Melissa de la Cruz - THE VAN ALEN LEGACY

Her body felt sluggish and heavy. So heavy. This was going to be impossible. What if he came back?

What then? She had to try, she told herself. She had to do something. She couldn’t just live like an invalid, in limbo, in paralysis. If I can open my eyes, I can do something else. I’m still Bliss Llewellyn, aren’t I?

I’ve won tennis tournaments and run marathons. I can do this.

Move your hand. Move your hand.

Can’t. Too heavy. Where is my hand? I have a hand? What is a hand? There. I can feel my five fingers, but they feel so far away, as if behind glass, or submerged underwater. She remembered seeing a magician on the Today show who had attempted to live underwater for several days. How immobilized and swollen he had looked.

She was no magician, but there was no reason to remain trapped underneath her own fear either. Move it. Move. Your. Hand. Oh God. It weighs three thousand pounds. I can’t do it. I can’t, I can’t. But I have to.

Do it!

She remembered how hard it had been to learn the four-base pyramid scorpion, one of the most difficult moves in cheerleading. It required acute coordination and the skill of a trapeze artist. Bliss was the only cheerleader on the team who could do it. She remembered how scared she had been the first time. If she didn’t connect with the base’s hands on the way up, she would fall; if she missed the back spotter on the extension, she would fall; if she didn’t balance correctly on her left foot, she would fall.

But she would connect with the base, hit her mark, stand with her right leg bent back above her head, and hold the pose until she was thrown upward in a triple-somersault pop-flick to land on her feet.

Too bad Duchesne didn’t have a squad. Bliss had tried to start one, but no one was interested. Snobs! They didn’t know what they were missing. The feeling of the night of a big game. The anticipation of the crowd. The thrill of running out on the field, pom-poms bouncing, the roar from the stands, the jealousy and the admiration. On Fridays, cheerleaders were allowed to wear their uniforms to class. It was akin to wearing a crown. The scorpion.

She’d nailed it.

If I could do that, I can do this, she told herself.

Move. Your. Hand! She could feel her bangs in her face. The Visitor had not bothered with haircuts, or manicures either. Bliss was annoyed. All that work to look cute gone down the drain. Her hair was wild and untamed, rough to the touch. She had to do something about it.

There. Urrrgh! Her hand jerked away, moving like a marionette, like a puppet on strings. But she’d done it. Her hand awkwardly brushed her hair, moved it away from her eyes.

So.

I can do it.

I can take control of my body. It’s going to be difficult and painful and slow, but I can do it. I’m not out of the game yet.

Now all she had to do was learn how to walk again.

The Conduit

For almost seventy years, Christopher Anderson had served as faithful human Conduit to Lawrence Van Alen. He was the one who had brought Schuyler to the hospital to have her arm properly looked at after they’d returned from Corcovado with the news of his master’s passing. The spry, gracious gentleman had never struck Schuyler as being particularly elderly, but since Lawrence’s death it looked as if age had finally caught up with him. He was frail now and walked with a cane.

Anderson visited her that last night at Oliver’s, where she had been staying since returning from South America. She hadn’t the courage to go back to the brownstone on 101st Street. It hurt too much to know that there would be no Lawrence puffing on his cigar in his study. Her grandfather’s Conduit advised her to leave the country as soon as possible. He had read the transcript of the investigation. “You cannot take chances. No one knows what will happen tomorrow. It is better that you go now and disappear before they can renounce you as a traitor.”

“I told you,” Oliver said, looking meaningfully at Schuyler.

“But where would we go?” she asked.

“Everywhere. Do not stay anywhere for longer than seventy-two hours. The Venators are fast, but they will be using the glom to find you, and it will slow them down a little. Wherever you go, make sure you end up in Paris next August.”

“Why Paris?” Schuyler asked.

“The full European Coven converges every other year for a grand party and a congress,” Anderson said. “Lawrence had been planning to attend the biannual meeting. You shall take his place instead. The countess will see you. The Conclaves have been estranged ever since the Blue Bloods left the Old Country. She never had any faith in Michael and the New York Coven. She will have even less faith now, when she hears of Lawrence’s demise. She was one of his oldest friends.”

The countess had been a friend to Cordelia as well, Schuyler realized later. She vaguely remembered the royal couple: their stately home had made more of an impression. She hadn’t thought anything in particular of them except that they had seemed gracious and extremely wealthy, just like everyone in Cordelia’s circle. Now Schuyler understood they were special. The countess had been married to the late Prince Henri, who would have been the King of France save the Revolution. Henri had been Regis of the European Conclave. Upon the end of his cycle, his queen had assumed the title.

Anderson was leaving the city too. Upon a vampire’s death, human Conduits were released from service and allowed a choice: the Repository or freedom. They could work for the Coven at large, or they could have a normal life.

Anderson told them he had no desire to live out the rest of his life in a basement. He was going back to Venice, back to the University. Of course, his memory would be erased by the Conclave. That was a prerequisite to his leaving them. The Blue Bloods kept their secrets.

Schuyler understood Anderson’s choice, but it saddened her all the same. Anderson was the last remaining link to her grandfather. Once he left the Coven, he would be a stranger to her. But she would not deny him his desire for an ordinary existence. He had spent a lifetime in service to the Van Alens.

“Go and find the countess,” Anderson continued. ‘tell her everything that has happened. There has been distrust between the covens, so she might not know the truth about the massacre in Rio. And, Schuyler?”

“Yes?”

“I know what they’ve planned for me tomorrow at my exit interview. The forced amnesia. But don’t worry, I will never forget you.” He shook her hand, and she clasped his in hers.

“Nor shall I forget your great kindness,” Schuyler replied. Oliver was right as usual. They had to leave immediately. The Venators would come for her that evening. They would come to take her away.

“The countess will help you.”

Schuyler hoped her grandfather’s old friend was right.

CHAPTER 10

Schuyler

“Look at you,” Oliver murmured, coming up from behind to rest a warm hand on Schuyler’s exposed hip.

She turned to him with a soft smile and placed her hand firmly on top of his so that they were practically embracing. Whatever happened tonight, at least they had each other. It was a source of great consolation to both of them.

“You don’t look too bad yourself,” she said.

He was dressed as a Mogul prince, in a fine gold brocade riding jacket and a white turban atop his caramel-colored hair.

In answer, Oliver took her bejeweled hand and pressed it to his lips, sending a delicious shiver up her spine. Her friend and her familiar. They were a team. Like the Los Angeles Lakers, unbeatable, Schuyler couldn’t help thinking. She always made corny jokes when she was nervous.

“What’s this?” she asked, as Oliver pressed something into her palm.