CHAPTER 11

Mimi

The four Venators made very little sound as they landed on the roof of the building. Their footsteps could be mistaken for the rustle of bird's wings, or a few pebbles dislodged from the hillside. It was their fourth night in Rio, and they were in the favela de Rocinha, systematically going through the population, block by block, street by street, dilapidated shack by dilapidated shack. They were looking for anything, a scrap of memory, a word, an image, that could maybe shed some light on what had happened to Jordan and where she might be.

Mimi knew the drill so well she could do it in her sleep. Or actually, their sleep. Look at these Red Bloods, so cozy and secure in their slumber, she thought. They had no idea that vampires tiptoed through their dreams. Memories were tricky things, Mimi thought as she entered the twilight world of the glom. They weren't stable.

They changed with perception over time. She saw how they shifted, understood how the passage of time affected them. A hardworking striver might recall his childhood as one filled with misery and hardship, marred by the catcalls and name-calling of playground bullies, but later have a much more forgiving understanding of past injustices.

The handmade clothes he had been forced to wear became a testament to his mother's love, each patch and stitch a sign of her diligence instead of a brand of poverty. He would remember Father staying up late to help with the homework, the old man's patience and dedication, instead of the sharpness of his temper when he returned home, late, from the factory.

It went the other way as well. Mimi had scanned thousands of memories of spurned women whose handsome lovers turned ugly and rude, Roman noses perhaps too pointed, eyes growing small and mean, while the ordinary looking boys who had become their husbands grew in attractiveness as the years passed, so that when asked if it was love at first sight, the women cheerfully answered yes.

Memories were moving pictures in which meaning was constantly in flux. They were stories people told themselves. Using the glom, the netherworld of memory and shadow, a space the vampires could access at will in order to read and control minds, was like stepping into a darkroom, into a lab where photographers developed their prints, submerging them in shallow pans of chemicals, drying them on nylon racks.

Mimi remembered the darkroom at Duchesne, how she used to hide there with her familiars. Spinning through the revolving door, leaving the Technicolor world of school behind to enter a small, cramped space that was so dark she'd wonder for a second if she had gone blind. But vampires could see in the dark, of course.

Did they even have darkrooms anymore, other than in movies where they had to track down the serial killer? Mimi wondered. Everyone had digital cameras now. Darkrooms were prehistoric. Like handwritten letters and proper first dates.

"Darkrooms, Force? You don't strike me as a photographer."

"But I will strike you," Mimi sent back.

"Har-har."

"Go back to your patient. You're going to wake mine."

It was against protocol for Kingsley to pop into her head space. The four Venators could sense each other, but they were supposed to be on separate channels, watching different dreams. They had entered a women's dormitory, a place in the city where girls from the outlying provinces paid a pittance for a bed.

Mimi was in a girl's mind. The girl was the same age as her, roughly, for this cycle: seventeen.

The girl worked as a chambermaid in one of the hotels. Mimi scanned the last three months of her life. Saw her making the beds and clearing out the trash, vacuuming rugs and pocketing the small tips the guests left on the bedside tables. Saw her waiting for her boyfriend, a bike messenger, after work at a small caf¨¦. Work, boyfriend, work, boyfriend. What's this? The hotel manager was forcing the girl into his office and making her take off her clothes. Interesting. But was it real?

Venator training meant Mimi had learned how to distinguish fiction from reality, expectation from realization. Was the girl really being abused by her boss or was she just fearful that it would happen? It looked like a fear dream. Mimi placed a compulsion: she imagined the girl pushing her boss away, kicking him right where it hurt. There. If it ever happened, the girl would know what to do now.

"Call it. Lennox One?" Kingsley's voice echoed through the darkness.

"Clear."

"Two?"

"Clear."

"Force?"

Mimi sighed. There was no sign of the Watcher in any of the girl's thoughts. "Clear." She blinked her eyes open. She was standing over the girl, who was sleeping soundly under the covers. Mimi thought she had a small smile on her lips. There is no need to be afraid, Mimi sent. A girl can do anything she wants to do.


"Right. Move out." Kingsley led them into the night, through the unpaved roads and rickety steps leading farther into the tumbledown, jigsaw row of makeshift houses and apartment buildings cut into the mountains. She followed the team up the hill, walking by overflowing garbage cans and piles of rotten junk.

Not all that different from certain parts of Manhattan, Mimi thought, although it was amazing to see how closely people lived and how twisted their priorities were. She had seen homes, hovels, really, with no running water or toilets, but whose living rooms boasted forty-two-inch flatscreen televisions and satellite dishes. There were shiny German cars in the makeshift garages while the children went without shoes.

Speaking of children: she heard them before she saw them. The merry little band of brats who had been following them around all week. Their dirty faces streaked with tar, their ragged clothes bearing faded American sports team insignias, their hands outstretched, palms facing upward, empty. It reminded her of a public-service announcement that used to run in the evenings: "It's ten p.m. Do you know where your children are?"

"Senhora Bonita, Senhora Bonita," they chanted, their bare feet slapping on the wet path.

"Shoo?" Mimi hissed, batting them away like pesky flies. "I have nothing for you today. Nada para voce. Deixe-me sozinho?" Leave me alone. Their begging gave her a headache. She wasn't responsible for these people, for these children.... She was a Venator on official business, not some celebrity on a public relations campaign. Besides, this was Brazil, a developing country. There were places around the globe that were far more desperate. Really, the little urchins didn't know how lucky they were.

"Senhora, senhora." The little one, a cherub in a stained undershirt, dark curls bobbing, had grabbed the back of her shirt. Like the other Venators, Mimi was wearing a black polyver coat and waterproof nylon pants, standard-issue wear. She'd refused to wear the clunky boots (they made her feet look fat), and was wearing the high-heeled pony-hair boots again. "Oh, all right," Mimi said. It was her fault the kids were around them.

For as much as she tried to harden her heart, to remain impassive and stoic and indifferent in the face of truly appalling poverty, mimi considered her standard room back at the hotel (not even a suite!) deprivation enough, 'she found that whenever the children crowded around her, she always had something to give them.

A piece of candy. A dollar. (Yesterday ten dollars each.) A chocolate bar. Something. The children called her The Beautiful Lady, Senhora Bonita.

"Nothing for you today! Really! I'm out!" she protested.

"They'll never believe you. Not since you caved the first day," Kingsley said, looking amused.

"As if you're any better," Mimi grumbled, reaching into her backpack. The four of them were a soft touch. The silent twins gave out bubble gum while Kingsley could always be counted on to pay for deep-fried kibe snacks from the street carts.

The little girl with the curls waited patiently as Mimi brought out a stuffed toy dog she'd bought from the gift shop that morning especially for her. The stuffed animal had a face that reminded her of her own dog. She wished the gentle chow were with her, but need for the canine familiar's protection lessened in the later years of the transformation. "Here. And this is for all of you to share," she said, handing over a huge box of bonbons. "Now go?"

"Obrigado! Obrigado, Senhora!" they yelled as they ran away with their booty.

"You like them," Kingsley said with a twisted half smile that Mimi found infuriating because it made him even more handsome than he needed to be.

"No way." She shook her head, not meeting his eyes. Maybe she'd been drinking too much of the super-sweet Mexican Coca-Cola they had down here. Or maybe she was just tired, alone, and far from home. Because somewhere in the brittle, concrete center of Azrael's dark heart, something was melting.

Missing

"You must ask Charles. You must ask him about the gates... about the Van Alen legacy and the paths of the dead."

Those were her grandfather's last words.

But Charles Force was gone when Schuyler returned to New York. Oliver had found out through his contacts at the Repository that Charles had embarked on his usual amble across the park one afternoon but had never come home. That was a week ago. The former Regis had left no note, no explanation. Apparently, he had left everything a mess.

The Force corporation had lost half its value in the stock market crash, and the board was up in arms: their company was sinking and there was no captain steering the ship.

But somebody must know where he was, Schuyler thought, and one morning she waylaid Trinity Force at the salon where she had her hair highlighted. The leading social doyenne of New York was wrapped in a silk robe, sitting under a heat lamp.

"I take it you've heard the news," Trinity said dryly, putting down her magazine as Schuyler took the seat next to her. "Charles must have good reasons for his actions. I only wish he would have shared them with me."

Schuyler told her about Lawrence's last words on the mountaintop, hoping that maybe Trinity could shed a little light on his message.

"The Van Alen legacy," Trinity said, staring at herself in the mirror and patting the plastic cap covering her foils. "Whatever it is, Charles turned his back on everything that had to do with his 'family' a long time ago. Lawrence was living in the past, as he always had."

"But Lawrence insisted that Charles was the key."

"Lawrence is finished." The way Trinity said it, it sounded as if Lawrence were an actor who had merely finished his role in a play. Not passed away. Not dead. Not gone forever.

Finished.

There was another thing, something strange her grandfather had said that Schuyler wanted confirmed. She wasn't sure if Trinity would know anything about it, but she had to ask. "He also said that I have a sister, and that she will be... that she will be our death." Schuyler felt silly repeating such a dramatic statement. "I have a sister?"

Trinity did not answer for a long time. The sound of hair dryers and patrons gossiping with their stylists filled the silence. When she finally spoke, her voice was quiet and guarded. "In the sense that your mother had another daughter, yes. But that was long ago, long before you were born, in a different cycle, in a different century. And the girl was taken care of. Lawrence and Charles saw to that. Lawrence... One reason he went into exile was that he never gave up on his fantasies. He was dying, Schuyler, and you will have to understand... he was grasping at straws, trying to tie up loose ends. He probably wasn't even in his right mind."

So Lawrence had told the truth. She had a sister. Who? When? She was already dead? Taken care of , what did that mean?

But Trinity refused to elaborate further. "I have already told you too much," she said with a frown.

"The Conclave has asked me to testify tomorrow about what happened in Rio. Will you be there?" Schuyler asked a little wistfully. It suddenly struck her how much she needed a mother in her life. Trinity had never tried to fill that role, but she had a pragmatic no-nonsense way about her that reminded Schuyler of Cordelia. It was better than nothing.

"I am sorry, Schuyler, but I won't be able to come. As usual, the Red Bloods have let greed take over their financial system. With Charles gone, I am obligated to the board to do what little I can to staunch the bloodbath. I leave for Washington tonight."

"It's all right." Schuyler hadn't expected anything else.

"And, Schuyler?" Trinity looked at her keenly, as a mother would when chastising a wayward daughter. "since your return, your room has been empty."

"I know," Schuyler said simply. "I'm not going to live with your family anymore."

Trinity sighed. "I will not stop you. But know that when you are out of our house, you are out of our protection. We cannot help you."

"I understand. I'll take that risk." Out of habit, Schuyler and Trinity exchanged double-cheek air kisses and said good-bye. Schuyler left the soothing warm cocoon of the beauty salon and went out into the streets of New York, alone.

Charles Force was gone. Charles Force was a dead end. He had disappeared, taking his secrets with him.

She would have to discover the Van Alen Legacy on her own.

CHAPTER 12

Schuyler

The Baron de Coubertin was dressed as Attila the Hun in full battle armor, with a bow and arrow in a quiver slung over one shoulder, along with a shield and a throwing spear. On his head he wore a pointed metal cap over a wig of long black hair. His long beard was also fake.

He approached with a terrifying frown on his face and tapped Schuyler on the shoulder. "La contesse voudrait que vous me suiviez, s'il vous plait." The countess would like you to follow me, please. Then he turned abruptly on his heel. Schuyler and Oliver began to walk together behind him, but the baron stopped them.

"The countess grants a meeting only to Miss Van Alen," he said in perfect English, looking sternly at Oliver as if he were a nuisance. "You will stay here."

Schuyler nodded over Oliver's protests.

"I'll be fine. I'll meet you after," she said. 'don't worry."

She felt stares from the other guests turned their way. Who was the baron talking to? Who are those two? They were becoming conspicuous. They needed to melt away before anyone noticed them.

"Don't worry? But then I would be out of a job," Oliver said, raising his eyebrows.

"I can handle it," Schuyler insisted.

"That's what I'm worried about," Oliver sighed.

He squeezed her bare shoulder. His hands were rough and callused from travel and work. They were not the soft hands of the boy who used to spend his afternoons in museums. The Oliver whom Schuyler had known had never stayed in anything less than a five-star hotel in his life, let alone the fleabag hostels where they now found themselves residing. She had seen him argue the price of instant noodles in Shanghai, haggling over five cents.

"I'll be fine," she promised, then murmured softly so the baron could not hear. "I have a feeling this is the only way I'm going to get to see the countess."

"Let me talk to him again; maybe he'll listen to me," Oliver whispered, looking from the baron to Schuyler. "If anything happens?"

"I won't be able to live with myself," Schuyler said, finishing his sentence. She removed his hand gently. "I'm scared too, Ollie. But we agreed. We have to do this."

Oliver gritted his teeth. "I don't like it," he said, glaring at the baron. But he let her go.

Schuyler followed the baron out of the courtyard and into the main hall of the palace. He led her through an enfilade, a series of rooms all in a row, past the library and the many function rooms. At the end of a long hallway, he opened a door to an anteroom and led her inside. It was a small room, tiled with gold mosaics, empty save for a red velvet bench in the middle.

"Arr'te." Wait.

He left, and the door locked behind him.

Schuyler looked around. There was another door in the back of the room. That one must lead to the countess's office. Schuyler could feel the wards in place, guarding the room. There was no way out except for the two locked doors. One of Lawrence's lessons had been to sense the invisible protections in one's surroundings so that you could figure out how to get out of them. Escape was ninety percent preparation and ten percent opportunity, he liked to say.

Schuyler waited for what seemed like hours alone in the small chamber. The room was completely insulated from outside noise. She couldn't hear anything from the party. At last the door opened.

"Baron de Coubertin?" she called.

"Try again." The voice was heartbreakingly familiar.

No. It couldn't be. Schuyler felt paralyzed. It was as if the past were taunting her. Someone was playing a sick joke. There was no way he was here. The one person in New York whom she had tried so hard to forget...

Jack Force stepped inside. Unlike the other revelers, he was dressed simply, all in black. A Venator's uniform. His platinum hair was cut short, in military fashion, making his sharp aristocratic features look even more striking. He moved with a natural grace, stalking the edge of the room like a dangerous animal circling its prey.

How handsome he was'she had forgotten. Or maybe she had only imagined she had forgotten. They had not seen each other since their last night at the Perry Street apartment. The night she had told him she loved another. How it hurt to see his beautiful face, so grave and serious, as if he had aged a lifetime in a year.

The hurt was like a physical pain, a longing that she had repressed, suddenly flaring up again: bright and red and angry, surprising in its intensity. An impossible wanting: a hole in her heart that yearned to be filled.

No. Stop. Don't go there. She was furious at herself for feeling this way. It was wrong, and incredibly disloyal to the life she had lived for a year. A betrayal to the life she and Oliver had built together. If only there was something she could do about her heart. Her wildly beating, treacherous heart. Because all she wanted to do was run into Jack's arms.

"Jack," she breathed. Even saying his name was difficult. Was it so terrible that she had wanted so much to see him again? God knows she had tried to stop thinking about him, had banished all thought of him to the darkest corner of her mind.

Yet he was always there: in her dreams, she always went back to the apartment above the city, to that spot by the fire. You couldn't stop yourself from dreaming, could you? It wasn't her fault. That was the annoying part. However much she wanted to, her unconscious always pulled her back to him.

To see him, living, breathing, right here in front of her was like a direct assault on everything she had tried to hold on to during her year-plus in exile. She had convinced herself that her love for him was dead and buried, locked in a treasure chest below the sea, never to be reopened. She had made her choice. She loved Oliver. They were happy, or as happy as two people could be with a bounty over their heads. Jack was not hers to love, and never had been. Whatever they had once meant to each other was no longer. He was a stranger.

Besides, he was bonded now to his vampire twin, to Mimi, his sister. It didn't make a difference how Schuyler still ¨C regrettably, felt about him. It just didn't matter. He was already bound to another. She was nothing to him, and he to her.

"What are you doing here?" she asked, because he was just looking at her in silence, even after she had said his name.

"I'm here for you," he said, his mouth set in a grim line.

Then Schuyler knew. Jack was here on behalf of the Conclave. He was here to take her back to New York.

Back into custody. He was here to take her back to face the Inquisitor for sentencing. Innocent or guilty, it did not matter, she knew what the verdict would be, they had turned against her. Jack was one of them now. Part of the Conclave. The enemy.

Schuyler backed into the opposite wall, toward the other door, knowing it was useless. The wards, the protections in place meant there was no way to go but up and out. She would have to try it. Take a running start on the wall and jump high enough so that she would crash through the glass. Jack noticed her eyes flick toward the ceiling.

"You will destroy this room if you attempt it."

"What do I care?"

"I think you do. I think you love the H'tel Lambert as much as I do. You are not the only one who used to play in its gardens."

Of course Jack had been here before. His father had been the former Regis. The Forces had probably stayed in the same guest wing as she and Cordelia. But so what?

"I'll do it if it's the only way. Watch me."

Jack took a step toward her. "I'm not your enemy, Schuyler. No matter what you think. You're wrong. That way is lost. There is a protection you don't feel, one that Lawrence did not teach you about. You will shatter against the glass. And I will not have any harm come to you."

"No?"

"You don't have a choice. Come with me, Schuyler, please." Jack held out his hand. His flashing glass-green eyes were suddenly gentle, pleading. The foreboding look on his face had all but disappeared. He looked vulnerable and lost. It was the same way he had looked at her that night. When he had asked her to stay.

She gave him the same answer she had back then.

"No."

Before she could take a breath she was already running sideways and up, so fast that she was a pink blur against the gold wall, and then she had thrown herself upward so that she broke through the ceiling, sending a rain of crystal shards crashing down on the marble floor. It was all over in an instant.

He was wrong. She knew the spell that held it in place, and she knew the counterspell that had destroyed it. Contineo and Frango. Lawrence had been thorough in his tutorials. In this at least, she would not fail her grandfather.

I'm sorry, Jack. But I can't go back there.

Never.

Then she disappeared into the night.