Melissa de la Cruz - THE VAN ALEN LEGACY

“Dear Minerva, I do hear your concern, but my concern is that after what happened in Paris, time is now of the essence. We cannot dawdle as we have” Forsyth said.

Minerva grunted, while Mimi kept her face neutral. The Red Blood papers were filled with gory stories of the Paris disaster, none of the vampires had been killed or harmed, but there had been a few human familiars who had been trampled during the riot. The tragedy was blamed on the unlicensed Thai circus unable to control its animals, and fire code violations due to overcrowding.

Jack had told Mimi the real story when he had returned the other night, and how Charles had stopped the worst of it. But even with Charles’s efforts, the H’tel Lambert had scarcely escaped being burned to the ground. The new owners were incensed and threatened to pull their bid, but had been placated by the countess, who had offered them some of the historical furnishings free of charge.

The twins decided they would not share the news of Charles’s apparent demise with the Coven. Jack continued to believe that regardless of the evidence to the contrary, their father lived, and Mimi agreed it would be best if the community continued to think that Charles was deliberately keeping away. Best not to start a panic; the Blue Bloods were edgy enough as it was.

Seymour Corrigan entered the room, sending a look of apology for his almost-tardiness. They were all accounted for. Seven wardens symbolizing the original seven families, as tradition dictated.

The auctioneer, a sober-looking man in a blue blazer and a red tie, walked up to the podium. “Welcome, my good ladies and gentlemen, to the Impressionist and Modern Art Sale,” he said. The audience clapped politely, and a screen behind him displayed a portrait of Kurt Cobain, immortalized in vibrant, jewel colors. Mimi thought it looked like one of those images from a prayer book. Grunge rocker as saint. “First up, an Elizabeth Peyton. The opening bid is five hundred thousand dollars.”

CHAPTER 37

Schuyler

They were in Sydney when it happened. Right in Chinatown, in a little apothecary shop that sold the organic green tea that Schuyler liked to drink in the morning. The trembling began in her legs, then her arms, then her whole body was convulsing and she fell to the floor, dropping the tin she was holding as she writhed and thrashed against the cold linoleum tile.

“Stay back!, it’s okay’she’s . . . she’s epileptic!” Oliver said, pushing everyone away. “Just give her room to breathe! Please! It’ll pass.”

It was strange for Schuyler not to be able to control her body, to find it was in revolt against her wishes, almost as if it had been possessed by an evil spirit. She felt as if she were watching herself from a distant place, as if this was not happening to her, but to another girl, who was lying down while her arms and legs moved jerkily, and she frothed at the mouth.

“Sorry, I’m sorry,” she whispered when it finally stopped. The shaking had ceased, but even if her limbs weren’t moving anymore, her heart was still beating a mile a minute.

“It’s okay. You’re okay,” Oliver said, gently helping her to her feet by giving her his shoulder to lean on.

“Here . . . water,” the shopkeeper said, bringing a paper cup to her lips. Schuyler was glad for the kind eyes of the man and of the other customers. She kept leaning on Oliver as they walked out of the shop and to the bus stop, where a bus back to The Rocks was already waiting.

“This was a bad one,” he said, as they paid their student fare and found seats at the back.

He was being kind. It was probably the worst episode she’d experienced. The massive headache, the frothing, the way her tongue had almost choked her . . . What had Dr. Pat said during her last visit? That the vampire strength was a gift, but in her case was also a burden. Her human body was treating the transformation as a disease, as something it wanted out of her. . . .

“Are you sure you’re all right?” Oliver asked again, as Schuyler leaned forward with her head in her hands.

“I’m okay,” she said. ‘really I am.” It was the last thing she said before she fainted.

* * *

Back at the hotel, and feeling much better, Schuyler sat on the little balcony outside their room, wrapped up in a bathrobe. Inside the tiny kitchenette, Oliver was putting the final touches to his curry. He brought out a steaming bowl and set it in front of her with a spoon. They had both learned to cook while on the run. Oliver’s specialty was an Indian bananaand-chicken curry, while Schuyler liked to make interesting concoctions out of pasta and whatever she could find in the fridge. (Sometimes Oliver said they were too interesting.)

“Thanks,” she said, gladly accepting the warm bowl of yellow curry and rice. She lifted a spoonful to her lips and blew on it before eating, so it wouldn’t scorch her tongue.

Outside, sailboats and cruise ships dotted Sydney’s harbor. The ocean was a deep sea-green, not unlike Jack’s eyes, she thought, then stopped herself. She would not think about him, or what he was doing, or if he was missing her too. She focused on her food. Oliver was watching her through the sliding glass door.

He had that look on his face, and she knew what it meant. He walked out, set a cup of tea next to her, and sat on one of the plastic chairs.

“Sky, we need to talk.”

“I know what you’re going to say, Ollie, but the answer is no.” She took a sip of the tea. Amazing that even with everything that had happened, Oliver had still managed to buy a tin. He really was a good Conduit.

“Sky, you’re not being reasonable.”

“I’m not? They’re going to put us in jail, or whatever they do to people like us.” Schuyler shrugged. She knew the punishment for evading Conclave justice: a thousand years of Expulsion. Your spirit locked up in a box. But what if she wasn’t immortal? What would they do to her then? And what would happen to Oliver?

“You heard what Jack said. The Conclave has bigger problems than the two of us right now. Besides, maybe this time they’ll believe you. The fire at the H’tel Lambert was all over the papers, and the European Conclave is up in arms’they have witnesses who saw Leviathan! They can’t deny it anymore.”

“Even if they believe me now, they won’t let our actions go unpunished. You know that better than I do,” Schuyler pointed out.

“True, but that was when Charles Force was Regis. No one is leading the Conclave right now. They’re frightened and disorganized. I think it would be safe to go home.”

“Frightened people make the worst judgments,” Schuyler argued. “ I don’t trust an organization that would make policy out of fear. And how about you? You’re a traitor too, you know. What about your parents? They’ll go after them.”

So far Oliver’s family had been left alone, aside from their every move being tracked by the Venators: phones bugged, accounts analyzed. Oliver’s parents told him on one of their rare satellite phone calls that they couldn’t go to Dean & Deluca without feeling they were being watched.

Oliver took a gulp from his big Foster’s can. “I think we can buy them.”

Schuyler stacked her empty cup into her empty bowl. “Excuse me?”

“Pay them off. The Conclave needs money. They’re pretty much broke. My parents have a ton. I can buy my way out of it, I know I can.”

Why was she arguing? Oliver was telling her what she wanted to hear, that they could go home, and yet it frightened her.

“I don’t want to go.”

“You’re lying. You want to go home. I know it. And we are. End of discussion,” Oliver said.

“I’m booking us on the next flight back. I won’t hear anything else.”