Masquerade bb-2

by Мелисса Де Ла Круз

  “Alas, you have traveled to Venice in vain. I am an old man. I would prefer to live out my immortal life in peace. I have nothing to offer you.”

  "But Cordelia said…”

  "Cordelia placed too much faith in me, as always. The key to defeating the Silver Bloods lies with Charles and Allegra, not with me. Only the Uncorrupted can save Blue Bloods from the Silver Blood Abominations.

  "I am sorry I cannot be of much help. I swore off the Blue Bloods forever when I went into exile.”

  "Then Charles Force was right about you," Schuyler said, her voice shaking.

  "How do you mean?" Lawrence asked darkly.

  "He said you weren't half the man Cordelia wished you to be. That I would only find sorrow and confusion if I traveled to Venice.”

  Lawrence stepped back as if he had received a physical blow. His face registered a myriad of emotions—shame, anger, pride—but he remained silent. In the end, he abruptly turned his back on her and left the room, slamming the door behind him.

  Well. That was that. Schuyler zipped up her carryall, lugged it over her shoulder, and walked out to the elevator, where Oliver was waiting. He didn't say hello or good morning.

  She knew that if she wanted to, she could catch a glimpse of his mind—his thoughts broadcast as if on satellite radio. But she always switched the signal. She didn't feel it was right to pry. Besides, she didn't need any of her special powers to figure out he was still annoyed with her for not calling him the night before.

  Lawrence's chauffeur had brought her back to the hotel late the previous evening, and Schuyler had found several frantic messages from her friend on her cell phone and hotel voice mail. She would have called him back, but it was so late she hadn't wanted to wake him.

  "I thought you were dead," Oliver accused.

  "If I was, you could have my iPod.”

  "Ha. Yours sucks. It doesn't even have video.”

  Schuyler repressed a smile. She knew Oliver couldn't stay mad at her for long.

  “Anyway, you missed a hilarious European music awards show on TV. David Hasselhoff swept all the categories."

  "Sucks to be me.”

  He grunted. "Dad's gone, he took an earlier flight. Had to get back for some shareholders' meeting.”

  Schuyler glanced sideways at her friend. Oliver's chestnut shag covered his forehead, and his warm hazel eyes, flecked with green and topaz, were filled with hurt and concern. Schuyler restrained herself from touching his neck, which looked so vulnerable and inviting. Lately she had been sensing a new desire in her blood to feed. The thirst was a low hum, like music in the back of your head that you didn't even notice, but once in a while it would raise its voice, and there was no mistaking it. She found herself drawn to Oliver in a new way, and she blushed when she looked at him.

  It occurred to Schuyler that her human father had been her vampire mother's familiar, and Allegra had taken him as her husband against vampire law. For the first time in the history of the Blue Bloods, the lines between the races had blurred, and the result had been Schuyler. Half human, half vampire. Dimidium Cognatus.

  Schuyler had been made aware of her ancestry only a few months ago, but now she understood that her blood was her destiny, formed in an intricate pattern of veins underneath her skin. Blood calling for blood. Oliver's blood…

  She'd never noticed how handsome her best friend was. How soft his skin looked. How much she wanted to reach out with her fingers and touch that spot below his Adam's apple, and kiss him there, and then, maybe, to prick the skin with her teeth, to sink in her fangs…and feed….

  "Where were you, anyway?" Oliver asked, breaking her train of thought.

  "It's a long story," Schuyler said. The elevator doors opened and they both stepped inside.

  As they made their way in a rickety cab through the cobblestone streets to the tiny regional airport, Schuyler filled Oliver in on everything that had happened, and her friend listened attentively.

  "It's a goddamn shame," Oliver said. "But maybe he'll change his mind one day.”

  Schuyler shrugged. She had pleaded her case, she had done as her grandmother had asked, but she had still been spurned. She really didn't think there was anything she could do about it anymore.

  "Maybe, maybe not. Let's stop talking about it," she sighed.

  Their flight to Rome was delayed, so Schuyler and Oliver killed time by browsing the duty-free and souvenir shops. Oliver grinned as he showed Schuyler a racy Italian magazine.

  Schuyler grabbed several magazines, a bottle of water, and gum to ease the air pressure in her ears during takeoff and landing. She was waiting on line for the cashier to ring her up when she noticed a stack of Venetian masks. The city was full of sidewalk vendors hawking them, even though Carnevale was still a few months away. She had hardly paid any attention to the cheap trifles, but one mask in particular in the airport display caught her eye.

  It was a full-face mask with only holes for eyes, and was made of the finest porcelain, with gold-and-silver beading. "Look," she said, holding it up to show Oliver.

  "What do you want that tacky thing for?" he asked.

  "I don't know. I don't have anything to remind me of Venice. I'm getting it.”

  Their flight to Rome was bumpy, and the flight to New York was even worse—so much turbulence that Schuyler thought she would go crazy from her teeth chattering against each other every time the plane bounced. But once she looked out the window and saw the New York skyline, she felt a rush of love for the city, tinged with sadness to know that there was no one waiting for her at home except two loyal servants who were now her legal guardians, as per Cordelia's will. At least there was Beauty, her bloodhound, a true friend and protector. Beauty was another part of the transformation, a part of Cordelia's soul that had transferred to the physical world to protect Schuyler until she was in full control of her powers. She had missed her dog.

  They made their way to the concourse to retrieve their bags from the carousel, weary from their journey. After traveling for almost fifteen hours straight, both of them looked peaked, and it was dusk when they arrived in New York. They walked out to find a light dusting of snow.

  It was the first week of December, and winter had finally arrived.

  Oliver found his family's car and driver idling by the curb, and led Schuyler toward the black Mercedes Maybach. They settled inside the cozy leather interior, Schuyler thanking the gods for giving her Oliver. His family fortune (intact) definitely came in handy during times like these.

  The two of them were quietly absorbed in their own thoughts as they rode back to the city. Traffic was light on the freeway for a change, and they made it to Manhattan in half an hour.

  The car drove over the George Washington Bridge and exited on 125th Street, making its way down Riverside to the Van Alen mansion on the corner of 101st and Riverside.

  "Well, this is me," Schuyler said. "Thanks again for everything, Ollie. I wish it had worked out with my grandfather.”

  "Yeah, no worries. `Protect and serve,' that's my motto.”

  Oliver leaned over to kiss her on the cheek like he always did, but at the last minute Schuyler turned her head so that their noses bumped into each other.

  "Oops," she said.

  Oliver looked embarrassed, and they embraced awkwardly instead.

  What was wrong with her? He was her best friend. Why was she acting so lame? She was about to open the car door when he cleared his throat. She turned to him. "Did you say something?”

  "So, uh, I guess you're going to that thing tonight, huh?" he asked, scratching his chin.

  Schuyler blinked. "Thing?”

  "That, uh, Four Hundred Ball," Oliver said, rolling his eyes and making exaggerated scare quotes with his fingers. "The big bloodsuckers shindig.”

  "Oh, right." She had almost forgotten about that. Her presence would be required as part of The Committee. She was too young to be officially presented at the ball, unlike Mimi and Jack Force. Jack Force—for weeks
now she had suppressed her feelings for him, but the thought of the Four Hundred Ball brought his image to the forefront of her mind. Tall, painfully handsome, the sun shining on his golden hair and skin, laughing with his piercing green eyes, showing his even, dazzlingly white teeth.

  Jack had been the first to suspect there was more to the story of Aggie's death than anyone on The Committee would have liked to believe. He was the one who had been determined to find out the truth. She had sought him out after she had been attacked, and after he had comforted her, they had kissed. The memory of his kiss was still pressed like an imprint on her lips.

  If she closed her eyes she could still smell him, clean and fresh like newly laundered linen, with a hint of woodsy aftershave.

  Jack Force…

  Who had turned his back on her when she had mistakenly accused his father of being a Silver Blood.

  She wondered if Jack had a date for the ball, and if he did, who it was. She felt a bright flare of jealousy at the thought of another girl in his arms.

  "Do you want to go with me?" She hadn't even given any thought to a dress or a date until Oliver mentioned it. Oliver blushed and looked pained.

  "It's, um…vampires only. Kind of a rule. No human familiars or Conduits allowed.”

  "Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't know," Schuyler said. "Maybe I won't go.”

  Oliver looked out the window, where snow had covered the rooftops and sidewalks with a glaze of white crystal.

  "You should," Oliver said quietly. "Cordelia would have wanted you to.”

  Schuyler knew he was right. She was the remaining Van Alen in New York. She would have to represent the family. “All right, I'll go. But I'll leave early and maybe we can meet up later on?”

  Oliver smiled wistfully. "Sure.”

  ELEVEN

  The Forces had booked the four-bedroom presidential suite at the St. Regis. Almost all the rooms in the hotel were taken over by Blue Blood families. It was a tradition, since it meant a simple ride in the elevator to the ballroom and guaranteed less crinkling of the ladies' gowns.

  Charles Force fastened his remaining cuff link. He was a tall, proud man with a handsome head of silver hair. He was wearing white tie and tails, as well as white gloves. The tailcoat was beautifully cut in the traditional fashion, with a two-button closure and a velvet stripe down the side of the trousers. He stood in the living room with his hands clasped behind him, waiting for the women in his family to finish dressing.

  His son, Jack, was dressed similarly, and looked dashing in his tailcoat. Jack had chosen a pointed collar that lay flat on his dress shirt rather than the traditional butterfly collar that turned up against the chin.

  Jack had been quiet all day, and suddenly he swung his legs off the couch and stood up.

  He looked his father in the eye. "What did you say to Schuyler before she left?”

  "Still concerned about the Van Alen girl?" Charles asked. "I would think that after she wrongly accused me of being Abomination, you would have lost interest in her.”

  Jack shrugged. "I'm not concerned, father. Just curious," he said. During the ruckus that had surrounded Dylan's disappearance and Cordelia's passing, his father had taken Jack into his confidence, telling him the truth of Schuyler's ancestry. That night, Jack had also discovered the truth about his relationship with his sister. Mimi was his other half, for better or worse, his best friend and worst enemy, his twin in more ways than one.

  But although Jack had reconciled himself to the truth of his family, questions remained: what was The Committee hiding? Had a Silver Blood truly returned? His father acted as if the entire situation were completely resolved, since the killings had abruptly stopped several months ago.

  Charles sighed. "I simply told her that her journey to Venice would be useless. She has gotten it into her head that her grandfather is somehow going to provide the necessary answers to all of her silly questions. But he shall not. I know Lawrence very well; he will stay out of it as he always has. She has embarked on a fruitless journey.”

  Jack had guessed as much. He was aware of his father's dislike of Lawrence Van Alen, and his newly surfacing memories confirmed it.

  "Any more questions for me?" Charles asked.

  Jack looked down at his patent-leather shoes, shined especially for the occasion. He could see his brooding reflection on their shiny surface.

  "No, Father." He shook his head. How could he doubt his father? Charles Force was Michael, Pure of Heart, the Regis. A vampire by choice rather than sin, and infallible.

  "Good," Charles said, brushing the lint off Jack's black tailcoat and admonishing his son to stand up straight. "This is the Four Hundred Ball. Your formal presentation to our people. I'm proud of you.”

  "Trinity, my dear? Are you ready?" Charles called from the living room.

  Jack saw his mother, Trinity Burden Force, walk out of her dressing room and smile affectionately at her husband. She was dressed in a deep-red silk charmeuse ball gown with a sweetheart neckline and a plunging back. The two of them would open the ball with their entrance. But Jack knew from his father that Trinity had not been honored in this fashion in the past. In fact, this would be only the sixteenth year that Allegra Van Alen did not take her place by her brother's side. The sixteenth year that Gabrielle would not lead the coven.

  In an adjoining suite, Mimi Force was draped in a plush Turkish bathrobe, sitting on a gilt-back chair while a bevy of stylists and manicurists surrounded her, tending to every inch of her. Her hair was being brushed back into a graceful chignon, while another assistant held an industrial-strength hair dryer. Two of the most well-known makeup artists in the city were working on their final touches: one was brushing on lipstick, the other dotting her face with bronzer.

  All the while, Mimi held a cell phone to her ear while she blew on her nails, painted a pearly "Socialite.”

  "Oh my God, it's a madhouse in here, sorry—I can't hear you that well. What time did you say you guys were getting there?

  "We're at the hotel. Yeah, the penthouse. Sorry, do you mind? Excuse me, hello, you there," she said sharply to the goateed stylist with the hair dryer. "You almost singed my ear off," she said, giving him a dirty look. "Sorry, Bliss, I gotta go.”

  Mimi flipped her cell phone closed, and the activity around her came to a standstill.

  "Are we done?" she asked.

  "Look." The stylist handed her a mirror.

  "Polaroids!" Mimi demanded.

  One of the black-shirted assistants took a quick snap.

  Mimi checked her reflection as well as the photograph. She studied herself critically, searching for any detectable flaw, no matter how minute. Her hair was brushed and styled to a burnished sheen, and framed her face like a golden crown. Her skin glowed; a dark smoky shadow brought out the green in her eyes, and her lips looked stained with freshly picked roses.

  "Yes, I think that will be all," she said regally, dismissing her entourage with a wave of the hand and without a trace of gratitude. Mimi considered it a privilege for them to work on her, not the other way around.

  Soon after, her maid entered the room bearing a white cardboard box the size of a small child's coffin. It had been messengered over to the hotel at the last minute, and Mimi clapped her hands when she saw it.

  "It's here!" her maid said happily, having been the unlucky recipient of Mimi's tantrums at the fact that the ball was starting in a few hours and her dress had still not arrived.

  "I see that. I'm not an idiot," Mimi snapped.

  She ran over to the box, laid it on the bedspread, and ripped open the brown parcel paper like a whirling dervish.

  After leaving the Dior showroom, Mimi had complained to her mother about the lack of proper ball gowns, and Trinity had secured her an appointment at the Balenciaga atelier to meet with the head designer himself.

  Over the course of the five-hour meeting, Mimi had rejected and dismissed countless designs, causing the designer to rip up more than several dozen sketches.

/>   "What is it you're looking for?" he had asked, completely exasperated. "You're pickier than a bride.”

  Mimi inhaled sharply. "Exactly." She closed her eyes and saw herself and Jack together—during their first bonding. The dress she'd worn then was simple, white, merely a sheet, like a toga, and they had walked barefoot down the streets of Venice together, hand in hand, for the ceremony.

  "White, the dress has to be white," she murmured. "White like snow. Transparent like tears.”

  Now, there it was, nestled in deepest tissues. The dress of her dreams.

  It was made of the thinnest white silk satin, and when she picked it up, it felt like a whisper between her fingers, it was so fragile. Just as she had ordered, it was severe in its simplicity.

  It looked like nothing on the hanger—like a plain white piece of cloth. It was corded with a heavy silver chain at the hips, and had a sexy, unexpected keyhole cut out at the hip bone—the one concession to modern fashion she had allowed.

  Mimi shrugged off her bathrobe, tossing it to the floor. She stood in the middle of the room, completely nude as her maid held the dress aloft. Mimi stepped into it, feeling the light, gossamer fabric fluttering about her like mist, settling against her slim form.

  "Go," she said curtly to her maid. The frightened servant almost tripped on the bathrobe in her haste to leave.

  She tied the cord around her waist and assessed the tanned skin that peeked through the cutout. When she stood in front of the light, her form would be shown in complete blackened silhouette; every curve of her body, every line from neck to breast, from waist to hips to her endless legs, she would be at once covered and yet exposed, clothed and unclothed, garbed and yet nude.

  No underwear necessary.

  It was spectacular.

  "Wow.”

  She smiled. That didn't take long.

  She turned around to face her brother.

  Jack was standing in the doorway to her room, leaning a hand on the doorknob. Charles had sent him to collect his sister. His fine, platinum hair was brushed back from his forehead, and there was a tender look on his face.