The worst part of it all was that she couldn't even hate him. She loved him too much and understood his flaws too well. Hating Jack would be akin to hating herself, and Mimi had too much self-esteem to wallow in that particular misery.
"Mimi! Darling!" Randy Morgan, the designer's wife, suddenly swooped down upon them and effusively kissed her on both cheeks. "You must come backstage and wish Rolf good luck!"
Mimi allowed herself to be led to the traditional bow-and-scrape with the designer. The designer, of course, would be the one doing the bowing and scraping. Mimi was one of his biggest clients.
She left Jack and picked her way through the crowd. Rolf greeted her with a bear hug and a shower of compliments. Mimi accepted the homage and generously wished him a good show. She said hello to several other Blue Bloods from her social circle: Piper Crandall in an atrocious yellow dress, and Soos Kemble, who complained about being relegated to the second row. Mimi spied a few uppity Red Bloods as well. Lucy Forbes cooed over Mimi's new Rolf Morgan ensemble that the designer had messengered over just that morning for her to wear to his show. Then she spied the object of her hatred across the room.
Schuyler was letting her dressers fuss over her outfit: a ruffled blouse and a slim-cut riding jacket, velveteen riding pants and high boots. Mimi thought to herself she would buy the outfit if Schuyler weren't the one wearing it.
Without hesitation she walked over to Schuyler. Maybe she could nip this thing in the bud; maybe there was still hope that nothing would come of Jack's stupid little flirtation.
"Schuyler, you have a second?" she asked.
Schuyler sent her handlers away, and the two of them drifted over to a quiet corner. "What's up?"
Mimi decided to get right to the point. "I know what's going on between you and my brother."
"What do you mean?" Schuyler tried to look calm, but Mimi could sense her alarm. She was right. Goddamnit she was right. The wretch didn't even try to deny it. The two of them were together. How far had it gone? Mimi's heart dropped. She had told herself she would never feel jealous of the annoying little mutt. But Schuyler's defiant face made her feel otherwise.
Schuyler didn't look chastened, or weak, or embarrassed. Gone was the whimpering half-blood who jumped when you said "Boo!" Gone was the girl with the unrequited crush on the great Jack Force. Mimi saw Schuyler very clearly. She looked like a girl who was confident in love. A girl who knew she held his heart in her hands. For a moment Mimi intensely wished the Silver Blood had dragged Schuyler facedown into hell.
"Do you have any idea what you're doing to Jack?"
"What are you talking about?"
Mimi clutched Schuyler's upper arm tightly. "Think of your mother. Why do you think Allegra's in a coma? Why do you think she's immortal but won't die? She is useless and destroyed. Do you want that for him?"
"Don't bring my mother into this," Schuyler warned, shaking Mimi off. "You don't know anything about my mother."
"Oh, but I do. I have lived much longer than you." Mimi's face changed, and for a moment, Schuyler saw flashes of all the women in history Mimi had been: the Egyptian queen, the French noblewoman, the hardy Pilgrim, the Newport hostess—all breathtakingly beautiful, all with the same cold green eyes.
"You don't understand the bond," Mimi whispered, as around them the designer and his team were making final corrections on all the clothes. "Jack and I are one and the same. Taking him away from me would be like ripping off his skin. He needs me. If he renews the bond, he will grow stronger, his memories will be whole. He will flourish."
"And if not?" Schuyler challenged.
"You might as well reserve a spot for him in that hospital my father keeps visiting. This is not some silly high school game, you stupid girl." This is life and death. Angels and demons. The bond is law. We are made from the same dark matter, Mimi thought but didn't say. She saw that Schuyler could not, or would not, understand. Schuyler was a newborn. She had no comprehension of the rigors of immortality. The harsh and absolute ways of their kind.
"I don't believe you."
"I didn't expect you to." Mimi looked exhausted. "But if you do love him, leave him, Schuyler. Release him. Tell him you don't want him anymore. It's the only way he'll let go."
Schuyler shook her head. Around her, the models were lining up, and Rolf was pinning a hem here, tucking in a pleat there. Outside, the lights had gone black and the show was about to start. She let one of her dressers snip an errant thread from the sleeve of her riding jacket. "I can't do that. I can't lie."
Mimi took a sip from Schuyler's glass of champagne without asking. "Then Jack is lost."
Last year during his fall presentation, Rolf Morgan had made the audience walk down the runway while the models sat on front-row seats and pretended to take notes. The gimmick had charmed the fashion press so much he was keen on trying out another fun twist. This year the show would be run backward, starting with the designer's bow and the grand ball gowns and ending with casual sportswear.
As the band played a thundering rendition of "Space Oddity," Rolf ran out onto the stage to thunderous applause. He returned bearing a bouquet of roses, beaming and energized. Schuyler watched as Cyrus, Rolf's spastic show runner, led Bliss to the front of the line. The black lace corset dress was meant to be the showstopping finale, and therefore, in the backward equation, the opener. Schuyler gave Bliss an encouraging wave. She knew her friend was still slightly intimidated by the catwalk, and Bliss looked like a nervous colt, her hands quivering slightly as they rested on her hips.
Bliss returned a few minutes later, a broad smile of relief on her face. "It's madness out there!" she gushed to Schuyler before being whisked away to get changed for her second outing.
Schuyler returned Bliss's smile, thinking she would be glad when it was over, when she could finally put on her own clothes—a certain men's Oxford shirt that was her current favorite, over a pair of black leggings and cloven-hoof boots that she'd picked up at a resale shop.
The girls in their gothic prom dresses had exited the catwalk, and Cyrus motioned her to the front. She was next. "Remember, when you get to the end, one pose, two pose, BAM! And then come back."
Schyler nodded. She took a deep breath and walked onstage. Stepping out onto the catwalk was like stepping onto the moon. You went from the grungy reality of backstage, surrounded by chatter and safety pins and a heroic mess of clothing racks and raided accessory bins, to the bright white lights of the stage and the blinding flash of a hundred cameras.
The atmosphere was electric, a noisy cacophony of hysteria reserved for the best rock concerts—the hoots and cheers from the back row energizing the band to play faster and louder, and the models to assume their haughtiest faзades. Schuyler never even noticed the grim-faced editors or the tarted-up celebrities in the front row; she was too busy concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other and not making a fool of herself.
She found the marked spot at the end of the runway and snapped the required poses, turning left and rotating her hip forward, and turning right soon after. And just as she was about to do an about-face to turn back, her mind opened to an urgent, forcible sending. It was an incoherent, savage hatred. The unexpected intensity was enough to stop Schuyler in mid-step, and she staggered from the weight of it, tripping over her heels and causing members of the front row to gasp audibly.
Schuyler felt disoriented and broken. Someone—or something—had savagely entered her mind. She recognized it immediately as a manipulation, but this was stronger and more evil than what she had experienced with Dylan. It was an unforgivable trespass, and she felt violated, naked, and terribly afraid. She had to get out of there.