Blue Bloods: Keys to the Repository (11 page)

FAMILY RECORDS:

OFF-COVEN

While most, if not al , Blue Bloods families are registered with the Coven, there are a few who choose to live outside of Committee jurisdiction. These

families and individuals are not affiliated with the Silver Blood threat, but neither do they help advance the Blue Bloods’ core mission. They do not

attend Committee meetings, are not active in Coven leadership, and for reasons of their own, prefer to live outside and apart form the community.

DYLAN WARD

Xathaneal, the Hidden One

Birth Name
: Dylan El iot Ward

Origin
: May 5, 1992, Greenwich, Connecticut

Known Past Lives
: Alfred, Lord Burlington, Earl of Devonshire (Newport), Wil iam Bradford (Plymouth), Paolo Ghiberti (Florence)

Bondmate
: None

Assigned Human Conduit
: None

List of Human Familiars
: Unknown

Physical Characteristics
:

Hair
: Black

Eyes
: Black

Height
: 5’9”

Very little is known of the Ward family since they chose to live off-Coven at the beginning of the twentieth century. The only member that has come to

the Committee’s attention is Dylan, for his role in unmasking the Silver Blood conspiracy.

Dylan enrol ed at the Duchesne School his sophomore year, and the intern reports state that rumors began circulating from the very beginning

that he had been kicked out of every prep school on the Northeastern Seaboard, fueled perhaps by his attitude (sul en, aloof, a perpetual scowl) and

his purposeful y grungy attire (beat-up leather jacket, dirty jeans). However, the truth is much more mundane. Dylan attended Greenwich elementary

and middle schools, where he was an average student.

He found friendship with fel ow misfits Schuyler Van Alen and Oliver Hazard-Perry, and a budding romance with Bliss Llewel yn, who was

overheard saying, “Dylan’s the kind of boy who broke the rules and let anything happen, and I like that about him.”

The prime suspect of the murder of Aggie Carondolet, Dylan was being held by the Committee for questioning when he escaped and was

believed to have attacked again, this time targeting Cordelia Van Alen. However, we now believe that far from being the perpetrator and suffering

from Corruption, he was in fact yet another Silver Blood victim, whose memory had been egregiously tampered with, causing disorientation and

incoherence. The Venators now believe that Bliss Llewel yn, under the influence of Lucifer, was the real perpetrator.

When Dylan reappeared in New York, he sought out Bliss, who turned him over to her cycle father. Forsyth Llewel yn immediately checked him

into Transitions, the vampire rehabilitation center. He was checked out after only a few weeks, and his dead body was later found on Corcovado

Mountain, next to the corpse of Lawrence Van Alen.

As a vampire with no bondmate, Xathaneal was free to choose a cycle mate among the Coven, and was continual y drawn to Azazel (Bliss) over

history. In 1870, as the eldest son of the Duke and Duchess of Devonshire, he was engaged to marry Maggie Stanford at the time of her

disappearance. It is the Repository’s belief that in other incarnations he was drawn to her as wel . May Brewster became Goody Bradford, and Giulia

de Medici was pledged to Paolo Ghiberti.

Current Status
: Finished. Slain by Lawrence Van Alen in Rio.

(See
Revelations
: Repository Record #303 for more information on his death.)

Author’s Note: This story takes place after the events in
Blue Bloods
and before
Masquerade
. The story is not told from Dylan’s point of view, but

does shed a little more light on what happened to him.

SHELTER ISLAND

Dylan’s Story

It was the light that started it. Hannah woke up at three o’clock in the morning one cold February day and noticed that one of the old copper sconces

along the wal was turned on, emitting a dim, barely perceptible halo. It flickered at first, then died, then abruptly came back to life again. At first she

chalked it up to a faulty wire, or carelessness on her part—had she turned off the lights before bed? But when it happened again the next evening,

and again two days later, she began to pay attention.

The fourth time, she was already awake when it happened. She felt around the nightstand for her glasses, put them on, then stared at the glowing

bulb and frowned. She definitely remembered turning off the switch before going to bed. She watched as it slowly burned out, leaving the room dark

once more. Then she went back to sleep.

Another girl would have been scared, but this was Hannah’s third winter on Shelter Island and she was used to its “house noises” and assorted

eccentricities. In the summer, the back screen door never stayed closed; it would bang over and over with the wind, or when someone walked in and

out of the house—her mother’s boyfriend, a neighbor, Hannah’s friends whose parents had houses on the island and spent their summers there. No

one ever locked their doors on Shelter Island. There was no crime (unless bike-stealing was considered a crime, and if your bike was gone, most

likely someone just borrowed it to pedal down to the local market, and you would find it on your front doorstep the next day), and the last murder had

been recorded sometime in the 1700s.

Hannah was fifteen years old, and her mother, Kate, was a bartender at The Good Shop, a crunchy, al -organic restaurant and bar that was only

open three months out of the year, during the high season, when the island was
infested
(her mother’s word) with city folk on vacation. The
summer

people
(also her mother’s words) and their money made living on the island possible for year-rounders like them. During the off-season, in the winter,

there were so few people on the island it was akin to living in a ghost town.

But Hannah liked the winters, liked watching the ferry cross the icy river, how the quiet snow covered everything like a fairy blanket. She would

walk alone on the windswept beach, where the slushy sound of her boots scuffing the damp sand was the only sound for miles. People always

threatened to quit the island during the winter. They’d had enough of the brutal snowstorms that raged in the night, the wind howling like a crazed

banshee against the windows. They complained of the loneliness, the isolation. Some people didn’t like the sound of quiet, but Hannah reveled in it.

Only then could she hear herself think.

Hannah and her mother had started out as summer people. Once upon a time, when her parents were stil together, the family would vacation in

one of the big Colonial mansions by the beach, near where the yachts docked by the Sunset Beach hotel. But things were different after the divorce.

Hannah understood that their lives had been lessened by the split, that she and her mother were lesser people now, in some way. Objects of pity ever

since her dad ran off with his art dealer.

Not that Hannah cared very much what other people thought. She liked the house they lived in, a comfortable, ramshackle Cape Cod with a

wraparound porch and six bedrooms tucked away in its corners—one up in the attic, three on the ground floor, and two in the basement. There were

antique nautical prints of the island and its surrounding waters, framed in the wood-paneled living room. The house belonged to a family who never

used it, and the caretaker didn’t mind renting it to a single mother.

At first, she and her mother had moved around the vast space like two marbles lost on a pinbal table. But over time they adjusted and the house

felt cozy and warm. Hannah never felt lonely or scared. She always felt safe.

Stil , the next night, at three o’clock in the morning, when the lights blinked on and the door whooshed open with a bang, it startled Hannah and

she sat up immediately, looking around. Where had the wind come from? The windows were al storm-proofed and she hadn’t felt a draft. With a start,

she noticed a shadow lingering by the doorway.

“Who’s there?” she cal ed out in a firm, no-nonsense voice. It was the kind of voice she used when she worked as a cashier at the marked-up

grocery store during the summers and the city folk complained about the price of arugula.

She wasn’t scared. Just curious. What would cause the lights to blink on and off and the door to bang open like that?

“Nobody,” someone answered.

Hannah turned around.

There was a boy sitting in the chair in the corner.

Hannah almost screamed. She had been expecting a cat, maybe a lost squirrel of some sort, but a boy? She was fast approaching her sweet-

sixteen-and-never-been-kissed milestone. It was awful how some girls made such a big deal out of it, but even more awful that Hannah agreed with

them.

“Who are you? What are you doing here?” Hannah said, trying to feel braver than she felt.

“This is my home,” the boy said calmly. He was her age, she could tel , maybe a bit older. He had dark shaggy hair that fel in his eyes, and he

was wearing torn jeans and a dirty T-shirt. He was very handsome, but he looked pensive and pained. There was an ugly cut on his neck.

Hannah pul ed up the covers to her chin, if only to hide her pajamas, which were flannel and printed with pictures of sushi. How had he gotten into

her room without her noticing? What did he want with her? Should she cry out? Let her mother know? That wound on his neck—it looked ravaged.

Something awful had happened to him, and Hannah felt her skin prickle with goose bumps.

“Who are you?” the boy asked, suddenly turning the tables.

“I’m Hannah,” she said in a smal voice. Why had she told him her real name? Did it matter?

“Do you live here?”

“Yes.”

“How strange,” the boy said thoughtful y. “Wel ,” he said, “nice meeting you, Hannah.” Then he walked out of her room and closed the door. Soon

after, the light blinked off.

Hannah lay in her bed, wide awake, for a very long time, her heart gal oping in her chest. The next morning, she didn’t tel her mom about the boy in

her room. She convinced herself it was just a dream. That was it. She had just made him up. Especial y the part about him looking like a younger

Johnny Depp. She’d been wanting a boyfriend so much, she’d made one appear. Not that he would be her boyfriend. But if she was ever going to

have a boyfriend, she would like him to look like that. Not that boys who looked like that ever looked at girls like her. Hannah knew what she looked

like. Smal . Average. Quiet. Her nicest feature were her eyes: sea-glass green framed with lush dark lashes. But they were hidden behind her

eyeglasses most of the time.

Her mother always accused her of having an overactive imagination, and maybe that was al this was. She had final y let the winter crazies get to

her. It was al in her mind.

But then he returned the next evening, wandering into her room as if he belonged there. She gaped at him, too frightened to say a word, and he

gave her a courtly bow before disappearing. The next night, she didn’t fal asleep. Instead, she waited.

Three in the morning.

The lights blazed on. Was it just Hannah’s imagination, or was the light actual y growing stronger? The door banged. This time, Hannah was

awake and had expected it. She saw the boy appear in front of her closet, materializing out of nowhere. She blinked her eyes, blood roaring in her

ears, trying to fight the panic wel ing up inside. Whatever he was . . . he wasn’t
human
.

“You again,” she cal ed, trying to feel brave.

He turned around. He was wearing the same clothes as the two nights prior. He gave her a sad, wistful smile. “Yes.”

“Who are you? What are you?” she demanded.

“Me?” He looked puzzled for a moment, and then stretched his neck. She could see the wound just underneath his chin more clearly this time.

Two punctures. Scabby and . . . blue. They were a deep indigo color, not the brown-ish-red she had been expecting. “I think I’m what you cal a

vampire.”

“A vampire?” Hannah recoiled. If he were a ghost, it would be a different story. Hannah’s aunt had told her al about ghosts—she had gone

through a Wiccan phase, as wel as a spirit-guide phase. Hannah wasn’t afraid of ghosts. Ghosts couldn’t harm you, unless it was a poltergeist.

Ghosts were vapors, spectral images, maybe even just a trick of the light.

But vampires . . . there was a Shelter Island legend about a family of vampires who had terrorized the island a long time ago. Blood-sucking