Мелисса де ла Круз - Misguided Angel

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 affected 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.