Misguided Angel (Blue Bloods)

by Melissa de la Cruz

  Copyright © 2010 by Melissa de la Cruz

  All rights reserved. Published by Hyperion, an imprint of Disney Book Group. no part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher. For information address Hyperion, 114 Fifth Avenue, New York, New York 10011-5690.

  First edition 1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

  V567-9638-5-10227

  printed in the United States of America

  Designed by Elizabeth H. Clark

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data on file.

  ISBN 978-1-4231-4772-5

  “Misguided Angel”

  Words and music by Michael Timmins and Margo Timmins Copyright © 1988 by Universal Music—Z Tunes LLC and Paz Junk Music All Rights Administered by Universal Music—Z Tunes LLC International Copyright secured All Rights Reserved

  Reprinted by permission of Hal Leonard Corporation

  Visit www.hyperionteens.com

  Table of Contents

  Journal Entry

  A Chase

  Part the First

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  The Man From Citadel

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  The Artist's Studio

  Part the Second

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  The Changeling

  Twenty-one

  Twenty-two

  Twenty-three

  Twenty-four

  Twenty-five

  The Cardinal

  Part the Third

  Twenty-six

  Twenty-seven

  Twenty-eight

  Twenty-nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-one

  Thirty-two

  Thirty-three

  Thirty-four

  Thirty-five

  Thirty-six

  Thirty-seven

  Thirty-eight

  Thirty-nine

  Forty

  The Mistress

  Part the Fourth

  Forty-one

  Forty-two

  Forty-three

  Acknowledgments

  For Pop,

  Alberto B. de la Cruz,

  September 7, 1949–October 25, 2009,

  who thought Dedications and Acknowledgments

  were the best part of my books because he was always in them

  Misguided angel hanging over me,

  Heart like a Gabriel, pure and white as ivory

  Soul like a Lucifer, black and cold like a piece of lead.

  Misguided angel, love you till I’m dead.

  —Cowboy Junkies, “Misguided Angel”

  All things change, nothing perishes.

  —Ovid

  From the Personal Journal

  of Lawrence Van Alen

  November 11, 2005

  There were seven of us at the inception of the order. A conclave was called to address the growing threat posed by the Paths of the Dead. Along with myself, present at the gathering were the Emperor’s cousin Gemellus, a weakling; Octilla and Halcyon from the vestal virgins; General Alexandrus, head of the Imperial Army; Pantaelum, a trusted senator; and Onbasius, a healer.

  In my prodigious research I have determined that Halcyon was most likely the keeper of the Gate of Promise, the third known Gate of Hell. I have come to the conclusion that this gate is instrumental in uncovering the truth behind the continued existence of our supposedly vanquished enemies. This is the gate we must focus on, the most important one in the lot.

  From what I can deduce, Halcyon settled in Florence, and it is my belief that her latest recorded incarnation was as Catherine of Siena, a famous Italian mystic “born” in 1347. However, after Catherine’s “death,” there is no other record of a prominent female presence in the city. It appears she had no heirs to her name, and her line simply disappears after the end of Giovanni de Medici’s rule in 1429.

  From the fifteenth century onward, the city becomes the center of the growing power of the Petruvian Order, founded by the ambitious priest Father Benedictus Linardi. The Petruvian school and monastery are currently under the leadership of one Father Roberto Baldessarre. I have written to Father Baldessarre and leave for Florence tomorrow.

  A Chase

  Florence, 1452

  The sound of footsteps on cobblestone echoed throughout the empty streets of the city. Tomasia kept the pace, her kidskin slippers hardly making a sound, while behind her came the slap of Andreas’s heavy boots and Giovanni’s lighter step. They ran in a single file, a tight unit, used to this kind of discipline, used to blending in with the dark. When they arrived at the middle of the square, they separated.

  Tomi flew up the nearest cornerstone and perched on a cornice looking over the broad panorama of the city: the half-built dome of the Basilica to the Ponte Vecchio and beyond the river. She sensed the creature was near and prepared to strike. Their target still did not know he was being followed, and her blow would be immediate and invisible, every trace of the Silver Blood eradicated and extinguished—almost as if the beast—disguised as a palace guard—never existed. Even the creature’s last gasp must be silent. Tomasia kept her position, waiting for the creature to come to her, to walk into the trap they had laid.

  She heard Dre grunting, a bit out of breath, and then next to him, Gio, his sword already unsheathed, as they followed the vampire into the alley.

  This was her chance. She flew down from her hiding place, holding her dagger with her teeth.

  But when she landed, the creature was nowhere to be found.

  “Where—?” she asked, but Gio put a finger to his mouth and motioned to the alleyway.

  Tomi raised her eyebrows. This was unusual. The Silver Blood had stopped to converse with a hooded stranger. Strange: the Croatan despised the Red Bloods and avoided them unless they were torturing them for sport.

  “Should we?” she asked, moving toward the alley.

  “Wait,” Andreas ordered. He was nineteen, tall and broad, with sculpted muscles and a ferocious brow—handsome and ruthless. He was their leader, and had always been.

  Next to him, Gio looked elfin, almost fey, with a beauty that could not be denied or hidden under his scraggly beard and long, unkempt hair. He kept his hand on his weapon, tense and ready to spring.

  Tomi did the same, and caressed the sharp edge of her dagger. It made her feel better to know it was there.

  “Let’s watch what happens,” Dre decided.

  PART THE FIRST

  SCHUYLER VAN ALEN AND

  THE GATE OF PROMISE

  Off the Italian Coast

  The Present

  ONE

  The Cinque Terre

  Schuyler Van Alen walked as quickly as she could up the polished brass spiral stairs leading to the upper deck. Jack Force was standing at the edge of the bow when she caught his eye. She nodded to him, shielding her eyes from the hot Mediterranean sun. It’s done.

  Good, he sent, and went back to setting the anchor. He was sunburned and shaggy, his skin a deep nut brown, his hair the color of flax. Her own dark hair was wild and unkempt from a month of salty sea air. She wore an old shirt of Jack’s that had once been white and pristine and was now gray and ragged at the hems. They both displayed that laconic, relaxed air affec
ted by those on perpetual vacation: a lazy, weathered aimlessness that belied their true desperation. A month was long enough. They had to act now. They had to act today.

  The muscles on Jack’s arms tensed as he tugged on the rope to see if the anchor had found purchase on the ocean floor. No luck. The anchor heaved, so he released the line a few more feet. He raised a finger over his right shoulder, signaling to Schuyler to reverse the port engine. He let the rope go a little farther and tugged at it again, the stout white braids of the anchor line chafing his palm as he pulled it toward him.

  From her summers sailing on Nantucket, Schuyler knew that an ordinary man would have used a motor winch to set the seven-hundred-pound anchor, but of course Jack was far from ordinary. He pulled harder—using almost all of his strength, and all eight tons of the Countess’s yacht seemed to flex for a moment. This time the anchor held, wedged into the rocky bottom. Jack relaxed and dropped the rope, and Schuyler moved from the helm to help him twine it around the base of the winch. In the past month they’d each found quiet solace in these small tasks. It gave them something to do while they plotted their escape.

  For while Isabelle of Orleans had welcomed them to the safety of her home, Jack remembered that once upon a time, in another lifetime, Isabelle had been Lucifer’s beloved, Drusilla, sister-wife to the emperor Caligula. True, the Countess had been more than generous toward them: she had blessed them with every comfort—the boat, in particular, was fully staffed and bountifully stocked. Yet it was becoming clearer each day that the Countess’s offer of protection was morphing from asylum to confinement. It was already November and they were virtual prisoners in her care, as they were never left alone, nor were they allowed to leave. Schuyler and Jack were as far from finding the Gate of Promise as they had been when they’d left New York.

  The Countess had given them everything except what they needed most: freedom. Schuyler did not believe that Isabelle, who had been a great friend to Lawrence and Cordelia, and was one of the most respected vampire dowagers of European society, was a Silver Blood traitor. But of course, given the recent events, anything seemed possible. In any event, if the Countess was planning on keeping them prisoner for perpetuity, they couldn’t afford to wait and find out.

  Schuyler glanced shyly at Jack. They had been together a month now, but even though they were finally an official couple, everything felt so new—his touch, his voice, his companionship, the easy feel of his arm around her shoulder. She stood beside him against the rail, and he looped his arm around her neck, pulling her closer so he could plant a quick kiss on the top of her head. She liked those kisses the most, found a deep contentment at the confident way he held her. They belonged to each other now.

  Maybe this was what Allegra had meant, Schuyler thought, when she had told her to come home and stop fighting, stop fleeing from finding her own happiness. Maybe this was what her mother wanted her to understand.

  Jack lowered his arm from her shoulder, and she followed his gaze to the small rowboat “the boys” were lowering from the stern onto the choppy water below. They were a jolly duo, two Italians, Drago and Iggy (short for Ignazio), Venators in service to the Countess and, for all intents and purposes, Jack and Schuyler’s jailers. But Schuyler had come to like them almost as friends, and the thought of what she and Jack were about to do set her nerves on edge. She hoped the Venators would be spared from harm, but she and Jack would do what they had to. She marveled at his calm demeanor; she herself could barely keep still, bouncing up and down on the balls of her feet in anticipation.

  She followed Jack to the edge of the platform. Iggy had tethered the little boat to the yacht, and Drago reached forward to help Schuyler step down. But Jack slipped ahead and brushed Drago aside so he could offer Schuyler his palm instead, ever the gentleman. She held his hand as she climbed over the rail and into the boat. Drago shrugged and steadied the boat as Iggy brought the last of the provisions onto the bow—several picnic baskets and backpacks filled with blankets and water. Schuyler patted her bag, confirming that the Repository files with Lawrence’s notes were in their usual place.

  Schuyler turned to look closely upon the rugged Italian coast for the first time. Ever since they had learned of Iggy’s affinity for the Cinque Terre, they had been advocating for this little day trip. The Cinque Terre was a strip of the Italian Riviera populated by a series of five medieval towns. Iggy, with his broad face and fat belly, spoke longingly of running along the paths along the cliff edge before coming home to outdoor dinners overlooking sunsets above the bay.

  She had never been to this part of Italy and did not know too much about it—but she understood how they could use Iggy’s affection for his hometown to their advantage. He had not been able to resist their suggestion to visit, and allowed them a day off of their floating prison. It was the perfect spot for what they had planned, as trails ended in ancient stairs that stretched upward for hundreds of feet. The paths would be abandoned this time of year—tourist season was over, as fall brought cold weather to the popular resort towns. The mountain trails would lead them far from the ship.

  “You are going to love this place, Jack,” Iggy said, rowing vigorously. “You too, signorina,” he said. The Italians had a difficult time pronouncing Schuyler.

  Jack grunted, pulling on his oar, and Schuyler tried to affect a festive air. They were supposed to be getting ready for a picnic. Schuyler noticed Jack brooding, staring at the sea, preparing himself for the day ahead, and she swatted his arm playfully. This was supposed to be a long-awaited respite from their time on the ship, a chance to spend a day exploring.

  They were supposed to look like a happy couple with not a care in the world, not like two captives about to execute a prison break.

  TWO

  The Getaway

  Schuyler felt her mood lift as they pulled into the bay at Vernazza. The view could bring a smile to anyone’s face, and even Jack brightened. The rock ledges were spectacular and the houses that clung to them looked as ancient as the stones themselves. They docked the boat, and the foursome hiked up the cliff side toward the trail.

  The five towns that formed the Cinque Terre were connected by a series of stony paths, some almost impossible to climb, Iggy explained, as they walked past a succession of tiny stucco homes. The Venator was in a jubilant mood, telling them the history of every house they walked past. “And this one, my aunty Clara sold in 1977 to a nice family from Parma, and this right here was where the most beautiful girl in Italy lived”—Iggy made a kissing noise—“but . . . Red Blood lady you know how they are . . . picky . . . Oh and this is where . . .”

  Iggy called out to farmers as they walked through the backyards and fields, patting animals as they strolled past their pastures. The trail wound back and forth from grassland to homes to the very edge of the sea cliffs.

  Schuyler watched tiny rocks tumble over the side of the hill as they made their way forward. Iggy kept the conversation flowing, while Drago nodded and laughed to himself, as if he had taken the tour one time too many and was merely humoring his friend. The climb was hard work, but Schuyler was glad for the chance to stretch her muscles, and she was certain Jack was too. They had spent too much time on the boat, and while they had been allowed to swim in the ocean, it wasn’t the same as a good hike in the open air. In a few hours they had moved from Vernazza to Corniglia and then Manarola. Schuyler noticed that they passed the day without seeing a single car or truck, not a phone line or power cable.

  This is it, Jack sent. Over there.

  Schuyler knew it meant he had judged their distance to be nearly halfway between the last two towns. It was time. Schuyler tapped Iggy on the shoulder and gestured toward a craggy outcropping that hung over the cliff side. “Lunch?” she asked, her eyes twinkling.

  Iggy smiled. “Of course! In all my exuberance I forgot to let us stop and eat!”

  The spot Schuyler had led them to was in a peculiar location. The trail stretched out toward a promontory so that there w
ere cliffs on either side of the narrow path. The two Venators spread one of the Countess’s spotless white tablecloths over a grassy plateau between the rough stone, and the four of them crammed into the small space. Schuyler tried not to look down as she snuggled up as close to the edge as possible.

  Jack sat across from her, gazing over her shoulder at the shoreline below. He kept his eyes on the beach as Schuyler helped unpack the basket. She brought out salamis and prosciutto di Parma, finocchiona, mortadella, and air-cured beef. Some of the meat came in long rolls, while others were cut into small disks and wrapped in wax paper. There was a loaf of rosemary cake, along with a brown paper bag full of almond tarts and jam crostata. It was a pity it was all going to go to waste. Drago pulled several plastic containers filled with Italian cheeses—pecorino and fresh burrata wrapped in green asphodel leaves. Schuyler tore off a piece of the burrata and took a bite. It was buttery and milky, equal to the view in splendor.

  She caught Jack’s eyes briefly. Get ready, he sent. She continued to smile and eat, even as her stomach clenched. She turned briefly to see what Jack had seen. A small motorboat had pulled up to the beach below. Who would have known a teenage North African pirate from the Somali coast would prove to be such a reliable contact, Schuyler thought. Even from far above she could see that he had brought them what they had asked for: one of the pirate crew’s fastest speedboats, jerry-rigged with a grossly oversized engine.

  Iggy popped open a bottle of Prosecco, and the four of them toasted the sun-drenched coastline with friendly smiles. He lifted his hand in a wide gesture as he gazed down at the midday feast. “Shall we begin?”

  That was the moment she had been waiting for. Schuyler sprang into action. She leaned back and appeared to lose her balance for a moment, then bent forward and tossed the full contents of her wineglass into Drago’s face. The alcohol stung his eyes, and he looked baffled, but before he could react, Iggy slapped him on the back and guffawed heartily, as if Schuyler had made a particularly funny joke.