The Van Alen Legacy

For my mom,
Ching
de la Cruz, who always said Blue Bloods would be “the one”

And for Mike
and Mattie, always

The Blue Bloods
Series

Blue Bloods

Masquerade

Revelations

The Au Pairs
Series

The Au Pairs

Skinny-Dipping

Sun-Kissed

Crazy Hot

The
Ashleys
Series

The
Ashleys

Jealous?

Birthday Vicious

Lipgloss
Jungle

Cat’s Meow

Fresh off the Boat

Angels on Sunset Boulevard

Girl Stays in the Picture

Nonfiction

How to Become Famous in Two Weeks or Less

The
Fashionista
Files: Adventures in
Four-inch Heels and Faux Pas

Girls Who Like Boys Who Like Boys: Essays about
the Friendship between Straight
Womenand
Gay Men

“It is said that Allegra´s
daughter will defeat the Silver Bloods. I believe Schuyler will bring us the salvation we seek.
She is almost as powerful as her mother. And one day she will be even more powerful.”

“Schuyler Van Alen . . .
the half-blood?
Are you certain she is the one?” Charles asked.

Lawrence nodded.

“Because Allegra had two
daughters,” Charles said, in a light, almost playful tone. “Surely you have not forgotten
that.”

The Elder Van Alen’s voice
turned cold.
“Of course not.
But it is beneath you to make sport of such a serious
matter as Allegra´s first born” Charles dismissed Lawrence’s rebuke with a wave.
“My
apologies.
I meant no offense to the dead.”

“Her blood is on our hands,’
Lawrence sighed. The events of the day were tiring him, as were the memories of the past. “Only,
I wonder . . .”

“Yes?”

“As I’ve wondered all these
years, Charles, if such a one could ever be truly destroyed.”

There had been little time to
mourn. Upon returning to New York after Lawrence’s murder in Rio (covered up by the Committee
with a proper obituary in the Times), Schuyler Van Alen had been on the run. No rest. No respite.
A year of constant motion, barely one
step
ahead of the Venators hunting her. A
flight to Buenos Aires followed by one to Dubai.
A sleepless night in a youth hostel in
Amsterdam followed by another in a bunk bed in an auditorium in Bruges.

She had marked her sixteenth
birthday aboard the Trans-Siberian Railway, celebrating with a cup of watery
Nescafé
coffee and several crumbly Russian tea cookies. Somehow, her best friend, Oliver Hazard-Perry,
had found a candle to light in one of the suharkies. He took his job as human Conduit pretty
seriously. It was thanks to Oliver’s careful accounting that they had been able to stretch their
money so far. The Conclave had frozen his access to the well-funded Hazard-Perry accounts as soon
as they had left New York.

Now it was August in Paris,
and hot. They had arrived to find most of the city a ghost town: bakeries, boutiques, and bistros
shuttered while their proprietors absconded to three-week vacations in the beaches up north. The
only people around were American and Japanese tourists, who mobbed every museum gallery, every
garden in every public square, inescapable and ubiquitous in their white sneakers and baseball
caps. But Schuyler welcomed their presence. She hoped the slow-moving crowds would make it easier
for her and Oliver to spot their Venator pursuers. Schuyler had been able to disguise
herself
by changing her physical features, but performing the mutatio was taking a
toll on her. She didn’t say anything to Oliver, but lately she couldn’t even do
so
much as change the color of her eyes.

And now, after almost a year
of hiding, they were coming out into the open. It was a gamble, but they were desperate. Living
without the protection and wisdom of the secret society of vampires and their select group of
trusted humans had taken its toll. And while neither of them would ever admit it, they were both
tired of running.

So for now Schuyler was seated
in the back of a bus, wearing a pressed white shirt buttoned to the neck over slim black pants
and flat black shoes with rubber soles. Her dark hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and except
for a hint of lip gloss, she wore no makeup. She meant to blend in with the rest of the catering
staff who had been hired for the evening. But surely someone would notice. Surely someone would
hear how hard her heart was beating, would remark on how her breathing was shallow and quick. She
had to calm down. She had to clear her mind and become the blasé contract caterer she was
pretending to be. For so many years Schuyler had excelled at being invisible. This time, her life
depended on it. The bus was taking them over a bridge to the H’tel Lambert on the
isleSaint-Louis, a small island on the SeineRiver. The Lambert was the most beautiful house in
the most beautiful city in the world. At least, she had always thought so. Although “house” was
putting it mildly. “Castle” was more like it, something out of a fairy tale, its massive river
walls and gray mansard roofs rising from the surrounding mist. As a child she had played
hide-and-seek in the formal gardens, where the conical sculpted trees reminded her of figures on
a chessboard. She remembered staging imaginary productions inside the grand courtyard and
throwing bread crumbs to the geese from the terrace overlooking the Seine. How she had taken that
life for granted! Tonight she would not enter the hotel’s exclusive, exalted domain as an invited
guest, but rather as a humble servant. Like a mouse creeping into a hole. Schuyler was anxious by
nature, and she needed almost all her self-control to keep it together. At any moment she feared
she might scream
,
she was already so nervous she couldn’t stop her hands from
trembling. They vibrated, fluttering in her lap like trapped birds.

Next to her, Oliver was
handsome in a bartender’s uniform, a tuxedo with a black silk bow tie and silver shirt studs. But
he was pale beneath his butterfly collar, his shoulders tense under a jacket that was a little
too big. His clear hazel eyes were clouded, looking more gray than green. Oliver’s face did not
display the same blank, bored look as the others. He was alert, ready for a fight or flight.
Anyone who looked at him long enough could see it.

We shouldn’t be here, Schuyler
thought. What were we thinking? The risk is too great. They’re going to find us and separate us .
. . and then . . . well, the rest was too horrible to contemplate.

She was sweating under her
starched shirt. The air-conditioning wasn’t working, and the bus was packed. She leaned her head
against the windowpane. Lawrence had been dead for over a year now. Four hundred forty-five days.
Schuyler kept count, thinking that maybe once she hit a magical number, it would stop
hurting.

This was no game, although
sometimes it felt like a horrid, surreal version of cat and mouse. Oliver put a hand on top of
hers to try and stop her hands from shaking. The tremors had begun a few months ago, just a
slight twitching, but soon she realized she had to concentrate whenever she did something as
simple as pick up a fork or open an envelope. She knew what it was, and there was nothing she
could do about it. Dr. Pat had told her the first time she visited her office: she was the only
one of her kind, Dimidium Cognato, the first half-blood, and there was no telling how her human
body would react to the transformation into immortal; there would be side effects, obstacles
particular to her case. Still, she felt better once Oliver held her hand in his. He always knew
what to do. She depended on him for so much, and her love for him had only deepened in the year
they had spent together. She squeezed his hand, intertwined her fingers around his. It was his
blood that ran through her veins, his quick thinking that had secured her freedom.

As for everyone and everything
they had left behind in New York, Schuyler did not dwell on it anymore. All of that was in the
past. She had made her choice and was at peace with it. She had accepted her life for what it
was. Once in a while she missed her friend Bliss very keenly, and more than once wanted to get in
touch with her, but that was out of the question. No one could know where they were.
No
one.
Not even Bliss.

Maybe they would be lucky
tonight. Their luck had held so far. Oh, there had been a few close calls here and there, that
one evening in Cologne when she’d abruptly run from a woman who had asked for directions to the
cathedral. Illuminata had given the agent away. Schuyler had caught that soft imperceptible glow
in the twilight before booking as fast as she could. Disguises only went so far. At some point,
your true nature revealed itself.

Wasn’t that what the
Inquisitor had argued during the official investigation into the events in Rio? That maybe
Schuyler wasn’t who she was supposed to be?

Outlaw.
Fugitive.
That’s what she was now.
Certainly not Lawrence Van Alen’s grieving
granddaughter.