Misguided Angel

by Melissa de la Cruz

  A promising start, Deming thought. After a few days of tedious, diligent friendship with Piper Crandall—the usual borrowing of each other’s clothes and gossiping about boys—she planned to get to the bottom of what exactly happened to Victoria Taylor on the night of Jamie Kip’s birthday party.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Dark Angel

  Piper Crandall was from one of the most solid families of the New York Coven, and her immortal background was immaculate. The Crandalls were Van Alen loyalists. Piper’s cycle grandparents had been two of Cordelia and Lawrence Van Alen’s closest allies on the Conclave. Their fortunes in the Coven had risen at the same time that Lawrence had been named Regis.

  Under the guise of friendship, Deming had been able to undertake a comprehensive scan on Piper’s subconscious without the vampire suspecting anything. So far, Piper gave every indication of being nothing but a normal, well-rounded Blue Blood.

  Deming hoped to probe deeper into the tangled layers of her memory. There were many ways to hide the truth, even from oneself, but sooner or later surface innocence revealed the dark heart of guilt. But if Piper was responsible for Victoria’s death, Deming still had to find a motive. That was the prickly thing—even if Piper secretly hated Victoria, she had to have a reason to kill her. Something that sent the pendulum swinging from closet animosity to outright violence. Victoria’s demise was calculated and cruel, and if Piper had a hand in it, she had to have had good reason to do so. Deming had her theories, mostly along the lines of how girlish affection had masked a bitter rivalry and resentment. She had seen girls kill their friends for less, but so far nothing about Piper indicated that she had been anything other than fond of Victoria.

  Another puzzle was the nature of the video: if Piper or another one of Victoria’s friends had done this, why did they seek to expose the vampires as well?

  That afternoon, she followed Piper into their shared seminar. As Deming understood it, The Spirit of the Self was an excuse for these overprivileged children to read books and watch old movies and pontificate on philosophical matters of which they had no understanding so they could cruise into an easy A that pumped up their transcripts. (The class did not have a final exam, only two term papers.) If Deming found it all too precious, it was a welcome change after an earlier embed assignment. A few months ago, she’d had to go undercover as a factory worker in a sweatshop to gather evidence that its Blue Blood owners were using compulsion to drive their Red Blood workers to the brink of exhaustion.

  The professor, a long-haired ex-hippie, began the lesson. “So how did you all like Paradise Lost?” he asked. Yesterday they had watched the movie The Devil’s Advocate. The theme of this year’s seminar was the depiction of evil in the modern world, the devil as a pop-culture commodity.

  “I hated it,” a boy answered immediately. “Milton makes the devil into Heathcliff with a pitchfork. He makes evil too seductive.” He was slim and shy-looking, with curly dark hair and bright blue eyes. Paul Rayburn was a merit aid student, one of the Red Blood kids allowed to enroll at a reduced tuition. He probably had no idea he was surrounded by immortals. In Shanghai they called such humans sheep, and Deming was not interested in sheep.

  “I disagree. I don’t see Lucifer as a monster. I think he’s merely misunderstood. I mean, without him, there’s no story, right?” asked another dark-haired boy. This one was slumped in his seat, a pen in his mouth. His thick dark hair was brushed away from his forehead to reveal piercing dark eyes. There was something about his face that was more arresting and striking than handsome, and there was something twisted about his mouth that made him look like he would enjoy watching innocent creatures die.

  So this was Suspect Number Three: Bryce Cutting. A dark angel, Deming realized, from his affectus alone.

  The Venator reports had failed to mention that. While there were certainly a number from the Underworld who had pledged to follow Michael and Gabrielle upon Exile, there were not many. Deming did not want to be prejudiced against his provenance—it made her as silly as a Red Blood with their obsessions about race (like many Blue Bloods Deming had lived in many different cycles under a multitude of ethnicities)—but it was still something to consider. There were very few dark angels around who had not gone Silver Blood. Bryce Cutting, like the current Regent, was one of them.

  “Interesting point, Bryce.” Their professor nodded. “Satan’s story does propel the narrative.”

  Bryce gave his adversary a smug grin, but it only inveighed a passionate response from Paul. “But that’s exactly why the story blows—the devil recast as romantic hero. I can’t stomach that Satan’s desire to be godlike is sympathetic. We shouldn’t root for evil,” he argued. “The whole idea of idealizing jealousy and ambition is just like how Wall Street became a huge advertisement for getting rich off the stock market rather than the scathing polemic Oliver Stone had intended. Instead of the audience hating Michael Douglas, they wanted to be him. Greed is good, and they loved it. It’s the same here. The devil is us, and we’re supposed to relate to the scale of his ambition? What was wrong with staying in Paradise? Was playing a lyre and flying around in the clouds really so bad? I don’t think so.” Paul smiled.

  The class tittered, and Paul seemed to win the debate, but Bryce had no intention of conceding the point. “Tragic hero is right. This country was founded on the same idea that the story is based on—that it’s better to rule in Hell than serve in Heaven. Better to be independent, and the master of your own universe, than a slave,” Bryce said triumphantly.

  Paul scoffed. “I don’t think the Founding Fathers had Paradise Lost in mind when they drafted the Constitution.”

  “How do you know?” Bryce asked. “You weren’t there.”

  For a moment, Deming wondered if Bryce would reveal his immortal status and bare his fangs to scare the poor human to death. Of course Bryce was just being deliberately argumentative, and in any event, he had a poor grasp of American history (Deming would bet he had not been in cycle during the time). Most likely, it irked him that Paul had unknowingly stumbled upon the truth. John Milton, one of the members of the original Conspiracy, had written the poem to warn humanity of the devil’s temptations, and instead, the Red Bloods had taken to it as a tragic story of unfulfilled promise. She suspected Bryce was annoyed that Paul, a lowly human with a sharp mind and the ability to sway opinions, had gained popularity in the class.

  Still, it was blasphemy for any Blue Blood to talk in such a manner about the Morningstar. Lucifer a hero? Merely misunderstood? Of course she had heard New York was a very liberal Coven, but still. She had been concentrating her efforts on cracking Piper, but maybe there wasn’t anything in that pretty head of hers but the usual teenage angst and drama. Deming had not yet been ready to give up on her, but with those words, Bryce Cutting just jumped to the front of the line.

  TWENTY-NINE

  New Rules

  Later that afternoon, Deming counted a dozen kids from Bryce’s crowd crammed into two pushed-together tables in the back of the local pizza parlor. This being the Upper East Side, the place looked more like an art gallery than a casual neighborhood hangout, with a grand domed glass ceiling above the dining room, overlooking a sweeping view of the park.

  Right in the middle of the festive group was Mimi Force, but as the Regent had warned, she gave Deming no indication that she recognized her, and didn’t even glance in her direction. Deming found a place between Croker “Kiki” Balsan and Bozeman “Booze” Langdon (did they all have such silly names?) and directed her attention at the conversation.

  Daisy Foster, a fellow senior, was talking about Victoria’s abrupt departure. “Ugh, Vix is so lucky. The European Coven lets them do anything. Have you seen the latest rules from the Committee? Now we have to register prospective familiars for blood tests and psychology profiles before they ‘allow’ us to have them. It’s crazy!” she said, picking up a slice of pizza and taking a tiny bite. “Who has the time?”

  “It’s for
our own good,” Mimi said, shaking her empty Diet Coke can. “Only a certain kind of Red Blood makes a good familiar. There are a lot of risks, and diseases can be inconvenient and costly. The Wardens really should have done this before.”

  Daisy scoffed. “Until you got all fancy-schmancy on us, you were the worst offender, Mimi. I mean, how many familiars have you had? None of them are registered, I’ll bet.”

  “Yeah, why don’t you tell us about what really goes on in the Conclave? I mean, is Vix really in Switzerland?” Willow Frost cackled.

  Mimi responded mildly. “I got an e-mail from her the other day. She’s spending spring break in Gstaad. We can meet her there if we want.”

  “She never said anything about a ski trip! Since when were you guys so close?” Piper blurted, looking a bit hurt. If the girl had done her best friend harm, she certainly knew how to hide it, Deming thought.

  “That Vix,” Stella Van Rensslaer said. “I can’t believe she didn’t even let us throw her a good-bye party. She just up and left! And whatever happened to her little boyfriend? We never see him around anymore. Don’t you think it’s weird? How the two of them are gone all of a sudden? Remember what happened with Aggie Carondolet and all those people a couple years ago? I bet the Conclave’s hiding something.”

  “Well, someone could tell us, but won’t,” Piper accused, looking directly at Mimi.

  “I told you guys, it’s an honorary title. They don’t actually let me do anything. I mean, c’mon,” Mimi protested. “They just gave it to me because Charles has been gone so long. The Conclave makes all the decisions. I don’t even get invited to meetings.”

  Deming thought it was smart of Mimi to not let her peers understand the breadth of her newfound powers and responsibility. For one, they wouldn’t believe it anyway, since she was so young. And two, some in the Coven might be uncomfortable to know the extent of her influence. While Azrael and Abbadon were two of the Blue Bloods’ fiercest and strongest fighters, their power had always been held in check by the Uncorrupted. With Michael and Gabrielle missing, this was a whole different scenario. No wonder the Conclave was planning a coup d’etat.

  Froggy tossed a bread stick in Bryce’s direction, and an epic bread stick fight broke out between the boys, with the girls laughing and screaming for them to stop—they were getting garlic in their hair.

  Deming noticed the rest of the customers were looking at their table with sour expressions. The vampires were making a spectacle of themselves, drawing attention. They were acting just like Red Bloods. Foolish and careless. Deming caught Mimi’s eyes, but the Regent looked resigned.

  Outside, Mimi sent, and excused herself from the table. A few minutes later, after paying her portion of the check, Deming followed her to a back alley behind the restaurant, where they would not be seen by the rest of the group.

  “You’re supposed to check in with me every morning. What’ve you got so far?” Mimi asked. “The rats in the Conclave already have the scribes dismantling the Repository. How can they think I don’t notice?” She shook her head in disbelief.

  “I’m still getting in with them. It’s only been three days,” Deming said. “There hasn’t been anything to file yet. It takes a while to break these things.”

  The Regent tugged on a lock of her hair nervously. “My sources tell me they’re planning to go in a fortnight. They’re going to take over headquarters and lock me and the Venators out.”

  “There’s nothing you can do?”

  “I can’t show my hand until I can give them the killer. It’s the only way to keep the Coven together and convince them to stay.”

  “I’ll have your killer before then.”

  Mimi hugged herself tightly. “You’d better. Keep me posted on your progress.” She left to join the group, who were now congregated on the sidewalk, and after a few minutes, Deming did too.

  “We’re headed to Stella’s,” Piper said, upon seeing the Venator. “Her brother is home from Brown and he has the most adorable friends.”

  “Not me,” Deming replied a little abruptly. Her impromptu meeting with the Regent had annoyed her. All right, she had to act faster, did she? She looked over to the group of boys horsing around by tossing Froggy’s iPhone between them.

  She said good-bye to the girls and walked over to Bryce. “Walk me home?” she asked, barreling her way through the crowd.

  Bryce looked her over. They had spent the last couple of days hanging out in the same crowd of people but had not exchanged two words to each other until this minute. Not that it mattered, really, as long as he fancied her, and Deming had never had a boy turn her down yet. “Sure, why not,” he said, as she knew he would. His voice was like Tabasco and honey: hoarse and sweet at the same time. “Catch you guys later,” he told his friends, as he and Deming walked away.

  Deming studied the handsome boy at her side. She had seen a lot of injustice and cruelty in her time as a Venator, and careless disregard for life offended her deeply. She did not care if it was an immortal or mortal one, each life was valuable. Had Bryce Cutting decided that Victoria’s was not? And if so, why?

  She’d promised the Regent she would find Victoria’s murderer. Deming had not yet made a promise she couldn’t keep.

  THIRTY

  The Girlfriend Role

  Dating Bryce was almost too easy. After he’d walked her home from the pizza place, they were immediately an item. The next day at school he was already waiting for her after each class so they could make out in the hallways. She was still getting used to the taste of his tongue in her throat and having to answer to “Babe.”

  Now it was a Saturday afternoon, and the boys were indulging in their usual post–crew practice ritual: video games and lounging. Bryce had invited her to meet him at Froggy’s town house. When she arrived she immediately excused herself to the powder room upstairs but crept into Froggy’s bedroom instead. In the time it would take Red Blood agents to dust a fingerprint, she had already performed a thorough survey of Froggy’s immediate surroundings and family background.

  She had downloaded a copy of his hard drive to send to tech, and performed a test in the glom to see if she could find any clue in the spirit memory. If he had been the culprit, she would have been able to detect traces of guilt, horror, or violence in his immediate physical surroundings. Especially if he had been handling devil flame, which left a distinctive smell years after it had burned out—the fire in Rio was still smoldering. But the only thing she could detect was a malodorous waft from the laundry basket containing his socks.

  She sighed as she slid back Froggy’s bureau drawer. Just as she’d suspected, there was nothing extraordinarily good or terrible about the boy, who carried the spirit of a minor angel with a rather uneventful history. As for his cycle parents, the Kernochans had almost no interest in Coven business. Neither of them had ever served as an Elder or a Warden; they were apolitical types who wouldn’t be able to fight a Silver Blood if their lives depended on it. If once they had been God’s warriors, they were now America’s bankers. As far as she could tell, the only thing they were interested in was the stock market.

  “Babe? You still up there?” Bryce called.

  “Be down in a sec, sweetie,” she called. The girlfriend role wasn’t one she had played before, at least not for an assignment, although she had had boyfriends, of course—everyone did nowadays. It was becoming terribly fashionable to play with those eternal bonds, to flirt with destiny. The older generation was taken aback by how casual the newest incarnation of vampires were with their heavenly duties. Look what had happened to Jack Force—a real shame. What a waste. He would be put on trial to burn the minute he returned to New York. If the Coven still existed, that is. Otherwise, Deming had no doubt that Mimi would hunt Jack down herself, even without a trial.

  Deming was always careful not to get too involved with any boys, and to cut it off before it became serious. She knew as well as anyone that once you found your bondmate and identified each other in the c
ycle, it was Game Over.

  As for Bryce, his immortal history had checked out clean as well, regardless of his dark angel profile. However, she noticed that his affectus was obscured, a cloudy white, which meant he was hiding something. Whether it had anything to do with Victoria’s murder, Deming couldn’t tell yet. She had to find a way to get closer to him somehow, so she could read his memory and find out what he was keeping in shadow. She didn’t like to feel rushed, but with the Regent demanding daily reports, Deming had to find a way to ramp up her game.

  The glom memory from Jamie Kip’s apartment had backed up the eyewitness stories—Victoria had left Evan on the couch and hung out with Froggy and Bryce at the end of the party. There were no spirit traces that indicated an assault or a kidnapping in some way. If she had been taken against her will, Deming would have sensed it. No. Victoria had left with a friend, but one who was no friend to her. Was it Bryce? Was that what he was hiding? Had his dark angel tendencies taken over? She did not want to be prejudiced against him, but it was hard not to be when there was no other explanation.

  Deming made sure the room was as messy as she’d found it and climbed down the stairs to find Bryce and his friends sprawled on the couches in the Kernochans’ shrouded family room. Like many wealthy New Yorkers, their home was filled with museum-quality, priceless art and antiques lovingly chosen by a decorator on a monthly retainer. Yet, as Deming understood, no one ever used any of those beautiful, perfect rooms.

  Instead, the designer always left one windowless room in the back, filled with comfortable couches and a giant TV, which meant that ninety percent of life in the town house was spent in one crowded room, while the rest of the expansive apartment sat empty, ready for its close-up for a Shelter magazine shoot that would never be allowed. The Blue Blood elite kept low profiles—the better to keep the masses from getting wind of their privilege and rising up to chop off their heads. Even if Marie Antoinette had survived (she was currently in cycle in the European Coven as one of the world’s most famous and demanding movie stars—with her taste for cake intact), the vampires had learned their lesson.