Melissa de la Cruz - Revelations

So this is what it's like to be one of the richest and most powerful vampires in the world, Schuyler thought, as she followed Jack inside the Osterreichische Galerie in the Belvedere palace. The museum was closed for the night, but when they arrived at the great entrance doors a gloved security guard greeted them, and the museum curator led them to the proper gallery.

"Is this what you are looking for?" the curator asked, pointing to a dark painting in the middle of the room.

"Yes." Schuyler took a deep breath and looked at Jack for reassurance. In answer he squeezed her hand tightly.

She moved closer to the painting. She had a faded poster of the same image tacked up in her bedroom. The reality of it astonished her. The colors were so much more vibrant and engaging, fresh and alive. Egon Schiele had always been one of Schuyler's favorite artists. She'd always been drawn to his portraits—those heavy, tortured dark lines, the gaunt figures, the eloquent sadness applied as thick as paint.

It was called simply The Embrace, and depicted a man and a woman with their bodies entwined together. There was a ferocious energy to the piece, and Schuyler felt as if she could sense the couple's intense connection to each other. And yet the piece was far from romantic. It was fraught with angst, as if the two people in the painting knew their embrace was their last.

There was a melancholy to his art—it wasn't for everyone. In Schuyler's Art Hum. class everyone was enamored by Gustav Klimt's Art Nouveau masterpiece The Kiss. But Schuyler thought liking that painting was too easy; it was dorm-room decor, a typical safe choice.

She preferred madness and tragedy, loneliness and torment. Schiele had died young, perhaps of a broken heart. Her art teacher was always talking about the "redemptive and transformative quality of art," and as she stood in front of the painting Schuyler completely understood what that meant.

She had no words for what she was feeling. She felt Jack's hand in hers—so cool and dry, and counted herself the luckiest girl in the world.

"Where to now?" Jack asked as they left the museum.

"Your choice."

Jack cocked an eyebrow. "Let's stop by a cafй. I have a taste for Sacher torte."

They dined on the rooftop of an apartment building and watched the dawn break over the horizon. One of the advantages of being a vampire was that it was easy to adjust to a nocturnal schedule. Schuyler didn't need as much sleep as she used to, and on the nights when she met Jack, they hardly slept at all.

"Is this what you wanted?" Jack asked, leaning over the small rickety table and pouring her more wine.

"How did you know?" she smiled, tucking her hair behind her ear. He had surprised her by bringing her to yet another beautiful apartment his family owned. The Forces had more real estate than Schuyler had holey black sweaters in her closet.

"Come on, let's go back downstairs," Jack said, leading her by the hand back inside the apartment. "I want you to hear something."

The Force pied-a-terre was located in a building that dated back to 1897, in the prestigious Ninth District, with vaulted ceilings, ornate moldings, and views from every window. It was airy and spacious, yet unlike their sumptuously decorated New York home, the place was sparsely furnished and almost monastic.

"No one's been here in ages, ever since they stopped doing the Viennese Opera Balls properly," Jack explained. He dusted off an ancient-looking Sony cassette recorder.

"Listen to this," he said, putting a tape inside. "I think you might like it." He pressed PLAY.

There was a scratchy hissing sound. Then a husky, low voice—unmistakably female, but sounding ravaged by years of smoking—began to speak.

"It was also my violent heart that broke …"

Schuyler recognized the lines. "Is it her?" she asked rapturously. "It is her, isn't it?"

Jack nodded. It was. "I found the tape at this old bookshop the other day. They had poets reading their work."

He had remembered. It was Anne Sexton. Reading from Love Poems. Her favorite poet reading from her favorite poem, "The Break." It was the saddest of the lot, angry and bitter and beautiful and enraged. Schuyler was drawn to grief—like Schiele's paintings, Sexton's poetry was brutal, honest in its agony. Love Poems had been written during an affair the poet had—an illicit, secret affair not unlike their own. She knelt and huddled close to the little stereo, and Jack folded her in his arms. She didn't think she could love him more than she did right then.

Maybe there was part of him that she would never understand, but at this moment the two of them understood each other perfectly.

When the tape ended, they were silent, enjoying the warmth of each other's bodies.

"So…" Schuyler felt hesitant and lifted up on one elbow to speak to him. She feared that talking about the reality of their situation would break the magic of the evening. And yet she wanted to know. The bonding was full speed ahead. "The other day at The Committee meeting you said that there was a way to break the bond."

"I believe so."

"What are you going to do?"

In answer, Jack pulled Schuyler down so that they were lying together again. "Schuyler, look at me," he said. "No, really look at me."

She did.

"I have lived a very long time. When the transformation happens…when you begin to become aware of your memories…it is an overwhelming process. It's almost like you have to relive every single mistake," he said softly.

"I don't want to make the same mistakes I've made before. I want to be free. I want to be with you. We will be together. I believe I will have less to live for, if I am not with you."

Schuyler shook her head vigorously. "But I can't let you do that. I can't let you take the risk. I love you too much."

"Then you would rather see me bonded to a woman I do not love?"

"No," she whispered. "Never."

Jack held her then and kissed her. "There is a way. Trust me."

Schuyler kissed him back, and every moment was sweeter than the last. She trusted him completely. Whatever it was he was going to do to break the bond, they would be together. Always.

Dylan's doctor was a bear of a man, with a full bushy beard and a tilted lumbering gait. Dress him in a red suit and send him down the chimney, Bliss thought, not quite trusting to put her faith in the awkward human, even though he was a very prominent hematologist and came from an old Red Blood family of trusted Conduits.

"My secretary tells me you are friends of Dylan Ward. I know you've been trying to get in touch with me. I apologize for the delay in responding. It's been a very busy week. Someone snuck a familiar into one of the dorms, and it was almost a bloodbath." He winced. "But not to worry, everything's under control for now." The doctor smiled.

"Right." Bliss nodded and took a seat across from his desk. "We're his friends. Thank you for seeing us."

"I'm not a friend. I'm here to find out what's going on with him for the Conclave," Mimi snapped. "I'm a Warden."

He raised his eyebrow. "You look young for your age."

Mimi smirked. "When you think about it, we all do."

"I mean, for someone in your position," he said nervously, coughing and shuffling papers on his desk.

"Get to the point, doctor. I didn't come here to debate the policies of the Conclave. What's going on with that basket case?"

Dr. Andrews opened the file in front of him and grimaced. "Dylan appears to be suffering from a form of post-traumatic stress disorder. We've enrolled him in several regression therapies to help recover his memories. But so far he hasn't made any real connection to anything. He remembers neither what happened to him a hundred years ago nor what happened to him a month ago."