Melissa de la Cruz - Revelations

But I didn't feel that way about her back then. Not even in eighth grade when we had to go to the Sadie Hawkins dance together and she asked me to be her date, and we spent the evening sitting in a corner making fun of everyone. We didn't dance once, and she wore this hideous, baggy dress. No, I wasn't in love with her then.

I fell in love with her when she found out she was a vampire. Just a few months ago. When she accepted her heritage and didn't flinch from her destiny. Because you know who she's supposed to be, right? I mean, Gabrielle's daughter. Heavy stuff. She's so strong it scares me. I wasn't lying when I told her that.

So, yeah—again, you're asking me why I did it. Why I let her take my blood, let her mark me as her own. Do that whole "familiar" thing. All that jazz.

I don't even know why I bother with these reports. Who's listening to them, anyway?

Anyway, I guess the truth of the matter was, I didn't want her to have to do it with someone else. I didn't want to share. She was already so different from me, changing already. She is different. She's going to live forever, while I'm only going to get to go around once.

I wanted to hold on.

Because yeah, I do love her.

I loved her when she came to me that night at The Bank. When she was looking for me and was so relieved to see me. When she accepted everything I told her, and she didn't even freak out that much when I told her I already knew. That I was her Conduit.

That's why I took the next plane out of the city to Rio after hers. Yeah, Bliss told me what was going on. Do you think I would let her go there alone? You're kidding, right?

But if you think I walked into this blind, you're wrong. I knew being her familiar wouldn't change anything. I knew that even if she knew I was in love with her, it wouldn't change how she felt about me.

I knew I would lose in the end.

What do I think of Jack Force? I don't. I don't think much of him. Just another guy who thinks he's God's gift to Earth. In his case, probably literally. But, you know—he's irrelevant to me. He just doesn't factor in. Even if they end up together, which I highly doubt given the strength of that particular bond— Mimi is no joke, I wouldn't mess around with Azrael—but even if Schuyler still loves him, or thinks she does, it doesn't matter.

Because Jack is going to leave her one day. I know he will. He's too much for Schuyler. They're wrong for each other. Anyone can see that.

And when he leaves her, I'll be there.

However long it takes, I'll still be there for her.

Waiting.

So I guess Schuyler's wrong. I guess I'm a pretty romantic guy after all.

Just pronouncing the name of Rio's airport—Galeao— could put one in a Carnaval-ready mood, Schuyler thought. Gahhhlaaaeonnn. Now she understood why so many people traveled to this country: even the name of its airport promised sultry and mysterious adventures.

Schuyler, however, felt far from romance of any kind. She couldn't manage to think of Jack without thinking about Oliver. It was too painful. Getting away from the Forces had been easy enough: she just walked out the door. Charles was holed up in his study again, Trinity was away on a girls-only spa vacation, while Mimi was traveling to Rio with the Conclave. Jack was to remain in New York. The other night he had left her another book under the door. A copy of Anna Karenina. But she didn't go to meet him. She didn't even have the heart to take the book along with her on the nine-hour flight.

She didn't sleep at all during the trip, and the cramped coach seat didn't help. Schuyler had only ever traveled with Cordelia or Oliver and his family. With her grandmother they had taken little prop planes to Nantucket, and Oliver only traveled first class. She had once thought of herself as a hardy girl who didn't need life's little luxuries, a common enough mistake made by those who've never experienced life's little inconveniences.

The plane finally landed, and Schuyler retrieved her carryall from the bin and shuffled her way to the front of the line. The airport itself was a disappointment, not at all living up to the magical promise of its moniker. The customs and immigration spaces were large and open, but the decor was cold, utilitarian, dated, and institutional. Not at all beachy, sexy, or whatever it was Schuyler had assumed would greet her when she arrived. It was empty and quiet. She'd expected a party, and was met by the Kremlin.

Schuyler understood that the city was considered pretty dangerous, and kept a wary eye. Lawrence was still frustratingly unreachable. The latest messages she'd sent him had been unreturned, and Schuyler couldn't get a lock on his signal. She followed the crowd out to the front of the terminal. Bliss had advised her to take a taxi, but with the little money she had left, she decided to brave it by taking one of the rickety buses that drove down the central areas along the beaches and stopped around the major hotels.

The bus was full of noisy Australian backpackers, and Schuyler found a seat in the front so she could look out the window. The ride from the airport was confusing, as the highway made various curves and bends, including going through a few tunnels, which left her with little sense of direction. Once in a while Schuyler saw magnificent, moss-covered rock cliffs and hills covered with tropical vegetation, above a coast of yellow-white sand beaches and blue water. She also saw glimpses of the storied favelas—the country's urban slums that dotted the cliffs and hillsides. Evidence of the earthquake's aftermath was everywhere, from the trash-covered lots filled with scavenger birds to the two-story piles of debris that dotted the landscape.

In between the views of mountain and sea she glimpsed towering high-rises, steel-and-glass buildings that were unaffected by the disaster. On the way she also noticed several cars off on the shoulder of the highway, stopped by heavily armed policemen at some sort of ad hoc checkpoint.

Everything was exotic and beautiful and ugly all at the same time. Finally the names on the road signs looked familiar: Ipanema, Copacabana, Leblon. She saw the famous statue of the Jesus with his arms outstretched as if embracing the city, Christ the Redeemer, O Cristo Redentor, on top of Corcovado. She was enjoying the view as the bus chugged along, when its engine suddenly died.

The bus driver cursed profusely as he pulled to the side of the road.

Schuyler was confused, especially when the driver asked the passengers to disembark along the highway, and to take their luggage with them.

"This again," one of the lanky Australians complained.

"Does this happen a lot?" she asked.

"All the time," she was told.

The bus driver advised them to take a break and come back after an hour while he attempted repairs. Fortunately they weren't too far from the main boulevard. All along the shorefront was a paved walkway with inlaid seashells in a mosaic pattern, crowded with joggers, walkers, Rollerbladers, and strollers. Schuyler found a juice stand nearby and bought a drink. The tropical heat was making her feel wilted.

But when she returned to the designated spot an hour later, the shuttle bus, along with the boisterous Australians, was gone. She was alone. Her annoyance was compounded by a flash of uncertainty when she noticed a couple of young toughs—thin, barefoot guys in faded shorts and holey Chicago Bulls T-shirts walking toward her. They looked curiously at the black-clad tourist. "Turista ? "

She knew she had nothing to fear, but she didn't want to blow her cover. The boys came nearer. Only then did she notice one of them was holding a broken bottle.

And just when she thought she would have to start defending herself, a shiny black car pulled up. It looked bulletproof, with darkened rolled-up windows.