Мелисса де ла Круз - Masquerade

"The stone is called the Rose of Lucifer, or Lucifer's Bane," the senator explained with a smile. "Have you heard the story?”

Bliss shook her head.

"It is said that when Lucifer fell from heaven, an emerald fell from his crown. The emerald was called the Rose of Lucifer, the morning star. Some other stories even call it the Holy Grail.”

Bliss absorbed the information quietly, not knowing what to think. Her mother owned a jewel linked to the Silver Bloods?

"Of course," Forsyth said, shaking his head, "it's only a story.”

At that moment, BobiAnne entered the room wearing a frightful Versace dress that looked like metallic vinyl siding spray painted on her body.

"How do I look?" she asked her husband sweetly. Bliss and her father exchanged a glance.

"Very pretty, darling," her father said with a frozen smile. "Shall we? The car's waiting.”

In front of the hotel a phalanx of photographers had gathered, and a swelling crowd of curious onlookers were being held back by security gates and a legion of New York's Finest. As each black town car pulled up to the entrance, flashbulbs exploded in a cacophony of staccato bursts.

"Here we go," BobiAnne exclaimed joyfully as she stepped out of the car and leaned on her husband's arm.

But the paparazzi were only interested in Bliss.

"Bliss! Over here! Bliss! One for me! Bliss—this way!”

"What are you wearing?”

"Who made that dress?”

A few of the photographers and reporters were polite enough to ask the senator and his wife what they thought of the party, but it was obvious Bliss was the main attraction.

There were only ten steps from the curb to the hotel entrance, but it took Bliss a good half hour to get there.

"It's madness," Bliss remarked, looking pleased when she finally arrived in the pink and gold lobby and found her date waiting impatiently by the front reception table.

The St. Regis Ballroom had been transformed into a twinkling winter wonderland: the crystal chandeliers were hung with softly beaded strings of rhinestones, and glorious American Beauty roses bloomed everywhere, from the soaring, six-foot-tall centerpieces (so heavy that the tables had to be reinforced) to the massive garlands on every archway. A snow-white carpet on the marble floor led the way from the front reception room into the ballroom proper.

"Senator and Mrs. Forsyth Llewellyn," the herald announced as the politician and his wife appeared at the top of the stairs. A spotlight shone on them, and the percussionist played a dramatic drumroll.

"Mr. James Andrews Kip. Miss Bliss Llewellyn." The four of them walked slowly into the party.

The two fifty-piece orchestras faced each other across the expanse of the ballroom, playing a serene waltz as the Blue Bloods displayed their finery—the men dashing and suave in their tails, the women preternaturally thin and impossibly stylish in their couture ball gowns. It was a magical sight. The Committee had really outdone themselves this time. The whole ballroom was filled with a dazzling, white brilliance: the antique crystal chandeliers shone, and the terrazzo floors gleamed.

Jaime deposited Bliss at her table, saluted her, and promptly disappeared for the rest of the evening. So much for that. Bliss found Mimi standing with her parents at the front of the reception line.

"Wow, look at that!" Mimi said, zeroing in on the necklace immediately. "What a rock!”

"It was my mother's," Bliss explained. She told Mimi the legend of Lucifer's Bane.

Mimi took the emerald in her hands, stroking its glacial coldness. Once she touched it, she was transported back to that final battle, flashes of the black day, trumpets sounding in the distance, Michael with his flaming sword, the banishment, and then the cold. The cold…waking up immortal on earth and dying to feed.

"Oh." Mimi's eyes glazed, her hand still cupping the stone. And then she dropped it as if it had burned her.

Bliss was startled. She knew something had happened to Mimi, the flash of insight, the memory spike when she had touched it. And yet when Bliss touched the stone herself, nothing happened. It was just a dead piece of jewelry. Lucifer's Bane. It gave her shivers.

"It's the Heart of the Ocean," Mimi cracked. “Just promise me you won't throw it off the deck of the Titanic.”

Bliss tried to laugh. But the stone, fifty-five carats, weighed heavily on her skin.

Rose of Lucifer. Lucifer's Bane. The Prince of the Silver Bloods, his most precious possession, hung around her neck like a noose. She shuddered. Part of her wanted to rip it off her throat and throw it as far away as she could.

THIRTEEN

The Van Alen mansion on the corner of 101st and Riverside had once been one of the largest and most majestic homes in all of New York. Countless generations of the family had entertained presidents, heads of state, foreign dignitaries, Nobel prize-winning laureates, as well as Hollywood royalty and the occasional flavor-of-the-month bohemian—artists, writers, and their ilk. Yet now it was a mere shadow of its former self: the cornices were chipped, there was graffiti on the side of the building, the roof leaked, and the walls were riddled with cracks, as the family had been unable to maintain its upkeep over the years.

Schuyler dragged her suitcase up the steps and rang the bell.

Hattie, her grandmother's loyal maid, answered and let her inside.

The living room was as dark and shrouded as when Schuyler had left. For years Schuyler and Cordelia had lived in only a quarter of the rooms in the vast house—kitchen, dining, and their two bedrooms. Everything else was locked and unused, which Schuyler had always attributed to Cordelia's penury. Her grandmother kept almost all the furniture in the house under canvas sheets, windows were curtained, and entire wings of the house were off-limits.

Hence the mansion was akin to a musty old museum, filled with antique artifacts and expensive art objects that were hidden and kept under lock and key.

Schuyler made her way to her room, where Beauty greeted her with a cheerful and resonant bark, and only then did Schuyler feel like she was truly at home.

Now the only problem was what to wear. The invitation had stated White Tie, which Schuyler understood to mean long, formal gowns for the women. She dimly remembered Cordelia getting ready for the yearly Four Hundred Ball, donning a succession of stiff, Oscar de la Renta ball gowns with elbow-length opera gloves. Perhaps she would be able to find something in Cordelia's closet.

She made her way to her grandmother's bedroom. She hadn't been inside since the fateful evening of the attack. She dreaded being in there, remembering how she had found her grandmother lying in a pool of blood. But she comforted herself with the knowledge that Cordelia had managed to survive the attack, and she had been able to bring enough of Cordelia's blood to the medical center. They would keep it resting until the next cycle. Cordelia would return one day.

She was not dead. She had not been taken by the Silver Blood.

"Looking for something, Miss Schuyler?" Hattie asked, popping her head in and finding Schuyler standing with her hands on her hips in front of her grandmother's closet.

"I need a dress, Hattie. For the ball tonight.”

"Mrs. Cordelia had a lot of dresses.”

"Yes." Schuyler frowned, removing several hangers and assessing the dresses that hung on them. They were very old-fashioned, with huge mutton sleeves or peplums. Several were very Reagan-eighties: shoulder pads that rivaled those on Alexis Carrington's Nolan Miller originals on Dynasty. "I just don't think these are going to cut it.”

"Miss Allegra had dresses too," Hattie said.

"My mother? My mom's dresses are still here?"