Мелисса де ла Круз - Masquerade

An old woman with a black scarf around her head looked up curiously from the registration table. "Posso li aiuto?" Can I help you?

Schuyler was confused. There was no sign of the blond woman anywhere in the room.

How could she have hidden herself so quickly? Schuyler had been right at her heels. The room was empty of closets or doors.

"Ci era una donna qui, si?" Schuyler said. A woman just came in here, yes? She was grateful that the Duchesne School made their students take not one but two foreign languages, and that Oliver had urged her to take Italian, "so we can order better at Mario Batali's restaurants.”

The old lady frowned. "Una donna?" She shook her head. The conversation continued in rapid Italian. "There is no one here but me. No one came in but you.”

"Are you certain?" Schuyler demanded.

She was still questioning the landlady when Oliver arrived. He pulled up to the side of the building in a sleek speedboat. He'd found that a water taxi was more suitable to his needs than the man-powered gondola.

"Did you find her?" he asked.

"She was just here. I swear. But this lady says no one came in.”

"No woman," the old lady said, shaking her head. "Only the Professore lives here.”

"The Professore?" Schuyler asked, her ears keen. Her grandfather had been a professor of linguistics, according to the Repository of History, the Blue Blood archive that held all the knowledge and secrets of their race. "Where is he?”

"He has been gone many months now.”

"When will he return?”

"Two days, two months, two years—it could be anytime. Tomorrow or never," the landlady sighed. "No one knows with the Professore. But I am lucky, he always pays his bills on time.”

"Can we—can we see his room?" Schuyler asked. The landlady shrugged and pointed to the stairs. Her heart beating in her chest, Schuyler ascended the stairway, Oliver close behind.

"Wait," Oliver said as they reached a small wooden door at the front of the landing. He jiggled the knob. "It's locked." He tried again. "No dice.”

"Damn," Schuyler said. “Are you sure?" She reached around him to try. She turned the knob and it clicked open. "How do you do that?" Oliver marveled.

"I didn't do anything.”

"It was totally locked," he said.

Schuyler shrugged and pushed on the door gently. It led to a neat, spare room with a single bed, a worn wooden desk, and shelves of books stacked up to the ceiling.

Schuyler pulled a book from the lower shelves. "Death and Life in the Plymouth Colonies by Lawrence Winslow Van Alen." She opened to the first page. It was inscribed in elegant handwriting: "To my dear Cordelia.”

"This is it," Schuyler whispered. "He's here." She peered at several more books on the shelves and found that many of them bore spines that declared L. W. Van Alen as their author.

"Not right now, he is not," the landlady said from the doorway, making Schuyler and Oliver jump. "But the Biennale ends today, and the Professore has not missed one yet.”

The Biennale, the biannual art exhibit in Venice, was one of the most definitive, influential, and exhaustive presentations of art and architecture in the world. For several months every other year, the entire city was taken over by an international collection of artists, art dealers, tourists, and students eager to partake of the historic art festival. It was an event Schuyler and Oliver had missed during the weekend, due to their fruitless search for her grandfather.

"If it's closing today," Schuyler said, "we've got to hurry.”

The landlady nodded and left the room.

Schuyler wondered again about the woman who had looked so eerily like her mother.

Had her mother led her to her grandfather? Was she helping Schuyler in some way? Was it just her spirit that Schuyler had seen?

They hurried down the stairs and found the landlady shuffling papers at the reception desk.

"Thank you for all your help," Schuyler said, bowing to the old woman.

"Eh? Excuse me. Posso li aiuto?" the old woman snapped. "The Professore, the Biennale, we are going to try and find him now.”

"Professore? No, no. No Professore…" The old woman made the sign of the cross and began shaking her head.

Schuyler frowned. "No Professore? What do you think she means by that?" she asked Oliver.

"He leave…two year ago," the landlady said in halting English. "He no live here no more.”

"But you just said…" Schuyler argued. "We were just talking, upstairs. We saw his room.”

"I never see you in my life, his room is lock," the landlady said, looking shocked and sticking determinedly to her stilted English even though it was obvious Schuyler was fluent in Italian.

"Eravamo giusti qui," Schuyler argued. But we were just here.

The landlady balefully shook her head and muttered to herself.

"There's something different about her," Schuyler whispered to Oliver as they walked out of the inn.

"Yeah, she's even more cranky now," Oliver cracked.

Schuyler turned back to look at the cross old woman again, and noticed that she had a mole underneath her chin from which a few stray hairs had sprouted. And yet the old woman who had spoken to them earlier had not been afflicted with such a mole, Schuyler was sure of it.

FIVE

Mimi looked at her vibrating cell phone as she exited her AP French class.

Am I on the list?

Another text message. It was the seventh one today. Could everyone please calm down?

Somehow, in less than twenty-four hours, the news that the fabulous Mimi Force was planning an after-party to the Four Hundred Ball had gone out to the entire New York City teen vampire elite. Of course, Mimi herself had told Piper Crandall, the biggest gossip in the school, and Piper had made sure everyone knew exactly what was going down. There was a secret location. The Force twins were hosting. But no one would know if they were invited until the night of the event. Sheer social torture!

Just say Y or N!!!

She deleted the text without replying.

Mimi walked down the back staircase at Duchesne that led to the cafeteria in the basement. As she passed by, several Blue Blood teens tried to capture her attention.

"Mims…heard about the after-party…Great idea, do you need any help? My dad can get Kanye to DJ," offered Blair McMillan, whose father headed the largest record label in the world.

"Hey, Mimi, I'm invited, right? Can I bring my boyfriend? He's an RB…Is that cool?"

Soos Kemble wheedled.

"Hey, sweetie, just making sure you got my RSVP…" Lucy Forbes called out, blowing Mimi an exaggerated air kiss.

Mimi smiled graciously at all of them and put a finger to her lips. "I can't say anything about anything. But you'll all find out soon enough.”

Downstairs in the cafeteria, underneath the gold baroque mirror that hung across from the fireplace, Bliss Llewellyn picked listlessly at her sushi roll, as if it were a particularly distasteful specimen. Mimi was supposed to meet her for lunch, and she was late as usual. Bliss was glad of the reprieve, since it gave her a chance to lose herself in the events of the night before.

Dylan. It had to be him. The stranger in the park who had saved her from drowning. Bliss had to believe he had survived the Silver Blood attack. Perhaps he was now in hiding, and maybe he would be in danger if he revealed his identity. Like a superhero, she thought dreamily. Who else would have sensed her distress? Who else could have swum through the cold waters of the lake to reach her? Who else could have been so strong? Who else could have made her feel so safe?

Bliss hugged this information to herself like a warm blanket. Dylan was alive. He had to be.

"Not hungry?" Mimi asked, sliding in next to her.