Melissa de la Cruz - Bloody Valentine

“You guys don’t get raided?”

“Just let them try.” Freya winked. “So. Haven’t seen you here in a year or so. Now you’re back every night. What’s up?”

He shook his head.

“Where’s your little friend?” she asked. “You guys always used to come in together.”

“She’s gone.”

“Ah.” Freya nodded. “It’s her loss.”

Oliver laughed hollowly. “Yeah, right.” Her loss. He didn’t doubt that Schuyler missed him; of course she would. But he knew she was happier now that she was with Jack. The loss was all his. He reached for his wallet and fished out several twenty-dollar bills.

The sexy bartender dismissed them with a wave. “Your money’s no good tonight. Just do me a favor. Whatever you’re about to do, please don’t. Because it’s not going to help.”

He shook his head and placed a few dollars on the counter as a tip. “Thanks for the drinks, but I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he mumbled, not meeting her eyes. What did she know about what he was planning? What did she care?

Oliver walked out into the cloudless New York night. It was the kind of evening that not too long ago would have found him and Schuyler traipsing around the city, with only their whims to lead them. There would be no more late-night cappuccinos at Café Reggio. No more sneaking into tiny little pubs to hear the latest folksingers. No more ending the night and greeting the day with dawn breakfasts at Yaffa. There would be no more of that. Not again. Not ever.

No matter. His car and driver were idling by the curb. He gave the address. After tonight, he would forget everything, including her name. With luck, he would probably forget his own.

Oliver had not expected the blood house, which looked like a turn-of-the-century bordello, with velvet couches and dim lighting, to have such a modern medical facility in its quarters. The cigar-chomping madam who sent him to the top floor told him he had to pass a physical before she could register him as a house familiar.

“We need to make sure you don’t have any inconvenient diseases for our clients,” the doctor explained as he shone a flashlight down Oliver’s throat.

Oliver tried to nod, but his mouth was open, so he settled on silence. Afterward, he was poked and prodded with an array of needles that drew his blood. When the physical examination was over, he was brought to another room, where he was introduced to the house psychiatrist.

“De-familiarizing, that is, taking out the markers from your original vampire, is not a physical process,” the doctor said. “The poison in your blood is the manifestation of the love you feel for your vampire. What we do here is eradicate that love and disavow the hold it has on your psyche, thus eliminating the poison.

“It may be a painful journey, and one whose outcome is unpredictable. Some familiars experience a loss akin to a death. Others lose all their memories of their vampire. Every case is different, as is every relationship between vampire and familiar.” The doctor began scribbling on his pad. “Can you tell me a little about your relationship?”

“We were friends,” Oliver replied. “I’ve known her all my life. I was her Conduit.” He was relieved that the doctor did not seem to have an adverse reaction to the news. “I loved her. I still love her. Not just because she’s my vampire—it’s more than that.”

“How so?”

“I mean, I loved her before she bit me.” He thought of how he’d tried to fool himself, thinking that he’d only loved her once she had transformed. It wasn’t true. He had loved her his entire life. He’d only been lying to himself to feel better.

“I see. And the Sacred Kiss. Was it her idea or yours?”

“It was both of ours, I guess. I don’t remember really…. We were supposed to do it earlier but chickened out and then…it just happened. We didn’t really plan for it, not then.”

“So it was her idea.”

“I think so.”

The doctor ordered him to close his eyes, and Oliver did so dutifully.

“Let’s start at the beginning. Let’s remember all the happy memories, then one by one, reject them. Let them go.”

The doctor’s voice was in his head. It was a compulsion, he realized.

You are not bound to her.

You are no longer hers.

As the doctor’s calm voice droned on, images began to flash in Oliver’s mind. Schuyler at five: shy and mute. Schuyler at nine: teasing and petulant. Schuyler at fifteen: beautiful and quiet. The Mercer Hotel. The fumbling and the awkwardness. Then in her childhood bedroom, where it finally happened. The sweet smell of her—of her jasmine and honeysuckle perfume. The sharpness of her fangs as they pierced his skin.

Oliver could feel the wetness on his cheeks. He was crying. It was too much. Schuyler was in every part of his soul, in his blood; she was as necessary to him as his skin. He could not let go.

What was he doing? He didn’t belong here. This was against the Code. If the Repository found out, he would be kicked out of service. It would humiliate his family and destroy their reputation. He couldn’t remember why he had even come. He began to panic and started looking for a way out, but the litany continued, drumming the compulsion into his head.

You are no longer her familiar.

You are nobody.

No. No. It’s not true. Oliver felt wretched and confused. He did not want to let go of his love for Schuyler. Even if it pained him so much that he could no longer sleep, could no longer eat. He wanted to keep these memories. His sixteenth birthday, when Schuyler had drawn his portrait and bought him an ice-cream cake with two hearts on it. No. He had to hold on…. He had to…. He had to…. He could let go. He could listen to the nice calm voice and let go. Let it all go.

He was no one.

He was nobody.

The nightmare ended.

When he woke up, he found the faces of the doctors peering down at him. A voice—he wasn’t sure whose—said, “The lab reports came back. He’s clean. Put him in the line.”

A few minutes later he was standing in the lobby alongside a group of young familiars. Oliver swayed on his feet. His head hurt, and he couldn’t remember what he was doing there or why he had come. But he didn’t have time to think or puzzle over his muddled thoughts, because the curtains suddenly parted and a beautiful vampire entered the room.

“Bonsoir,” she greeted him. She was model-tall and carried herself with the confidence of a queen. She was from the European Coven, he could tell, with her immaculately tailored traveling clothes and sultry French accent. Her bondmate walked in after her. He was tall and thin with a mop of shaggy dark hair and a languid expression. They looked like two sleek cats, all angles and black turtlenecks, with their Gauloises cigarettes and sloe-eyed good looks.

“You,” she purred, looking directly at Oliver. “Come with me.”

Her partner chose a dazed-looking teenage girl, and the two humans followed the couple to one of the elaborate rooms on the top floor. Most of the blood house was furnished as perfunctorily as possible, with thin curtains dividing the rooms. But this was as plush as a five-star hotel suite, a grand space with a sumptuous fur-lined throw on the king-size bed, gilded mirrors, and baroque furnishings.

The male vampire pulled the girl down to the bed, slid her dress off, and immediately began to drink from her. Oliver watched but did not understand. He wasn’t sure what he was doing in the room, only that he had been chosen and wanted.

“Wine?” the female vampire asked, holding up a crystal decanter from the glass-topped bar.