Мелисса де ла Круз - Masquerade

"Yeah.”

"Do you think it would work?”

THIRTY-FOUR

"There's something different about you," Kingsley said, one afternoon while they were supposedly doing homework in Bliss's bedroom. "Supposedly" because that's what Bliss liked to think was going to happen, but Kingsley always had other ideas. BobiAnne insisted that Bliss leave the door open to her room whenever she had a boy over—that was one of her rules. But BobiAnne wasn't there that afternoon. It was her weekly spa appointment, and she would be gone for hours. Jordan was at ballet rehearsal, which ran until midnight. Bliss was alone in the apartment, save for the staff, who were on the first floor, far away in the servants' wing.

"I got a haircut," Bliss offered, looking up from her German essay. She knew that wasn't what Kingsley was after. Ever since the double-bouquet delivery, Kingsley had been harassing her to find out the identity of Bliss's so-called "mystery man.”

"No, that's not it." Kingsley smiled. He was stretched out on her bed like a lazy cat, his black hair so long that it curled onto his shirt collar. His notebooks and binders were scattered around him, including that dark leather-bound book he was always reading. But in the past hour, he had done absolutely no homework and instead had been needling her all evening.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Bliss said stubbornly.

"I think you do," Kingsley drawled. "It's written all over you.”

"What?”

"You did it. You took a human during your little vacation or photo shoot, whatever you call it. Vou drank bees blaad," Kingsley said, affecting a Transylvanian accent. "Whoever gave them the idea that we were some provincial hicks from Eastern Europe was brilliant.”

"So what if I did?" Bliss asked.

"Oh, goody. Now we're getting somewhere. Did you like it?”

"You're not jealous?" Bliss asked.

"Jealous? Why would I be jealous?" Kingsley looked shocked. "I don't think you understand—it's like being jealous of your hairdresser. Familiars perform a service, that's all. We don't get emotionally attached to them.”

"We?”

"You know what I mean.”

Kingsley walked over to Bliss's side and began massaging her back. "C'mon, relax.…Are you still having those flashbacks? Those blackouts?”

Bliss nodded.

"Did you try doing what I suggested?" he asked.

She shook her head. She was too scared to do what he had proposed.

"Well, you should, it works. Worked for me." Kingsley's fingers kneaded her sore muscles expertly, and Bliss was soon swooning under his touch. It was like being hypnotized….

Red eyes with silver pupils, and a voice that whispered in a hiss…

Soon…

Soon…

Soon…

The beast had come again, chasing her down mazelike corridors. She felt its hot, foul breath on her cheek. She was trapped against a corner, and she could not wake up. She looked it in the eye. Do it, do it, she thought. Do what Kingsley said.

Talk to it.

What do you want? Bliss asked. I demand a palaver.

The crimson eyes blinked.

When Bliss woke up, she found she had scratched herself in fear. There were ugly red bruises all over her arms.

But Kingsley had been right. It had worked. The beast had gone.

Schiz•o•phre•ni•a (n.) Greek for "Shattered mind." Mental disorder characterized by impairments in the perception of reality. Persons having schizophrenia suffer from auditory delusions, visual hallucinations, disorganized speech (incoherence), disorganized behavior (crying frequently).

Continuous sign of disturbance must occur for more than six months in order for the patient to be diagnosed as such.

—Dictionary of Mental Disorders, American Academy of Mental Health Professionals

THIRTY-FIVE

The Mercer had been Oliver's idea. He'd nixed Schuyler's room or his, thinking it would be too weird to do "it" in the same place where they had spent so many innocent hours reading magazines and watching television. So he'd booked a suite at the downtown hotel.

He had convinced her to have a few drinks with him in the library bar before they went up to the room. "You might not need a drink, but I definitely do," he'd said. Schuyler watched patiently as Oliver downed one Manhattan after another. Neither of them said much. The library bar was off-limits to non-hotel guests, and the two of them sat in a private corner. The only other patron was a movie star giving a magazine interview across the room. The movie star had her feet on the couch and she was laughing too loudly, while the reporter looked nervous and starstruck. A small silver recorder sat on the cocktail table between them.

"All right, let's do it," Oliver said, pushing away his half-finished third drink.

"God, you look like I've asked you to go to war," Schuyler said, as they walked toward the elevator.

The one-bedroom suite had a stunning view of downtown, and was decorated with a hip modern edge: dark Makassar ebony furniture, lamb's wool throw pillows, black epoxy floors polished to a high gloss, an onyx bar that glowed from within, a flat-screen television, and stainless steel walls that looked cold to the touch but actually felt smooth and warm, like butter.

"Cool," Schuyler said as she sat on one edge of the king-size bed, while Oliver sat on the other.

"Are you sure you want to do this?" Oliver asked, sitting forward and putting his face on his hand.

"Ollie, if I don't, I'll pass out in a coma and I won't ever wake up. This morning I couldn't even get out of bed.”

He gulped.

"I hate to ask you this—but it's just, I don't know, I don't want my first time to be with someone I don't even know, you know?" She'd told him about what had happened to Bliss in Montserrat. “And you're my best friend.”

"Sky, you know I'd do anything for you. But this is against the Code. Conduits aren't allowed to be familiars to their vampires. We are supposed to be objective. It's not part of the relationship. Things like the Caerimonia, it complicates things, you know," Oliver explained.

When Schuyler had first asked Oliver a week ago if he would consider becoming her human familiar, he had told her he would think about it. The next day, he hadn't brought it up, and Schuyler assumed he was too polite to tell her no, so he was just going to act like she'd never asked him at all. Several days went by, and neither of them mentioned it. Schuyler was beginning to think she would have to find an alternate solution. But that morning, she had found an envelope stuffed into her locker. It was from the Mercer Hotel, and held a plastic door key for their suite. "See you there tonight," Oliver had written. "Chomp! Chomp!”

It wasn't as if Schuyler didn't have mixed feelings of her own she hated putting Oliver in this position—but she felt she had no choice. If she had to take a familiar, at least she would take one who was, forgive the pun, already familiar to her. And she'd felt drawn to Oliver since Venice. Maybe that was a sign it was going to be all right. That this was something that was supposed to happen.

"Just say the word, Ollie, and we won't do it, okay?" she offered, her hands gripping the edge of the bed, pulling out the sheets from their corners.

"Okay. Let's not do it," he said promptly. He sighed and lay down on the bed, waving his arms over the downy comforter. His long legs dangled from the edge but his torso was totally horizontal. He closed his eyes, as if the prospect was simply too much to bear, and put his hands on his face again, as if to shield himself from something.

"Do you mean it?" Schuyler asked a little fearfully.

"I don't know," Oliver groaned behind his hands, which were now folded over his mouth.

"It's just, you know, I'll be really careful, if you're scared, I mean. You have to trust me."