

"I know." Oliver smiled and continued to bandage her arm.

Epilogue

Two Weeks Later

So this was their sordid little love nest. Mimi let herself into the dark apartment. She had found a key that she'd never seen before in Jack's room. She had suspected where it led, and she knew he wouldn't be long in coming.

The door opened silently, and Jack entered.

The look on her brother's face told her all she needed to know. Mimi smiled to herself. So the little half-blood finally cut her ties.

"You've won," Jack said softly. He looked at Mimi with such fiery hatred that she almost cowered at his words. But she was no weakling. She was Azrael, and Azrael did not cower, not even to Abbadon.

"I've won nothing," Mimi replied coldly. "Please remember that almost all of the Elders are dead, that the Dark Prince is ascendant, and what is left of the Conclave is being led by a broken man who used to be the strongest of us all. And yet all you seem to care about, my darling, is that you no longer get to play with your little love toy."

Instead of answering her, Jack flew across the room and slapped her hard across the face, sending her crashing to the floor. But before he could wield another blow, Mimi leaped up and slammed him against the window, knocking him completely out of breath.

"Is this what you want?" she hissed as she lifted him up by his shirt collar, his face turning a ghastly shade of red.

"Don't let me destroy you," he sneered.

"Just try, my sweet."

Jack twisted out of her grasp and flipped her over, kicking her down the length of the room. She sprung up with her hands clenched, her nails sharp as claws, and fangs bared. They met halfway in the air, and Jack put a hand on her throat and began to squeeze. But she scratched at his eyes and wrenched her body so that she was rolling on top of him, her sword at his throat, with the upper hand.

SUBMIT. Mimi sent.

NEVER.

You are mine.

You are wrong.

Mimi threw him across the room. Both of them were bruised and bloody. Mimi's blouse was ripped in half, and Jack's shirt was torn at the collar.

Jack attacked again—this time pinning Mimi to the ground. His breath was hot in her ear. She could feel his body tense, rigid, and pulsing on top of hers, could almost see the red aura of his rage.

"You want this," she said slyly. "You want me."

"No."

"Yes."

He twisted her arms behind her back, pinned his knees against her hips, then tightened his grip on her wrists so that they grew purple with bruises. For weeks, the shape of his fingers would be imprinted on her flesh.

For a moment she was truly terrified. This was Abbadon the Cruel. The Angel of Destruction. He could and would destroy her if he had to. If he felt like it. He had destroyed worlds before. He had decimated Paradise in the name of the Morningstar.

She trembled in his grasp.

All his gentleness, all his kindness, all the bright shining gorgeousness of his love, he had always given to someone else. He had adored Gabrielle, had worshipped her, had written her poems and sang her songs, and for Schuyler there were novels and love notes and sweet kisses and furtive tender meetings by a fireplace.

But for his twin, Azrael, he had shown nothing but his anger and violence. His strength and destruction.

He saved the best of himself for those who did not deserve it. Never showed his true face to those damnable Daughters of the Light.

For Azrael, there was only darkness and annihilation.

Rape and carnage.

War and pillage.

A tear escaped from her eye and glittered in the moonlight.

But just as Mimi thought he would destroy her forever, Jack began kissing her with such force that her lips and neck would be sore and swollen with his bites. In answer, she pulled him toward her, as hard as she could, by the roots of his hair.

Love. It's so close to hate, it's almost indistinguishable.

But this is how it was for the two of them.

Love and hate.

Life and death.

Joy and anguish.

Finally he lay still against her, drifting into a dreamless sleep. She smoothed his hair from his brow and called his name softly. Abbadon the Unlikely. Named so because his wistful nature masked a cold and fierce rage.

The Destroyer of Worlds, and the emperor of her own heart.

One day he would thank her for saving his life.

Acknowledgments

Thank you to everyone who helped make this book a reality, most of all my wonderful husband (and defacto editor/co-creator), Mike Johnston, who comes up with all the brilliant ideas; my superbly awesome editor, Jennifer Besser; and everyone at Hyperion, who have been huge champions of the series, especially Jennifer Corcoran, Angus Killick, Nellie Kurtzman, Colin Hosten, Dave Epstein, and Elizabeth Clark (thank you for the amazing covers!).

Thank you to Alicia Carmona, for all the awesome Brazil research. Much love to my insanely supportive family, the DLCs and Johnstons, especially Christina Green and Alberto de la Cruz, who are not just related to me but also keep the "Office of Melissa de la Cruz" in working order. Thank you to my agents, Richard Abate, Richie Kern, Melissa Myers, and everyone at Endeavor, for all your hard work on my behalf. Thank you also to Kate Lee and Larissa Silva at ICM, for all your support.

Most of all I'd like to thank my readers, who mean the world to me. Thank you for sharing your thoughts, dreams, and questions in e-mails or on the Web site. Thank you to the fabulous Amanda, who runs the awesome Blue Bloods message boards; and to everyone who has made a fan site, role-playing game, or online group devoted to the series. You all rock so hard it hurts.