Later that evening Schuyler zipped through the dark rainy streets, a blur of silver in her new raincoat. She could take a cab, but there were none to be had in the rain, and she preferred to walk—or rather, glide. She liked to flex her vampire muscles, liked how fast she could be when she set her mind to it. She'd walked the entire length of the island like a cat; she'd moved so quickly she had stayed dry. There was not a drop of wet on her.
The building was one of those new dazzling glass apartment buildings designed by the architect Richard Meier on the corner of Perry Street and the West Side Highway. They gleamed like crystal in the dark foggy twilight. Schuyler never got tired of looking at them, they were so beautiful.
Schuyler slipped inside the side doors, relishing the vampire speed that rendered her invisible to the guard and the other residents. She passed on the elevator, preferring to use her otherworldly talents and run up the back stairs, taking the steps four, five, sometimes ten at a time. In seconds she was in the penthouse.
It was warm in the apartment, and the streetlights below illuminated everything inside the floor-to-ceiling glass windows. She pressed the button to automatically draw the curtains. They'd left them open again, exposed—amazing how their secret hiding place was located in one of the most visible buildings in Manhattan.
The housekeeper had set out logs for the fireplace, so Schuyler made a quick fire, easy as pushing another button. The flames rose high and licked at the wood. Schuyler watched it burn; then, as if seeing her future in the flames, put her head in her hands.
What was she doing here?
Why had she come?
It was wrong, what they were doing. He knew it. She knew it. They had told each other it would be for the last time. As if they would be able to bear it. She was both ecstatic and sorrowful at the prospect of their meeting.
Schuyler busied herself by emptying the dishwasher and setting the table. Lighting the candles. She hooked up the stereo to her iPod, and soon Rufus Wainwright's voice echoed through the walls. It was a song of yearning—their favorite.
She contemplated a bath, knowing her robe was hanging on a hook in the closet. There was so little evidence of their presence in the place—a few books, a set of clothes, a couple of toothbrushes. This was not a home, this was a secret.
She looked at herself in the mirror—her hair was mussed and her eyes were bright. He would be here soon. Of course he would. He was the one who had insisted.
The designated hour passed, yet no one arrived. Schuyler tucked her knees against her chest, trying to fight the rising tide of disappointment.
She had almost dropped off to sleep when there was a shadow on the terrace.
Schuyler looked up expectantly, feeling a mixture of anticipation and a deep and abiding sadness. Her heart was racing a million miles a minute. Even if she saw him every day, it would always be like the first time.
"Hey, you," a voice said. And a boy appeared from the shadows.
But he was not the one she was waiting for.
AUDIO RECORDINGS ARCHIVE:
Repository of History
CLASSIFIED DOCUMENT:
Altithronus Clearance Only
Transcript of Venator report filed 2/1
Schuyler Van Alen: Noticeable alienation from peers. Prefers the company of her Conduit, human male: Oliver Hazard-Perry. Survivor of two possible Silver Blood attacks. Will continue to monitor, yet am convinced it is unlikely she is the guilty party.
Bliss Llewellyn: Interesting case. Complains of headaches, dizziness, "blackouts." Perhaps side effect of transformation? Was discovered drowning in Central Park lake night of 11/28. Managed to rescue subject without revealing cover.
Madeleine Force: Possesses significant dark power and displays flagrant disregard for rules, especially those concerning human familiars.
UPDATE ON DYLAN WARD: Long Island team reports subject sighted fleeing the Ward house on Shelter Island. Have sent reinforcements to bring him in.
The meeting was convened in regular fashion. The secretary took roll. All the old families were represented, the original seven (Van Alen, Cutler, Oelrich, Van Horn, Schlumberger, Stewart, and Rockefeller) had grown to accommodate the Llewellyns, the Duponts (represented by a nervous-looking Eliza, who was the late Priscilla's niece), the Whitneys, and the Carondolets. This was the Conclave of Elders—the gathering of the Blue Blood elite. This was where the decisions for the race, for the future of the clan, were made.
Lawrence welcomed them to the first spring session with a hearty greeting, and began to run through the agenda items: the upcoming fund-raiser for the New York Blood Bank, the latest news on blood-borne diseases and how they would affect the Blue Bloods, how their trust accounts were doing—Blue Blood money was invested heavily in the stock market, and the latest downturn had caused several millions of dollars to disappear.
Mimi was beside herself. Lawrence conducted the meeting as if nothing were amiss, as if a traitor weren't sitting next to him. It was maddening! It had been Kingsley who had called the Silver Blood, Kingsley who had arranged the attack at the Repository, Kingsley who had been the mastermind behind the cover-up, and yet there he was, seated at the table as if he belonged.
On the surface, the Conclave was as calm and placid and nonplussed as ever, although Mimi could detect a slight unease, just the faintest whiff of discord within the ranks. Why didn't Lawrence say anything? The old coot was babbling about the sub-prime market and the recent disastrous events on Wall Street. Ah, finally…Lawrence turned to Kingsley. An explanation at last.
But no. Lawrence matter-of-factly declared that Kingsley had a report to file, and ceded the floor to the so-called Venator, a Truth-Teller, a member of the vampire secret police.
Kingsley acknowledged the table with a grim smile. "Elders…and um, Mimi," he began. He was just as wickedly handsome as ever, but since he had been unmasked as a Venator, he looked older. No longer the rebellious youth, but serious and somber in a dark coat and tie.
Several members of the Conclave exchanged raised eyebrows, and white-haired Brooks Stewart had a coughing fit that was severe enough for Cushing Carondolet to pound him on the back several times. When the ruckus subsided, Kingsley continued without comment.
"I bring grave news. There is a disturbance on the South American continent. My team has detected ominous signs that point to a possible infractio."
Mimi understood the word from the sacred language— Kingsley was telling telling them of a breaking. But a breaking of what?
"What's been going on?" Dashiell Van Horn wanted to know. Mimi recognized him as the inquisitor during her trial.
"Cracks in the foundation of Corcovado. Some reports of disappearances of Elders of that Conclave. Alfonso Almeida has not returned from his usual sojourn in the Andes. His family is concerned."
Esme Schlumberger snorted. "Alfie just likes to get lost in the wilderness every year. Says it keeps him close to nature. It doesn't mean anything."
"But Corcovado—that is troubling," said Edmund Oelrich, who was now chief warden since Priscilla's death.
"With what we know of the Silver Bloods—how one was able to infiltrate the Repository itself—anything could be possible," Kingsley said.
"Indeed," Dashiell Van Horn agreed, lowering his half-moon spectacles.
Lawrence nodded. "You all know, of course, of the rumors that the Silver Bloods fled to South America before they disappeared. The Blue Bloods kept north, and some believed the Silver Bloods headed south to regroup. Of course, we have never had any evidence of this. …"
Several members of the Conclave squirmed visibly. Ever since the attack at the Repository, they had to acknowledge that Lawrence, the former outcast, had been right all along. That the wardens had willfully ignored the signs, had stuck their heads in the sand like a group of ostriches, too fearful to accept the truth: the Silver Bloods, the demons of myth, their ancient foe, had returned.