Masquerade (4 page)

Archives

MARCH 15, 1871
ENGAGEMENT BROKEN

—————

Lord Burlington and Maggie Stanford
Will Not Marry.
Maggie Stanford Still Missing.

THE ENGAGEMENT OF MAGGIE Stanford, the daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Tiberius and Dorothea Stanford of Newport, and Alfred, Lord Burlington of London and Devonshire, has been broken. The wedding was to have taken place to-day.

Maggie Stanford mysteriously disappeared on the night of the Patrician Ball six months prior. Superintendent Campbell has continued to investigate. The Stanford family suspects foul play, although no ransom note or sign of kidnapping has yet been discovered. A substantial reward has been offered for any information concerning Maggie Stanford’s whereabouts.

—————

I
t was a jewel box of a room, high up on the highest floor of one of the tallest skyscrapers in midtown Manhattan, a building made of glass and chrome, and as Mimi looked out over the magnificent New York skyline, she caught her reflection in the plate glass window and smiled. She was wearing a dress. But not just any dress. This was a couture confection of thousands of chiffon rosettes hand-stitched together to create an ethereal, cloudlike elegance. The strapless bodice hugged her tiny twenty-two–inch waist, and her lustrous gold locks spilled over her creamy shoulders and toned lower back. It was a six-figure dress, a one-of-a-kind showstopper that only John Galliano could create. And it was hers, at least for one night. She was in the celebrity dressing department at Christian Dior. An exclusive showroom that was by invitation only. All around the racks that surrounded Mimi were dresses flown straight from the Paris runways—samples that only models and model-thin socialites could ever dream of wearing.

Here was the Dior that Nicole Kidman wore to the Oscars, there was the gown Charlize Theron wore to the Golden Globes.

“Stunning,” the Dior publicist pronounced with a quick nod of her head. “Absolutely, this is the one.”

Mimi took a flute of champagne from the silver tray proffered by a white-gloved servant. “Perhaps,” she acknowledged, knowing that with the dress’s fifty foot–long train, she would cause a commotion when she entered the party.

Then Bliss appeared in the doorway.

Mimi had invited her friend to join her, thinking it would be fun to have an audience watch her try on dresses. Mimi liked nothing more than to have a fawning friend envy her good looks and social privileges. She hadn’t expected the publicist at Christian Dior to fall over herself and encourage Bliss to borrow a dress as well. But ever since Bliss had been signed by the Farnsworth Modeling Agency, and her face and figure had been emblazoned all over town in the “Stitched for Civilization” jeans advertising campaign that she had starred in with Schuyler Van Alen, the little Texas rose had become a bona fide New York celebrity—a fact Mimi had yet to forgive. Bliss had even been chosen as
Vogue
’s “Girl of the Moment,” and there were Web sites devoted to her every move. Mimi had to face the awful truth: her friend was famous.

“You guys—what do you think of this?” Bliss asked.

Mimi and the publicist turned. Mimi’s smile faded. The publicist ran over to Bliss Lwelleyn’s side.

“Gorgeous!”
she declared. “I only wish John were here to see you in it.”

Bliss was wearing a plush velvet dress of the darkest green—almost black—that dramatically offset her cascading reddish-gold curls. Her pale, ivory complexion looked almost translucent against the deep rich, dark jeweled color of the gown. It had a plunging, outrageously low neckline, cut from collarbone to belly button, revealing a generous amount of cleavage but stopping short of anything obscene. The bodice was embroidered with a thousand Swarovski crystals that twinkled against the fabric like stars in the night sky. It was a fantastic, entrance-making dress, the kind of dress that propelled unknown actresses into A-list movie stars, a contender against Elizabeth Hurley’s famed Versace safety pins.

“I like it.” Bliss nodded. She towered over Mimi in her jeweled stilettos, and the two of them looked at themselves in the mirror.

Against Bliss’s severe yet sexy gown, Mimi in her pale-pink rosettes suddenly looked inconsequential, and Mimi’s smile withered underneath the lights as Bliss twirled and danced around the room.

“It only looks heavy,” Bliss said, lifting the hem. “But it’s so light.”

“It’s made from Venetian silk—some of the best in the world,” the Dior rep explained. “Ten Belgian nuns went blind making it,” she joked. “So girls, I suppose we’re all set?”

Mimi shook her head. There was no way in hell she would allow Bliss to steal the spotlight—her night—away from her. She had her heart set on being the single most beautiful girl in the room, and there was no way she would be able to do that if Bliss upstaged her in that insanely opulent gown.

Visiting the celebrity dressing department had been her idea, but now Mimi had to opt for Plan B. She wouldn’t be content with a gown from the runway—she had to have a gown custom-made and designed for herself only, by the master. Balenciaga.

They left the showroom and crossed the street to grab a quick lunch at Fred’s, the restaurant on the top floor of Barneys. The hostess seated them immediately in a comfy, four-person booth near the window, where they could be seen by the tony crowd. Mimi noted Brannon Frost, the Blue Blood editor in chief of
Chic
, seated across from them with her fourteen-year-old daughter, Willow, a freshman at Duchesne.

Bliss’s color was high and her face glowed happily. She was still talking about the dress.

“Yeah, totally, it looked great on you,” Mimi said in a flat voice.

Her friend’s smile wavered, and Bliss swallowed a gulp of water to camouflage her disappointment. Mimi’s disinterest was a cue that all discussion about Bliss’s ball gown was now over. Bliss quickly regrouped. “But
yours
was ah-ma-zing. Pink is so your color.”

Mimi shrugged. “I don’t know. I think I’m going to look somewhere else. Dior is so outré, don’t you think? De trop, as they say. A little over the top. But of course, if that’s what you’re looking for, it’s fabulous.” She said condescendingly as she paged through the leather-bound menu.

“So where do you think you’ll go?” Bliss asked, trying not to feel the sting of Mimi’s little barbs. She knew she had looked great in that dress, and that Mimi was just jealous— Mimi was always that way. The last time they went shopping, they had both found a gorgeous baby-lamb fur coat at Intermix, a trendy downtown boutique. Mimi had allowed Bliss to buy it, but only after she’d disparaged wearing fur. “But you go ahead, dear. I know some people don’t care about the suffering of tiny little animals.” In the end, Bliss had purchased the coat, but she had yet to wear it. Score one for Mimi Force.

The bitch was just green-eyed with envy. I rocked that dress, Bliss thought, then immediately felt ashamed to be thinking of her friend that way. Was Mimi really jealous? What did the beautiful Mimi Force have to be jealous about,
ever
? Her life was like, perfect. Maybe Bliss was reading too much into her reaction. Maybe Mimi was right—maybe the dress was too much. Maybe she shouldn’t wear it after all. If only someone else had been with her at the showroom, someone like Schuyler, whom Bliss knew would be able to offer an honest opinion. Schuyler didn’t even realize how pretty she was; she was always hiding in those bag-lady layers of hers.

“I don’t know where I’m going to find a ball dress,” Mimi said airily. “But I’m sure I’ll find something.” She wasn’t about to share the ace up her sleeve this time. God help her if Bliss got the same idea to ask the Balenciaga designer to make her a ball dress as well.

The waiter arrived and took their orders, two steak au poivres. Rare.

“Bloody.” Mimi smiled, showing just a hint of her fangs so that the waiter did a double take.

“Raw,” Bliss joked, handing back the menu, although she wasn’t really kidding.

“Anyway,” Mimi said, taking a sip of water and looking around the lively restaurant to see if anyone was looking at her. Yes. Several women—tourists, by the looks of their pastel cardigans and eighties-era scrunchies—seated in Siberia, were whispering and talking about her. “That’s Mimi Force. You know, Force News? Her dad’s that gazillionaire? There was a story about her in last week’s Styles. She’s like, the new Paris Hilton.”

“As I was saying, it’s not really about the dress. It’s about a date,” Mimi said.

“A date?” Bliss gagged. “I didn’t know we had to find dates for this thing.”

Mimi laughed. “Of course you need a date, silly. It’s a ball.”

“So who are you taking?”

“Jack, of course,” Mimi replied promptly, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

“Your brother?” Bliss asked, shocked. “Um, like, ew?”

“It’s a family thing,” Mimi huffed. “Twins always go as each other’s dates. And besides, it’s not like . . .”

“It’s not like?” Bliss prodded.

Mimi had been meaning to say, It’s not like he’s really my brother, but this was neither the time nor place to explain their complicated and immortal romantic history and the bond between them. Bliss wouldn’t understand. She didn’t have full control of her memories yet and would not be coming out at the ball until next year.

“Nothing,” Mimi said, as their entreés were set before them. “Ooh. I think this one is still breathing.” She smiled as she cut into her steak, releasing a river of red blood on the immaculate white plate.

A date, Bliss thought. A date for the Four Hundred Ball. Bliss knew there was only one guy in the world she wanted as an escort.

“So what about you? Maybe you can take Jaime Kip,” Mimi suggested. “He’s totally hot and so available.” Actually, Jaime Kip had a girlfriend, but since she was a Red Blood, in Mimi’s mind she didn’t count.

“Listen, Mimi, I need to tell you something,” Bliss whispered. She hadn’t meant to confide in Mimi, but she couldn’t keep her thoughts and hopes to herself any longer. Especially since they were talking about boys.

Mimi raised an eyebrow. “Go on.”

“I think Dylan is alive,” Bliss said, explaining in an almost incoherent rush how she had found herself half drowned in the Central Park lake, only to be rescued by a boy—a boy whose face she never saw, but whose voice had been only too familiar.

Mimi looked pityingly on her friend. Through her father, Mimi had heard what had happened. Dylan had been attacked and killed by a Silver Blood. There had been no hope for his survival. They had never found his body, but Bliss’s testimony to The Committee about the tragic evening had spelled out his fate loud and clear.

“Bliss, darling, I think that’s really sweet how you think this guy, your so-called ‘savior,’ was Dylan. But there’s no way. You know as well as I do that . . .”

“That what?” Bliss asked defensively.

“That Dylan’s dead.”

The words hung in the air between them.

“And he’s never coming back, Bliss. Ever.” Mimi sighed and put down her knife and fork. “So let’s get serious. Do you want me to set you up? I think Jaime Kip is such a hottie.”

W
hen Schuyler woke up, she was lying in an enormous king-size bed in the middle of a vast room furnished in what can only be described as Early Medieval Royalty. An immense and foreboding tapestry depicting the death of a unicorn decorated the far wall, a gargantuan gold chandelier lit with a hundred dripping candles hung from the ceiling, and the bed itself was piled with all manner of thick and woolly animal pelts. The whole place conveyed a brutal, primitive elegance. She blinked her eyes and her hands went flying up to her neck. But there were no bite marks. She was safe from that, at least. “Ah, you are awake.” Schuyler turned to the sound of the voice. A uniformed maidservant in a black dress with a white apron curtsied. “If you please, follow me, Miss Van Alen,” she said. “I am supposed to take you downstairs.”

How did she know my name?

“Where am I?” Schuyler asked, kicking off the covers and stuffing her feet back into her motorcycle boots that she found on the floor.

“The Ducal Palace,” the maid answered, leading Schuyler out of the room and toward a winding stairway lit by hanging torches.

The
Palazzo Ducale
, or the Doge’s Palace, was the seat of the Venetian government for centuries and housed its administrative and legislative arms, as well as council rooms and the doge’s private residence. Tourists were welcome to visit the grand halls and galleries. Schuyler herself had already seen the palace on the officially sanctioned tour.

She realized she was in one of the private residences, the roped-off section of the palace that was not open to the public.

The maid motioned for her to follow, and Schuyler walked down the stairway to a long hall. At the end of it was an immense oak portal, carved with assorted hieroglyphics and pagan symbols.

“You will find him here,” the maid said as she opened the door.

Schuyler walked inside and found a roomy library of baronial splendor. Red velvet curtains were draped over the double-height windows. Walnut shelves were lined with leather-bound books. Animal rugs and trophies abounded.

A stooped, gray-haired gentleman in Harris tweeds sat in a massive leather chair in front of a roaring fire.

“Come forward,” he ordered.

Next to him was the handsome young Italian boy from the Biennale. He nodded at Schuyler and motioned to the chair in front of them.

“You put a spell on me,” Schuyler accused.

The boy acknowledged this was so. “It was the only way to make sure of your identity and your true intentions. Do not worry, you were not harmed.”

“And? So are you satisfied?”

“Yes,” the boy said gravely. “You are Schuyler Van Alen. You are staying at the Hotel Danieli with Oliver Hazard-Perry Senior and his son, Oliver. You are on a quest of some kind. Allow me to bring you some excellent news. Your quest is over.”

“How so?” Schuyler asked warily.

“This is the Professore,” the boy said.

“You have been looking for me, I hear,” the Professor said jovially. “I am not so popular these days with American students. A long time ago, I had many little pilgrims come to see me lecture. But not anymore. Tell me, why have you come?”

“Cordelia Van Alen sent me,” Schuyler said.

At the mention of her name, the Professor and the boy exchanged a meaningful glance. The warmth of the hearth brought heat to Schuyler’s cheeks, but it wasn’t just the blaze that brought a red blush to her pale skin. Saying Cordelia’s name so boldly made her feel vulnerable. Who were these strange men? Why had they taken her here? Had she been right in invoking Cordelia’s call for help?

“Tell me more,” the Professor encouraged, leaning forward and assessing Schuyler keenly.

“Cordelia was my grandmother . . .” Schuyler said. Even if these were enemies, there was no backing out of it now. She scanned the room for exit points: she noticed a hidden door built into one of the library walls. Maybe she could escape through there, or else she could stun both the old man and the boy with a spell of her own and fly out through the window.

“Was?” the boy asked.

“She has expired in this cycle. She was attacked,” Schuyler inhaled sharply. “By a Silver Blood. Croatan.”

“How can you be sure?” the boy demanded. “The Silver Bloods have not been heard of since the seventeenth century. Their existence has been legislated out of Blue Blood history.”

“She told me herself.”

“But she was not—taken?” the boy asked in a hoarse voice.

“No. Thankfully. The attack did not drain her of all her blood and memory. She will live to return in the next cycle.”

The boy leaned back in his chair. Schuyler noticed he was fiddling with the car keys in his left hand, and his right knee was moving up and down in impatience to hear the rest of her story.

“Continue,” the Professor urged.

“Cordelia said that the key to defeating the Silver Bloods lay in finding her husband, Lawrence Van Alen, who has been in hiding. She thought if she sent me—if she sent me to Venice I might find him. Have I?”

The old man’s eyes twinkled. “Perhaps you have.”

“Grandfather, I come to you for help. Cordelia said it was imperative that . . .”

There was a throat-clearing noise from the boy. Schuyler turned to him.

“I am Lawrence Van Alen,” the boy said, leaning forward. The boy’s features shifted—not so much melted, but phased out—changed, so that he appeared to be an older gentleman. But this was not the stoop-shouldered, white-haired grandfather of Schuyler’s imagination. This was a tall, thin man with the same leonine hair as the boy’s, except it was flecked with silver, and still there was the aristocratic, hawkish nose and the arrogant chin.

It was as if the room shrank in his presence. He was a commanding figure, and the sharpness of his gaze was intimidating. Here was a man who would be a worthy rival to Charles Force, Schuyler thought.

“You are a shapeshifter,” Schuyler said admiringly. “Is this your real form?”

“As much as any form can be real,” Lawrence replied. “Anderson, you may excuse us.”

The elderly gentleman winked at Schuyler and exited the room, closing the creaky wooden door with a hush.

Schuyler settled in her chair, noticing the faded Aubusson rugs on the hard stone floor. They were similar to the ones in Cordelia’s library on 101st Street.

“Your Conduit?”

Lawrence nodded. He stood up and walked over to the recessed bar across from the fireplace, opened a lower cabinet, and removed a bottle of port wine. He poured two glasses of the scarlet liquid and handed Schuyler a glass.

“I had a feeling,” she said, accepting the drink. She sipped it slowly. It was sweet without being cloying, full-bodied and delicious. Alcohol had no effect on vampires, but most of them still enjoyed the taste.

“I thought you might. You almost turned to address me, but caught yourself. How did you know?”

“The lord of the manor typically seats on the left, where you were, while he was seated on your right,” Schuyler said. It was a law of medieval etiquette she had learned from Cordelia’s endless lessons on Blue Blood history. The king was always seated on the left, while his queen, or any lesser personage was seated on the right.

“Ah, very observant. I forgot. I am getting old.”

“I’m sorry Cordelia couldn’t be here,” Schuyler said softly.

Lawrence sighed. “It is all right. We have been separated now for more than a century. One gets used to solitude. Perhaps one day it will be safe for us to be together again.”

He leaned back on his chair and removed a cigar from his front pocket. “So, you are Allegra’s daughter.” He said, breaking off the corner of the cigar with a silver cigar cutter. “I have been watching you. I knew you were looking for me the minute you arrived in Venice. I sensed something in the air—I thought it was your mother—but it was a different energy. You saw me.”

“You were the woman on the street that I saw today. You had taken Allegra’s form,” Schuyler realized aloud. It all made sense now.

Lawrence nodded. “I do sometimes. If only because I have missed her for a very long time.”

He took a quick puff from the cigar and exhaled. “I was wary of coming out to you until I was certain of your identity. I have many enemies, Schuyler. They have been hunting me for centuries. You could have been one of them.”

Schuyler sat up suddenly, almost spilling her drink. “The lady at the pensione? That was you as well. At least at first.”

Lawrence chuckled. “Yes. Of course.”

“So that was why she said she had never seen us before when we came down the stairs. She was telling the truth.” Schuyler set her empty glass on the small side table across from her chair, taking care to place it on one of the gold-plated coasters.

“Marie is an honest landlady, I’ll give her that.” Lawrence smiled.

“Why did you show us your room?”

“I didn’t mean to, but you were chasing me and I had to seek shelter in one of my secret hiding places around the city. I have many addresses, you know. One needs them if one is going to hide successfully. Marie was telling you the truth; the room was locked. But it opened for you. I took that as a good sign. I thought I would give you a clue—see if you would be able to find me in the Biennale. You did well. You were drawn to the Olafur Eliasson as was I.”

“But why did you run away from me again? I was chasing you.”

“And you almost got me. My God, the speed of you— you are unbelievably strong. It took all of my energy just to stay ahead of you. I was still unsure of your intentions or your identity. You surprised me by finding me in front of the Colonial building. I’m sorry I had to use that sleep spell on you.”

“Why do you choose to trust me now?” Schuyler asked.

“Because only Allegra’s daughter would know the correct
Advoco Adiuvo
, the invocation you used. Cordelia and I had agreed that if we ever went looking for each other, our emissaries would use those words from the Sacred Language. Without the
Advoco
, you would never have found me in a thousand years, regardless of your powers. But I had to put you to sleep to stall for time while I made sure you had not been corrupted. I had to take you somewhere safe, where we would not be observed.”

Schuyler nodded. She had guessed as much.

“So now you have found me, what do you want?” Lawrence asked, looking at Schuyler through a haze of smoke.

“I want to know about the Silver Bloods. I want to know everything.”