Masquerade (15 page)

I
n a hidden alcove deep within the underground stacks underneath the Repository of History, Mimi Force was leaning over an old leather-bound book. The same book her father had confiscated several weeks ago. The Repository might keep it under lock and key, but it was only a matter of figuring out which key was used to liberate it, and that had taken minimal effort—the human librarians being no match for the rage of an angry vampire. The book was open to the final page, a black page, whose words were etched in a luminous blue—the same color as the blood that ran in Mimi’s veins. Kingsley Martin stood next to her, and the two of them read from the page by the light of a lone tapered candle. Around them, the stacks—rows and rows of six-foot-tall bookcases that seemingly stretched to infinity—were silent and shrouded in darkness. The Repository held approximately ten million books. It was the largest library in the world, and the stacks went far under Manhattan, several stories below the sidewalk. No one was even sure how far down the old, rickety caged elevator went.

They had decided to perform the incantation on the subbasement level. The spell had mandated a “location of primal power,” and Kingsley had suggested the Blue Blood headquarters.

“It says only one who is of like mind can call it,” Mimi said, reading from the text.

“That means it has to want what you want, because only then can it answer your call,” he explained.

“Okay.”

“First you have to draw your victim,” Kingsley said.

Mimi drew a pentagram around the two of them, making sure they were within the chalk lines.

“Dark Prince of the Silver Bloods, heed my call; I Azrael, command you to bring my enemy forward,” Mimi ordered in a loud, clear voice.

On the top level of the Repository, Schuyler Van Alen arrived in the main reading room, looking for Oliver. After sitting in the hotel suite for an hour, she decided she couldn’t just hang around and do nothing, or wait for him to calm down. She had to find Oliver and apologize. What she had asked for was wrong. She knew it now. She had asked for too much, and she wanted to ask for his forgiveness. He usually spent his weekend nights holed up in his cubicle at the Repository, which was the first place she decided to look after he didn’t pick up his cell phone or answer his BlackBerry text messages.

Bliss Llewellyn was sitting on one of the shabby couches in the main reception area.

“Hey,” Schuyler said. “Have you seen Oliver?”

Bliss nodded. “I think he’s back there. He just arrived a few minutes ago.”

“Cool.”

After what happened in Montserrat, Bliss had been a little embarrassed around Schuyler. “I’m, uh, waiting for Kingsley,” Bliss said. “He asked me to meet him here.”

Schuyler nodded, even though she hadn’t asked Bliss to explain her presence. She left Bliss by the entrance and walked quickly through the quiet room to find her friend. The Repository was crowded for a weekend night. Almost all the carrels were filled. Librarians were cataloging books on the shelves, and several senior members of The Committee were walking in for their weekly meeting. Schuyler saw Priscilla Dupont’s elegant white head among them, the Chief Warden was talking animatedly to a fellow Conclave member. The Elders disappeared into a private conference room, and Schuyler noticed Jack Force was sitting in his usual chair by the fire, reading a book.

Inside the pentagram, the flame on the candle flashed, and showed Mimi a vision of the Repository upstairs. Yes. Just as the spell had promised. There was Schuyler Van Alen, standing in the middle of the room.

Her victim had been drawn to the site.

Mimi felt a gladdening of the heart. This was it. This was really going to happen. She was going to be rid of that little cockroach once and for all. Schuyler had of course made a beeline for Jack as soon as she had entered. But no matter—it wouldn’t be long now.

Kingsley handed Mimi a silver knife.

It was the only way the spell would work: blood for blood. Mimi held out her right wrist; the blade felt cold on her skin. Her heart was thumping and she felt the first quivers of fear. Even though she was immortal, and the blood sacrifice would not hurt her, she still felt queasy thinking about what she had to do.

But the sight of Schuyler Van Alen reminded her what was at stake. The bond. Jack. Abbadon. She had to stop this before it was too late.

“I give thee my blood for your blood. O, Prince of Darkness. Hear me, hear my call. Destroy my enemy, once and for all,” Mimi chanted.

“NOW!” Kingsley called.

Mimi took a deep breath and slashed her wrist with the knife, opening up a vein and spilling her blood upon the candle, causing a black flame to shoot upward.

* * *

The last thing Bliss remembered was a massive explosion that ripped through the floor of the library, splitting it in two, a crack in the earth itself, and her nightmare came to life. Right in front of her was a dark mass with crimson eyes and silver pupils, roaring, struggling, leaping into life, covering the entire space with the buzzing of a thousand hornets, the agonies of a thousand tortured souls, and the ugly laughter of a deranged lunatic.

Bliss screamed and screamed and screamed.

Then everything went black.

T
he smoke was suffocating. It was a dark, violet smoke, and smelled faintly of sulfur and acid. Schuyler opened her eyes to find them burning. Tears were falling from her cheeks although she was not crying. Something had happened—an explosion—it sounded like a rip in the universe. She looked around: the Repository was in disarray, whole shelves of books were toppled, and papers were strewn all about, as if a bomb had destroyed the place. There was debris from the ceiling, plaster and dust everywhere, shattered glass and broken pieces of wood. “Jack! Jack, where are you?” Schuyler asked, panicking. She had been standing right there, next to his chair, but his chair was nowhere to be seen. She felt blood dripping into her eyes and put a tentative hand on the crown of her head. Something had cut her, but it wasn’t a deep wound. The palms of her hands were scratched and bloody, and there was a tear in her jeans, but thankfully that was the extent of her injuries.

There was a cough, and Schuyler crawled over to the sound. Jack was lying underneath the reading table, momentarily stunned.

“I’m all right,” he said, struggling to sit up and wiping the smoke from his eyes. “What the hell happened?”

“I don’t know,” Schuyler said, coughing and covering her mouth and nose with her hands.

“Jack! Are you all right? Can you hear me? Jack!” Mimi’s frantic voice could be heard from the hidden alcove that led to the underground stacks. She emerged from the corner, looking dazed but unhurt.

“I’m here.”

“Oh thank God! Jack! I was so worried!” Mimi cried, throwing herself into her brother’s arms. She began to sob uncontrollably. “I thought . . . I thought . . .”

“It’s all right, I’m all right,” Jack soothed, gently stroking her.

Schuyler took a step back to let them have their privacy, feeling a tangled weave of jealousy and pity and embarrassment at witnessing their intimacy.

There was a groan beneath a toppled bookshelf. “Help,” a strangled voice called. “Help!”

Jack, Mimi, and Schuyler ran to the sound, and helped lift the heavy weight from the boy.

Kingsley thanked them. “Fucking-A. What was that?”

All around them, librarians and Committee members were picking themselves up from the rubble, counting heads, and making sure friends had survived. The smoke enveloped everything, and it was hard to see through the haze.

“Over here!” A familiar voice called. Schuyler left the Force twins and Kingsley to find Oliver kneeling next to an injured librarian. There was a cut on his chin and a bruise on his forehead, and he was covered in a thick layer of plaster dust.

“You’re all right,” Schuyler said. “Thank God.”

“Schuyler, what are you doing here?” Oliver asked.

“Looking for you.”

He nodded briskly. “C’mon, give me a hand.”

Renfield, one of the crotchety human historians, was doubled up against one of the overturned copy machines, groaning. He had been thrown against the wall by the explosion, and the force had broken his ribs.

They helped him lie down by a stack of books, promised to send help as soon as possible, and walked around to see if there were any other trapped or injured parties.

So far, everyone they came across had survived. There were minor scratches and a few concussions, but people were surprised to find themselves more or less intact. Oliver stopped to administer first aid to a Blue Blood girl with a broken arm by ripping his shirt sleeve and creating an impromptu sling.

Schuyler picked through the mess and came across the prone body of a girl, facedown and covered with dust and plaster.

She turned the girl over and gasped. “Bliss, oh God, Bliss . . .” There were two punctures underneath her chin, and her blood, sticky and blue, was running down her neck.

“STAY WHERE YOU ARE!” a loud voice commanded from the entry. The group froze.

Schuyler kept a shaky hand on Bliss’s neck to staunch the blood. Oh, Bliss . . .

The violet smoke cleared, and Charles Force and Forsyth Llewellyn were soon standing by her side, holding gleaming swords aloft.

Charles knelt down next to Bliss and put a hand on her head. “This one is still alive.”

This one? Schuyler wondered. There was a scream from the other side of the room, and Schuyler soon understood what he had meant. There, by the entrance to the Coven headquarters, splayed on the archway steps, was Priscilla Dupont, the Chief Warden.

Lying in a pool of blood.

O
liver took Schuyler home, both of them still feeling shaken up. The awkwardness of what went on between them earlier at the Mercer had completely disappeared in the face of this new calamity. They were back to their normal selves, and Schuyler was glad to have her friend by her side. Hattie made a fuss over the two of them when they arrived, placing bandages on Schuyler’s head and the cut on Oliver’s chin. The loyal maid prepared steaming cups of hot chocolate and wrapped them snugly in cashmere blankets by the fire. “Where’s Lawrence?” Schuyler asked, taking a cookie from a tray that Hattie was holding out to them. “He ran out of here just a few minutes ago; said he had an emergency meeting of some kind,” Hattie said. “He told me to take good care of you when you got here. To get the first-aid kit out. I think he knew something happened.”

Once Hattie had left the room, Oliver asked, “Do you think it was a Silver Blood?”

Schuyler shrugged. “It has to be. It’s the only explanation. But it doesn’t make sense. Lawrence told me that Silver Bloods hunt by themselves. They take their victims when they are alone, without their canine protectors. The attack happened in a public space, where there were many witnesses.”

“Do you think she’s dead?” Oliver asked again.

“Who? Bliss? No. Charles Force said she was alive,” Schuyler replied. Still, it was hard to believe. The Texan girl had two deep puncture wounds on her neck, and the floor around her had been swimming with her blood.

“No, I mean . . . Mrs. Dupont,” Oliver clarified.

“I don’t know.” Schuyler shuddered. It had certainly looked that way from where she was standing, and she had overheard members of the Conclave discussing the situation from across the room as they gathered around the body.

Full consumption . . . Impossible . . . But the blood has been drained . . . Which means . . . She is gone . . . She has been taken . . . Not Priscilla! Yes . . . This is dire indeed.

Dr. Pat’s ambulance team had taken Bliss away on a stretcher, with an oxygen mask on her face and her father by her side. But the second stretcher, the one that carried Priscilla Dupont, had been covered with a white sheet over the body. Which only meant one thing . . .

Schuyler scooted up next to Oliver so that the two of them were leaning against the couch legs. She put her head on his shoulder and closed her eyes, and he put an arm around her to draw her closer. They took comfort in each other’s company.

Lawrence returned close to dawn. He saw Schuyler and Oliver sitting side by side on the rug against the couch.

“You should both be in bed. Especially you, granddaughter. Surviving a Silver Blood attack is not to be taken lightly,” he said, waking them gently.

Schuyler waved the sleep from her eyes, and Oliver yawned.

“No. Not yet. We want to know what happened,” Schuyler insisted. “We were there.”

Lawrence sagged onto the opposite leather chair and put his feet up on the ottoman. “Yes, and I’m only glad that nothing worse happened to either of you.”

“It wasn’t after us,” Schuyler said.

“Thank heaven for that,” Lawrence replied. He took out his customary cigar and cigar cutter.

Schuyler knew this was a sign that her grandfather would explain everything, or at least as much as he himself knew. She leaned in closely.

“What did Cordelia tell you about the Croatan?” He asked, puffing on his cigar.

“That they were an ancient danger that became a myth to the Blue Bloods. Because the last known attack was four hundred years ago,” Schuyler said. “During Plymouth.”

“Yes. Roanoke was their most violent and crushing victory. They took out an entire settlement. But she did not tell you about Venice, or Barcelona, or Cologne.”

Schuyler raised an eyebrow questioningly.

“What is not known, or at least, what has been suppressed, is that ever since their so-called defeat in Rome, Silver Bloods have returned to feed on the Blue Blood young at the turn of each new century. We had tried to convince the Conclave of this pattern, this ever present danger. But the years after Roanoke were peaceful, and there was only one other instance of an attack in the New World.”

“Here? In America?” Schuyler asked. Cordelia had never mentioned this.

“Yes.” Lawrence set a thick file folder, burned at the edges, on the coffee table and pushed it toward Schuyler. “This is the file Priscilla Dupont was working on. She was going to present some evidence to The Committee, testify to what Cordelia and I had warned them about, so long ago.”

She opened it, and several newspaper clippings fell out. She and Oliver looked through them. “Who’s Maggie Stanford?”

“She was a Blue Blood who disappeared. We had no idea that she had been committed to an asylum. Red Blood doctors had thought it was a mental disease, but it was actually evidence of Silver Blood corruption. She was a victim.”

Lawrence tapped on the papers with his cigar. “When Maggie was never found, Cordelia and I knew the Silver Bloods were behind it, but that we would never be able to prove it. That was when we decided to separate, so that I could continue the investigation without The Committee being the wiser. Priscilla had told me she had found something in the archives that would shed some light on their actions, but I have looked through this file. There is nothing I haven’t seen before.”

“What happened after Maggie?” Schuyler asked, noting how pretty the young debutante had looked in her picture.

“Nothing. The Silver Bloods retreated back into the shadows again. Until last year, when Aggie Carondolet was killed. And since Aggie, there have been four Blue Bloods slain at the beginning of their Transformation. Four. That is the most since Roanoke. That means they are getting stronger, more confident.

“Priscilla’s death, however, is the most troubling. To know that they have overcome a vampire at the height of her powers—this means their strength has grown. They are becoming more aggressive.

“The Committee must wake up to this danger. We can no longer sit back and wait while the Prince of the Silver Bloods marshals his forces against us and takes us one by one.”

“You really think Lucifer has returned?” Schuyler asked.

Lawrence said nothing for a long moment, his cigar burning steadily, the ashes at the tip growing longer and longer until they fell, sizzling into the Aubusson rug and leaving a small hole. “Oh, rats,” he cursed. “Cordelia will never forgive me for that. She never let me smoke in the house.”

“Grandfather, you haven’t answered my question.” Schuyler said sharply.

“Maybe it doesn’t need to be answered,” Oliver said nervously. All this talk of Lucifer and Silver Bloods was making him feel queasy. Maybe he shouldn’t have drank so much hot chocolate or eaten that fifth cookie.

“Only the most powerful of Silver Bloods would be able to cause a massive destruction in such a protected place,” Lawrence finally said.

“Protected?”

“The Repository of History is one of the safest of our strongholds. It has wards all over it, spells to keep out such an invasion, to keep out Abomination. It is an ominous sign for all of us that the wards did not hold.”

“What are you going to do?” Schuyler asked.

“The only thing I can do—Call for the White Vote. It is time Michael is challenged as Regis.”