Gates of Paradise, The (Blue Bloods Novel)

by Melissa de la Cruz

  What happened in Rome should never have been allowed. She had tried to accept, had tried to understand, but now Tomi had to admit that after the crisis passed, it was too late. Ever since then, she had mistrusted Michael’s capacity to lead them.…She had wondered if he still understood the reason for their sacrifice. The reason for their existence was to seek redemption for their people, to bring hope to the banished, to bring light to those who had been cursed into darkness.

  They had come so close to victory in Rome. Michael had been so close to ending it.

  Now they had both been punished. As the centuries passed, Tomi’s doubt had only grown; and in that doubt, Lucifer had found a way between them, to unmake what could not be unmade.

  Their great love for each other.

  It was only a matter of time before Andreas would find out what she had done. Lucifer’s child. This was a new spirit, a new entity. This was no ordinary pregnancy for their kind. This was a new soul. She could sense its fear, its wonder, and uncertainty. Somehow, Lucifer had stolen the gift of procreation from the Red Bloods and used it to create a child with her.

  Their child. Born of love. Gio—Lucifer—she had loved him. Whatever she had done, she had loved him, and she loved this child.

  She would do everything to protect her—and it was a daughter, she knew that for certain. She would do everything to protect her from Andreas.

  What would happen once he discovered the truth?

  Tomi thought of Simonetta—gutted, murdered, an innocent babe slaughtered in her belly. Nephilim. Demon children. But they were still children. Worthy of forgiveness, worthy of redemption. The babe had done nothing to deserve such a vile and violent end.

  Andreas would never do the same to her, she knew.

  But the baby…

  With Andreas back, they returned to their mission, hunting the remaining Silver Bloods in their midst. Tomi tried not to think about the fact that one day she would give birth to the same thing they were killing.

  It felt so natural, working with Andreas. Of course he was Michael; of course there was no one else he could have been. But over time she saw him looking at her strangely. He knew that something was wrong, that something had changed between them.

  “You are troubled, my love. What is the matter?” he would ask. “We have triumphed over our enemy. There is nothing to fear.”

  But as kind as Andreas was, Tomi could not bring herself to tell him the truth. That she had been deceived, that she had doubted, and so she was the one who had betrayed him this time. Instead, she wore dresses that fit tightly at her breasts but bloomed and draped, skimming over her torso, so he could not see the growing bulge of her stomach.

  Before long, though, she would not be able to hide it.

  At night, she dreamed of Gio. She dreamed of their night together, and she felt the shame in her soul from how she’d responded to his touch. In her dreams, she could see Lucifer in him. Some nights she dreamed that she realized it in time; that she was able to get away; that she realized Andreas was her true mate. Then she would wake up, remember the truth, and the guilt and the shame would fill her again. Some nights she dreamed that she could see Lucifer in him and she did not care: she lay with him anyway.

  That was more shameful still.

  They were hunting a Silver Blood along the byzantine streets of the city center when Tomi realized she had gotten too big to run. The Silver Blood began to move faster and faster, and Andreas rushed to catch up with him. But Tomi could hardly move. The child was kicking in her belly, and the dress she was wearing to hide her growing waistline was heavy and dragged her down.

  She could see Andreas ahead of her, trying to decide whether to catch the Silver Blood or slow down to attend to her. “Go!” she shouted. “Do not wait for me!”

  She hoped the pause had not slowed him down too much; she would hate for a Silver Blood to escape because of what she had done. But she could no longer run; she could no longer stand. She sat down on the side of the road and waited for Andreas to return, trying to think of what she would say to him.

  It was nearly an hour before he returned, bruised and bloodied.

  “Are you all right?” she asked. If anything she had done led to his being hurt…

  “I’m fine,” he said. “It is my opponent you should worry about.”

  Tomasia smiled with relief, but her face fell when she remembered what she had to do.

  “I should ask the same of you, though,” he said. “I have noticed, of late, that you seem to be a bit unwell. Distracted, perhaps. I did not want to push you to tell me something you did not wish to share, but I must ask now.”

  “There is something I need to tell you,” Tomasia admitted. “Though I am fearful about how you will receive the news.”

  Andreas knelt next to her in the road and took her hand in his. “There is nothing you can say that I am unwilling to hear. Nothing can change how I feel about you. Our bond is stronger than that.”

  Their bond…

  “While you were away,” she began, “I became convinced that I had been wrong that you were my mate, that you were my Michael. I should never have doubted; I should never have believed that Lucifer could ever reside in you, but I am ashamed to admit I did. I believed it because everyone else did, and because everything I saw led me to believe it. And Gio…”

  “No one could have known about Gio,” Andreas said grimly.

  “It was more than that, though. Gio convinced me that we were meant to be together, that he was my Michael, and not you. And I already doubted myself so much that I felt that he must be right.…We became bondmates.”

  Andreas stood. “You…you bonded with Gio?”

  “Yes. I bonded with him. And…”

  “Stand up!” Andreas commanded.

  “Please, Andreas—”

  “I said, stand up!”

  She did as he asked. She stood up straight and tall, and did not stoop forward so the folds of her dress would better hide her burgeoning stomach. It was time for Andreas to know everything.

  He saw right away.

  “My God,” he said. “He has got you with child? How can this be?”

  “I do not know,” she admitted. “But I do know one thing: I cannot let you destroy it.”

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Schuyler

  chuyler lingered over her coffee the next morning, not sure how early would be too early to show up at the Chase house. When she couldn’t take the waiting anymore, she had the hotel call her a car and gave the driver the address.

  He whistled. “Going to Sunny Dunes, are you? Nice spread.”

  She could only imagine what kind of house would garner that reaction in a place like Malibu. They drove down the Pacific Coast Highway, snaking through the canyons, right against the beachhead. Schuyler saw surfers in wet suits sitting on their boards, waiting for waves. There were families picnicking by the beach, and a row of colorful houses facing the water, the only clue to their immense wealth the Aston Martins and Ferraris parked in the driveway.

  The Chase residence was set right on the beach, an imposing modern structure that appeared to be made almost entirely out of glass. “It’s a landmark,” the driver said as he dropped her off. “One of the last houses built by a really famous local architect. Don’t break anything!” he joked.

  “Thanks,” Schuyler said. She had expected a more traditional manor, something like the Nantucket ten-bedroom “cottage” that was Cordelia’s summer residence. This house reminded her of a museum, with its jagged roofline and aluminum panels. The driveway led to a double-height front door with a heavy iron handle. Through the glass panels for walls, she could see into the house—a serene and immaculate space that looked out over the ocean.

  She buzzed the intercom and peered into the camera. “Uh, hi? I’m Schuyler Van Alen. Mrs. Chase is expecting me?”

  “One moment,” a voice answered. Schuyler heard the sound of footsteps, and the door swung open to reveal a diminutive young woman in a b
lack polo shirt and khaki pants—a uniform, Schuyler noticed, but a discreet one. The emblem “Sunny Dunes” on the pocket was all that gave it away.

  “Hi, Schuyler, come on in. Mr. Jackson is ready for you.”

  Schuyler followed the girl through the grand foyer and into a sun-filled living room. Double-height glass windows looked out over the ocean; the walls were beige and covered with stunning artwork. Schuyler thought some of the work looked familiar—de Kooning? Chagall? A stern-looking man of advanced age was standing in front of a Lichtenstein mural. “Good afternoon, I’m Murray Jackson. I work for Mrs. Chase. You must be Schuyler, the young lady with whom I spoke on the phone,” he said. “Do have a seat. Mrs. Chase will be down momentarily.” He gave her a long once-over and left the room.

  The furniture was upholstered in a rich creamy leather, and surrounded an enormous metallic coffee table that glinted in the sunlight. There was a grand piano in one corner, and Schuyler saw that the top was covered in framed photographs. There was a beautiful couple—her mother and Ben. Schuyler had never even seen any wedding photos. Cordelia had hidden them all away. They were so gorgeous together, Schuyler found it was hard to look at them, hard to feel connected to the two glowing people in the photograph. So that was her father.

  He was so very handsome—not merely handsome but bright. There was a gentleness in him. He looked like such a happy person, she thought. A golden boy in all respects—born to sunshine and laughter. His smile was so full of joy that Schuyler had an inkling, for the first time, what had made Allegra give up her entire world for him.

  He must be pretty special, Oliver had said.

  Looking at the photographs, at the way he gazed at Allegra, Schuyler knew Oliver was right.

  But most of the pictures on the piano were of a girl roughly her age, smiling at birthday parties, on the ski slopes, or on a horse bedecked with ribbons. There were photographs of the girl with an elderly couple who had to be her grandparents—Mr. and Mrs. Chase? And a few with a stylish woman who had to be the girl’s mother. There were no photographs of her with anyone who looked like he could be her father. The girl was very pretty, and had an appealing merriment to her. There was something familiar about the way her blue eyes crinkled with delight. Who was this girl?

  Schuyler moved on to look closely at the art and was too busy inspecting the nearest piece to hear the footsteps on the stairs, but a voice from behind told her she was no longer alone. “How do you like the collection?” a woman asked.

  Schuyler turned around to see the grandmother from the pictures: a tall, imposing woman dressed in impeccably crisp cream linen.

  “This is a Richard Prince, isn’t it?” Schuyler asked. “I always thought he was terribly overrated and overpriced, but this truly is amazing,” she said, admiring an oversized landscape with a cowboy in the forefront. She’d always thought the Marlboro Man was such a cliché, but the painting was a revelation.

  “Thank you. I’m glad to say we bought it when he was still affordable.” The woman laughed. “Decca.”

  “Schuyler,” Schuyler said, shaking the woman’s hand, which had a nice firm grip.

  “Yes. Jackson tells me you think you are my granddaughter,” Decca said, sitting on the couch across from Schuyler and studying her with a keen frankness. “I assured him that it was quite impossible, but he insisted I meet with you, so I thought I would humor him.”

  “I appreciate that,” Schuyler said. “And I am sorry to impose on you like this—but I’m looking for my father. I’m Ben Chase’s daughter.”

  Decca nodded. “My dear,” she said, pointing to the photographs on top of the piano, “that is Ben’s daughter. My only grandchild, Finn.”

  Schuyler swallowed hard. “My father had another daughter?” Then that meant the girl in the photographs—the pretty smiling blonde with the clear blue eyes—was her sister. She couldn’t even imagine it.

  “As far as we knew, Ben only had one child. I’m sorry to say this happens sometimes—strangers showing up with a claim to the family. My son did have his share of girlfriends, but he was not…shall we say…an irresponsible person.”

  “My mother was Allegra Van Alen,” Schuyler said, her hands trembling as she reached into her purse to show Decca the wedding announcement from the Times, as well as her birth certificate. “Ben is my father. Her husband.”

  Decca took the paper and frowned as she read it.

  “See, I’m telling you the truth. I’m Ben’s daughter with Allegra.”

  Decca shook her head. “But that can’t be.” She turned away for a moment, toward the view of paddleboarders gliding through the waves. “It doesn’t make sense.” She stared hard at Schuyler. “Cordelia told you Ben was your father?” she asked. “Cordelia Van Alen?”

  “Well, yeah. I mean, my mother was in a coma, so I really couldn’t talk to her.”

  “A coma,” Decca echoed.

  “Yeah, she’s been hospitalized since I could remember.”

  Decca pursed her lips, then seemed to come to an internal decision. “Please give me a moment,” she said, and left the room.

  Schuyler had no idea what to do. Somehow, she had allowed herself to hope, to think of herself as something other than the Dimidium Cognatus. To imagine what it might have been like, if her dad had been around. She would have been a normal granddaughter to Decca, like that healthy-looking girl in all the photos. Finn.

  Her sister.

  What was she like? Schuyler wondered. Certainly she hadn’t had to deal with all the things Schuyler had faced growing up. Perhaps she was like Schuyler’s Duchesne classmates—wealthy and oblivious, obsessed with boys, clothes, and status.

  But maybe not—maybe she was just living the life Schuyler had always wished she’d had. She certainly looked like she was loved. Happy. Peaceful.

  Schuyler found herself almost as curious about Finn as she was about Ben. Strange, given that she’d had a whole lifetime to wonder about her father, and only a few minutes to think about the prospect of another hidden sibling.

  There had to be a way to make things right with Decca, to make her understand that all she wanted was to meet her father, and now her sister. She wandered around until she found the bathroom, where she could splash some water on her face and reapply her lipstick, hoping to look more like a normal person than like someone who’d just received a shock. She ran her fingers through her hair in an attempt to be more presentable, and went back into the living room and waited for her grandmother.

  Finally, Decca returned. She was holding a letter. Schuyler recognized Cordelia Van Alen’s elegant handwriting on the envelope.

  “When were you born?” she asked.

  Schuyler told her.

  “We received this a few months before your birth. It was from your grandmother. She told us Allegra had passed away.”

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Mimi

  ith a wave of his hand, Lucifer dismissed Jack and Danel. “You may take your leave tonight,” he said. “Move quickly. We don’t want to give our enemies time to figure out what we’re doing.”

  Now that Danel had been sent off with Jack, Mimi wondered if she was going to be stuck with Barachiel. It was a shame that her work on Danel had been for nothing. She could have distracted him with a few more of those kisses, as repulsive as she found them. But getting stuck aboveground with Barachiel was even worse. He was the angriest of all the remaining angels in Hell. She wasn’t sure he would ever accept that she and Jack had returned to the fold. Smart of him, she supposed.

  “And now we turn to you,” the Dark Prince said. “My lovely Azrael, my angel of Death. I was very displeased by your failure to retrieve the grail, particularly as you and Abbadon are here to repay your debt to me.”

  Mimi opened her mouth to protest, but Lucifer stopped her. “I am not interested in explanations. However, I am more concerned with your ability to prove your devotion to me, personally. Barachiel, please leave us.”

  Barachiel looked as if he were ab
out to protest, but then smirked at Mimi and left the room quickly. What was all this about? It was true Lucifer had hinted that he’d be happy to take Jack’s place as her partner, should she desire it; and she did not. She would much rather French-kiss Barachiel if it came down to it.

  Once, a long time ago, she had loved the Dark Prince as her king, her idol. Maybe the old Mimi—who had reigned as the queen of New York and thought nothing of loving and leaving—the Azrael who had brought armies of Heaven to their knees—would have sought Lucifer’s love. Would have welcomed it—would have relished being his bride for the power and the glory.

  But that Azrael and that Mimi were long gone. Mimi had changed. Maybe it was due to centuries upon centuries of being cursed as a vampire—the many years living away from Paradise and the beauty of the eternal kingdom—but she was no longer the Dark Angel she once was. There was no longer any love in her immortal soul for the bright beautiful prince before her. She saw through his beauty, through his lies. He had brought the angels nothing but ruin and sorrow, she saw now. Evil was seductive and easy, and virtue was difficult and unappreciated.

  If he desired her, she would fight him. She would never let him take her like a cheap whore to his bed. She would die before she gave up her body to his lust. But perhaps if he allowed her to be close enough to him, she could do what Michael had failed to do—she could destroy him.

  “Yes, my lord?” she asked with her sweetest smile. “How can I please my lord and master?”

  It appeared she was wrong about his intentions. Lucifer barely acknowledged the hidden invitation in her words. She studied his face more closely and realized his look of triumph was gone; she wondered if it had been a front for Jack and the other angels. Perhaps Schuyler was not the last barrier to their victory, after all.

  “Is there a problem, my lord?” she asked. “Something you didn’t tell Abbadon and Danel?”

  Lucifer frowned. “If they perform their task quickly and efficiently, then all should go as planned. But yes, there have been some…developments. Complications. Involving Araquiel, as a matter of fact. He remains a thorn in my side.”